Chapter 8: The Return and the Roots
The dango in Koizumi Town was, to be honest, a lot worse than Konoha's. The texture was a bit coarse, and the sweetness was overly sticky. Shūji had no choice but to order a bowl of ramen to wash the taste out of his mouth.
The local ramen, at least, was decent. While it couldn't compare to the fame of Konoha's Ichiraku, it benefited from the high-quality local pastures. The broth was rich and the sliced meat was tender. The only drawback was that the noodles lacked a proper, firm bite.
While Shūji gave his critique, Itachi listened quietly, still working on his dango. He didn't need any ramen to cut the sweetness. As Shūji slurped his noodles, Itachi was focused on writing the mission report.
On this mission, Shūji was the primary combatant, and their pay was split 60/40. Because he was taking the larger share, Itachi had no complaints about being the one to write the report. Even if there were no split, his duty as a shinobi wouldn't have let him refuse.
Shūji, by contrast, seemed... different. The concept of someone just "living for the day-to-day" didn't exist in Itachi's vocabulary, but he could clearly sense that this senpai was subtly different from a typical shinobi.
"Senpai." Itachi looked up and called out softly.
"Hm?" Shūji lifted his face from the noodle bowl, a bit of broth on the corner of his mouth.
"What is a shinobi, to you?"
"A job," Shūji answered, simple and direct.
The answer made Itachi pause. He had heard so many lofty definitions—the village's guardian blade, the inheritors of the Will of Fire, the foundation of peace... but never one so blunt.
"I like to eat, and I like to enjoy life. Being a shinobi is just a way to make a living," Shūji said, taking another slurp of noodles. "What about you, Itachi?"
"Me?" Itachi was at a loss for words. From the moment he was born, becoming a shinobi was his set destiny. He had followed his father to a battlefield at four and graduated from the Academy at seven. As the Uchiha clan's genius, he had never once stopped to think about why he had to become one.
"Shinobi is just a profession. If you strip that title away, what are you, as a person? The Uchiha's genius? The shinobi the village has high hopes for?" Shūji put down his chopsticks, his gaze turning serious. "What do you truly want? What are you hoping for?"
Seeing Itachi fall into deep thought, Shūji's tone softened. "No need to find the answer right away. One day, you'll reach your own conclusion. In the end, this 'shinobi' title, the one we load with so much heavy meaning, is just one of thousands of jobs."
"Want a bowl of ramen?" Shūji asked suddenly, breaking Itachi's train of thought.
"No, that's alright. Thank you, Senpai." Itachi shook his head gently, his dark hair shifting in the breeze.
"It's really good, you know," Shūji insisted, pointing at his bowl with his chopsticks. "You can't get full on just dango."
"I... am still fine..." Itachi's voice was steady, but there was a flicker of uncertainty.
"Listen," Shūji explained seriously, "it's common sense that you have to pair something sweet with something savory to get the full experience."
"Senpai," Itachi finally looked up, a rare spark of stubbornness in his eyes, "sweet dango is perfectly fine with a cup of clear tea."
It was the first time on this mission that Itachi had clearly disagreed with him. Shūji felt a twinge of regret, but the corners of his mouth couldn't help but quirk into a pleased smile. And on Itachi's face, a very faint smile appeared, like a crack forming on a frozen lake.
The Land of Rivers officials quickly confirmed and announced the news that the bandits had been eliminated. Shūji and Itachi returned to Konoha.
Submitting the mission report at the Hokage Tower was simple, but the part about encountering a Suna missing-nin and submitting his head added a few extra steps. The mission pay, along with any bonus, would be issued after the Intel Division finished extracting information from Shinmi's head. If they were lucky, the extra income from this mission could be around 150,000 ryō. If the intel wasn't very valuable, it might only be 100,000.
As for Shinmi's item-sealing scroll, since the mission from the Land of Rivers didn't include recovering the stolen goods, those assets were theirs to keep. Shūji entrusted the unsealing to the village.
"Of course," the Chūnin at the reception desk, Torii, nodded. "If the items within the scroll involve another village's secrets, Konoha may retain a portion for security or research, and you will be compensated accordingly. Because of that, the village will waive the unsealing fee for this service."
"Thank you. How long will it take?"
"Come back in three days. The Intel Division should be done with the head by then."
By the time they finished with the administrative tasks, it was nearly dusk. Itachi said his goodbyes to Shūji. While on a mission, eating and sleeping in the wild was normal, but back in the village, even Itachi was still an eight-year-old kid who had to be home for dinner.
Shūji watched Itachi's small figure disappear around the street corner before turning and heading toward the western outskirts of the village. His destination was an old-style estate, more than fifty years old. Because it was far from the village center, it had been spared during the Nine-Tails' rampage three years ago.
The path to the estate was lined with cherry trees. The last of the blossoms drifted on the wind, landing on his shoulder for a moment before quietly slipping off.
"Tōka-bā-chan, I'm back."
In the garden, an old woman in a dark brown kimono sat in formal seiza. Her silver-white hair was combed back perfectly. Hearing Shūji's voice, she didn't look up, only gave a slight nod.
"Your body. Is it fine?"
"Yes. I can now control this power." Shūji raised his hand, and a soft, green glow flowed in his palm. A tender sprout grew at a visible rate, unfurling its leaves.
Back then, the mortally wounded Shūji had been beyond saving. When Konoha's medical-nin had given up, it was Tōka-bā-chan who had taken him from the hospital. She had infused the legendary Hashirama Cells into his dying body.
The worst that could happen was death, after all.
With that thought, the old woman, well past seventy, had performed a simple "surgery" on Shūji in this very house. It couldn't even be called surgery. She had simply injected the cells, applied a powerful suppression seal, and left the rest to fate.
This body still clearly remembered the feeling.
The violent power had been a bursting dam, swallowing him instantly.
The Hashirama Cells were like a ravenous beast, tearing at and devouring every inch of his flesh. The agony went bone-deep, exploding at every nerve ending.
For several moments, he felt a giant tree growing wildly inside him—its roots piercing his organs, its branches breaking through his skin.
Every inch of him felt like it was being stabbed by a thousand red-hot needles. His bones had made sickening, grinding cracks as they reset, and his blood had boiled in his veins.
It was a torture beyond words.
Just remembering it sent a phantom ache through his entire body.
"That Uchiha, the one they call a genius. How is he?" Tōka-bā-chan's voice was flat.
"He's just a kid," Shūji replied calmly, lowering his hand. The green light and the sprout vanished.
At this evaluation, the corner of Tōka-bā-chan's mouth twitched, an almost imperceptible ripple, gone in an instant. She said nothing.
The only sound in the garden was the faint rustle of falling cherry blossoms.
She slowly stood up, her movements carrying the heavy grace of age, along with a subtle, hidden slowness.
"If you are well..." Her gaze went past Shūji, settling on the falling blossoms. Her eyes were distant and heavy, as if piercing through the dust of time. "Then live well from now on, Shūji."
A breeze rustled the leaves, stirring the fallen petals. The old woman's voice grew low, carrying a weariness and sorrow that had fermented deep in her heart for years.
"Our clan... has already given too much for Konoha."
She paused, her eyes still fixed on the silent, drifting petals. Her voice was as soft as a sigh, but every word was clear, carrying the weight of generations. "We gave up our lives... we gave up our hatred... and in the end, even our ancestors' surname... we were not allowed to keep..."
It was as if she wasn't speaking to Shūji, but to the garden, to the names that had vanished into the dust of history. "Hashirama-sama... Tobirama-sama... for the sake of the village... what does our clan... have left..."
Her whispers faded into a near-silent monologue, disappearing into the deepening twilight of the garden. All that remained was a heavy, lingering melancholy, like the cherry blossoms carpeting the ground, a silent testament to a brilliance that was, and a decay that is.