Konoha Notes.

Chapter 4 Methods

The glow of the oil lamp flickered gently in Itachi's eyes. He couldn't give an answer immediately. The Uchiha clan had a fixed method of operation: genjutsu control, forceful suppression, directly storming the target location and searching for evidence—simple and direct. Whether the process would cause conflict or harm innocent people was never considered. The weak didn't need explanations from the Uchiha, and the strong disdained them. This was the clan's creed, and the norm in the ninja world for treating ordinary people.

Within the mission system, commissions targeting ordinary people have a maximum rank of C, with a reward of no more than 100,000 taels. Once ninjas are involved, the rank immediately jumps to B, with the reward starting at 80,000 taels and having no upper limit.

But this set of rules was never something Itachi truly accepted. Whenever he thought of his clansmen's ingrained arrogance, his stomach churned. He loathed the clan's ways, and even more so, he despised the destiny of gaining power only through the loss of loved ones. Especially when his clansmen traded their power for loss, and instead took pride in it, calling it the glory of the Uchiha—that twisted senility suffocated him.

The dim, yellow light flickered, taking him back to that cold moment. When he awakened his Sharingan because of the death of his comrade, his father Fugaku's words, full of praise, "As expected of my son," made him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cave.

"I... didn't stand shoulder to shoulder with them because of these eyes." This thought had lingered in his heart for a long time, but he had never spoken it aloud. Now, facing Shuuji-senpai's question, those suppressed emotions surged up again. He raised his head, the outline of the two tomoe in his pupils appearing and disappearing in the light and shadow.

"I'm sorry, Shuji-senpai," he said in a low voice, "I... have no answer."

"Then, let's do it my way."

The next morning, before the mist had fully dissipated, Shuji led Itachi onto the damp stone path of Shirakawa Village. Morning dew soaked their shoes, leaving faint watermarks on the bluestone. Smoke curled from the village houses, yet it couldn't dispel the tension that permeated the air.

They knocked on doors one by one. The villagers' wariness was as heavy as the doors; even when faced with the ninjas' somewhat distant attitude, their responses were mostly cautious evasive. Some, seeing that the two were quite young—one fourteen and the other eight—simply shut their doors and refused to see them, not even bothering with pleasantries.

Xiu Si remained calm.

He then shifted to the gentlest of everyday conversations: "I heard the village's harvest is exceptionally good this year?" "The inn seems to have fewer guests than in previous years..." These seemingly insignificant remarks, however, acted like tiny keys, gradually prying open the villagers' tightly closed mouths. Itachi stood quietly to the side, his dark eyes calmly observing every subtle change.

He was not good with words, but he had the keen insight of a hawk. He could accurately capture the shifts in the villagers' eyes, the subtle changes in their tone of voice, and the unconscious curling of their knuckles, noting down the degree of credibility in his notebook.

As the setting sun painted the sky a warm orange, the two stood beneath the old locust tree at the village entrance. Itachi opened his notebook, his voice, still somewhat childish yet remarkably steady, flowing through the twilight: "A total of thirty-seven villagers are usually away from home. Fifteen of them regularly contact their families, six, though not frequently contacted, do have stable livelihoods outside, and their information is reliable. The remaining sixteen are missing; although the villagers claim to have contact with them, their statements are vague and contradictory."

“It’s impossible that they were all bandits,” Shuji said, his gaze fixed on the outline of the village houses in the distance. “Some were forced by circumstances to make a living, while others yearned for the outside world.” He paused. “Shirakawa Kisuke lost his composure the moment he asked about the villagers’ whereabouts, which in itself is a confirmation.”

"Another point," Itachi closed his notebook with a soft "click," "After the bandit incident, the number of merchants staying in the village decreased sharply." He recalled the villagers' helpless expressions when they talked about this, "The innkeeper mentioned that his income had decreased by nearly 30%, and the amount of unsold goods in the village had also increased significantly. The villagers were full of complaints about this."

A knowing smile appeared on Shuji's lips.

If Shirakawa Village were merely a barren and impoverished place, perhaps only the ruthless methods of ninjas could be resorted to. But this place is different. This is a village that has tasted the prosperity of trade routes, a place where people have experienced abundance. The pain of suddenly falling into dire straits is far greater than never having had it at all. Like falling from a mountain peak, even if you only fall halfway down, the drop is enough to leave an indelible mark.

The current situation presents an opportunity to leverage cooperation among the villages. With an eight-year-old child like Itachi in tow, and while there are still options, he hopes to handle things as tactfully as possible.

So the two of them stepped into the village chief's courtyard again.

This time, Shuji's attitude was even more indifferent than yesterday.

"Village Chief Shirakawa." He gently placed the neatly arranged investigation scroll on the table. "Now, do you have something you'd like to say to me?"

The old village chief's Adam's apple bobbed laboredly, and his withered fingers unconsciously tightened around the fabric of his robe above his knees: "This...this old man is dull-witted and does not understand what you mean, sir..."

Shuji slowly walked around to the old man, the last rays of the setting sun streaming into the room from behind him, casting long shadows on the floor. He leaned down slightly: "Shirakawa Kisuke, you should understand that we could have solved the problem in a more direct way."

The room fell into a frozen silence, and even breathing became a cautious affair.

"Every line recorded on this scroll represents the restraint and respect we've shown," Shuji's voice was as calm as a deep pool. "You can argue that we lack conclusive evidence. But often, evidence isn't the key. The world only wants to believe what it's inclined to believe—for example, if we submit this report to the Land of Rivers, letting the outside world know that Shirakawa Village not only breeds bandits but is also suspected of harboring and condoning them…"

"Ninja Master!" The old man looked up abruptly, a flicker of panic crossing his cloudy eyes. "Please...please, absolutely not! Our village has no..."

"I made it very clear yesterday that our demands could have been aligned on this matter." Xiu Si straightened up, his tone calm and even. "We need to complete our mission and eliminate the threat to the trade routes; you need to restore peace, welcome back the caravans, and clear out the backlog of goods."

"As for other details, such as the origins of the bandits," Xiu Sili straightened his cuffs, his gaze sweeping across the deepening twilight outside the window, "that's not something a C-rank mission needs to delve into. My time is limited. If you insist on wasting this goodwill, then..."

The unspoken words lingered in the air. The boy raised his hand, gently patted the old man's trembling shoulder, and turned to signal Itachi to leave.

"At this age, can't you still distinguish what is truly worth protecting, Village Chief Shirakawa?"

"Let's go, Itachi." Shuji opened the paper door, and the evening breeze carried in the mixed scents of grass, trees, and cooking smoke. "There's nothing decent to eat in this village. Tonight, we'll go to Koizumi Town."

"Yes, senior." Itachi replied quietly, and before leaving, his gaze swept over the old man who stood frozen in place, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.

As the sound of wooden clogs clattering on the stone path faded into the distance and eventually disappeared at the end of the village road, Shirakawa Kisuke slowly closed his eyes. Inside the house, only the faint crackling of the oil lamp burning remained.