Koizumi Town's dango fell far short of Konoha's. The rice dumplings were slightly coarse in texture and excessively cloying. Resigned, Shuji ordered a bowl of ramen to cleanse his palate.
The local ramen was decent. Though it lacked Ichiraku's famed reputation, its broth—thanks to high-quality beef—was rich and savory, and the meat tender. The only drawback was the noodles, which lacked chew.
As Shuji sampled the ramen, Itachi quietly continued writing the mission report, dango at the ready. Since their reward split was 60/40 (Shuji 60%, Itachi 40%), Itachi willingly handled the paperwork—and would have done so even without payment, by his ninja principles.
By contrast, Shuji behaved… differently. Itachi had never considered the concept of "ordinary life," but he sensed a subtle distinction between this senpai and typical shinobi.
"Senpai?" Itachi looked up and softly called.
"Hm?" Shuji lifted his face from the bowl, a drop of soup at his lip.
"What does 'ninja' mean to you?"
"Work." Shuji's reply was blunt.
Itachi paused. He had heard countless exalted definitions—protectors of the village, bearers of will, pillars of peace—but never such a straightforward answer.
"I like good food and comforts. Being a ninja is just a way to make a living." Shuji slurped a noodle. "How about you, Itachi?"
"Itachi?" The question stumped him. From birth, his destiny had been to become a ninja—training from age four, graduating the academy at seven, recognized as Uchiha genius. He had never questioned why.
"A ninja is only an occupation. If you drop that title, as a person, what are you? A Uchiha prodigy? A shinobi on whom the village's hopes rest?" Shuji set down his chopsticks and looked at him earnestly. "What do you truly desire? What do you long for?"
Itachi fell silent in thought. Shuji's tone softened: "No rush to answer. Someday, you'll find your own conclusion. After all, a 'ninja' burdened with so much meaning is still just one of countless careers."
"Want a bowl of ramen?" Shuji suddenly asked, snapping Itachi back to the present.
"No, thank you, Senpai." Itachi shook his head; a stray lock of hair fluttered.
"It's really good," Shuji urged, pointing at his bowl with his chopsticks. "Dango alone won't fill you up."
"I'm fine…" Itachi's voice was steady but hinted at a flicker of hesitation.
"Listen," Shuji said earnestly, "sweet things need saltiness—that's just common sense."
"Itachi," Itachi finally met his gaze with rare resolve, "sweet dango and a cup of tea are enough."
Itachi's clear refusal was the first he had voiced on this mission. Shuji felt a twinge of regret—and yet a proud smile curved his lips. Itachi, too, revealed a faint smile, as though the ice of his stoicism had cracked.
Officials of the River Country soon confirmed the bandits' destruction and broadcast the news. Shuji and Itachi returned to Konoha.
Submitting the report at the Hokage's office was straightforward, but delivering the rogue shinobi's head and arranging its analysis by the Intelligence Unit involved extra steps. Their mission pay would be disbursed after extraction of any intelligence—perhaps an extra 150,000 ryō if the data proved valuable, or a more modest 100,000 ryō if not.
Shin'ya's sealing scroll, tied to recovered loot not covered by the mission, would remain with the village. The unsealing would be handled by the stronghold itself.
"Of course," a registered chunin at the Hokage tower nodded. "If the scroll's contents involve other villages' secrets, we'll withhold a portion for safekeeping and research, compensating accordingly. Therefore, unsealing will incur no extra charge to you."
"Thank you. How long will it take?"
"Come back in three days. By then, the Intelligence Unit's head analysis will be done."
With those formalities complete, dusk approached. Itachi bid Shuji farewell. Though life in the field meant rough meals, as an eight-year-old, even Itachi needed to return home for dinner.
Shuji watched the small figure disappear around a corner before walking to the western outskirts of Konoha. There stood an old villa, over fifty years old, spared during the Nine-Tails' attack because it was remote.
Cherry trees flanked the house, petals drifting in the breeze to rest briefly on Shuji's shoulder before falling to the ground.
"Grandma Momoka, I'm home."
In the courtyard sat an elderly woman in a deep-brown kimono, her silver hair immaculately arranged. Hearing his voice, she nodded but kept her gaze lowered.
"How is your body?"
"Fine. And I've mastered the power now." Shuji raised his palm, from which flowed a gentle, emerald glow. A tender sprout unfurled before their eyes.
When Shuji had been mortally wounded, Konoha's medical ninjas had given up. Grandma Momoka had spirited him from the hospital and injected him with the legendary Hashirama cells.
The worst outcome would have been death. Believing it a mercy, she performed that rudimentary "procedure" in this villa—hardly surgery, more a suppression jutsu after the injection, leaving the rest to fate.
He still remembered the torment: the surge of savage power like a dam breach; living, growing tree-roots tearing through his flesh and organs; each heartbeat birthing new wooden branches from his wounds; skin repeatedly pierced by red-hot needles; bone restructuring with sickening cracks; blood boiling in his veins.
Only recalling it now made his body ache.
"What about that Uchiha child called a genius?" Grandma Momoka's voice was calm, betraying nothing.
"Just a child." Shuji lowered his hand, the green glow and sprout vanishing.
Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly—like a breeze rippling a pond—but she said nothing.
Cherry petals drifted in silent witness.
She rose slowly, her movements marked by timeless grace and a trace of hesitance.
"Since all is well…" Her gaze passed over Shuji to the fallen blossoms, distant and weighty as though speaking through time. "Live well, Shuji."
A soft wind lifted a few petals. Her voice deepened, carrying the exhaustion and desolation of long years:
"My clan has given too much for Konoha."
She paused, eyes fixed on the drifting petals, voice a whisper yet clear with the weight of history: "We gave life, we gave vengeance, and in the end… even our name… we could not keep…" She spoke not just to him, but to the villa, to the ancestors lost to time: "Hashirama-sama, Tobirama-sama… for the village, what remains for us?"
Her murmur faded to nothing in the growing twilight, leaving a profound, lingering sorrow—like cherry petals carpeting the ground, speaking of past brilliance and the inevitability of bloom and decay.
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild