The lamplight's halo flickered gently in Itachi's eyes. He couldn't immediately provide an answer. The Uchiha clan had fixed methods of operation: genjutsu control, force suppression, direct intrusion into target locations followed by evidence gathering—simple and direct. Whether conflicts arose or innocents were affected in the process had never been a consideration. The weak didn't need the Uchiha's explanations; the strong didn't require them. This was the clan's creed, and also how the shinobi world treated ordinary people as the norm.
Within the mission system, commissions targeting pure civilians capped at C-rank, with rewards not exceeding one hundred thousand ryō. Once shinobi were involved, they immediately jumped to B-rank, payments starting at eighty thousand ryō with no upper limit.
But these rules had never aligned with Itachi's heart. Whenever he recalled that arrogance carved into his clansmen's bones, his stomach churned faintly. He loathed the clan's methods, despised even more that twisted destiny of having to exchange the loss of loved ones for power. Especially when clansmen took pride in gaining power through loss, calling it Uchiha glory—that distortion suffocated him.
The dim lamplight swayed, bringing him back to that frigid moment. When he awakened the Sharingan due to a companion's death, his father Fugaku's approving words "Worthy of being my son" had made him feel as if plunged into an icy abyss.
"I... didn't stand beside them for the sake of these eyes." This thought had lingered in his heart for so long, yet never been spoken aloud. Now facing Shūji-senpai's question, those suppressed emotions surged again. He raised his head, the two-tomoe pattern in his pupils faintly visible in the light and shadow.
"I'm sorry, Shūji-senpai," his voice was low, "I... have no answer."
"Then we'll do it my way."
The next morning, before the mist had fully dispersed, Shūji led Itachi onto Shirakawa Village's damp stone path. Morning dew soaked their footwear, leaving shallow water marks on the stones. Cooking smoke rose between dwellings, yet couldn't dispel that thread of tension permeating the air.
They knocked door to door. The villagers' wariness was like the heavy doors themselves—even facing the shinobi's somewhat distant attitude, responses were mostly cautious deflections. Some, seeing the two were young—one fourteen, one eight—directly closed their doors and declined, not even bothering with perfunctory responses.
Shūji's expression remained unchanged.
He switched to the gentlest daily topics: "I heard this year's harvest was especially good in the village?" "The inn seems to have fewer guests than previous years..." These seemingly inconsequential chats were like tiny keys, bit by bit prying open the villagers' tightly closed tongues. Itachi stood quietly to the side, his dark eyes calmly observing every subtle change.
He wasn't eloquent, but possessed hawk-like perception. The villagers' shifting gazes, subtle tonal changes, unconscious finger curling—all were precisely captured by him and noted in his carried record book with credibility ratings.
When the setting sun dyed the sky warm orange, the two stood beneath the old locust tree at the village entrance. Itachi opened his record book, his youthful yet unusually composed voice flowing in the twilight: "A total of thirty-seven villagers have left for extended periods. Of these, fifteen maintain regular contact with family, six lack frequent communication but have confirmed fixed occupations outside, their information credible. The remaining sixteen have unclear whereabouts; though villagers claim to have contact, their words are vague and contradictory."
"They can't all be bandits," Shūji's gaze directed toward the distant dwelling contours. "Some left due to livelihood pressures, some yearning for the outside world." He paused. "The moment I asked Shirakawa Kisuke about villagers' whereabouts, he lost his composure. That itself is confirmation."
"Another point," Itachi closed his notebook with a soft "snap," "after the bandit incidents, the number of merchants lingering in the village sharply declined." He recalled the villagers' helpless expressions discussing this. "The inn owner mentioned income shrinking by nearly thirty percent, and goods accumulated in the village have noticeably increased. Villagers are quite vocal with complaints."
A knowing smile touched the corners of Shūji's lips.
If Shirakawa Village were merely an impoverished, struggling place, perhaps they could only resort to shinobi's iron-blooded methods. But this place was different. This was a village that had tasted the trade route's prosperity, experienced abundance. For those who've experienced wealth, suddenly plummeting poverty hurts far worse than never having possessed. Like falling from a mountain peak—even landing only at mid-slope, that drop is bone-deep.
The current situation was precisely the opportunity to leverage the village's cooperation. Bringing eight-year-old Itachi along, when choices still existed, he hoped to handle things more smoothly.
Thus, the two once again stepped into the village head's courtyard.
This time, Shūji's attitude was even more distant than yesterday.
"Village Head Shirakawa." He gently placed the organized investigation scroll on the low table. "At this moment, do you have anything to tell me?"
The old village head's throat rolled with difficulty, his withered fingers unconsciously wringing the fabric of his robe at his knees: "This... this old one is dull-witted, doesn't understand the honorable sir's meaning..."
Shūji slowly circled to face the old man, the setting sun's afterglow slanting in from behind him, casting a long shadow on the floor. He leaned forward slightly: "Shirakawa Kisuke, you should understand we could have adopted more direct methods to resolve this."
The room instantly fell into a stifling, frozen silence, even breathing becoming cautious.
"Every line recorded in this scroll represents the restraint and respect we've extended." Shūji's voice was as steady as a deep pool. "You can argue we lack ironclad proof. But often, evidence isn't key. People only believe what they're inclined to believe—for instance, if we submit this report to the Land of Rivers authorities, letting outsiders know that Shirakawa Village not only breeds bandits but is suspected of harboring and abetting them..."
"Ninja-sama!" The old man jerked his head up, a flash of panic in his clouded eyes. "Please... please, you absolutely must not! Our village has absolutely no..."
"I stated very clearly yesterday that in this matter, our objectives could align." Shūji straightened, tone flat and unwavering. "We need to complete the mission, eliminate the trade route threat; you need to restore peace, welcome merchant caravans again, clear out those accumulated goods."
"As for other details, such as where exactly the bandits originated," Shūji adjusted his cuffs, gaze sweeping past the window toward the deepening dusk outside, "that's not within a C-rank mission's scope of inquiry. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then..."
His unfinished words hung in the air. The young man raised his hand, lightly patting the old man's trembling shoulder, turning to signal Itachi to leave.
"At your age, can you still not distinguish what truly deserves protecting? Village Head Shirakawa."
"Let's go, Itachi." Shūji pulled open the paper door, evening wind carrying the mixed scent of vegetation and cooking smoke surging in. "There's nothing decent to eat in this village. Tonight we'll go to Koizumi Town."
"Yes, senpai." Itachi responded quietly, his gaze sweeping past the old man frozen in place, seemingly aged ten years in an instant, as he followed.
Listening to the sound of wooden clogs on stone gradually receding, finally vanishing at the village path's end, Shirakawa Kisuke slowly closed his eyes. Inside the room, only the lamp's burning produced soft crackling sounds.
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild