Methods

Methods

The halo of the oil lamp trembled softly in Itachi's eyes. He could not give an answer at once. The Uchiha clan had its fixed methods: control with genjutsu, suppress with force, storm directly into the target location, then search for evidence—simple and direct. Whether conflict was stirred up or innocents were caught in the process had never been part of the consideration. The weak needed no explanation from the Uchiha, and the strong disdained one. This was the clan's creed, and the Shinobi World's usual way of treating ordinary people.

Within the mission system, commissions targeting purely ordinary people capped at C-rank, with rewards of no more than one hundred thousand ryo. Once ninja were involved, they immediately rose to B-rank, with payment starting at eighty thousand ryo and no upper limit.

But Itachi had never truly accepted those rules. Whenever he recalled the arrogance ingrained in his clansmen's bones, his stomach churned faintly. He despised the clan's ways, and even more, he hated that fate which required one to lose those closest to them in exchange for power. Especially when his clansmen gained strength at the cost of loss, then took pride in it and called it Uchiha glory—the distortion of it made him suffocate.

The dim lamplight swayed, carrying him back to that cold moment. When he awakened the Sharingan after a comrade's death, his father Fugaku's approving words—"As expected of my son"—had made him feel as though he had fallen into an icy abyss.

"I didn't stand beside them for these eyes." This thought had lingered in his heart for a long time, yet he had never spoken it aloud. Now, faced with Senior Shuji's question, the emotions he had suppressed surged up once more. He raised his head, and the outlines of two tomoe flickered faintly in his eyes beneath the shifting light.

"Sorry, Senior Shuji," he said in a low voice. "I... don't have an answer."

"Then do it my way."

Early the next morning, before the thin mist had fully dispersed, Shuji led Itachi onto the damp stone-paved roads of Shirakawa Village. Morning dew soaked their shoes, leaving faint wet marks on the bluestone. Smoke curled up from between the village homes, yet it could not disperse the tension hanging in the air.

They knocked on doors one by one. The villagers' wariness was like heavy door panels; even when faced with the somewhat distant attitude of ninja, their replies were mostly cautious evasions. Some, seeing that the pair were still so young—one fourteen, the other eight—simply shut their doors and turned them away without even bothering with perfunctory excuses.

Shuji's expression remained unchanged.

Instead, he began with the gentlest everyday topics. "I heard this year's harvest has been especially good?" "There seem to be far fewer guests at the inn than in previous years..." This seemingly harmless small talk was like tiny keys, gradually prying open the villagers' tightly shut mouths. Itachi stood quietly to one side, his dark eyes calmly observing every subtle change.

He was not good with words, but his insight was as sharp as a hawk's. The shifts in the villagers' gazes, the subtle turns in their tones, the unconscious curling of their fingers—all were precisely caught and marked in the notebook he carried, along with their degree of credibility.

As the sunset dyed the horizon a warm orange, the two stood beneath the old locust tree at the village entrance. Itachi opened his notebook, his voice still childlike yet remarkably steady as it flowed through the dusk. "There are thirty-seven villagers who are away year-round. Of them, fifteen contact their families regularly. Six do not send frequent word, but they do have stable work elsewhere, so their information is credible. The whereabouts of the remaining sixteen are unknown. Though the villagers claim to be in contact with them, their words are vague and contradictory."

"They can't all be bandits." Shuji looked toward the outlines of the distant village houses. "Some were driven out by livelihood, while others longed for the world beyond." He paused. "Shirakawa Kisuke lost his composure the moment I asked about the villagers' whereabouts. That alone was a kind of confirmation."

"There's one more thing." Itachi closed the notebook with a soft snap. "After the bandit incidents, the number of merchants and travelers staying in the village dropped sharply." He recalled the helpless expressions of the villagers when they spoke of it. "The innkeeper mentioned that his income had fallen by nearly thirty percent, and the goods piled up in the village had clearly increased as well. The villagers have been complaining bitterly about it."

A knowing smile appeared at the corner of Shuji's lips.

If Shirakawa Village had merely been a poor and barren place, they might have had no choice but to resort to a ninja's iron-handed methods. But this place was different. This was a village that had tasted the prosperity of trade routes. For those who had experienced abundance, the pain of suddenly falling into hardship was far greater than for those who had never possessed it. Like falling from a mountaintop—even if one only fell halfway down, the drop would still be unforgettable.

The current situation was precisely the opportunity to pry the village into cooperating. With eight-year-old Itachi beside him, and while there was still room for choice, Shuji preferred to handle things more smoothly.

Thus, the two entered the village chief's courtyard once again.

This time, Shuji's attitude was even more distant than it had been yesterday.

"Village Chief Shirakawa." He gently placed the organized investigation scroll on the low table. "At this moment, is there anything you would like to say to me?"

The old village chief's Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty, and his withered fingers unconsciously twisted the fabric of the robe across his knees. "This... this old man is foolish. I do not understand what you mean, sir..."

Shuji slowly walked around to stand before the old man. The setting sun slanted into the room from behind him, casting a long shadow across the floor. He bent slightly. "Shirakawa Kisuke, you should understand that we could have used a more direct method to solve this problem."

The room instantly fell into a frozen silence. Even breathing became cautious.

"Every line recorded on this scroll represents the restraint and respect we have shown." Shuji's voice was calm as a deep pool. "You may argue that we lack conclusive evidence. But often, evidence is not the key. People only choose to believe what they are inclined to believe—for example, if we submit this report to the Land of Rivers and let the outside world know that Shirakawa Village not only breeds bandits, but is also suspected of sheltering and indulging them..."

"Honored ninja!" The old man suddenly looked up, panic flashing through his clouded eyes. "Please... please, you must not! Our village absolutely does not..."

"I made it clear yesterday that our demands in this matter could have been aligned." Shuji straightened, his tone even and unruffled. "We need to complete the mission and remove the threat from the trade route. You need to restore peace, welcome back merchant caravans, and clear out those stockpiled goods."

"As for the other details, such as where the bandits truly came from..." Shuji adjusted his sleeve, his gaze passing over the deepening dusk outside the window. "That is not something a C-rank mission needs to investigate thoroughly. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then..."

His unfinished words hung in the air. The youth raised a hand and gently patted the old man's faintly trembling shoulder, then turned and motioned for Itachi to leave.

"At your age, can you still not tell what is truly worth protecting, Village Chief Shirakawa?"

"Let's go, Itachi." Shuji slid open the paper door, and the evening breeze rushed in, carrying the mingled scent of grass, trees, and cooking smoke. "There isn't anything decent to eat in this village. We'll go to Koizumi Town tonight."

"Yes, Senior." Itachi answered quietly. Before following, he gave one last look at the old man standing rigidly in place, as though he had aged ten years in an instant.

As the sound of wooden clogs on the stone road gradually faded into the distance and finally vanished at the end of the village path, Shirakawa Kisuke slowly closed his eyes. Only the faint crackling of the oil lamp remained in the room.

(End of Chapter)