The glow of the oil lamp flickered softly in Itachi's eyes. He could not answer immediately. The Uchiha clan had a fixed way of operating: control with genjutsu, suppress with force, storm into the target location, then search for evidence—simple and direct. Whether conflicts broke out or innocents were caught in the crossfire was never a concern. The weak needed no explanation from the Uchiha and the strong would not deign to listen. This was the clan's creed and the ninja world's norm toward ordinary people.
In the mission system, assignments targeting purely ordinary humans topped out at C-rank, with rewards no higher than 100,000 ryō. Involving ninjas instantly elevated the mission to B-rank, with paystarting at 80,000 ryō and no upper limit.
But this rule never sat right with Itachi. Whenever he recalled his clan's arrogance carved into their bones, his stomach churned. He despised their methods—and loathed the fate that demanded the loss of loved ones to gain power. Especially when clan members prided themselves on such sacrifices as "Uchiha glory"—the twisted notion suffocated him.
The dim lamplight swayed, carrying him back to that cold moment. When he awakened his Sharingan at the death of a comrade, his father Fugaku's approving "As expected of my son" had plunged him into an icy void.
"I… did not stand with them for these eyes." The thought lingered in his mind for a long time, never spoken. Facing Senior Shuji's question now, those repressed emotions welled up again. He lifted his gaze—the tomoe of his Sharingan faintly visible in the lamplight.
"I'm sorry, Senior Shuji," he said softly. "I… have no answer."
"Then we'll do it my way."
The next morning, before the mist had lifted, Shuji led Itachi down the damp stone path of Shirakawa Village. Dew soaked their sandals, leaving pale wet marks on the stones. Smoke curled from chimneys, yet could not dispel the tension hanging in the air.
They knocked on every door. Villagers' caution was like thick shutters; even faced with ninja, they answered with wary excuses. Worse, seeing the two were so young—fourteen and eight—they simply closed their doors without a word.
Shuji remained unfazed.
He turned instead to the gentlest small talk: "I hear this year's harvest was especially good?" "Fewer guests seem to be staying at the inn than usual…" These seemingly innocuous remarks served as tiny keys, gradually prying open the villagers' tightly sealed lips. Itachi stood quietly by, his dark eyes methodically observing every subtle change.
He was not a man of many words, but his insight was like a hawk's. He noted each shift in gaze, every tonal inflection, every unconscious curl of knuckles—marking the credibility of each on his notebook.
By sunset, the two stood under the old locust tree at the village entrance. Itachi opened his notebook, his voice surprisingly steady for a child: "Thirty-seven villagers are regularly away. Fifteen maintain regular contact with family; six, though seldom heard from, have verifiable livelihoods. The remaining sixteen are unaccounted for—villagers claim contact, but their accounts are vague and contradictory."
"They cannot all be bandits," Shuji said, eyes on the distant house silhouettes. "Some are driven by necessity, others by longing for the wider world." He paused. "The moment Shirakawa Kisuke faltered when asked about their whereabouts—that in itself is confirmation."
"One more point," Itachi closed his notebook with a soft snap. "After the bandit incidents, the number of traveling merchants staying here plummeted." He recalled the villagers' resigned expressions. "The innkeeper mentioned his income has fallen by nearly thirty percent, and unsold goods have piled up. The villagers complained bitterly."
A knowing smile tugged at Shuji's lips.
If Shirakawa Village were a barren, struggling place, brute ninja force might suffice. But this was different. A village that had tasted the prosperity of the trade route, once stripped of its wealth, would feel the loss more keenly than those who never had it—like falling from a mountain's peak even only to mid-slope.
This was precisely the leverage to gain the village's cooperation. With Itachi, an eight-year-old, at his side and time to choose a gentle approach, Shuji preferred a more skillful resolution.
Thus, they entered the village chief's courtyard again.
This time, Shuji's manner was even more detached than the day before.
"Village Chief Shirakawa," he placed his organized investigation scroll on the desk. "Do you care to speak to me now?"
The old chief's Adam's apple bobbed painfully, his thin fingers tightening on his sleeve. "I… am not sure what you mean, honored sir…"
Shuji quietly circled behind him. The setting sun's last rays slanted through, casting a long shadow. He leaned in slightly. "Shirakawa Kisuke, you must understand we could have solved this in a more direct manner."
The room fell into a hushed stasis; even breathing felt cautious.
"Every line on this scroll represents the restraint and respect we've shown." Shuji's voice was calm as a deep pool. "You may argue we lack hard evidence. But often, it's not the proof that matters. People choose to believe what they want—such as, if we present this report to the River Country, revealing Shirakawa Village not only harbors bandits but shelters them…"
"Honored ninja!" the elder suddenly looked up, panic in his cloudy eyes. "Please… please absolutely do not! Our village never…"
"Yesterday I was clear: our goals can be the same." Shuji straightened, his tone even. "We need to clear the trade route; you need to restore peace, welcome back caravans, and move your stock."
"As for other details—like the bandits' origins," Shuji smoothed his sleeve, his gaze drifting to the deepening dusk outside, "that's beyond a C-rank mission's scope. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then…"
His unspoken threat hung in the air. The young Uchiha reached out, lightly tapping the elder's trembling shoulder, and motioned Itachi to depart.
"At your age, can you still not discern what truly deserves protection, Village Chief?"
"Let's go, Itachi." Opening the paper door, Shuji let in the night air scented with grass and hearth smoke. "There's nothing decent to eat here tonight—we'll head to Koizumi Town."
"Yes, Senior." Itachi replied quietly. Before following, he cast a final glance at the village chief, who stood frozen as though aged ten years in an instant.
As the sounds of their wooden sandals on stone faded down the path to nothing, Shirakawa Kisuke slowly closed his eyes. Only the oil lamp's gentle crackling remained.
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild