Koizumi Town's dango, compared to Konoha's, fell considerably short. The texture was somewhat rough, the sweetness excessively cloying. Shūji helplessly ordered a bowl of ramen to wash away the taste.
The local ramen was at least acceptable. Though it couldn't match Konoha's renowned Ichiraku, it benefited from quality ranch ingredients—the broth was rich, the meat slices tender. The only shortcoming was the noodles lacked proper firmness.
Regarding Shūji's critique, Itachi chewed his dango while quietly listening. He didn't need ramen to balance the flavor. While Shūji ate heartily, Itachi focused on composing the mission report.
During the mission, the primary executor was Shūji, with their reward split sixty-forty—Shūji taking sixty percent, Itachi forty. Therefore, undertaking the report-writing task, Itachi had no complaints. Even without the split, given his shinobi consciousness, he wouldn't shirk this responsibility.
By comparison, Shūji seemed... different. Itachi's understanding lacked the concept of "those who live life," yet he could clearly perceive this senpai possessed subtle differences from ordinary shinobi.
"Senpai." Itachi raised his head, calling softly.
"Mm?" Shūji lifted his face from the noodle bowl, a bit of broth at the corner of his mouth.
"To you, what is a shinobi?"
"Work." Shūji's answer was crisp and decisive.
This response made Itachi pause slightly. He'd heard too many lofty definitions of shinobi—the village's protective blade, inheritors of will, keystones of peace... yet never such a straightforward answer.
"I like eating, and I enjoy comfort. Being a shinobi is simply a job to make a living." Shūji spoke while slurping another mouthful of noodles. "What about you, Itachi?"
"Me?" Itachi found himself at a loss for words. From the moment of birth, becoming a shinobi had been predetermined fate. At four, experiencing battlefields with his father; at seven, graduating from the academy. As the Uchiha clan's genius, he'd never contemplated why he should become a shinobi.
"Shinobi is just a profession. Stripping away that identity, as a 'person,' who are you? The Uchiha genius? A shinobi the village places great hopes upon?" Shūji set down his chopsticks, gaze becoming serious. "What do you truly desire? What do you anticipate?"
Seeing Itachi sink into contemplation, Shūji's tone softened: "No need to rush finding answers. Someday, you'll reach your own conclusion. When it comes down to it, 'shinobi' burdened with so many weighty meanings is merely one profession among countless others."
"Want a bowl of ramen?" Shūji suddenly asked, interrupting Itachi's thoughts.
"No, no need, thank you, senpai." Itachi gently shook his head, black hair swaying in the breeze.
"It's really delicious," Shūji pointed at his bowl with chopsticks. "Dango alone won't fill your stomach."
"Still, no need..." Itachi's voice remained steady, yet revealed a trace of barely perceptible wavering.
"Listen to me," Shūji explained earnestly. "Sweet foods must be paired with savory flavors to be truly satisfying. That's common sense."
"Senpai," Itachi finally raised his head, eyes flashing with rare stubbornness. "Sweet dango paired with a cup of clear tea is sufficient."
This was the first time during this mission that Itachi had clearly opposed Shūji's opinion. Shūji felt a trace of regret, yet the corners of his mouth couldn't help curving with relief. And on Itachi's face appeared an extremely faint smile, like a frozen lake quietly cracking open.
Land of Rivers officials quickly confirmed news of the bandits' elimination and announced it widely. The two promptly returned to Konoha.
Submitting the mission report at the Hokage Building itself wasn't complex, but encountering a Sunagakure rogue ninja and submitting his head involved some additional procedures. Mission compensation would be issued after the Intelligence Division completed information extraction from Shinmi's head. With luck, this mission's additional earnings might reach around 150,000 ryō; if intelligence value proved low, it might only increase to 100,000 ryō.
As for Shinmi's tool sealing scroll, since the Land of Rivers commission didn't include recovering stolen goods, these assets could naturally be retained. For unsealing matters, Shūji entrusted the village to handle it.
"Certainly." Tori, the chūnin responsible for registration at the Hokage Building, nodded in agreement. "If items within the scroll involve other villages' secrets, the village will discretionally retain portions for safekeeping or research, providing corresponding compensation based on actual circumstances. Considering this, the village will not charge additional fees for this unsealing service."
"Much appreciated. Approximately how long?"
"Come back in three days. By then the Intelligence Division's search of the head should also be complete."
After handling these trivial matters, the sky neared dusk. Itachi then bid Shūji farewell. While executing missions outside naturally involved sleeping rough and eating simply, upon returning to the village, as an eight-year-old child, even Itachi must return home for meals on time.
Shūji watched Itachi's small figure disappear around the street corner before turning toward the village's western outskirts. His destination was an old-style mansion, already over fifty years old. Being far from the village center, it had been spared during the Nine-Tails incident three years prior.
Cherry blossom trees lined both sides of the mansion, their late-season flowers drifting in the wind, briefly resting on his shoulders before quietly sliding away.
"Grandma Momoka, I've returned."
In the courtyard, an elderly woman in a deep brown kimono sat upright, silver hair combed meticulously. Hearing Shūji's voice, she didn't raise her eyes, only inclining her head slightly.
"Your body, no problems?"
"Yes. I can also skillfully control this power now." Shūji raised his palm. A gentle emerald glow flowed in his palm. A tender sprout visibly stretched and grew before the eye.
Originally, the critically wounded, dying Shūji had been beyond saving. When Konoha's medical ninja were at their wits' end, it was Grandma Momoka who took him from the hospital, injecting the legendary Hashirama Cells⁴ into his collapsing body.
The worst outcome was merely death.
With this thought, the elderly woman in her seventies completed that crude "surgery" for Shūji in this old mansion—it couldn't even be called surgery, merely injecting cells followed by laying powerful suppression seals, then leaving fate to heaven.
This body still clearly remembered the sensation from that time.
Violent power like a bursting flood instantly swallowed him.
Hashirama Cells were like greedy beasts, madly tearing at and devouring every inch of flesh and blood. Intense pain penetrated bone marrow, exploding at nerve endings.
For several instants, he felt massive trees growing wildly inside his body—roots penetrating organs, branches piercing skin.
Every inch of skin felt repeatedly punctured by tens of thousands of red-hot steel needles, bones emitting teeth-aching brittle sounds during reconstruction, blood boiling and churning in blood vessels.
That was torment beyond language's limits.
Merely recalling it caused hidden pain to surface from deep within the body.
"That Uchiha, called a genius—what's he like?" Grandma Momoka's voice was flat and waveless.
"Just a child." Shūji lowered his hand. The green glow and sprout vanished together as he answered calmly.
At this assessment, the corners of Grandma Momoka's mouth imperceptibly twitched, like a breeze brushing water's surface—fleeting, without comment.
Only the subtle sounds of falling cherry blossoms remained in the courtyard.
She slowly stood, movements carrying the composure precipitated by years and a trace of barely perceptible stiffness.
"Since there are no problems..." Her gaze passed beyond Shūji toward the falling cherry blossoms in the courtyard. That gaze was distant and heavy, as if penetrating time's dust. "Hereafter, live well, Shūji."
A breeze passed, sweeping up several withered petals. The old woman's voice lowered, carrying a weariness and desolation buried deep in her heart, fermented over countless years:
"Our clan has already sacrificed too much for Konoha."
She paused, sight still lingering on those silently drifting petals, voice light as a sigh yet each word clear, carrying weight penetrating through years: "Abandoning life, abandoning hatred, and finally even our ancestors' surname... couldn't be preserved..." She seemed not to be speaking to Shūji, but murmuring to this courtyard, to those names vanished into history's dust. "Hashirama-sama, Tobirama-sama... for the village, what does our clan... have left..."
The murmur gradually dissolved into nearly soundless soliloquy, dissipating in the courtyard's deepening twilight, leaving only a heavy, lingering melancholy—like those cherry blossoms covering the ground, silently recounting former brilliance and present withering.
Reference Glossary:
Those who live life – A colloquial concept referring to people who prioritize personal enjoyment and quality of life over duty or ambition.
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