Chapter 4: The Method
The halo of the oil lamp wavered in Itachi's eyes. He couldn't provide an immediate answer.
The Uchiha clan had its own way of doing things. Genjutsu control, suppression by force, and directly storming a target's location to find evidence—it was simple and direct. Whether this process caused conflict or harmed the innocent was never part of the consideration. The weak required no explanation from the Uchiha; the strong disdained any explanation the Uchiha offered. This was the clan's creed, and it was the shinobi world's normal attitude toward common people.
In the mission system, a request involving only civilians maxed out at C-Rank, with a reward of no more than one hundred thousand ryō. The moment a shinobi was involved, it immediately jumped to B-Rank, with a reward starting at eighty thousand ryō and no upper limit.
But this was a set of rules Itachi had never inwardly accepted. His stomach churned whenever he thought of the arrogance carved into his clansmen's very bones. He hated his family's methods, and he loathed the fate that demanded they gain power only through the loss of their loved ones. He especially hated it when his kin, having paid that price for power, wore it as a badge of honor, calling it the "Glory of the Uchiha." That distortion was suffocating.
The dim, flickering lamplight pulled him back to that cold moment. When he had awakened his Sharingan over the death of his teammate, his father, Fugaku, had uttered a phrase filled with pride: "Just what I'd expect from my son."
At that moment, Itachi had felt as if he'd been plunged into an icy abyss.
"I... I didn't stand with them just to get these eyes." The thought had circled his mind for a long time, but he had never said it aloud. Now, faced with Shūji-senpai's question, those suppressed emotions surged once more. He looked up, the outline of his two-tomoe Sharingan barely visible in the shifting light.
"My apologies, Shūji-senpai," he said, his voice low. "I... I don't have an answer."
"Then, we'll do it my way."
The next morning, before the thin mist had scattered, Shūji led Itachi onto the damp stone paths of Shirakawa Village. The morning dew soaked their sandals, leaving faint, wet prints on the stones. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the houses, but it couldn't disperse the tension that filled the air.
They knocked on every door. The villagers' wariness was like a heavy, bolted door. Even when faced with the shinobi's detached attitude, their responses were mostly cautious deflections. Some, seeing how young the two were—one fourteen, the other eight—simply closed the door in their faces, not even bothering with a perfunctory excuse.
Shūji's expression remained neutral.
He changed his approach, starting with the most benign, everyday topics. "I hear the harvest was especially good this year?" "The inn seems to have far fewer guests than in previous years..."
This seemingly idle chatter, as harmless as the weather, acted like a small key, slowly prying open the villagers' sealed lips. Itachi stood silently to the side, his dark eyes calmly observing every subtle change.
He was not skilled with words, but he possessed a hawk-like perception. The shift in a villager's gaze, a subtle waver in their tone, the unconscious clenching of their knuckles—he captured it all, marking the credibility of their statements in a small notebook he carried.
When the setting sun had dyed the horizon a warm orange, the two stood under the old locust tree at the village entrance. Itachi opened his notebook, his voice—still childlike but abnormally steady—flowing into the dusk.
"Total number of villagers registered as 'away': thirty-seven. Of those, fifteen are in regular contact with their families. Six, while not in frequent contact, have confirmed, legitimate work elsewhere; this information is credible. The remaining sixteen are unaccounted for. While the villagers claim to be in contact, their statements were vague and contradictory."
"They can't all be bandits," Shūji said, his gaze on the distant silhouettes of the houses. "Some are forced by circumstance, some just yearn to see the outside world." He paused. "The fact that Shirakawa Kiesuke lost his composure the moment I asked about the villagers' whereabouts... that in itself is a confirmation."
"One other point," Itachi added, closing the notebook with a soft thwack. "After the bandit incidents began, the number of merchants stopping in the village dropped sharply." He recalled the helpless expressions on the villagers' faces when they spoke of it. "The innkeeper mentioned his income has shrunk by nearly thirty percent, and the amount of unsold goods piling up in the village has also clearly increased. The villagers are full of complaints about this."
A knowing smile touched Shūji's lips.
If Shirakawa Village were merely a poor, struggling place, they might have had to resort to a shinobi's iron-fisted methods. But this place was different. This was a village that had tasted the prosperity of the trade road. For people who have experienced abundance, the pain of suddenly losing it is far greater than for those who never had it at all. It was like falling from a mountaintop; even if they only landed halfway down, the shock of the fall would be unforgettable.
This situation was the perfect leverage to secure the village's cooperation. And with an eight-year-old kid in tow, Shūji preferred to handle things more smoothly if he still had the choice.
And so, the two once again stepped into the village chief's courtyard.
This time, Shūji's attitude was even more detached than the day before.
"Chief Shirakawa." He placed the organized investigation scroll lightly on the small table. "At this moment, is there anything you'd like to say to me?"
The old chief's throat bobbed with a difficult swallow. His thin, dry fingers unconsciously twisted the cloth of his robes over his knees. "I... This old man is slow. I don't understand your meaning, sir..."
Shūji walked slowly around to stand in front of the old man. The last rays of the sunset slanted in from behind him, casting a long shadow across the floor. He leaned down slightly. "Shirakawa Kiesuke, you should understand... we could have used a much more direct method to solve this."
The room was instantly plunged into a suffocating silence, where even breathing felt too loud.
"Every line recorded in this scroll represents the restraint and respect we have shown you." Shūji's voice was as steady as a deep pool. "You can argue that we lack hard proof. But often, proof isn't the key. The world only believes what it wants to believe. For example... if we were to submit this report to the Land of Rivers officials, letting the outside world know that Shirakawa Village not only breeds bandits, but is also guilty of harboring and enabling them..."
"Shinobi-sama!" The old man's head shot up, a flash of panic in his cloudy eyes. "Please... you mustn't! Our village would never..."
"I made it clear yesterday. Our goals in this matter can be the same," Shūji said, straightening up, his tone flat. "We need to complete our mission and clear the threat from the trade road. You need to restore peace, welcome the caravans back, and sell those piled-up goods."
"As for the other... details... such as where the bandits originated..." Shūji smoothed his sleeve, his gaze drifting to the deepening twilight outside the window. "That is not something a C-Rank mission needs to dig too deep into. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then..."
The unspoken threat hung in the air. The young shinobi raised his hand, lightly patting the old man's trembling shoulder, and turned to signal Itachi to leave.
"At your age, can it be that you still can't tell what is truly worth protecting, Chief Shirakawa?"
"Let's go, Itachi." Shūji slid open the paper door, and the evening breeze, carrying the mixed scent of grass and cooking smoke, rushed in. "There's nothing decent to eat in this village. We're going to Koizumi Town tonight."
"Yes, Senpai," Itachi replied quietly. Before following, his gaze swept one last time over the old man, who stood frozen in place, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.
Listening to the sound of their footsteps on the stone path fade into the distance and finally disappear, Shirakawa Kiesuke slowly closed his eyes. The only sound left in the room was the soft, crackling pop of the oil lamp's burning wick.