The oil-lamp halo wavered softly in Itachi's eyes. He could not give an answer right away. The Uchiha had fixed ways of doing things.
Use genjutsu to control, suppress with force, break straight into the target site and search for evidence after. It was simple and direct. Whether conflict would be triggered or innocents harmed on the way had never been part of the calculation. The weak did not need Uchiha explanations, and the strong did not care for them. That was the clan's creed, and it was how the shinobi world treated ordinary people.
In the mission system, commissions that dealt only with civilians capped at C rank, with pay no more than one hundred thousand ryō. Once shinobi were involved, they rose to B rank at once, with pay starting at eighty thousand and no ceiling.
But that set of rules had never sat right in Itachi's heart. When he thought of the clan's deep-boned arrogance, his stomach turned. He loathed the clan's style, and he loathed the fate that demanded strength be bought with the loss of those closest to you. Worst of all was when people took that loss, called it Uchiha pride, and wore it as honor. The twist in it choked him.
The lamp's dim light flickered and drew him back to that cold moment. When his Sharingan opened because a comrade died, his father Fugaku's praise, "Worthy of my son," had dropped him into an ice pit in an instant.
I did not stand with them for these eyes. The thought had circled in him for a long time, never spoken aloud. Faced with Senior Shuji's question, those suppressed feelings surged again. He lifted his head. In the light and shadow, the outline of two tomoe flickered in his pupils.
"Forgive me, Senior Shuji," he said in a low voice. "I have no answer."
"Then we will do it my way."
At dawn the next day, the mist had not lifted, and Shuji was already leading Itachi along the damp stone road of Shirakawa. Dew soaked their footwear and left pale tracks on the blue stone. Cooking smoke rose between houses, yet it did not clear the faint tightness in the air.
They knocked on doors house by house. The villagers' wariness was like the weight of the doors themselves. Even when they kept a civil tone for shinobi, their replies were cautious evasions. Some saw how young the two were, fourteen and eight, and shut the door without even the courtesy of a brush-off.
Shuji's expression did not change.
He pivoted to the gentlest of daily topics. "I hear this year's harvest has been good." "The inn's guests seem fewer than last year." Harmless talk like that worked like a set of tiny keys. Bit by bit, it pried open tight lips. Itachi stood to the side, his ink-dark eyes watching every small shift.
He was not good with words, but his sight was like a hawk's. The skitter in a villager's glance, the bend of a tone, the unconscious curl of a finger. He noted it all and marked each lead's weight in the small notebook he carried.
At sunset, the sky was a warm orange, and they stood beneath the old pagoda tree at the village gate. Itachi opened the notebook. His voice was still young, yet very steady. "Villagers who have been away long term number thirty-seven. Fifteen keep regular contact with family. Six do not write often, but have steady work away, so the information is reliable. The remaining sixteen have unclear whereabouts. Fellow villagers claim contact, but their words are vague and contradict each other."
"They cannot all be bandits." Shuji looked toward the silhouettes of distant houses. "Some are driven by livelihood. Some yearn for a wider world." He paused. "From the moment I asked Shirakawa Keisuke about their whereabouts, he lost his measure. That is a confirmation by itself."
"One more point." Itachi closed the notebook with a soft snap. "Since the bandit incidents, the number of caravans lingering in the village has dropped sharply." He recalled the villagers' helpless looks. "The innkeeper said income is down nearly thirty percent, and unsold goods have piled up. There is much complaint in the village."
A knowing smile touched Shuji's lips.
If Shirakawa were poor and barren, there would be nothing to use but shinobi means. This place was different. This was a village that had tasted the sweetness of a thriving road. For those who have known plenty, a sudden fall stings more than for those who never had it. As if falling from a peak. Even if you only land on a hillside, the drop still carves deep.
The present moment was the lever for cooperation. With an eight-year-old at his side, Shuji wanted a smoother end while there was still a choice.
They stepped once more into the chief's courtyard.
This time, Shuji's manner was cooler than the day before.
"Chief Shirakawa." He set the organized report on the table. "Now, do you have something to say to me?"
The old chief's Adam's apple moved with difficulty. His thin fingers twisted the fabric on his knee. "I... I am a dull old man. I do not understand your meaning..."
Shuji paced to stand before him. The slanting afterglow fell behind him and cast a long shadow across the floor. He bent slightly. "Shirakawa Keisuke, you know we could choose a more direct way to solve this."
The room went still. Even their breathing grew careful.
"Every line on this scroll stands for the restraint and respect we have given you." Shuji's voice was level and deep. "You can argue we lack iron proof. Yet proof is not always the key. People choose the truths they prefer. For example, if we present this report to the Rivers authorities and let the outside world hear that Shirakawa not only breeds bandits but shelters them..."
"Honored shinobi." The old man jerked his head up, panic flashing in his cloudy eyes. "Please, do not. Our village would never..."
"I made it clear yesterday. Our aims could be the same." Shuji straightened and spoke without ripple. "We need to complete the mission and clear the road of bandits. You need to restore peace, welcome caravans back, and move the goods that are piling up."
"As for the branches on the side, like where exactly the bandits came from." Shuji smoothed his sleeve and glanced at the deepening dusk outside the window. "That is not something a C-rank mission must dig into. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then..."
The rest hung in the air. The youth lifted a hand, patted the old man's trembling shoulder, and turned to signal Itachi.
"At your age, can you still not tell what truly deserves to be protected, Chief Shirakawa?"
"Come, Itachi." Shuji slid the paper door open. The evening wind poured in with the mixed scents of grass, trees, and cooking smoke. "There is little decent to eat here. We will go to Koizumi tonight."
"Yes, senior," Itachi answered quietly. Before he stepped out, his gaze passed once over the elder who stood frozen, a man who looked a decade older in a blink.
Listening to the footsteps trail down the lane and vanish, Shirakawa Keisuke slowly closed his eyes. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp remained in the room.
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild