Chương 4: Method

The warm glow of the oil lamp flickered gently in Itachi's eyes. He couldn't provide an immediate answer. The Uchiha clan had a set way of doing things. Genjutsu control, suppression through force, directly barging into the target location, and then searching for evidence, simple and direct. As for whether conflicts were sparked or innocents were dragged in during the process, that was never a consideration. The weak needed no explanation from the Uchiha, and the strong disdained giving one.

This was the clan's creed, as well as the shinobi world's standard way of treating ordinary civilians. Within the mission system, requests where ordinary civilians were the sole targets had a maximum rank of C-rank, with payouts capping out at no more than one hundred thousand Ryo. The moment shinobi were involved, it immediately jumped to B-rank, with rewards starting from eighty thousand Ryo and no upper limit. Yet, this set of rules was something Itachi had never truly accepted in his heart.

Whenever he recalled the bone-deep arrogance of his clansmen, he felt sick. He hated the clan's way of doing things, and even more so hated the destiny where power had to be exchanged through the loss of loved ones. Especially when clansmen, having gained strength at the cost of such loss, wore it as a badge of pride and called it the glory of the Uchiha, that twisted nature suffocated him. The dim, swaying lamp light carried him back to that cold moment.

When he awakened his Sharingan due to the death of his companion, his father Fugaku's approval words, "As expected of my son"; had made him feel as though he were plunging into a pit of ice. I... didn't stand by their side just for these eyes. This thought had lingered in his heart for a long time, yet he had never said it aloud. Facing Senpai Shuji's question now, those suppressed emotions churned once more.

He raised his head, the faint outline of two tomoe in his eyes flickering subtly beneath the light and shadow.

"I'm sorry, Senpai Shuji," his voice was low.

"I... don't have an answer."

"Then let's do it my way." The next morning, before the thin fog had fully cleared, Shuji led Itachi onto Shirakawa Village's damp cobblestone path. They knocked on doors one by one. The villagers' vigilance was as thick as heavy wooden doorboards. Even when facing the slightly distant demeanor of shinobi, most responses were cautious evasions. Some, seeing how young the two were, one fourteen, one eight, simply closed their doors to turn them away, sparing themselves even the effort of superficial excuses.

Shuji's expression remained completely unbothered. He shifted his approach, initiating conversation through warm, ordinary everyday topics: "I heard the village harvest was exceptionally good this year?"

"It seems guests at the inn are quite a bit sparser than in previous years..." These seemingly irrelevant chats acted like delicate keys, slowly picking open the villagers' tightly shut mouths. Standing quietly to the side, Itachi observed every tiny shift with his dark eyes. He wasn't adept with words, yet he possessed falcon-like insight.

The shifting glances of the villagers, subtle changes in tone, the involuntary curling of knuckles, all were caught in his vision and marked on his pocket notebook with varying levels of credibility. By the time the setting sun painted the horizon a warm orange, the two stood under the old scholar tree at the village entrance. Itachi flipped open his notebook and spoke with his youthful yet exceptionally steady voice: "A total of thirty-seven villagers left for long periods.

Fifteen of them contact their families regularly. Six have no frequent contact, but do have fixed livelihoods outside, making that information trustworthy. The remaining sixteen are unaccounted for. Though the villagers claim they remain in touch, their words are vague and contradictory." Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"They can't all be bandits," Shuji's gaze drifted toward the distant silhouettes of the village houses.

"Some were forced by livelihood, others wanted to see outside world." He paused.

"The moment I asked about the whereabouts of the villagers, Shirakawa Takasuke lost his composure. That in itself was a confirmation."

"Another point," Itachi closed the notebook with a quiet SNAP.

"After the bandit incidents, the number of traveling merchants staying in the village decreased." He recalled the helpless expressions on the villagers' faces when mentioning it.

"The innkeeper mentioned an income drop of nearly thirty percent, and the backlog of goods in the village has noticeably increased. The villagers are clearly frustrated." A knowing smile touched the corners of Shuji's lips. If Shirakawa Village were merely an impoverished, desperate place, they might have had to resort strictly to shinobi methods. But this place was different. This was a village that had tasted the sweetness of a thriving trade road.

For those who had experienced prosperity, the pain of a sudden drop into hardship cut far deeper than for those who had never possessed it to begin with. Like falling from a mountain peak, even if one only fell halfway, the drop was unforgettable. The current situation was precisely the leverage needed to move the village into cooperation. Carrying along an eight-year-old child like Itachi, Shuji preferred to handle matters with greater finesse while there was still room for choice.

And so, the two stepped into the village chief's courtyard once more. This time, Shuji's attitude was even cooler and more distant than the day before.

"Village Chief Shirakawa." He gently placed the investigation scroll onto the table.

"At this point, do you have anything you wish to say to me?" The old chief's throat bobbed with difficulty, his fingers instinctively clutching the fabric of his robes over his knees.

"T-This... this old man is slow and doesn't understand what you mean, Shinobi-sama..." Shuji walked at a unhurried pace around to stand before the old man. He leaned down slightly: "Shirakawa Takasuke, you should understand that we could have used a much more direct method to solve this problem." The room instantly fell into a heavy, frozen silence, where even breathing became cautious.

"Every line recorded on this scroll represents the restraint and respect we have given you." Shuji's voice was as smooth and flat as a deep pool.

"You can argue that we lack hard evidence. But most of the time, evidence isn't what matters. People only choose to believe what they lean toward believing; for instance, if we submit this report to the Land of Rivers side, letting the outside world know that Shirakawa Village not only harbors bandits, but is also suspected of shielding and condoning them..."

"Shinobi-sama!" The old man jerked his head up, panic flashing in his cloudy eyes.

"P-Please, absolutely not! Our village would never..."

"I made it very clear yesterday that our goals in this matter could be completely aligned." Shuji straightened up, his tone flat and unreadable.

"We need to complete our mission and clear the trade route of bandits; you need to restore peace, welcome back trading caravans, and digest all those stockpiled goods."

"As for other details, such as where those bandits truly originated," Shuji adjusted his cuffs, glancing at the darkening dusk outside the window, "that is not within the scope of a C-rank mission to investigate deeply. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then..." The young man reached out, lightly patting the old man's trembling shoulder, before turning to signal Itachi to leave.

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

"Let me take you out, Itachi." Shuji slid open the paper door, letting the evening breeze carry in the scent of grass, wood, and cooking smoke.

"There's no decent food in this village. We'll head to Koizumi Town tonight."

"Yes, Senpai," Itachi replied quietly. Before following, his gaze swept one last time over the old man standing frozen in place, looking as though he had aged ten years in an instant. Listening to the sound of their footsteps fading into the distance until they finally vanished at the end of the village path, Shirakawa Takasuke slowly closed his eyes. Inside the room, only the faint crackle of the burning oil lamp remained. To be continued...