NoviceAuthor

[NNSS] Chapter : 29

“Anko, Itachi, from here on, you two will be in charge of guarding Tanzai-san’s warehouse.”

The two gave a crisp acknowledgment. Roshi then turned his calm gaze toward Jirocho. “I understand your concern. If what you’ve told me is accurate, then your situation, Wasabi-san, may not remain safe for long.”

Indeed, for Jirocho to openly seek out Konoha shinobi was a move that would not go unnoticed—and likely be seen as a threat.

Roshi had half-expected Jirocho to invite him back to his residence immediately. Instead, after a brief hesitation, Jirocho bowed slightly. “My affairs are stable for now, but there are matters I must arrange. If you don’t mind, Roshi-kun, please wait here. Once I’ve settled things, I will personally return to offer a proper apology.”

“Then I won’t keep you, Wasabi-san. Go on.”

With another polite apology, Jirocho withdrew. Roshi watched him depart with a handful of guards, his expression faintly thoughtful.

“That guy,” Anko muttered, arms folded. “He’s the one asking for help, yet when you offer protection, Roshi, he backs away.” She’d clearly caught on to Roshi’s intent, but Jirocho’s refusal made it obvious he was holding something back.

“Perhaps he already has protectors in the shadows,” Roshi replied evenly. “If so, he’ll need to make arrangements before showing his hand.”

Anko let out a weary sigh. “This mission is a mess. As expected of a Special Jonin, though—your mind’s sharp, Roshi. You don’t let it get under your skin.” With that, she dropped onto the bed, sprawled like someone finally letting her exhaustion show.

Itachi’s eyes shifted sideways, catching every word without comment.

Anko grumbled on, “Still… since Hokage-sama already accepted the Wasabi family’s request, why keep everything so vague? If we’d known the real situation from the start, we could’ve dealt with those thugs at the gate.”

Finally, Itachi broke his silence. His tone was quiet but firm. “As shinobi, we cannot openly move against official figures, Anko-senpai.”

“Hmph, so they say. But then why bother with the merchant’s commission at all? By now, that part of the mission should be considered finished, right? If we can’t handle this in the open, why not deal with it at night? They’re just ordinary people anyway.”

Itachi’s gaze flickered. “The Village gave us more than one objective. Either those bandits are tied to rogue shinobi, or there are shinobi among them.” He recalled his first mission with Roshi, when a supposed bandit gang of a dozen turned out to be led by a rogue ninja. “That’s why Captain didn’t act rashly.”

“But—”

“Water?” Roshi interrupted, pouring himself a glass.

Anko perked up. “I’ll take some too.” She slid into the chair opposite him.

Roshi passed her a cup and spoke, his tone as measured as ever. “As Itachi said, for the Chayama Gang to be accepted into local power, there must be someone backing them. As for Hokage-sama not spelling it out…” His eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s not unprecedented.”

He thought back to the Wave Country mission. Tazuna couldn’t afford to commission shinobi for a direct fight against rogue ninja, so he cleverly issued a C-rank escort request. Yet the reality was far beyond what he’d paid for.

For a civilian, the deception was one thing. But as shinobi—especially at Jonin level—you quickly learned how much the Village itself chose to overlook. Konoha’s review process wasn’t so simple that a client could lie and get away with it. The Hidden Mist’s Demon Brothers, then Zabuza himself… Kakashi must have seen through the inconsistencies.

And yet, he continued the mission. Perhaps because villages did take care of lower-level rogues when convenient. But against a former Mist swordsman of Zabuza’s level—especially while leading three genin—it was a gamble with layers of intention behind it.

The most likely scenario was that Konoha, still reeling from the shock of the Uchiha clan massacre, had been searching for new mission sources and, at the same time, testing the waters in the Wave Country. Feigning ignorance of Tazuna’s true intentions fit the village's strategy perfectly.

In truth, during the Wave Country incident, both Tazuna and Konoha had been seeking each other out. That was the most reasonable explanation.

This escort mission, however, was a different matter entirely. Tanzai had simply posted what he believed to be a top-tier C-rank commission. Konoha, spotting the opportunity—and finding the payment acceptable—reclassified it as B-rank, dispatching Team 5 to handle Deai Port’s situation.

The Black Snake Group’s involvement was still uncertain, so the two additional tasks were listed as optional.

Only the B-rank escort portion was mandatory.

As for why the details hadn’t been laid out explicitly…

Perhaps the one being tested is me. Roshi had already formed a rough idea.

His current approach was a far cry from the “old” Roshi. From the very first mission he had chosen after recovering, to his detached attitude toward this second assignment, nothing resembled the boy who once sought to prove that the Senju’s glory still burned brightly.

Even in his past life, when a model employee suddenly stopped striving, their boss would inevitably come down in person, concerned something had gone wrong.

So this was that kind of mission.

A mission with little real difficulty—where the degree of success depended entirely on Roshi’s own initiative.

He could simply finish the bare minimum escort work. The Village would not blame him for ignoring Wasabi Jirocho, since Jirocho had no official token proving Konoha’s acceptance of his plea.

On paper, this B-rank would look like nothing more than a reward for a war hero—an insignificant line on his record. Afterwards, the Village would likely conclude that Roshi, nearly killed in the war, had lost his edge, and his career path would be adjusted accordingly.

That was probably the outcome most aligned with Grandma Momoka’s expectations.

And truthfully, it suited Roshi’s own self-image as well—just an ordinary, unlucky yet fortunate man, with no particular brilliance or talent.

But reality didn’t permit such complacency. The Uchiha clan’s downfall, for instance, was not only a wound to the village's strength—it threatened the stability of the environment Roshi lived in. To shield himself from the ripples of such events, he could not afford to remain too low in the Village’s hierarchy.

“Ninja Villages interfering in another country’s affairs is never something they’ll admit openly,” Roshi explained to Anko. “That’s why they sent a Jonin team instead of a lower rank. We’re given discretion to act as the situation demands.”

“Heh, then I’ll just leave it all to Special Jonin-sama,” Anko chuckled, stretching. “A simple kunoichi like me is only good for following orders.”

Her lazy, almost mocking tone earned her a sidelong glance from Roshi. If only it were really that simple—for him to just lift a finger and be done with it.

Meanwhile, as Jirocho concluded his visit, the current captain of Deai Port’s guards reported the city gate incident to a tall man. He wore a brown kimono beneath a white haori, a samurai blade resting at his side.

“Jubei-sama, how should we deal with those ninja? About the city gate tax…”

Jubei’s eyes narrowed, sharp and sinister. “Watch them. Do not provoke Konoha shinobi. Forget the city gate tax for now—we’ll revisit it after they’re gone.” His gaze darkened. “Control your men. Understand?”

The captain paled, dropping to one knee at once. “Y-Yes, sir.”

At the same time, in the Wasabi household, Jirocho was in quiet discussion with another figure.

“Oh… Special Jonin Roshi, was it?”

“It makes no difference,” the other replied. “If he’s curious, let him come.”

“Then I’ll extend another invitation. My earlier refusal must have raised doubts in him—perhaps even suspicion about my trustworthiness,” Jirocho said with a polite smile, rising to his feet.

The figure chuckled. “No matter. Once he meets me, he’ll understand.”

“Of course,” Jirocho replied smoothly.

[NNSS] Chapter : 28

The caravan finally came to a halt before the designated dockside warehouse. The sea breeze, thick with salt, rushed over them. The air was alive with the port’s chaos—sailors bawling out shanties, horns of incoming ships bellowing, the screech of ropes and pulleys as cargo was hoisted.

Porters got straight to unloading, while Tanzai bustled about with forced cheer, his smile the brittle kind one wears after narrowly avoiding disaster.

Roshi found a quiet stone step near the warehouse, where he could keep the docks and the main road in view, and sat down.

Anko stood nearby, arms folded, the hood of her dark purple trench coat draped carelessly over her head. Her sharp eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. Itachi settled silently at Roshi’s other side, expression unreadable.

“The Land of Tea’s governance over its territories is loose,” Roshi explained, his voice calm, his gaze still sweeping. “As long as taxes are collected and no major incidents break out, they hardly care who’s really in charge. That’s how those bandits managed to turn themselves into ‘officials.’ Likely, they were granted authority directly from the Daimyo.”

Still, for a band of mere highway brigands—even two or three hundred strong—to be officially sanctioned? Unlikely, unless there were deeper reasons. In this world, raw numbers meant little. Soldiers, no matter how many, could not withstand a ninja's ninjutsu. Even a Genin, with some patience, could infiltrate using Transformation Jutsu and scatter such a group from within.

Piecing together Konoha’s intelligence with Tanzai’s very different account, Roshi was already forming conclusions.

By now, Tanzai had wrapped up the first round of business. He hurried back over, wiping sweat from his forehead, wearing a smile equal parts gratitude and unease.

“Captain Roshi! Esteemed sirs! You’ve worked so hard—truly, truly hard! The Haifi Pavilion inn here on the docks is clean and well-kept. I’ve already booked rooms for you. Please, I beg you, stay a few days so I can properly express my gratitude! Of course, all expenses will be on me!”

That was the excuse. In truth, cargo handovers would take several days, and Team 5 had technically completed their mission the moment they reached Deai Port. After helping resolve the entry-tax extortion, they could have walked away. But Tanzai knew better—if the guards discovered his escort had left, trouble would soon follow. Keeping Roshi and his team close was his only safety net.

It was his own mistake for not considering risks beyond simply reaching the city when he posted the mission.

“Alright,” Roshi said after a brief pause of thought.

Tanzai nearly bowed to the ground with relief, thanking him profusely before personally escorting them to the inn.

The Haifi Pavilion stood on a quieter street at the fringe of the docks, a three-story wooden inn whose simple exterior was well-kept. The innkeeper, a reserved middle-aged man, betrayed a flicker of reverence when he saw the three Konoha headbands. He quickly arranged the best rooms on the top floor.

Roshi’s room was at the far end. From its window, he could see the sprawl of the harbor and the endless blue sea. Anko and Itachi retreated to their rooms to rest, while Roshi lingered by the window, watching the bustle below.

The streets were noisy, disorganized, and crawling with the so-called guards—Chayama Gang thugs now dressed in armor. They roamed in packs of three or five, tossing unfriendly looks toward the Haifi Pavilion, but none dared draw too close.

Before long, Anko returned, her trench coat swapped for a dark combat outfit, her hair tied back in a loose knot. She looked impatient, almost eager.

“Captain, there are some shady types watching us from downstairs. Want me to clear them out?”

Now that their ‘true nature’ was exposed, Anko had no qualms about using her fists.

Itachi stepped in as well, having finished unpacking. That was when a stir rose from the lobby below, followed by the innkeeper’s strained voice—

“Wa..Wasabi-sama? Why have you personally…”

A measured, steady voice cut in, gentle yet carrying undeniable weight—

“It’s fine. I heard that Konoha’s esteemed guests are here. Jirocho has come to pay his respects. Please announce me.”

Wasabi… Roshi recalled that Deai Port was dominated by two major families—the Wasabi and the Hejies. For years, they alternated authority over the city. If the Chayama Gang had forced their way in, then at least one of these houses had been displaced.

“Anko,” Roshi said, his tone even. “Let Wasabi-san up.”

“Yes, Captain~” she replied, sing-song but alert.

Moments later, heavy yet steady footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. A middle-aged man in a dark gray silk kimono entered with Anko. He carried himself with unhurried dignity, his build tall and sturdy, the walk of someone trained in taijutsu. His neatly combed hair, lean face, and composed demeanor framed eyes that were kind on the surface yet sharp with worldly wisdom.

Wasabi Jirocho, head of the Wasabi Family, had come in person.

His gaze swept across the room, pausing first on Anko’s impatient frown, then on Itachi’s calm, unreadable expression, before finally settling on Roshi by the window. Though Roshi and Anko seemed to be of similar age, their presence couldn’t be more different. The same man who had acted with such force at the city gates now stood reserved and composed. Jirocho quickly concluded—such decisiveness was no act of impulse.

“I must apologize for this unannounced visit,” Jirocho said with a practiced humility, bowing slightly. “I am Wasabi Jirocho. May I have the honor of your name, distinguished guest?”

“Roshi,” came the calm reply. Roshi pulled out a chair, his voice steady as stone. “Wasabi-san is being too polite. Please, have a seat.”

Jirocho nodded his thanks and sat down. His tone sharpened. “Roshi-kun, your actions at the city gate were… rather reckless.”

“Tch.” Anko shifted against the doorframe, arms crossed, her scoff as cutting as a kunai.

Roshi’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. He tapped a finger against the wooden tabletop—thud, thud—a soft rhythm that underscored his even tone. “Oh? And why do you say that?”

Jirocho’s smile lingered, though his eyes carried weight. “Hokage-sama himself left me with words meant for Roshi-kun, should you arrive in Deai Port.”

The statement drew a subtle reaction. Itachi, silent until now, finally turned, his dark eyes narrowing with quiet thought.

Roshi remained still, his calm unbroken. His voice came like still water, neither hurried nor hesitant. “I’m listening.”

Jirocho folded his hands. “The Wasabi Family and the Hejies Family have long contested the right to govern Deai Port. Until recently, we were evenly matched. But half a month ago, the Hejies Family allied themselves with the Chayama bandits lurking outside the city. With their numbers, they seized control of the town.”

He leaned forward, his composure cracking with indignation. “Had it ended there, for the sake of stability, we might have endured it. But to secure their loyalty, the Hejies Family has given those wolves free rein! They extort merchants, levy absurd taxes, and exploit the people without restraint! If this continues, Deai Port will rot from the inside out.”

His gaze hardened. “That is why I turned to Hokage-sama for aid.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 27

Within the Land of Fire, a Konoha forehead protector was the greatest shield one could ask for—its mere presence guaranteed safety. Because of this, the caravan advanced without hindrance. Only when they crossed the border into the Land of Tea did the porters begin to glance about nervously, their movements tightening as if sensing unseen eyes.

Roshi immediately began dispatching Shadow Clones to scout ahead. Any small bandit group lurking in the forest paths was eliminated by his clones before they even realized they’d been discovered.

Sometimes the clones returned with spoils, much to Tanzai’s delight. The merchant’s smile grew wider with every pouch of pilfered coin or weapon recovered. But as the caravan neared the ancient woodland of Nochapo, that easy cheer was smothered by the shadows pooling beneath the trees.

“Captain Roshi, Nochapo lies just ahead,” Tanzai urged, his horse edging closer, voice trembling. “That Chayama Gang…”

“The slope camp is empty.” Roshi’s tone was calm, but his gaze never left the emerald rise in the distance. His clones had already scouted it—an entire bandit stronghold, large enough to house hundreds, stood abandoned. No corpses. No signs of battle. Just a clean, deliberate evacuation.

Tanzai blanched. “Empty? Then… where have they gone?”

“I don’t know.” Roshi’s reply was clipped, his eyes sweeping the thickening treelines on either side of the road. His vigilance was taut as a bowstring, every sense spread outward like a spider web. Hundreds of missing brigands, vanished without a trace—the weight of it pressed over them like a gathering storm.

That tension remained until the caravan finally bypassed Nochapo and entered the open stretch leading to Deai Port. The merchant sagged in his saddle, relief flooding his features. “We’re past it! Thank the heavens—thank you, Captain Roshi!” To him, the threat seemed over.

But Roshi’s gaze lingered on the port city ahead. Gray-white walls leaned against the mountainside, while tall masts speared the sky above the harbor. Yet the closer they came to the towering city gates, the sharper Roshi’s unease grew—the silence of Nochapo still gnawed at him.

The caravan flowed toward the gates along with traders and townsfolk. Several guards in leather armor blocked the entrance, halberds in hand. Though their posture seemed lazy, their eyes were sharp as hawks’, gleaming with scrutiny and something darker—greed.

When Tanzai’s turn came, the scarred guard captain sauntered forward, eyes flicking over the travel papers and tarped carts. A thin, false smile curled on his lips.

“Cloth merchant, Tanzai?” His tone dragged mockingly. “By order of the city’s new regulations, all incoming goods are subject to a ‘special transit tax’… forty percent of their value.”

“F-forty?!” Tanzai went pale, his voice cracking. “Impossible! There’s never been such a law! Sir, surely you’re mistaken—”

His cry was like a signal flare. From the shadows around the gate, dozens of armed men poured out, circling the caravan with predatory precision.

Anko’s hand twitched beneath her purple coat, rage burning in her eyes. This wasn’t law—this was robbery. But she didn’t move.

At the rear, Itachi’s gaze turned cold, dissecting every detail—the attackers’ weapon calluses, the faint tattoos hidden under their armor, and the feral gleam in their eyes. These were no disciplined guards.

Tanzai’s shirt clung to his back with cold sweat. Instinct screamed at him—don’t provoke them. Bowing repeatedly, he forced a sickly smile. “Sirs, please, forgive me! It was my foolish tongue! I cannot pay forty percent. Allow me to sell inside the city first, then I’ll return with your tax. Surely an exception can be made?”

Ninjas had no mandate to confront another nation’s government. Not openly. Ever since the Second Hokage, Senju Tobirama, created the Anbu, missions involving political entanglement or humiliation were quietly filtered. Official postings were always the same: escort, protection, subjugation. Anything messier never touched the public mission boards.

“An exception?” The guard captain sneered, his eyes gleaming as they swept over the carts. “No coin? Then leave two wagons as tax. Do it!”

“Yes!” The “guards” roared, rushing forward like wolves tearing into prey.

“Stop.”

The word wasn’t loud, but it sliced cleanly through the chaos, chilling the air.

Roshi stood before the two targeted carts, his figure blocking the path as if he had always been there. He didn’t raise a weapon. He didn’t even lift his hands. He simply stood—calm, immovable, his shadow cast long and heavy across the ground.

For the rushing men, it was like colliding headfirst with a stone cliff.

The two men who had rushed forward froze at the silent obstruction, their momentum breaking like waves against stone.

The scar-faced captain’s triangular eyes narrowed to slits. His gaze raked over Roshi, lingering on the unmistakable leaf crest etched into the forehead protector. The corner of his mouth twitched. Swallowing his anger at being challenged, he forced his voice into a pompous, authoritative bark:

“A ninja from Konoha? Look carefully! I am this city’s Guard Captain! Collecting taxes according to regulation is our duty! What’s this? Are Konoha Ninja planning to interfere with the Land of Tea’s internal affairs—attack officials lawfully performing their duties?!”

Roshi’s tone was steady, but his gaze struck like an ice pick, drilling into the captain’s eyes.

“We accepted a mission. Our contract is to escort this caravan and its goods safely to Deai Port.” His voice hardened, each word carrying weight. “What you’re doing is openly robbing the property of Konohagakure’s client.”

The last word landed like a hammer.

An invisible pressure erupted from Roshi—a suffocating, murderous aura, as if it had clawed its way out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. The air itself seemed to wither, drained of warmth. Several “guards” closest to the carts staggered back, their faces drained of blood, hands trembling so badly their weapons nearly clattered to the ground.

The scar-faced captain’s bluster shriveled instantly. His throat bobbed in a hard swallow, a cold sweat breaking across his brow. This calm, expressionless young ninja radiated a danger far greater than any beast lurking in the wilds. He didn’t doubt—if he gave the order to attack, the man before him would drown them all in blood without hesitation.

Anko shifted her stance subtly, feet sliding into place to intercept any flanking attempt. At the rear, Itachi’s eyes were like twin obsidian blades, tracking the positions of the guards stationed farther back.

Silence choked the gate. The only sounds were the nervous snorts of packhorses and Tanzai’s ragged breathing. Among the gathering crowd, several onlookers exchanged uneasy glances. One slipped away.

The captain’s eyes darted frantically. Seconds stretched into eternities. His façade cracked, and the false authority he clung to crumbled. Finally, he forced a smile so stiff it barely resembled one, his voice brittle and dry.

“Heh… a misunderstanding. Just a misunderstanding! Everyone, fall back! Don’t disturb our honored guests!”

The ring of men scattered instantly, like prisoners granted reprieve from execution.

Tanzai nearly burst forward with relief, eager to push through the gate—but Roshi’s calm voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Pay them. By the old rules—whatever the amount is.”

The suffocating aura had vanished, leaving Roshi’s tone as composed as before.

Tanzai blinked, then fumbled as though waking from a nightmare. With shaking hands, he pulled several banknotes from his pouch and offered them with both hands. The captain snatched them, shoving them into his pocket without even a glance. His smile returned, wide and sycophantic.

“Let them through! Quickly now, let them through!”

The merchant nearly fell to his knees with gratitude, thanking Roshi in a trembling voice as he herded his men toward the docks.

But Roshi did not head for the port immediately. Instead, he led Anko and Itachi into a damp, narrow back alley, the smell of saltwater heavy in the air.

“Captain… just now…” Anko’s satisfaction at putting the “guards” in their place was tempered by a deep frown. Her voice dropped low. “Will the Village think we overstepped? Could they hold you accountable?”

Roshi leaned casually against the wall, the light at the mouth of the alley splitting his face into shadow and glow. He didn’t answer her right away. Instead, his eyes turned to the boy who had been quietly watching everything.

“Itachi. What did you see?”

The Uchiha lifted his gaze, calm as ever. “Many of those guards had tattoos—partially hidden. The kind common among the Chayama mountain bandits. They didn’t seem like regular soldiers at all.”

Anko froze, then the pieces clicked. Her memory flashed back to the telltale marks and expressions. Understanding struck like lightning.

Roshi smiled faintly. “Exactly. Newly ‘reformed’ bandits. Always running from shinobi hunts, but never shedding their old instincts. They’ve yet to learn what it means to play at being guards.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 26

Nanshou Post

The sky was only just paling, yet the post town already roared with life.

Packhorses neighed and stamped, cart axles groaned beneath heavy loads, and caravan guards barked rough orders. The air was thick with the mingled scents of livestock, sweat, dust, and the greasy allure of cheap fried food.

Carts piled with goods clogged the narrow streets, while porters and merchants darted through gaps like minnows in a current—each one desperate to seize the day’s earnings.

Through this boisterous tide of humanity, Roshi led Itachi and Anko with his usual confident stride.

The mission scroll’s address brought them to the rear courtyard of an inn with a weathered signboard reading Sofeng. There, among stacked bundles of vividly dyed fabric, they found their client: Tanzai.

The man was every inch a seasoned merchant—plump frame wrapped in a once-fine brown silk gown now dulled by dust, round spectacles perched on a rounder face, eyes sharp and restless as they tracked the movements of his laborers. Six employees worked with exaggerated care, loading bolts of Southern Weave cloth into reinforced carts, their reverence for the fabric betraying its worth.

When Tanzai’s gaze shifted to the new arrivals, his smile faltered. It lingered a moment too long on Anko—her dark purple windbreaker crisp and new, her expression already impatient—before flicking to the boy beside her. Itachi, small for his age, wore a ninjutsu pouch strapped neatly at his side, his face still soft with childhood.

A flicker of doubt crossed the merchant’s eyes.

'Two adults and one child?' His thoughts raced behind the lenses of his glasses. 'This girl looks troublesome. And this boy… is he even ten? My Southern Weave is worth a fortune—'

But years of wheeling and dealing had trained Tanzai to bury instinctive reactions. In a heartbeat, his expression thawed into something almost absurdly welcoming.

“Konoha ninja-samas! At last you’ve arrived!” He bustled forward, his voice booming for all to hear. “You must be exhausted from such a long journey, truly, truly!”

His gaze flicked to their forehead protectors before settling on Roshi. With practiced deference, he asked, “This distinguished gentleman must be the captain, yes? May I have your honored name?”

“Special Jōnin, Roshi.” Roshi’s eyes, cool and steady, passed over him to rest on the carts brimming with expensive cloth.

Tanzai clasped his hands together with a laugh. “Ah, Captain Roshi! Forgive me, forgive me!” His genial smile didn’t soften the merchant’s shrewd undercurrent. His eyes darted back, probing. “And these two spirited young ninja-samas are…?”

“Anko Mitarashi. Uchiha Itachi.” Roshi’s reply was short, sharp, offering no room for elaboration.

The moment the name Uchiha slipped free, a spark lit in Tanzai’s gaze. His smile gained an extra shade of warmth, though doubt still churned beneath the surface like dark water under thin ice.

“Of course, of course!” he gushed. “You must all be starving after your travels. There’s a stall at the post entrance—ramen with broth so rich it’ll wake your very soul! Allow me to treat you.”

“Very well,” Roshi agreed without hesitation. A shinobi needed fuel as much as weapons.

Tanzai turned with theatrical briskness, bellowing at his workers as they struggled with the carts. “Faster, faster! I’ll return with our distinguished guests, and then we depart!”

Anko curled her lip at the display.

Itachi, however, stayed rooted, his quiet gaze sweeping across the busy employees and stacked goods. “Captain,” he murmured to Roshi, “I’ll remain and watch over them.”

Roshi gave a brief nod. With that, he and Anko followed Tanzai out of the courtyard’s din.

The ramen shop Tanzai promised turned out to be a humble roadside stall: rickety tables packed with merchants and porters, the air thick with pork bone broth and soy sauce. Tanzai ordered three bowls with practiced ease.

When they arrived, the broth was cloudy, slices of translucent char siu and limp bamboo shoots floating lazily atop the noodles.

Roshi dug in first, blowing gently on the noodles before eating with steady appetite. Seeing her captain start, Anko reluctantly followed, though her frown deepened at the greasy broth.

Tanzai, by contrast, only toyed with his food, clearly distracted. At last he set down his chopsticks, leaned forward, and spoke with the mixture of worry and complaint that only a merchant could perfect.

“Captain Roshi… as you can see, this cargo is no ordinary cloth. Southern Weave from the Land of Fire—worth a king’s ransom overseas! To speak frankly, I have wagered my entire fortune, my very life, on this batch.”

He paused, studying Roshi’s expression, then lowered his voice.

“For the commission, I’ve scraped together one hundred thousand ryō. At first, I thought the route to the Land of Tea was safe enough—a C-rank journey at most. A few chūnin would have sufficed. But then…” His voice softened with just the right note of awe.

“…Hokage-sama himself classified it as B-rank. And sent you—a jōnin captain—to lead. Such thoughtfulness, such care for us humble merchants… I scarcely know how to show my gratitude.”

Roshi swallowed the last of his noodles, lifted the bowl, and took an unhurried sip of broth. His movements were calm, deliberate—nothing wasted.

When he set the bowl down, his gaze settled on Tanzai, steady and unblinking.

The merchant’s words unraveled in his mind like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

• One hundred thousand ryō reward.

• His entire fortune staked on this shipment.

• Originally expected rank: C-rank.

A C-rank mission usually fell between thirty and one hundred thousand ryō. B-rank ranged from eighty thousand to two hundred thousand.

Tanzai had offered exactly one hundred thousand—the ceiling of C-rank, but the floor of B-rank. He had even emphasized that he had “scraped it together,” signaling both his limit and his original assessment of the risks. Risks, he clearly believed, did not reach true B-rank levels.

And yet, the Hokage’s office had upgraded the commission.

Roshi’s thoughts sharpened.

C-rank meant no expectation of hostile ninja—at worst, bandits or wild beasts—handled by a chūnin with genin support.
B-rank, however, explicitly signified a real chance of enemy shinobi, requiring a seasoned chūnin squad or even a jōnin.

But Tanzai’s manner, his words, his concerns—none of them reflected fear of ninja. He spoke of gratitude toward the Village for raising the mission’s rank, as though the Hokage had done him a favor rather than a warning.

If he truly believed his fortune was in danger from a rogue-nin group like the Black Snake, he would never have stopped at one hundred thousand. A desperate man would have found another ten, even twenty thousand to push his case solidly into B-rank territory and secure the strongest escort possible.

No—his fear wasn’t shinobi. It was something else.

“Tanzai-san,” Roshi’s voice cut through the background clamor with the clarity of steel, “what was it you truly feared? What made you decide this cargo required a hundred thousand ryō worth of protection?”

The merchant froze, clearly not expecting the directness. His lips tightened, then curved into a wry smile. His eyes flickered behind his glasses.

“Captain Roshi, your insight is very good. To be frank, the road to Deai Port is usually safe. Few bandits, no real trouble. But… the forests are vast, and there are always small-time gangs—two dozen here, thirty there—using the terrain to their advantage. For an isolated caravan, they can be a nightmare. With goods as valuable as mine, I feared being overwhelmed and stripped bare.”

He hesitated, lowering his voice. “And near Deai Port, there’s a stretch called Nochapo Forest. Lately, it’s been restless. A group called the Chayama Gang has entrenched themselves there—two, maybe three hundred strong. Desperadoes, cutthroats… dangerous men.”

“Chayama Gang…” Roshi echoed quietly.

That explained it. For a merchant, a mob of hundreds was more terrifying than a handful of rogue shinobi. Enough to warrant staking everything on a top-tier C-rank escort.

And yet, the name Black Snake had never left Tanzai’s lips.

A rift yawned between the Village’s intelligence and the client’s perception. That was no accident. Either Konoha’s intelligence was flawed, the Black Snake operated in deep secrecy, or their targets simply didn’t overlap with Tanzai’s trade routes. Perhaps there was more still, hidden beneath the surface.

“…Understood.” Roshi didn’t press further. He only nodded, finished the last of his broth, and set the bowl aside.

His eyes flicked to Anko, who was already prodding impatiently at her half-eaten meal. “If you’re done, head back. We depart soon.”

“Finally.” Anko tossed down her chopsticks with relief.

Tanzai scrambled to his feet, regaining his practiced smile. “Yes, yes! At once. With you here, Captain Roshi, my heart is truly at ease!”

When they returned to the Songfeng Inn’s courtyard, the carts were already packed, vivid cloth hidden under heavy tarps. Itachi stood guard beside them, his quiet nod confirming all was in order.

“Depart!” Tanzai barked.

With a chorus of creaking axles and snorting horses, the caravan rolled out of the inn’s gates and merged into the crowded main road of Nanshou Post, turning southwest toward the long, uncertain road to Deai Port in the Land of Tea.

[NNSS] Chapter : 25

Inside the Hokage’s Office, Hiruzen Sarutobi sat as he always did—smoke curling from his pipe, paperwork spread across his desk. His sharp eyes lifted to Roshi, who had just stepped in. There were no pleasantries, only the blunt words of a leader.

“Your team-building has gone well. Their coordination in recent days has been solid.” The Third Hokage’s voice carried a trace of approval as his gaze settled on Roshi. “Based on your judgment, is your team ready for a mission?”

“Anko Mitarashi’s mental state has largely stabilized." Roshi answered with deliberate caution. “Given that, I judge this team capable of handling a B-rank mission.”
He emphasized the rank. For their first official deployment, he needed a buffer—he would not allow Konoha to throw them into a firestorm too soon.

Hiruzen’s eyes narrowed slightly. In the past, Roshi had been direct, confident, even sharp—rarely cautious to the point of restraint. Was this change the scar left by his last mission, where he was gravely injured and a comrade lost? Or was it because of the boy on his squad—the eight-year-old Uchiha with a name too heavy for politics to ignore? The thought flickered and passed.

“Hmm.” The Hokage pulled a scroll from the pile on his desk. With a casual flick, it landed in Roshi’s hands. “A B-rank mission: escort a merchant caravan to Deai Port.”

An escort mission? B-rank? Roshi untied the cord and scanned the neat handwriting.

Client: Tanzai
Profession: Cloth Merchant
Cargo: A shipment of fine cloth from the Land of Fire
Destination: Deai Port
Mission Rank: B

On the surface, it looked routine—an international trade escort. Yet the B-rank designation spoke otherwise.

Deai Port lay on the southwestern coast of the Land of Fire, within the peculiar borders of the Land of Tea.

The Land of Tea possessed two fragmented enclaves—wedged into the Fire Country’s southwestern and southeastern corners—along with two massive offshore islands, Naizaki and Ozu. In sheer territory, it even surpassed the Land of Water. But crucially, the Land of Tea had no shinobi village.

Its geography meant it relied heavily on Konoha for protection. Almost every serious commission within its borders flowed straight to the Leaf.

And yet… if Tanzai’s caravan, traveling from Fire Country’s heartland to Deai Port, required B-rank protection, then something else was in play.

Roshi lifted his eyes to meet the Hokage’s steady gaze. “Does this mission have hidden objectives?” Escort risk alone could not justify such a rank.

“You are as perceptive as ever.” Hiruzen inhaled from his pipe, the smoke briefly veiling his expression. “Recently, a group of rogue shinobi has been active near Deai Port. They’ve proven troublesome.”

“Understood.” Roshi gave a small nod. “Have we gathered detailed intelligence on them?”

“A team of five,” Hiruzen replied, retrieving two thinner scrolls from a drawer and laying them on the desk. “They call themselves the Black Snake Group. They move in secret and employ dangerous, insidious techniques. Not to be underestimated.” He pushed the scrolls toward Roshi.

“This mission carries two layers,” he continued. “First: escort Mr. Tanzai’s caravan safely to Deai Port. Second: investigate the Black Snake Group. Should the opportunity arise, you may choose your course.”

He tapped the scrolls with his pipe stem. “An A-rank directive: eliminate the Black Snake Group. A B-rank directive: scout and gather precise intelligence. Judge accordingly once on-site. If the risk is too great, focus solely on the escort and return alive. That is your priority.”

Hiruzen leaned back, his tone final but steady. “For administrative purposes, your team will retain its old designation—Team Five.”

Roshi’s eyes lingered on the scroll marked Team 5. The number of his old squad—the one that had fought and bled with him on the border, from which only he had returned alive, carrying fragments of intelligence. He said nothing, simply taking the two additional scrolls detailing the Black Snake Group.

Hiruzen rose from behind his desk and walked around, his robes brushing softly against the floor. He laid a hand on Roshi’s shoulder—a gesture of comfort—but his gaze wandered past him, out the wide office window toward the bustling heart of Konoha.

“The Land of Tea’s commissions are vital to Konoha’s finances,” he said, his voice low. “We can’t afford to lose them.” Withdrawing his hand, his tone carried a tinge of weary helplessness. “The Kumogakure delegation will arrive soon, and our forces are stretched thin. Anbu and regular squads are all tied to their security and the peace talks… which leaves only your Team 5 to reach Deai Port first and assess the situation.”

“Yes, Hokage-sama.” Roshi’s expression betrayed nothing.

He gathered the three scrolls, turned, and stepped out. The heavy office door closed with a final thud, cutting off the smell of tobacco and the weight of duty. The hallway beyond was dim, but Roshi’s steps were steady, his thoughts already racing.

The Black Snake Group—rogue shinobi, dangerous unknowns. Investigating them, perhaps even eliminating them, on top of escorting a merchant caravan… the difficulty was far from trivial. Itachi’s genius was real, but limited by age and stamina. Anko had recovered her spirit, but her sharpness had not fully returned. For their first mission, carrying dual objectives deep into contested territory, the risks climbed steeply.

But the Hokage’s meaning had been clear. For ten long years, Konoha had known only a single year of peace—between Year 50 and 51 of the Village calendar. Even a village as wealthy as Konoha now bore crushing financial strain. The Land of Tea could not be abandoned.

“Team 5…” Roshi murmured the number under his breath. The memories it carried, even secondhand, tightened something in his chest.

With a long exhale, he forced the thoughts down and quickened his pace, heading for the Third Training Ground. It was time to prepare the new Team 5 for their journey.

The sun was already blistering overhead by the time Roshi returned to the training field. Anko was hammering away at a reinforced stake, practicing sharper angles for her Hidden Shadow Snake Hands. Sweat plastered her dark purple windbreaker to her back, but her eyes were bright with focus. Off to the side, Itachi sat cross-legged, eyes closed in deep concentration, cycling chakra with the quiet precision of someone beyond his years.

Noticing Roshi, Anko stopped and wiped her brow. A spark of anticipation flickered in her gaze. “Captain, the old man—cough, I mean, Hokage-sama—what did he want with you? Don’t tell me… a big mission?”

Itachi also opened his eyes, calm but attentive, his focus wholly on Roshi.

Walking into the center of the field, Roshi knelt and unrolled the three scrolls onto the sand. “Our assignment is a B-rank mission—escort a cloth merchant caravan to Deai Port in the Land of Tea.”

“Deai Port?” Anko raised a brow. “That place is usually peaceful. A B-rank for that? What, enemy shinobi causing trouble?”

“It was peaceful,” Roshi replied evenly. “But now, a rogue group calling themselves the Black Snake Group has appeared near the port. They employ dangerous secret techniques and threaten the trade routes.” He tapped the two auxiliary scrolls. “The secondary objectives are clear: gather intelligence on them—also B-rank—or, depending on circumstances, engage and eliminate them. That part is classified A-rank.”

Anko let out a sharp breath. “A-rank?! Our first mission? That’s insane.”

“Hokage-sama left the choice to us,” Roshi said firmly. “Our primary duty is to get the caravan to its destination safely. Investigation and combat are secondary—decided on the ground, by our judgment and condition.” His gaze swept across them both. “The risk is high. These enemies are unknown, and we cannot underestimate them.”

He let a pause hang before continuing. “Team 5’s objectives: First—escort Tanzai’s caravan safely to Deai Port. Second—collect as much intelligence on the Black Snake Group as we can, without compromising ourselves. Third—if conditions allow, we move to expel or annihilate them.” His eyes locked briefly on each of them. “Understood?”

“Understood!” Anko straightened, her earlier disbelief replaced by sharp determination.

“Yes, Captain,” Itachi replied with crisp clarity.

“Good.” Roshi rolled up the scrolls. “The caravan leaves tomorrow morning. Prepare your gear, tools, and medicine. Gather at the village gate before six.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 24

“If I had to name one… it would be that clan.”

“The Senju.”

Senju?

Itachi slipped off his sandals at the door. The paper bag holding his new indigo combat uniform rested in the shadows near the step. As he walked down the wooden corridor, a door slid open a fraction. A strip of warm yellow light spilled out, framing the silhouette of Uchiha Fugaku.

“You’re back?” His father’s voice was quieter than usual—less the stern tone of a Clan Head, more the voice of a father at home.

“Yes, Father.” Itachi stopped respectfully.

Fugaku’s gaze drifted to the paper bag. “You bought something?”

“A gift from my captain.” Itachi lifted the bag and offered it forward.

Fugaku accepted it, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric through the paper. He weighed it for a moment before glancing up. “This must have been expensive. Did he only buy it for you?”

“Anko-senpai received one as well.”

“I see.” Fugaku handed the bag back, his movements deliberate. “Since it’s a gift from your captain, keep it in good order.” He paused briefly, then added, “I will prepare a return gift in due course.”

“Father.” Itachi’s tone shifted—calm, but edged with inquiry.

“Hm?”

“The Senju Clan,” Itachi asked directly, “a clan once as renowned as ours—where are they now? I’ve never seen any clan lands allotted to them within the village.”

The faint warmth in Fugaku’s expression drained away, replaced by solemn gravity. Silence stretched between them before he finally spoke.

“The Senju stand beyond the boundaries of all other clans. That is what makes them the Senju.”

Itachi’s pupils narrowed.

Fugaku went on, voice measured. “The clan declared its dissolution during Lord Hashirama’s era. Naturally, there is no ‘Senju compound’ on the village map. But…” His gaze sharpened. “Every talented shinobi you see without a clan name may well carry Senju blood. Even Lord Tobirama’s students—Koharu and Homura, the current advisors… it would not be strange if traces remained.”

Itachi’s voice softened, almost hesitant. “So… the Senju never truly vanished?”

Fugaku shook his head slowly. “The dissolution was real. Lord Hashirama and Lord Tobirama themselves enforced it, and every clan witnessed it. But after Lord Tobirama’s death, one figure still carried great influence among the Senju’s remnants. Through that person, a connection endured—subtle, but resilient.”

“Was it Lady Tsunade?” Itachi asked.

“No.” Fugaku’s denial was firm. “Tsunade-hime has long since left the village. I speak of another—the former aide to both Senju brothers. Senju Momoka.”

Momoka…

The name stirred ripples within Itachi’s mind. He recalled, with sudden clarity, his father’s casual-seeming question when Roshi had first been welcomed: ‘I heard you’ve been living in the old house in the western suburbs? Raised and instructed personally by Lady Momoka?’

The path connected in his thoughts like pieces falling into place.

“My captain… he…” Itachi’s voice carried the weight of realization.

Fugaku’s gaze fixed sharply on his son, heavy as stone. “If nothing has changed, then after Lady Momoka… the one who still holds those threads together, who preserves that hidden influence…” His words cut with precision. “That would be your Captain.”

The air in the Japanese-style room thickened, as if the paper walls themselves were listening. The flame of the oil lamp flickered, crackling faintly in the silence. Fugaku leaned forward, his voice low but commanding, each syllable pressing down with intent.

“Itachi… this is the Uchiha Clan’s opportunity.”

Morning came softly, pale sunlight piercing through the mist over Training Ground Three. The sand shimmered faint gold, and after several days of drills, the field already bore the clear imprint of “Roshi Squad.”

“Left flank! Itachi, cut him off—don’t let him weave signs!” Anko’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, carrying the edge she hadn’t shown in weeks. She blurred across the sand, her new dark purple windbreaker snapping open like a streak of violet lightning. Her hands flashed through seals.

“Hidden Shadow Snake Hands!”

From her sleeves, three gray-brown serpents shot forward—not straight at the target, but fanning out to seal its escape routes.

Almost simultaneously, Itachi’s silhouette flickered into the wooden stake’s blind spot. His two-tomoe Sharingan spun, catching the clone’s eyes in silence. A whisper of genjutsu surged outward. The enemy Shadow Clone froze, caught mid-motion.

“Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu.”

Roshi’s calm voice came from an angle no one expected. He had already repositioned to the perfect vantage point. A roaring fireball spiraled forth, engulfing the immobilized target hemmed in by snakes.

Boom!

The explosion scorched the air. Heat shimmered, flames billowed—and the Shadow Clone dissolved into a puff of white smoke. Seamless coordination.

“Stop.” Roshi raised his hand.

Anko lowered hers, panting, strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead. But the defeated slump in her eyes was gone; the spark of a kunoichi had returned. Itachi calmly deactivated his Sharingan, walked to the sideline, and opened his leather notebook, already recording formations, timing, and chakra expenditure.

“The snakes’ angle can be tighter—two points more restrictive, forcing the target’s hand space narrower,” Roshi observed, stepping beside Anko. “As for that hood—if it cuts your vision at speed, fix it or lose it. Function first.”

His gaze shifted to Itachi’s notes. “Good detail. Your genjutsu timing was precise, and chakra flow steadier than yesterday.”

Anko tugged her hood, grumbling, “Got it, I’ll adjust.” But there was no bite in her tone. Itachi simply hummed, already revising diagrams with steady focus. The rough edges between them had been sanded down these past few days, replaced by an unspoken rhythm.

“Fifteen-minute break.” Roshi headed for the tree shade and sat cross-legged.

Anko bolted for her canteen, gulped down water, then tore into a biscuit. Itachi sat nearby, sipping quietly, eyes glued to his notes.

Roshi, meanwhile, closed his eyes and sank inward. His nightly regimen hadn’t faltered, even alongside days of relentless training. But his attempts with natural energy…

Seven, eight times out of ten, his Wood Clones collapsed—structure warped, petrified by the violent backlash. Yet every failure carved a sharper outline of that vast, elusive current.

Natural energy. Unlike chakra, born of the physical and spiritual energies of life, it was something deeper, primal—raw power woven into the bones of the world itself. Chaotic, yes. But brimming with overwhelming vitality.

'The path is right… but something vital is missing.'

His Senju blood, even the Hashirama cells in his body, gave him a foundation most could only dream of—yet still, it wasn’t enough to contain and refine that power.

“Captain.”

Itachi’s clear voice pulled him back. The boy held out his notebook, formations neatly drawn. “If the opponent were sensory-type and evaded genjutsu early, should the suppression angle of Fire Release be shifted?”

Roshi opened his eyes, scanned the diagrams, and gave a nod. “Good. Contingency variations are necessary…”

Training resumed. Again and again, they dissected movements, refined timing, and tested angles. By late morning, Anko’s serpents were striking with sharper precision, Itachi’s Sharingan was weaving genjutsu with chilling efficiency, and Roshi’s ninjutsu support cut in exactly where gaps remained. Piece by piece, a rough but reliable system began to take shape.

As noon burned overhead, their shadows shrank. And then—

A figure appeared in the treeline, silent as a breath, merging with light and shadow. Standard Anbu uniform, animal mask, and chakra smothered to near nothingness.

“Roshi, Specials Jōnin.” The voice was flat, the authority undeniable.

Roshi turned at once. Itachi and Anko halted mid-step, wary eyes fixed on the masked intruder.

“Hokage-sama summons you.” The Anbu’s words cut through the heat and stillness. “Proceed to the Hokage’s Office. Immediately.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 23

Aoki Ninja Tool Shop

The lighting inside the shop was dim, casting long shadows across the neatly arranged shelves of shinobi tools.

Behind the counter sat a lean, white-haired old man with a monocle perched on his nose. Under the glow of a desk lamp, he patiently filed the edge of a kunai, the rasp of metal against metal steady and unhurried.

The curtain rustled as Roshi entered with Anko and Itachi. The old man’s gaze lifted. His eyes lingered briefly on the Konoha forehead protector tied across Roshi’s brow before sweeping over the two younger shinobi behind him. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before returning his gaze to Roshi.

“Two sets of combat uniforms,” Roshi said, walking up to the counter. “Durable material, with built-in cushioning at the joints.”

The old man set aside the kunai and file, then moved to a back shelf, pulling out several rolls of thick fabric in muted colors.

“Dark gray, indigo blue, and dark green,” he explained. “The indigo and dark green are new blends—thirty percent more elasticity and protection. But they cost fifty percent more.”

Roshi turned to his teammates. “Pick your own colors. Anko, you also need new weighted leg wraps and arm guards—yours are worn down. Make sure they meet standard Chūnin specs,” he added for the old man.

“For Itachi, the gear needs to be lightweight. Prioritize mobility.”

Normally, Genin wouldn’t invest in expensive combat gear. Their missions rarely demanded it. But Itachi wasn’t just any Genin—he was now part of a team meant for higher-level missions.

Anko pouted at the dull fabric options, her eyes drifting away—until they caught on a dark purple, hooded trench coat hanging from a rack nearby. The coat’s fabric had a unique matte finish, sharp cuts at the shoulders and elbows, reinforced for battle yet stylish. It radiated a sleek, untamed feel.

“That… counts as protective gear too, right?” she asked, pointing at it, her voice almost hopeful.

The old man followed her gaze. “A combat trench coat. Treated to be light and breathable. A little less protection than a vest.”

“I’ll take it! The purple one, in my size!” Anko’s eyes brightened immediately. Just the sight of that coat seemed to lift her spirits, as though its vivid purple could cut through the shadows lingering in her heart.

Itachi quietly pointed toward the indigo blue roll of fabric, then indicated his height with a small gesture.

The old man made a note of their choices and disappeared into the back storeroom.

While they waited, Itachi’s gaze slid toward the glass display beneath the counter. Inside lay rows of specialized shuriken. One design in particular caught his attention—its edges lined with faint reverse serrations, gleaming faintly blue under the lamp. His eyes lingered.

“Interested?” Roshi asked, following his gaze. “Those are new Fūma shuriken. Stronger armor-piercing and tearing effects, but harder to control. With your current wrist strength, you’d barely manage. Push it, and you could injure yourself. Next year—when you’re stronger—you’ll be ready.”

Itachi gave a short, wordless nod and looked away.

The old man returned soon after, carrying the ordered gear. Anko eagerly claimed the dark purple trench coat, running her fingers across the smooth fabric. Itachi accepted his indigo-blue uniform with quiet composure.

“That will be one hundred seventy-eight thousand ryō,” the old man said evenly.

Anko froze mid-motion. Her arm stiffened around the trench coat, and she turned wide-eyed toward Roshi. She knew shinobi gear was costly, but this… this was a fortune.

“Captain,” she blurted, her voice halfway between disbelief and awe. “You’re not secretly a millionaire, are you? Treating us to dinner was one thing, but this… gift…” She hefted the delicate paper bag in her hand.

Roshi didn’t so much as flinch. He pulled out his money pouch, thumbed through a thick stack of bills, and handed them over with quiet decisiveness. His gaze slid sideways to Anko, his tone flat but edged with a warning:

“If it bothers you that much, you can pay for your own. I earned extra on the last mission.”

Anko gave an awkward smile, clutching the trench coat tighter to her chest, and wisely said no more.

The old man counted the bills, nodded, and the transaction was complete.

The trio stepped out into the evening. The sky above was fully dark, Konoha’s commercial street glowing brighter beneath lanterns and shop signs. Anko clutched her coat, her expression a little stiff; Itachi carried his package neatly in one arm.

Roshi’s voice cut through the hum of voices and street noise. “Since we’re already on the subject of money—it’s time we establish rules for mission pay.” He didn’t stop walking, his gaze flicking across the two.

“From now on, forty percent of all earnings go into team funds—for tools, medicine, and consumables.”

He continued without pause, “Of the remaining sixty percent, I’ll take forty. You two split the rest evenly. Any objections?”

Itachi nodded almost instantly, his young face calm, betraying no objection. Roshi was the Captain, the strongest among them—of course he deserved the larger share.

Besides, Itachi reasoned, most of the team’s public funds wouldn’t even be spent on Roshi. His fighting style hardly required the use of tools or consumables.

Anko, on the other hand, looked relieved. A grin spread across her face. “In that case, I won’t object! Thanks, Captain!”

The three soon reached a fork in the road, the path splitting toward different districts of the village. Anko, clutching her new gear, waved lazily before disappearing into the bustling crowd drifting toward the apartment blocks.

Roshi turned to Itachi. “Want me to walk you to the clan compound gate?”

“No need, Captain,” Itachi replied, bowing slightly, the indigo-blue paper bag held firmly in his hands.

“Hm.” Roshi said nothing more, striding off toward the western edge of the village.

Itachi continued on alone, his steps measured and steady. The tall silhouette of the Uchiha compound walls soon loomed ahead, their solemn presence unmistakable in the faint glow of the street lamps. Just as he rounded the corner, a voice, clear and familiar, slipped out from the deep shadows beneath an old roadside tree:

“Itachi, you’re back.”

Itachi didn’t falter. His eyes lifted toward the shade. “Shisui.”

From the darkness, the tree’s shadow shifted, and a figure emerged as though born from the night itself. Uchiha Shisui stepped into the dim halo of a lamp, his high-collared dark blue uniform crisp, a short sword strapped across his back. His forehead protector gleamed faintly under the light. He wore his usual easy smile—gentle, effortless, as if it belonged there. His gaze lingered on the paper bag in Itachi’s arms.

“How was team practice today?” Shisui fell into step beside him without effort, their movements syncing as naturally as breathing.

“Captain Roshi is very strong,” Itachi said evenly, his voice calm but edged with respect. “After training, he treated Anko-senpai and me to sukiyaki… and bought us ninja tools as gifts.”

He added, almost as an afterthought, “Combat uniforms.”

Shisui blinked, the faintest note of surprise breaking through his smile. “That’s unusually generous. A captain isn’t expected to buy equipment for his team.”

As one of Konoha’s top Jonin, he knew well the unspoken rules. Tools and gear were almost always a shinobi’s personal responsibility—or provided by their clan.

Itachi was aware of this too. His previous Jonin instructor had been competent, but never this… considerate.

“Captain Roshi is thoughtful,” Itachi murmured, eyes fixed on the lantern-lit road ahead. “Gentle.”

Shisui’s lips curved a little higher. “Do you like him that much?”

Itachi’s pace faltered for the briefest heartbeat, as though weighing the question carefully. Then he nodded, his voice steady, but with a quiet certainty. “Yes. With Captain Roshi…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “…it feels easy.”

Not like the suffocating weight of clan meetings. Not like the tense atmosphere of the training grounds. And certainly not like the invisible pressure pressing down whenever he stood before his father.

With Roshi, he could eat without restraint, receive clear guidance, and glimpse the shape of a life that felt—almost—promising.

“Oh? Is that so?” Shisui’s voice carried a warmth of genuine relief. “That’s good then. To have found such a comrade.”

His gaze softened. “Truth is, I had been considering applying to Hokage-sama to become your captain myself.”

Itachi stayed silent, his footsteps light on the stone road. The night air filled with little more than the rhythm of their strides and the faint chorus of crickets.

After a few breaths, Itachi finally spoke again, his voice edged with something faintly uncertain: “But… Captain Roshi seems to have another identity. Father is very cautious about it.” His dark eyes lifted toward Shisui, quietly searching. “Shisui… is there a special clan in Konoha? One without a surname?”

[NNSS] Chapter : 22

Konoha’s streets glowed softly in the embrace of twilight.

The air was thick with the aromas of dinner drifting from countless homes, mingling with the fresh scent of greenery carried on the evening breeze. Roshi led the two down a quieter alley, stopping before a shop marked by an indigo-blue curtain.

The fabric bore an old-style character for “pot,” embroidered in white thread. From within came a warm yellow glow and faint, sweet steam that curled lazily into the night air.

When Roshi pushed the curtain aside, a rich fragrance—soy sauce, sugar, mirin, and the savory fat of prime beef—washed over them like a welcoming embrace.

The dining area inside was small, its natural wood furnishings softened by cushions around low tables. Only a handful of customers spoke in subdued tones, giving the room a hushed, intimate atmosphere. Unlike the noisy bustle of a yakiniku joint, this place radiated the simple, homely comfort of hot pot cuisine.

“Welcome.” The proprietress, clad in a plain kimono, greeted them with a gentle smile before leading them to a table tucked at the back. Embedded in its center was a black clay pot atop a small gas stove.

“Sukiyaki for three,” Roshi ordered smoothly, his eyes sliding to Anko and Itachi. “That alright?” He already knew their taste for sweeter flavors.

Anko’s eager nod came instantly, her eyes locked on the menu. “Yes, yes, of course!” she exclaimed.

Itachi only offered a quiet “hmm,” though the faint anticipation in his eyes betrayed his calm front. The homely air of the shop gave him an unusual sense of ease.

“Special selection beef, tofu, konjac noodles, shiitake and enoki mushrooms, shungiku, leeks, and Ise Udon,” Roshi continued, rattling off the sides without hesitation. “One raw egg each for dipping.”

The proprietress nodded cheerfully and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Soon, the clay pot was set before them, filled with a glossy dark-brown broth. The stove hissed to life, blue flames licking the bottom as tiny bubbles broke the surface. The sweet aroma thickened, curling upward in steamy tendrils.

Then came the side dishes: thin slices of marbled wagyu, frosted with veins of fat; soft white cubes of tofu; translucent-gray konjac noodles; plump shiitake caps, slender enoki, crisp greens, and diagonally cut leeks. Alongside them, three bowls of beaten raw egg gleamed pale gold.

As the broth reached a rolling boil, Roshi used long chopsticks to lower several slices of beef into the pot. The meat curled almost instantly, pink giving way to a deeper shade as fat melted into the broth, layering the air with an even richer aroma.

“Eat the meat first,” Roshi instructed.

Anko hardly needed telling. She snatched up a glistening slice, dipped it swiftly into the egg, and popped it into her mouth. The tender beef melted across her tongue, the silky egg mellowing the sweetness of the broth into something decadent. She closed her eyes with a muffled sigh.

“Mmm… this sweetness is amazing! And the beef—unbelievably tender!”

Itachi followed, slower but precise. He dipped his beef, then tasted. The umami of the meat, the smooth egg, and the sweet-savory broth blended seamlessly, warmth spreading through him. He chewed with quiet focus, though his pace betrayed enjoyment. Behind the rising steam, his eyes softened.

Roshi watched their satisfaction before tasting for himself. The meat was rich, its sweetness drawn out by mirin—but his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He washed it down with a sip of tea. For hot pot, he still preferred a clear broth… or something with spice.

The proprietress returned with the last of the vegetables and the thick strands of Ise Udon. Her smile deepened at the sight of them leaning into the bubbling pot.

“Three guests, all dishes are here. Please enjoy.”

“Thank you.” Roshi inclined his head, then asked casually, “You seem busy tonight. Is something special happening?”

The woman’s smile grew warmer. “Thanks to customers like you, business is steady. But these past few days—yes, the mood in the village is lighter.”

She lowered her voice, sharing the news as if it were a gift. “Everyone’s saying Kumogakure is finally sending an official delegation… for peace talks.”

Her eyes shone. “After so many years of fighting, people finally feel there’s hope. Families are coming out again, eating together.” She gestured toward several tables where children laughed quietly beside their parents.

Peace talks? Roshi’s chopsticks stilled in midair. That such news had already reached ordinary shopkeepers…

“Delegation?” Anko mumbled around a mouthful of broth-soaked shiitake, her words muffled. “Is that news really true? Those Kumogakure shinobi weren’t exactly the gentle type before.”

“True, true!” A woman seated nearby, dining with her child, couldn’t resist joining in. Her expression brimmed with hopeful anticipation.

“My husband does odd jobs in the administration office—he heard it firsthand! They say the delegation is high-ranking, led by one of the Raikage’s closest confidants. With someone like that heading the group, they can’t possibly be coming to fight. They must truly want peace!”

She gently patted her child’s head, voice softening. “If the war could really end… children might grow up in peace.”

“Yes… peace is worth more than anything.” An elderly diner at another table gave a weary sigh. “Too much blood has already been spilled on the border.”

For a moment, the small dining room filled with quiet hopes and wistful murmurs, the clinking of chopsticks softened by the rising steam from simmering broth. Then, like smoke dispersing, the conversations shifted back to food and family, and the proprietress returned to her other customers.

“Kumogakure…” Anko swallowed, licking sweet sauce from the corner of her lips. Her playful expression faded, replaced by the sharp scrutiny of a kunoichi. “The Raikage’s confidant leading the talks? That’s a bold move. Makes me wonder what their real game is.”

“It’s the natural course,” Roshi replied evenly, dropping a perfectly soaked tofu cube onto Itachi’s plate. “Kumogakure can’t win outright. Peace talks are their only road forward. As for sincerity…” His gaze lingered on the bubbling pot. “Words don’t matter. It’s what they do after—and the price they’re willing to pay—that tells the truth.”

Itachi quietly ate the tofu, tender and saturated with sweet-savory broth. His dark eyes studied Roshi’s calm profile. Despite losing comrades in border skirmishes, Roshi’s voice carried no particular bitterness toward the Hidden Cloud.

Anko puffed her cheeks, uninterested in such practical talk. “Bah, forget it. Why think so hard?” Her attention darted back to the pot. “These konjac noodles—after soaking in the broth—they’re heavenly! Owner, another order of konjac noodles!”

“And four more plates of beef,” Roshi added, matter-of-fact. Shinobi appetites were not to be underestimated.

Outside, the lamps of Konoha glowed against the deepening blue of twilight. Inside, warmth radiated from the clay pot, filling the shop with the sweet comfort of simmering broth. The three sat together, sharing food and silence, the rich flavors easing the day’s fatigue and washing away the tension of training.

Anko leaned back at last, sighing in contentment, one hand on her stomach. Itachi set down his chopsticks and sipped his tea, his movements quiet, composed.

Roshi took a long sip from his own cup. His eyes drifted, noting Anko’s faded mesh top, its black almost gray at the seams, the cuffs fraying from use. Beside her, Itachi wore a neat dark-blue uniform—plain, functional, the standard attire of his clan.

“Full?” Roshi set his teacup down, his voice cutting through the post-meal quiet. “Good. While we still have time.” He rose to his feet.

“The team just formed. As captain, I should make some kind of gesture.”

Anko and Itachi exchanged puzzled glances.

“Let’s go buy a few things,” Roshi said casually, as though he were planning their next training exercise. His lips curved faintly. “Captain’s gifts. No refusing allowed.”

[NSSSG] [ARC-05] Chapter : 230 - Fighting Shinno

Sunday morning

The group arrived at the ruins of Soragakure in the Land of Birds.

“Is this really Soragakure?” Kurenai asked, doubt lacing her voice.

Before her lay only dense forest—no ruins, not even a broken wall.

“It’s underground,” Kitazawa reminded calmly.

“Torune.”

Kabuto called out immediately.

Torune raised his arms, releasing a cloud of poison bugs. They swirled in the air before vanishing into the earth below.

“There’s a massive structure beneath us,” Torune reported, surprise in his tone. “Like a hidden city.”

“How could they have built this underground?” Izumi asked in disbelief. The untouched forest around them showed no trace of disturbance.

“The only explanation,” Kabuto mused, “is that Soragakure began construction after the Second Shinobi War, deliberately burying their stronghold.”

“There’s a huge… cold chakra inside,” Torune suddenly interrupted, his expression tightening.

“How huge?” Kabuto asked.

“Wait!” Torune’s face darkened. “My bugs have been discovered!”

Kabuto’s eyes widened. “Impossible. They’re microscopic, practically undetectable.”

But Kitazawa already suspected the reason—
The Zero-Tailed Beast.

Created by Shinno, it mimicked a true Tailed Beast, feeding on the darkness in human hearts. Its so-called Dark Chakra was, in truth, Yin Release—form conjured from nothingness, given shape through malice.

“Kitazawa-sensei…” Torune said uneasily. “A squad of Soragakure ninja is heading straight for us. What should we do?”

Failing reconnaissance in front of his sensei weighed heavily on him.

Kitazawa’s gaze sharpened. “As shinobi, infiltration failures are normal. Skirmishes are lessons we must embrace.” His tone dropped. “Prepare for battle.”

“Yes!” the squad answered as one.

“Torune, from where?” Kabuto asked quickly.

“Twenty meters—there’s a passage beneath that ridge.”

“Perfect.” Kabuto flicked his hands, six explosive tags flying into position around the spot.

“Kabuto, excellent as always,” Kurenai remarked with quiet praise.

“They’re coming out!” Torune warned.

Kabuto detonated the tags instantly.

Boom!

The ground erupted in flame, a sea of fire swallowing the emerging shinobi. Screams pierced the air.

“Use Fire Release! Wind Release!” someone shouted from within.

Half the blaze died down, revealing surviving Soragakure ninja.

“Damn you! I’ll kill every last one of you!”

A white-haired man appeared in a blur, fury burning in his eyes. His rage was clear—dozens of his men had perished before the fight had even begun.

“Konoha shinobi?!” He froze, recognizing their headbands. His fury tempered into wary calculation. Soragakure longed for revenge against Konoha, but he knew better than to provoke them outright. Still, one question burned in him:

“How did you find this place?”

“Are you Shinno?” Kitazawa countered coldly.

“You… know my name?” Shinno was taken aback. He was certain they’d never met. He always traveled under the guise of a wandering physician, his true identity hidden.

Kitazawa didn’t waste time. “Attack!”

Shinno laughed in disbelief. “With just you brats? Who gave you that courage?”

The remaining Soragakure ninja extinguished the last flames and closed in. Their numbers still exceeded twenty.

Izumi’s Sharingan spun, releasing a blazing Great Fireball.

Shinno’s eyes narrowed. “Sharingan?” Even he couldn’t ignore an Uchiha prodigy.

But he remained confident. This was Soragakure’s main base—and more importantly, he trusted his own power.

Kabuto unleashed Vacuum Bullets.

Kurenai vanished in a flurry of crimson petals.

Torune was faster still. “Secret Technique: Poison Dust!”

A poisonous mist spread like a living fog. Several Soragakure shinobi inhaled it—collapsing instantly, dead before they hit the ground.

Shinno’s face twisted. “Such lethal venom…” Even as a seasoned medical-nin, he had never seen poison this swift. Only one choice remained—eliminate Torune first.

“Forbidden Technique: Cellular Activation!”

Shinno’s body swelled, muscles bulging as his speed skyrocketed. In an instant, he was upon Torune.

Kurenai intercepted, fists glowing with raw strength. Their clash sent shockwaves through the clearing. She staggered back, while Shinno remained firm—overwhelming in raw power.

But Torune’s swarm was already upon him. Shinno retreated swiftly, unwilling to risk the nano-poison.

Then—

Dark Chakra exploded from his fist, scattering the bugs like shredded paper.

Torune’s eyes widened. “He destroyed them…?”

Shinno sneered, lunging forward again—only to lock eyes with Kurenai.

Genjutsu snapped into place. For a split second, he was trapped in the embrace of an illusory tree.

“Tch—Genjutsu?” He dispelled it instantly—

—but not fast enough.

Kurenai’s Rasengan slammed into his arms, tearing flesh into bloody ribbons.

“Ahhh!”

Shinno roared, lashing out with a vicious kick.

Kurenai reacted instantly, retreating several meters. The two squared off again, distance opening between them.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied his arms. That Rasengan should have done more damage…

“It’s cellular activation,” Kitazawa explained, his tone grim. “His body’s in an enhanced state—speed, power, defense, all heightened.”

“That strong?” Kurenai asked, startled. “Then how do we fight him?”

“His body won’t endure prolonged activation,” Kitazawa replied coolly. “If we stall, victory is ours.”

Shinno froze mid-breath. Kitazawa’s words cut deeper than he expected. He… he knows the secret of my technique? Only Shinno himself should have understood the details of Cellular Activation. How could this Konoha jōnin know?

“Wind Release: Vacuum Blade!”

Kabuto appeared behind Shinno in a blur, kunai poised to strike.

Shinno reacted instantly, twisting and slamming a fist into the weapon. The kunai shot away like a bullet. Kabuto’s face tightened as he flickered back to safety.

Shinno surged forward to pursue—but a roaring fireball forced him to dodge aside. Landing in a crouch, he glanced around. His fury deepened. Every last Soragakure ninja had already been cut down by Kabuto and Izumi.

His men were useless… and Konoha’s team, far stronger than he’d anticipated. Now he was surrounded.

“Forbidden Technique: Body Regeneration!”

With overlapping hand seals, Shinno’s body underwent a grotesque transformation. His middle-aged form melted away, replaced by that of a towering young man. White hair turned jet-black, muscles bulged like stone, and raw power radiated from his frame.

Kabuto’s eyes darkened. “A jutsu that restores youth…?”

Torune spoke, his voice low. “My bugs report his chakra’s tripled.”

Izumi didn’t hesitate. “Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Flower Nail Crimson!”

Flames engulfed her shuriken, turning them into a blazing storm of steel and fire. They rained down on Shinno like a phoenix in bloom.

But Shinno advanced instead of retreating. His fists smashed the flaming weapons aside, and in a heartbeat he was on Izumi.

“Secret Technique: Poison Dust!”

Torune exhaled a dense, poisonous fog, forming a deadly barrier.

Shinno blurred, vanishing from sight.

“Torune!” Izumi’s Sharingan caught his afterimage.

Whoosh!

Shinno appeared at Torune’s flank, his fist already cocked.

The punch detonated the air, a shockwave howling outward. Kitazawa’s eyes sharpened. In one swift movement, he grabbed Torune and yanked him clear. Shinno’s strike smashed empty ground.

“Wind Release: Great Vacuum Sphere!”

Kabuto countered, launching a massive sphere of compressed wind.

Shinno snarled and met it head-on with his fist.

Boom!

The clash shook the clearing, chakra waves erupting in all directions. Kabuto’s jaw tightened. Shinno’s strength, bolstered by forbidden techniques, exceeded even his estimates.

“Ninja Art: Moonlight Beauty!”

Kurenai’s petals swirled into existence, surrounding Shinno. He struck out, scattering them, but missed the subtle play—her disappearance.

Kabuto lunged in. “Chakra Scalpel!” His blade gleamed as he swung.

Whoosh!

Kurenai dropped from above, a compressed Rasengan whirring in her palm. She twisted midair and slammed it down.

Unseen, she and Kabuto had orchestrated a flawless pincer strike.

But Shinno only smirked. Both fists shot up, chakra roaring to life.

“Ninja Art: Divine Fist!”

Dark chakra exploded outward like a tidal wave. The torrent swallowed Kabuto and Kurenai whole.

Kurenai braced, thrusting her Rasengan forward. The wave shattered it instantly, hurling her back. Kitazawa leapt forward and caught her mid-flight.

Izumi’s fireball streaked between Shinno and Kabuto, but Shinno’s dark chakra crushed it in an instant, surging onward.

Kabuto’s eyes narrowed. “Yin Healing Wound Destruction!” He hardened his chakra around his heart and brain just as the blast crashed down. At the last second, an Earth Flow Wall erupted before him—Kitazawa’s intervention.

“Tch… annoying brat!” Shinno snarled. His gaze locked onto Kitazawa. “I’ll kill you first!”

“Divine Fist!”

Twin chakra tsunamis tore forward.

Kitazawa didn’t flinch. “Combination Ninjutsu: Lightning Water Dragon Bullet!”

A water dragon surged forth, crackling with lightning, colliding head-on with the raging chakra. The explosion blinded the battlefield.

In that instant, Kitazawa flickered out of sight.

He reappeared behind Shinno, Zangetsu drawn. “Uchiha-Style: Raging Wind Sword!”

The blade ignited, stretching into a crimson arc of flame that roared skyward, then cleaved downward.

Shinno spun in alarm, throwing a desperate punch. But the fiery blade sliced through his chakra defense.

“Damn it!” Shinno bellowed, forcing his body to erupt with raw power. Blood flushed his skin, chakra surging into a crimson storm that blasted the flames apart.

Kitazawa retreated immediately.

Kurenai’s eyes widened. “That aura… it’s like Gai’s Eight Gates…” Her voice trembled. “Blood red? Is that—the Eighth Gate?!”

Kabuto’s face hardened. “Impossible. The Eight Gates is Konoha’s forbidden art. How could he know it?”

Torune and Izumi’s faces mirrored dread.

Shinno’s laughter rang out, wild and unhinged. “That’s right! This is the Eight Gates Formation! But my medical techniques let me open them without dying!” His voice rose into a roar. “If I cannot die—then all of you will!”

Then he blurred, charging Kitazawa with crushing force, like a mountain falling from the sky.

The others could only watch, breath caught in their throats. Against the unleashed Eighth Gate, only Kitazawa could stand.

Izumi’s Sharingan tracked him desperately. Torune tried to send his insects forward—but Shinno’s raging chakra shredded them before they could touch him.

Kitazawa slashed once more, his fiery blade roaring to life.

Shinno didn’t dodge. He crashed straight into it, shattering the flames, his body healing instantly.

There would be no easy end to this fight.

Kitazawa judged Shinno’s current state to be something monstrous—like combining the Strength of a Hundred Seal with half the power of the Eight Gates Formation.

Shinno closed the distance in a flash, his fist tearing through the air. Countless shockwaves erupted outward.

Kitazawa’s body shattered into mud, ripped apart by the blast.

“Tch.”

Shinno frowned, scanning the battlefield.

A sharp whoosh cut the air.

A kunai whistled toward him.

He immediately locked onto its source—and ignored the blade, intent on killing Kitazawa instead.

But then, the kunai shimmered, splitting into dozens of solid duplicates that filled the sky.

“What?!”

Shinno stopped cold. Even with his reinforced body and regenerative power, getting skewered by so many weapons would shred him.

“Divine Fist!”

He swung both fists, dark chakra surging outward in waves, scattering the storm of kunai.

A calm voice drifted from behind him.

“It seems your Eight Gates Formation lacks youth.”

Shinno’s eyes narrowed. Unlike Gai’s techniques—the Evening Elephant, the Night Guy—his crude imitation lacked refined taijutsu to match the opened Gates.

He spun around instinctively—straight into Kitazawa’s gaze.

“Demonic Illusion: Tree Binding Death.”

And then, overlapping:

“Uchiha-Style: Sword Leap Flame!”

The genjutsu caught him only for an instant—Shinno’s wild chakra burned it away immediately. But that single heartbeat was enough.

Kitazawa’s blade cleaved downward, glowing red-hot, warping the very air around it.

Shinno’s face twisted in shock. Too late to dodge—he grit his teeth and slammed his fist into the descending Zangetsu.

The collision shook Kitazawa to the bone. His right arm went numb as the force hurled him backward.

“Ahhhh!”

Shinno screamed. His fist split open, five severed fingers scattering onto the ground.

“Forbidden Technique: Body Regeneration!”

His face paled, but flesh wriggled and sealed, restoring his hand.

Kabuto’s pupils shrank. “Limb regeneration? How are we supposed to fight this?”

“This ninjutsu…” Izumi swallowed nervously. “It’s terrifying.”

“I believe in Kitazawa,” Kurenai said firmly. “If he couldn’t win, he would’ve already pulled us out.”

Kitazawa ignored them, eyes fixed on Shinno.

Regeneration has limits… He couldn’t know its exact duration—the original texts never mentioned it—but as a medical ninja, he could read Shinno’s body. Even peak states eventually frayed, and decline always revealed itself in subtle ways.

“I’ll kill you!” Shinno roared, fury blazing from his earlier loss. He lunged forward, his fist aimed at Kitazawa’s heart.

Kitazawa stood rooted, countering with his own strike of fully powered monstrous strength.

“You dare?!” Shinno sneered, his grin cruel.

Boom!

The clash split the ground. Shockwaves thundered outward. Shinno’s eyes went wide—Kitazawa’s strength was pushing him back.

“How…?” His chakra surged wildly, but Kitazawa absorbed the force, only taking two steps back.

“You’re strong,” Shinno gasped, “but not stronger than me!”

Kitazawa smiled faintly. “Time is almost up. This battle’s ending soon.”

Shinno’s fury spiked. “Then I’ll send you straight to the Pure Land!”

“Senju Chakra Mode.”

Kitazawa’s chakra flared, his hands weaving seals.

“Water Release: Water Dragon Bullet!”

A roaring dragon surged forth, crashing down on Shinno.

“It’s useless!” Shinno snarled, his fists exploding with chakra. He shattered the dragon apart.

But before he could recover, a massive fireball swallowed his vision.

He flickered away, landing hard—only to find himself surrounded by flaming kunai.

“Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Flower Claw Crimson!”

“Divine Fist!” Shinno punched outward, dark chakra scattering the flaming blades.

Crack! Lightning arced across the ground.

“Lightning Release: Ground Flash!”

Shinno vaulted into the air, avoiding the currents—only to meet a barrage of whistling projectiles.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Wind bullets struck him midair. He twisted desperately but still took the hit. Blood blossomed across his back in ragged holes.

“Aaaah!” Shinno howled.

“Fire Release: Great Fire Annihilation!”

Kitazawa unleashed a tidal wave of flames, engulfing him.

“Damn it!” Panic flickered across Shinno’s face. He staggered, overwhelmed by Kitazawa’s relentless onslaught.

Why is his hand seal speed so fast?
Ninjutsu after ninjutsu—no pauses, no cooldowns…
And Five Elements? All five? Impossible!

Kabuto’s jaw dropped. “Is this Kitazawa-sensei’s real strength?”

Izumi gaped. “S-so amazing…”

Kurenai’s thoughts churned. I thought he was only Kakashi’s level… but Kakashi couldn’t do this. Not even close.

On the battlefield, Shinno was being pushed into desperation. His overwhelming stats were useless against Kitazawa’s sheer versatility.

I can’t keep this up…! Shinno felt the cracks spreading. His body trembled. The limit of regeneration was near.

“No! I won’t lose here!”

He tore through a water dragon, plowed through a fireball, and drove his fist forward. The air twisted under the strike.

Kitazawa met it calmly. “Superman Punch”

The impact resounded like thunder. This time, Kitazawa did not retreat.

Shinno’s pupils constricted.

“Wind Release: Rasengan.”

Kitazawa held Shinno’s fist in his right hand. His left slammed a rasengan of wind-chakra into Shinno’s abdomen.

“AAAHHHHHH!”

The scream ripped through the battlefield. Shinno’s stomach exploded into a bloody ruin. His body shriveled, skin sagging, muscles collapsing.

In moments, the towering figure with black hair and crimson aura aged into a withered husk—wrinkled, white-haired, his strength gone.

[NSSSG] [ARC-05] Chapter : 229 - Soragakure

The jōnin meeting room was already packed when Hiruzen entered, flanked by Homura and Koharu.

A flicker of surprise crossed the faces of Fugaku, Hiashi, and several others.

Danzo was absent.

Root had been disbanded, true, but Danzo was still a Hokage advisor and a jōnin. By all logic, he should have been here. Unless, of course, Hiruzen had simply chosen not to inform him.

The thought came to everyone at once: Danzo wasn’t coming back. For most of the great clans, that was welcome news.

“Today’s meeting has only one purpose,” Hiruzen began as he settled into the head seat. “Arrangements for the Hidden Mist delegation arriving next Monday.”

He turned his gaze toward Shikaku.

“I’ll announce the delegation list first,” Shikaku said, rising smoothly. “Suikazan Fuguki… Mei Terumī…”

Kitazawa only recognized two names.

Fuguki—the Seven Ninja Swordsman who once commanded Kisame Hoshigaki. According to the records, Kisame eventually killed him for treachery and claimed Samehada.

And Mei Terumī—the woman destined to become the Fifth Mizukage. A powerhouse who wielded not one but two kekkei genkai: Lava Release and Boil Release. Compared to Fuguki, her role in history loomed far larger.

For the Mist to send her at this stage showed real sincerity, even if she was still relatively unknown.

“Since the Mist is sending Fuguki himself,” Hiruzen said gravely, “we must treat this with care. Any suggestions for who should lead our side?”

“Negotiations are usually handled by Shikaku,” Homura offered after a pause. The Nara clan were Konoha’s tacticians, relied upon for their intellect both in battle and in diplomacy.

Hiruzen’s eyes narrowed in on Shikaku. “And what’s your view?”

“I believe Lady Tsunade is far more suitable than myself,” Shikaku answered, face unreadable.

Tsunade arched a brow. “Why go through all this roundabout nonsense?”

Hiruzen cleared his throat. “Then it’s decided. Tsunade will be our chief representative for the Mist negotiations.”

The room shifted. Everyone understood what was happening.

Hiruzen and Shikaku had staged the exchange deliberately. The negotiator might not wield any actual power, but they embodied the face of Konoha. By placing Tsunade in that role, Hiruzen was sending an unmistakable signal.

To the clans, it meant only one thing: the question of the next Hokage was no longer in doubt.

“Next, we’ll discuss additional members for the team,” Hiruzen continued. Tsunade’s stature was unquestionable, but sending her alone would look careless. Besides, he knew her well—diplomacy wasn’t her favorite pastime. A supporting cast would be necessary.

Kitazawa stifled a yawn. He’d slain Raiga himself; putting him face-to-face with the Mist delegation would only spark tension. He had no intention of being part of this, and honestly, the meeting was dull. Fortunately, it wrapped within half an hour.

As he stepped out, Tsunade lingered behind to meet with her team.

“Itachi?” Kitazawa paused, spotting the young Uchiha by the doorway.

“This is a map of Soragakure.” Itachi held out a scroll.

“Thank you.” Kitazawa unrolled it briefly. The Sky Village—situated near the Land of Birds.

“It’s nothing,” Itachi replied curtly. “If you need anything, find me.”

To the unknowing, he might have seemed almost warm, generous even. But anyone familiar with Uchiha pride knew better. They showed courtesy only to a rare few. Tsunade was one of them—and Kitazawa was currently reaping the benefits of her shadow.

Without her name behind him, his own strength and rank wouldn’t have earned Uchiha respect.

After parting with Itachi, Kitazawa returned to the Academy.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

Kitazawa planned to take Kabuto and the others to the Land of Birds—a small nation wedged between the Land of Wind and the Land of Earth. If they traveled swiftly, the round trip would take three days at most.

Not long ago, he had felt a twinge of unease at the thought of facing Shinno. But now, with Senju Chakra Mode in his arsenal, Kitazawa only hoped Shinno would put up a worthy fight.

To avoid wasting the journey, however, he dispatched a Shadow Clone overnight to scout Soragakure. Only after confirming Shinno’s presence would he bring Kurenai and the others along. If Shinno wasn’t there, they’d simply postpone until next week.

The Genius Class wrapped up another day of training. Kitazawa gathered everyone together, including Kakashi and Kosuke.

“The second monthly exam of this semester will be held next Thursday and Friday,” he announced.

“The monthly exam’s finally here again!” Naruto burst out, practically bouncing with excitement. He was the type to unleash any new ninjutsu the moment he learned it—and now that he had mastered Wind Release: Gale Palm, he couldn’t wait to test it out.

Besides, he was still stewing over his losses to Neji and Sasuke during the last exam.

“What a drag,” Shikamaru muttered, his hand to his forehead.

The contrast between him and Naruto couldn’t have been sharper.

Meanwhile, Sasuke’s hand unconsciously brushed the hilt of his sword. He was determined to defend his first-place ranking. Two consecutive victories would cement his strength beyond question. His confidence wasn’t baseless either—his Leaf Style Swordsmanship had advanced considerably, and he could now barely manage Leaf Style: Willow.

Neji, however, looked unusually solemn. With a week left, he wondered if he could finally master Eight Trigrams Thirty-Two Palms. He was just four palms short. Only by completing that technique would he feel secure in facing both Sasuke and Naruto.

“Sakura, want to compete?” Ino asked slyly, brimming with confidence after mastering the four ninjutsu Kitazawa had recently taught.

“Compete in what?” Sakura shot back, instantly seeing through her friend’s provocation. Still, she wasn’t about to back down. With her newly mastered Water Release: Water Formation Wall combined with Water Release: Water Wave, she had a solid chance in both defense and counterattack.

“Obviously, whoever places higher in the practical exam,” Ino grinned. “Loser treats.”

“Fine by me.” Sakura agreed without hesitation.

“What burning passion!” Naruto spun around, gave a thumbs-up, and shouted, “Sasuke, let’s compete too!”

“I’m not interested in weaklings I’ve already defeated,” Sasuke replied coolly.

“As expected of Sasuke-kun!” Sakura gushed immediately, stars in her eyes. “So cool!”

“Then I’ll compete with you, Naruto!” Lee beamed, teeth glinting.

“Deal!” Naruto pumped his fist. “We’ll have a youthful Taijutsu showdown!”

“Count me in!” Kiba barked with a grin. “Lowest rank pays for Ichiraku!”

“No problem!” Lee accepted without hesitation.

“You walked right into that one,” Tenten sighed. “You know you shouldn’t gamble your rank.”

She wasn’t wrong. Lee’s practical exams were brilliant, but his theoretical exams… not so much. The outcome was already obvious.

“It’s fine!” Lee declared, utterly unconcerned. “Win or lose, it’s all youth!”

Tenten had no words for that.

Meanwhile, Shino adjusted his glasses. He had no interest in competing; his focus remained on his kikaichu mutation experiments. The fire-resistant strain had already emerged, but the water-resistant variety lagged behind. In Shino’s mind, the explanation was simple: Fire Release was far more destructive, forcing rapid evolution. Water Release, by comparison, was too gentle.

“Children are always so energetic,” Kosuke chuckled.

Kakashi gave a lazy nod—then froze, wondering if Kosuke’s words implied he lacked energy.

“Prepare well, everyone,” Kitazawa reminded them. “After this exam, the next one will be the final. Treasure these two chances.”

The academy followed a three-semester system. The third term was the shortest, barely three months.

“After the finals, does that mean we’ll be second-years?” Naruto asked eagerly, hand raised.

“In name, this is still the Genius Class, so there are no grades,” Kitazawa said with a smile. “But yes—you’re one year closer to graduation.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Naruto admitted, scratching his head. Despite his dream of becoming a true ninja, he was reluctant to leave behind the joy of academy life.

“Graduation is still a ways off,” Kitazawa assured them. “Alright, that’s enough for today. Head home.”

“Goodbye, Kitazawa-sensei!” the Genius Class chorused before dispersing.

“See you next time,” Kitazawa waved to Kosuke and Kakashi before heading home himself.

The next morning.

Still half-asleep, Kitazawa suddenly felt a flood of information pour into his mind. His Shadow Clone had dispelled itself, returning with news from Soragakure.

“Looks like my luck isn’t bad,” Kitazawa muttered as he sat up, stretching.

According to the memories, Shinno was indeed in Soragakure.

Glancing at the still-slumbering Kurenai, Kitazawa quietly got out of bed, dressed, and made his way to the Academy’s training ground where his squad gathered.

“Kitazawa-sensei,” Kabuto, Torune, and zumi greeted him immediately.

“At one o’clock this afternoon, we meet at the village gate. We’re heading out on a mission,” Kitazawa said, wasting no words.

“What kind of mission?” Kabuto asked, brows furrowing.

“In difficulty, it’s about S-rank,” Kitazawa replied frankly. “But since this isn’t a mission issued by Konoha, there won’t be any official rewards.”

Kabuto’s expression sharpened at the word S-rank. These were missions far beyond the scope of the B-rank missions they’d handled before. Still, none of them looked disappointed. Payment wasn’t the issue—especially since Kitazawa had already split Raiga’s 1.2 million ryō among them, despite them barely lifting a finger.

“Our destination is Soragakure,” Kitazawa added with a faint smile. “I’ll explain the details later. For now, see what you can find out on your own.”

“Yes, sensei.” Kabuto’s eyes gleamed with interest. He had never heard of Soragakure before—making it the perfect challenge for his information-gathering skills.

“See you this afternoon.” Kitazawa patted Kabuto’s shoulder deliberately. Kabuto’s talents were too valuable to waste. With proper guidance, Kitazawa knew the boy could one day serve as Konoha’s shadow—doing the dirty work that someone like Danzo once had. Except, unlike Danzo, Kitazawa had no intention of letting that shadow rot.

Leaving the academy, he returned to Kurenai’s home.

“You’re back?” Kurenai was already awake, lounging on the sofa in a black silk nightgown.

“You’re up early,” Kitazawa teased, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her face turned red as she glared at him. She remembered all too well how she had… lost her composure last night. And somehow, Kitazawa felt even stronger now.

“Ahem.” Kitazawa coughed lightly. “We’re leaving on a mission this afternoon.”

“What kind of mission?” she huffed. “Don’t tell me it’s just another B-rank.”

“It’s S-rank.” Kitazawa smirked. “That should meet your standards.”

“S-rank?” Kurenai’s attitude immediately shifted, her brows knitting. “Won’t that be too dangerous?”

“What, are you scared?” Kitazawa teased, pinching her cheek.

“Of course not!” She crossed her arms, scoffing. “I’m worried about Izumi and the others.”

It was a fair concern. S-rank missions often involved clashes with jōnin-level opponents. Izumi and Taken were still only chūnin.

“Relax. Kabuto’s already at jōnin level, you’re at tokubetsu jōnin level, and with the three of us together, an S-rank mission isn’t much of a problem,” Kitazawa said casually.

In truth, he knew that in Soragakure, only Shinno himself had true jōnin-level strength.

“You’re right. You even defeated Kurosuki Raiga.” Kurenai finally eased, reassured. Ordinary jōnin didn’t scare her as long as Kitazawa was leading.

“I’ll make breakfast.” Kitazawa didn’t elaborate. There was no need to worry her with details. After all, Shinno’s strength with his forbidden techniques rivaled even the might of the Eight Gates—though it was more a counterfeit version than the real thing, nothing compared to Gai or his father.

After breakfast, Kitazawa accompanied Yakumo next door to complete her treatment with Tsunade, then headed straight to the mission hall at the Hokage Building.

Since eliminating Shinno was his personal goal, he needed an official reason to leave the village. Using Tsunade’s Hokage seal was an option, but far too conspicuous. To keep things simple, he picked up a routine mission to suppress bandits in the Land of Birds as cover.

At the village gates, Kurenai, Kabuto, Torune, and Izumi were already waiting.

After exchanging greetings, they registered with the gate guards.

“Let’s move out.” Kitazawa waved them forward.

The five quickly departed Konoha.

“Sensei,” Kabuto said, pulling out a scroll, “this is the information I gathered on Soragakure.”

“Soragakure?” Kurenai frowned. “Why haven’t I ever heard of that village?”

“That’s normal,” Kitazawa answered while scanning the scroll. “Soragakure was destroyed back in the Second Ninja World War.”

“No wonder.” Kurenai nodded in understanding. She had been a child during that time, too young to know.

“Then why are we going there?” she pressed. “Didn’t you say it was destroyed?”

Kabuto glanced at Kitazawa, clearly curious about the same thing.

“It was destroyed,” Kitazawa explained. “But some survivors endured. They’ve been rebuilding in the shadows, biding their time for revenge against Konoha.”

“Is this a secret mission from Hokage-sama?” Kurenai asked, intrigued.

“No,” Kitazawa said flatly. “This is my mission. Shinno, the leader of Soragakure, possesses medical ninjutsu I want.”

“Oh? So he’s a skilled medic as well.” Kurenai chuckled. “No wonder he caught your eye.”

“Don’t underestimate him just because he’s a medic,” Kitazawa warned, rolling up the scroll. “His combat strength is real.”

Kurenai nodded seriously this time.

“Sensei, which route should we take to the Land of Birds?” Kabuto asked.

“You tell me,” Kitazawa replied, testing him.

“Through the Land of Wind,” Kabuto answered after some thought.

“Why not the Land of Rain?” Kitazawa pressed.

“Hidden Rain has been closed off since the Third War. No one knows what Hanzo is planning. Given their history with us, I’d say the Land of Wind is safer.”

“Your student is sharp,” Kurenai said approvingly.

“When you’re a squad leader, you’ll train sharp students too,” Kitazawa smiled. “We’ll take the Wind route.”

Kabuto’s reasoning wasn’t entirely accurate, but the miscalculation wasn’t his fault. No one in the Five Great Nations knew that Hanzo the Salamander, once a legend who had granted even the Sannin their title, was already dead.

Every generation had its gods. Hanzo was one of the old ones—overwhelming in his time, but eventually eclipsed by the monsters that came later.

[NNSS] Chapter : 21

The sandy ground of Training Ground Three shimmered under the brutal afternoon sun, heat waves warping the air.

Roshi stood at the center of the field, his sharp gaze flicking between the two figures before him.

Uchiha Itachi, clad in a dark blue clan uniform, stood straight-backed, sweat trickling down his youthful yet taut cheeks. His dark eyes fixed on his opponent with unwavering intensity. At just eight years old, his slender frame seemed almost too small for the vast training ground.

Opposite him, Anko Mitarashi wore a faded black mesh shirt and shorts. Her purple hair clung to her temples with sweat, her hands shoved casually into her pockets. Her posture was loose, but her sharp glance at Itachi betrayed the readiness of a coiled spring.

“Live combat assessment,” Roshi’s voice cut through the heated air. “Show me how you cooperate effectively. Rules: stop before causing serious injury. Begin.”

“Whoosh—!”

Itachi moved first. His body blurred into an afterimage, speed ghostlike among his peers. Yet to Anko’s eyes, his path was clear.

Three shuriken whistled through the air with a shriek, aimed not to kill but to disable—her shoulder, her knee, her wrist.

Anko exhaled through her nose in a sharp snort. Her body snapped forward like a released spring, swift and fluid, every motion echoing Orochimaru’s taijutsu drills.

With a single, precise sidestep, the shuriken grazed her clothes and buried themselves deep into the sand.

“Fire Release: Flame Bullet!”

Anko’s seals blurred, faster than a blink. Three condensed fireballs roared forward like cannon shells, closing in on Itachi in a triangular net of heat and flame.

His pupils tightened. His Sharingan had not yet been revealed.

Faced with the searing onslaught, he stomped hard and veered right. The fireballs tore past his arm, the scorching airflow searing his skin and nearly throwing him off balance.

“Hmph!”

Anko pounced on his stumble. From her sleeve, her hand shot forward like a striking viper.

“Hidden Shadow Snake Hands!”

Two venomous snakes burst out with a hiss, scales glinting, striking at Itachi’s ankles where he had just landed.

In that instant, his eyes bled red. Twin tomoe spun to life.

The snakes’ strike slowed in his vision, every muscle twitch clear. He twisted violently, barely grazing free—the cold brush of scales raising the hairs on his legs.

But the awkward dodge sent him staggering.

Anko lunged, a cannonball of speed and killing intent.

In the blink of an eye, Itachi’s tomoe spun faster. He didn’t resist the stumble—he let it carry him backward, his small body bending as though broken.

Anko bore down, fist aimed straight for his ribs—yet her focus wavered.

Harsh lights. Snake eyes, slitted and uncaring, abandoning her without a glance.

A genjutsu.

Her mind froze, terror flooding her vision. Though she snapped herself free an instant later, her body lagged, her attack faltering for just a breath.

And that was enough.

“Bang!”

Her fist struck only wood—the Itachi before her dissolving into a substitution log.

The real Itachi emerged silently in her blind spot, blade pressed cold and steady against the fabric of her back. Not piercing, just a reminder.

Time stopped.

Anko froze mid-strike, every sense alive to the faint breath of Itachi behind her and the bite of steel at her back.

“That’s enough,” Roshi’s voice broke the silence.

The tomoe faded. Itachi stepped back, his small chest rising and falling, his face flushed but calm. He wiped the sweat from his brow, retrieved his water bottle, and drank in small, careful sips.

Anko turned stiffly, as if her body had rusted. Frustration surged like a tide, cold and bitter. She had lost. Lost to an eight-year-old boy.

'Is this… why you left me, Orochimaru-sensei?'

Her pale lips pressed together, her face drained of color. Then, unable to contain it, she spun and drove her fist into a wooden post.

“Bang!”

The post cracked with a sunken imprint of her fist.

Roshi glanced at the two—one calm, one trembling—without comment. He moved to the corner, retrieving a cloth bag. Instead of weapons, it carried neatly wrapped rice balls and a bamboo flask.

“Take a break,” Roshi said evenly, his tone oddly domestic.

He handed one rice ball to Itachi, then held the other out to Anko.

Anko’s shoulders were stiff, trembling.

“Steamed before I left. Chicken filling, teriyaki flavor. Not bad,” Roshi said casually. “After fighting, you should at least eat.”

“I don’t—” she began hotly, but the rich aroma of warm rice and sweet-savory chicken cut her words short. The scent was worlds apart from her usual stale noodles and cheap dango. It pried at her defenses with gentle insistence.

Roshi didn’t push. He simply kept the rice ball extended, then sat down, unwrapping one for himself. He ate with calm, unhurried bites, poured himself tea, and leaned against the post as if he were in his own backyard.

Itachi ate quietly too, savoring the chicken in small mouthfuls.

Anko stared at the rice ball, then at Roshi’s unshaken profile, then at her own fist print on the post. The warm smell mingled with her exhaustion, dissolving her anger into a dull, heavy fatigue.

She finally snatched the rice ball, biting into it as if to vent her frustration. The burst of teriyaki flavor soothed her more than she wanted to admit.

The three of them ate in silence. The only sounds were chewing, swallowing, and the faint whisper of wind over hot sand.

Roshi made no remarks about the battle, his composure steady as stone. When the food was gone, he quietly packed the wrappers, rose, and brushed the dust from his pants.

Roshi walked to the center of the field, his gaze sweeping briefly over Itachi—who had recovered somewhat—before settling on Anko, who had silently finished her rice ball. Her eyes remained shadowed, dark and complex.

“Feeling better?” Roshi’s tone was steady, probing.

“Good. Next—both of you. Together. Try to attack me.”

He stood there casually, hands at his sides, no stance, no seals. His relaxed posture made it seem less like a fight and more like an idle exercise.

Anko’s head snapped up. Surprise flickered across her eyes, quickly replaced by a rekindled fire—stubborn, hungry, unwilling. She glanced at Itachi, then back at their maddeningly calm captain.

Itachi’s gaze sharpened. Though his Sharingan lay dormant, his focus re-gathered. Their eyes met briefly, silent agreement passing between them.

“Alright!” Anko growled. Her hands blurred. “Ninja Art: Snake Net Binding!”

Chakra coiled into serpentine shadows, slithering out to constrict Roshi’s flanks and rear, hemming him in like living walls.

Her seals shifted again—“Fire Release: Dragon Fire Jutsu!”—and a spear of flame screamed forward, straight for Roshi’s chest.

At that moment, Itachi’s form melted into shadow. He did not follow Anko’s direct assault but instead circled wide, reading Roshi’s movements with uncanny precision. Shuriken spun from his hands, cutting strange arcs through the air, aimed at Roshi’s ankles, knees, every point of balance.

The timing was flawless—the flame at the front, serpents at the rear, shuriken closing the gaps. A perfect pincer.

Roshi’s face didn’t flicker.

“Water Release: Water Wall.”

A thick surge erupted upward, intercepting the Dragon Fire. Steam hissed violently into the air, blinding the field in a cloud of white mist.

Hidden within it, Roshi shifted half a step, the smallest of movements—just enough. Itachi’s shuriken grazed harmlessly past, thudding into the sand.

At the same time, Roshi’s right hand flicked outward.

“Wind Release: Wind Reversal.”

Air swirled violently, twisting Anko’s Chakra serpents into a vortex. Their hissing cries tore through the mist before they unraveled and dissipated.

“Tch!” Anko’s hands blurred again. “Ninja Art: Hidden Shadow Multi-Snake Hands!”

This time, eight real serpents exploded outward, scales glinting as they lunged at Roshi from every angle.

Roshi leaned back, unfazed, foot stamping the earth.

“Earth Release: Rock Spikes!”

Stone pillars shot upward, skewering two of the snakes mid-lunge. The rest scattered with furious hisses.

And in that heartbeat of distraction—

Itachi struck.

Kunai gleamed, his Sharingan locking onto every twitch of Roshi’s body. He aimed for the exposed ribs of Roshi’s backward-leaning posture.

But Roshi moved as if he had eyes in his back. His body twisted sideways at an impossible angle, the kunai kissing only air.

He spun with the momentum, hands flashing through seals.

“Wind Release: Wind Cutter Jutsu!”

Invisible blades shrieked through the mist, slashing straight for Itachi’s joints.

Danger flared in Itachi’s chest. His tomoe spun to life. The invisible blades slowed into deadly clarity, forcing him into a desperate backbend and a crossed kunai guard.

“Clang! Clang!”

The clash rattled his arms to the bone. He staggered back, fresh gouges carved into his kunai.

Anko seized her chance. Her fingers blurred, eyes gleaming.

“Fire Release: Serpent’s Fangs Barrage!”

Ten sharp, fang-shaped fireballs erupted from her lips, streaking toward Roshi. Unlike before, these weren’t random blasts—they darted like living predators, arcing in from vicious angles toward his vitals.

Their speed and precision outstripped her earlier jutsu.

Roshi remained calm.

“Earth Release: Earth-Style Wall.”

The ground surged upward, forming a massive stone barrier.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

The fireballs struck, exploding into sparks and smoke, the wall holding firm until the barrage faded.

Anko was panting now, sweat dripping down her temples. The strain of chaining jutsu was catching up to her.

“Stop,” Roshi’s voice cut through the haze.

The earth wall crumbled back into sand. Roshi brushed invisible dust from his sleeves, his breathing unchanged, as if all of this had been nothing more than a warm-up.

“I’ve seen enough.” His gaze slid over the two, both visibly winded. “For the next few days, we’ll continue training here—refining your coordination.”

He raised one finger. “Of course, this kind of training drains energy.”

Itachi, unsurprised, quietly sipped his water, already knowing what was coming.

“As captain, I’ll take responsibility…” Roshi’s lips curved into the faintest smile. His eyes moved between them.

“With this much chakra spent… how about replenishing with meat? My treat.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 20

With the team roster essentially settled, Roshi’s focus shifted to something more practical: squad tactics.

This was no longer the straightforward formation of his previous team—one member specialized in ninja tools and genjutsu, another in taijutsu, while he himself served as the ninjutsu-type chūnin, responsible for firepower suppression in complex engagements.

This new team, however, had an unusual and volatile structure.

He spread paper across the desk, pen scratching steadily as ink bled into crisp points and notes.

Uchiha Itachi

Advantages: A prodigy far beyond his peers. His Ninjutsu mastery has already reached Chūnin level—his Fire Release, Genjutsu, and ninja tool precision especially stand out. Combat awareness is sharp, with analytical and observational skills bordering on frightening. He wields a two-tomoe Sharingan, proof of his overwhelming potential.

Limitations: Only eight years old. His body remains underdeveloped—stamina, explosive strength, and sustained combat power are a far cry from that of adult shinobi. While his chakra reserves outstrip those of his peers, they’re still insufficient for long, drawn-out fights on the Chūnin level. Real battlefield experience remains thin, particularly against high-pressure, multi-layered combat scenarios.

Positioning: Cannot serve as the main attacker or centerpiece in extended battles. More suited as a tactical core and support unit—leveraging his Sharingan’s insight, Genjutsu, precision tools, and decisive Fire Release strikes. His role should be to create openings and control the flow of combat from mid-range. Absolutely avoid prolonged close-quarters combat that demands relentless Taijutsu or extreme chakra consumption.

Mitarashi Anko

Advantages: A textbook elite Chūnin. Strong Taijutsu fundamentals; balanced in speed, strength, and agility. Wide-ranging Ninjutsu repertoire—particularly Fire Release, Earth Release, and the Hidden Shadow Snake Hands techniques. High poison resistance from long-term venom exposure. Endurance and willpower that had always bordered on unyielding. Considerable real-world combat experience.

Limitations (Current State): Orochimaru’s defection left her mentally scarred. The trauma has plunged her into despondency, leaving her unstable and sluggish in battle. Her combat will is low, reflexes dulled—her overall effectiveness laced with uncertainty.

Positioning: By rights, she should be the frontline spearhead, a primary attacker tearing open enemy defenses with her Taijutsu-Ninjutsu combination. But her present psychological state complicates matters.

Temporary Strategy: Until her condition is confirmed, she should not shoulder the heaviest close-combat pressure. Better to deploy her on flanking maneuvers, second-wave assaults, or as mid-range disruption—using Ninjutsu and serpent techniques to inject chaos and spread damage without forcing her to carry the frontline immediately.

Roshi’s pen lingered on Anko’s name, leaving behind a heavy blot of ink. No matter how cleanly the analysis looked on paper, it remained a theory.

The lively, battle-tested kunoichi described in her file clashed violently with the dispirited woman he had seen firsthand. Did her Taijutsu still bite with the same ferocity? Could her snake-style Ninjutsu still flow freely? Would her instincts hold firm in the face of real danger?

These were unanswered questions.

It was, in truth, a non-standard team riddled with flaws.

Itachi’s brilliance shackled by his youth.
Anko’s blade dulled by trauma.

Tactics, trust, combat readiness—all of it had to be built not from paper theories, but from reality.

With a sharp stroke, Roshi wrote a single line beneath his notes:

Primary Action: Internal squad sparring assessment.

Only in live combat could he test the steel of the blade—and see whether the hand gripping it was steady.

Far away, the Hokage’s office was steeped in quiet smoke.

Hiruzen Sarutobi leaned back in his chair, listening as the masked Anbu knelt before him.

The silver-haired shinobi removed his mask, revealing a tired, half-lidded eye. Despite his casual expression, Kakashi Hatake’s tone was measured and precise.

“Target individual: Roshi. Special Jōnin (Ninjutsu Specialist) promotion assessment completed.”

Hiruzen nodded for him to continue.

“In terms of combat performance,” Kakashi reported evenly, each word crisp, “his battlefield literacy qualifies as high-level. And for his age… mastering five chakra nature transformations is nothing short of genius.”

Hiruzen’s reply was a soft, unreadable hum, the smoke of his pipe curling slowly toward the ceiling.

“Core assessment: chakra control and endurance.”
Kakashi’s voice was steady as he laid out the key point.
“During the trial, he executed no fewer than six different elemental techniques—including a Wind–Fire combination to counter Deep Forest Emergence. Despite fluctuations in his aura, there were no clear signs of depletion, and his concentration remained sharp throughout. His chakra reserves… far exceed that of an ordinary Jōnin.”

He paused briefly, then added, almost reluctantly,
“He surpasses me.”

Hiruzen Sarutobi closed his eyes, smoke curling from his pipe. Kakashi’s chakra was considerable in its own right—even with the constant drain of the Sharingan, his strength still outstripped that of most Jōnin.

Roshi’s background and years of records flashed through the Hokage’s mind. In the past, he hadn’t reached such a level. The issue wasn’t the number of techniques—it was the sheer difficulty of transforming and molding different chakra natures in rapid succession. The strain was far greater than repeatedly shaping a single element.

Yet Hiruzen pressed no further. His tone was slow, thoughtful:
“Five nature transformations… how was his application?”

“Proficient.” Kakashi’s reply was crisp.
“Basic techniques—Water Wall, Great Breakthrough, Earth Flow—were deployed with precise timing and smooth transitions. His Wind–Fire combination displayed excellent control over both chakra nature and shape transformations, producing considerable explosive force. His choices emphasized practicality and battlefield adaptability, with no noticeable weaknesses.”

“Taijutsu? Adaptability?”

“His foundation is solid. Movement and evasion are efficient, seamlessly coordinated with ninjutsu use or disengagement. His battlefield awareness is exceptional—under ambush or heavy suppression, his judgment stays calm, his decisions decisive, and he consistently finds optimal or fallback solutions under pressure.” Kakashi’s eye flickered with memory—the image of Roshi bursting through a corridor of flame.
“Overall: his ninjutsu mastery and practical application not only meet, but exceed, the standard for Special Jōnin. The qualification is deserved.”

The office grew quiet, broken only by the faint crackle of burning tobacco. Hiruzen’s gaze grew distant, clouded.

“How did he respond to Tenzo’s Wood Release?”

Kakashi thought back.
“His first responses were conventional ninjutsu, executed swiftly. When confronted with Deep Forest Emergence, he chose a high-risk, high-reward Wind–Fire combination to break through. He didn’t attempt to counter with any secret techniques. More importantly—throughout the entire engagement, he revealed no trace of Wood Release himself.”

He hesitated, then added,
“His composure was excellent, but the instant Deep Forest Emergence activated, his chakra flow stagnated for a heartbeat. He recognized it. His decision to push through aggressively was tactically sound—but it may also suggest a deliberate choice to avoid exposure, or comparison.”

Hiruzen’s brows lowered slightly at that.

Kakashi’s final words cut through the smoke:
“Even silence in the face of Wood Release is a statement in itself.”

The Hokage grunted, gave no further comment, and dismissed him with a wave. Kakashi replaced his mask and slipped into the office’s shadows, vanishing as if he had never been there.

Left alone, Hiruzen’s gaze turned toward the deepening twilight beyond the window, the glow of the setting sun blurring through the drifting smoke.

[NNSS] Chapter : 19

After meeting Itachi, Roshi’s next stop was Anko Mitarashi. She lived in one of the Village’s Ninja apartments in the center of Konoha—basic, no-frills housing provided to Shinobi. One room, one kitchen, one bathroom. Simple, cheap, and just enough for a single person.

Anko had no parents. Like many of her generation outside of the great clans, the endless wars had left her an orphan. Such children were raised in the Village orphanage, then moved into these apartments once they were old enough for the Academy. Rent was free during their studies, and once a month the administrative staff came by with allowances, check-ups, and the bare minimum of care.

But in the past three years, these apartments had become overcrowded, filled with young Shinobi trying to survive.

“Thump, thump.”

The sound of knocking echoed down the corridor. A dragging shuffle followed, then a muffled, weary voice from behind the door:

“…Coming… who is it…?”

The door creaked open a crack. The girl behind it was nothing like the lively-eyed face in her mission file photo. Fourteen-year-old Anko Mitarashi looked worn out. Her purple hair stuck out in messy tangles, and she wore a loose black mesh shirt with faded shorts. The stale air that spilled out carried the cloying scent of rotting sweets, unemptied trash, and long-stale room air.

She squinted against the corridor’s light, focusing on the figure outside. The face looked familiar—especially the eyes and brow that stirred old memories of their academy days.

“Roshi…? Roshi?” she asked hesitantly, her frown showing both confusion and recognition. “What are you doing here?”

The boy she remembered had always stood apart—cold-eyed, sharp, like someone carrying a burden heavier than his years. But the one in front of her radiated a calmer, steadier aura that made the contrast jarring.

“The Village should’ve sent you a notice,” Roshi said evenly, his gaze taking in her exhausted state. “You’ve been assigned to my squad.”

Anko scratched her tangled hair, blinking like someone dragged out of a long daze. “Ah… maybe I did hear something about that.” She stepped aside, waving a hand with half-hearted casualness. “Come in. But don’t expect much. It’s… just like this.” She didn’t even bother to make excuses.

Roshi nodded once and stepped inside. His eyes swept the cramped apartment. Empty ramen bowls littered the tatami, a half-eaten dango skewer had hardened to stone on the floor, and soda cans were scattered around the low table. It wasn’t a complete disaster, but clearly no one had cleaned in weeks. The air itself felt heavy with neglect.

Without a word, Roshi crossed the room, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the broom in the corner. He began sweeping with practiced ease, every movement calm and natural, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Anko blinked in surprise, then yelped when he moved to sweep away the old dango.
“Hey! Don’t touch that! I—I wasn’t done with it yet! You can’t just… that’s rude!”

“Go boil some water,” Roshi replied flatly, not even looking up. “When a guest visits, the least you offer is hot water. Tea, if you have it. Plain water will do.” He flicked several cans neatly into the trash bin without missing a beat.

“You…” Anko’s words caught in her throat. She stared at him, unsettled by the sight. How could the top student from the Academy, the one who always seemed so untouchable, be… cleaning her apartment like some domestic husband? And worse—acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. In the end, all she managed was a muttered, “Fine, fine…” before trudging off to the kitchen.

The sound of a kettle clinking onto the stove drifted out. Meanwhile, Roshi worked quickly—trash gathered, bowls stacked, curtains yanked open. Fresh air and sunlight spilled into the room, sweeping away the stale gloom in an instant.

When Anko returned with two steaming cups, the space already felt different—lighter, livable. She set a cup in front of Roshi, kept the other for herself, and sat cross-legged across from him. Her expression was conflicted, caught somewhere between embarrassment, annoyance, and the strange warmth of being cared for.

Roshi reached into a paper bag and slid it across the table toward her. Inside were several skewers of glossy, sugar-glazed three-color dango, still warm, their sweet aroma filling the air.

Anko’s eyes lit up, only to narrow with suspicion a moment later. “…What’s this? Trying to bribe me? You… you were never like this before.” Her voice carried both wariness and confusion.

“I bought them on the way,” Roshi said simply. He pulled out a skewer, bit into it, and closed his eyes briefly in satisfaction. “Mm. Soft, chewy, sweet. Much better than that dried-out rock you were chewing on.” His tone was light, casual—like he was simply sharing food with a friend.

Anko stared at him, then at the tempting dango. Her stomach growled audibly, betraying her. She hesitated, chewing her lip, but finally reached out. Taking a skewer, she bit carefully into it.

Warm, chewy mochi and sugary glaze melted on her tongue, and a long-forgotten sweetness spread through her senses. Her eyes half-closed in pleasure, a small sigh slipping out before she could stop it.

“…It’s good,” she muttered, cheeks faintly pink as she ate, sneaking sideways glances at Roshi all the while.

The young man in front of her sat calmly, eating dango, with a faint trace of dust still clinging to him from cleaning the room. Something about that sight made her feel both strange and unfamiliar.

“You’ve been living off these all this time?” Roshi tilted his chin toward the instant noodle cups and snack bags littering the floor. His tone wasn’t accusatory, more like he was confirming what he already knew about her situation.

“What else?” Anko muttered around a mouthful of dango, her words slightly slurred with apathy. “No missions, eating out’s expensive, and I can’t be bothered to go outside…” She didn’t add the truth—that she couldn’t bear the sympathetic, scrutinizing, or wary stares waiting for her beyond her door.

“Border skirmishes have eased up. Plenty of missions piled up: merchant routes, rogue ninja cleanup, caravan escorts, border patrols. C-rank, D-rank, take your pick. The Village hasn’t assigned you any?” Roshi swallowed before speaking again.

Anko froze, her gaze fixed on the glossy bamboo skewer in her hand. “They did. Fetching pets, pulling weeds. I didn’t take them.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “…It’s boring.”

“Boring, or is it that you can’t bring yourself to care?” Roshi’s calm eyes dropped to her hand, gripping the skewer so tightly her knuckles whitened. His voice stayed steady.

Anko’s head snapped up, irritation flashing in her eyes at being read so easily. But beneath it was something heavier—weariness, confusion. “Does it even matter? Whether I care or not? It’s all the same anyway.”

She turned her face toward the sunlight spilling through the window. “Back then… with him, I always had a goal. To grow stronger. To learn. Now…” Her lips curled into a bitter smile, mocking herself. “Now it feels like my bones have been stripped out. I can’t bring myself to do anything. Orochimaru… sensei… why…” Her words broke off into a harsh gasp, choked with hatred and despair.

Roshi listened without interrupting, offering no comfort, no false wisdom. He only reached for another skewer of dango, chewing unhurriedly, giving her space to bleed her emotions out. The room filled with the sound of her uneven breathing, punctuated by the faint chirping of birds outside.

That quiet, unpressured presence made her chest feel a little lighter.

“Anger, hatred… it’s normal,” Roshi finally said once her breathing steadied, his voice as even as if he were commenting on the weather. “But life doesn’t stop. Locking yourself away, rotting on instant noodles and stale dango—what good does that do you?”

He dropped the empty skewer and looked at her directly, his words blunt. “Even the dullest missions pay enough for fresh meals and dango that isn’t hard. Missions keep your body moving and your head busy. That’s better than wasting away in here.”

Anko stared at him. From anyone else, those words would have felt shallow, ignorant of her pain. But Roshi—who had quietly cleaned her room and brought her fresh food—spoke with a grounded weight she couldn’t ignore.

No sympathy. No lecturing. Just the plain truth: life must go on.

“You… really have changed the way you talk.” Anko’s lips tugged in a faint pout, her tone complicated. Yet the dullness in her eyes had softened. She glanced at the fresh sugar glaze glistening on her half-eaten dango, its sweetness catching the sunlight. Fresh really did taste better.

Abruptly, she shoved the rest into her mouth, chewing fiercely as if to swallow something deeper along with it.

“…But you’re right.” She swallowed, wiped the sugar from the corner of her lips, and looked up. Pain still lingered, but there was a faint spark now—fragile, but real. “I can’t just rot here. It really is pointless.” She hesitated, then asked with a flicker of her old spirit, “Captain… when’s the next mission? C-rank? B-rank?”

The corner of Roshi’s mouth twitched upward. “I won’t let you sit idle. As for the mission, wait for the notice. In the meantime…” He rose, scanning the room that, though tidied, still felt empty. “…thoroughly clean this place again. Next time I come, I want it kept this way. And—hot tea.”

“Ugh, you’re so demanding! Fine, fine!” Anko groaned, though her tone lacked true resistance. Watching Roshi’s back as he headed for the door, the protest almost sounded… alive.

As he slid the door open, she blurted, “Hey, Roshi!”

He glanced back.

“…Thanks.” Her voice dipped, eyes shifting away. After a beat, she added, “…for the dango. And the cleaning.”

Roshi only nodded, silent as ever, and stepped out.

When the door shut, the quiet pressed in again. Yet it felt different now—lighter. The sweet aroma of dango and the scent of fresh sunlight lingered in the air.

Anko looked at her empty hands, then around the clean room. Sunlight spilled across the floor in warm, unbroken patches. She drew in a long, deep breath of fresh air through the open window… and slowly exhaled, as though expelling something stale from her chest.

Her eyes fell on the broom leaning in the corner. She walked over, gripped it tight, and this time—on her own—began sweeping up the last of the trash.

[NNSS] Chapter : 18

Three years ago, the claws and flames of the Nine-Tails tore through Konoha’s heart, leaving its central district in smoldering ruins.

Yet in the aftermath of that devastation, opportunity emerged.

The old Konoha had been little more than a haphazard settlement, born when the Senju and Uchiha shook hands and carved out peace. The founders could never have imagined it swelling into the sprawling shinobi village of today, sheltering tens of thousands.

But the growth had been chaotic. Clan compounds of later-joined families sprouted in scattered clusters, jutting out like stubborn bone spurs, restricting the Village’s development.

The Nine-Tails’ attack—though a catastrophe—was like a brutal surgeon’s cut. Those spurs were ripped away, giving Konoha’s planners the freedom to reshape the Village with cold, rational precision.

Now, the Hokage Building stood as the unquestioned core, with new residential and commercial zones radiating outward in neat order. The clan districts were pushed to the outskirts—tidy, contained, easier to monitor.

And of all the clans, the Uchiha were sent farthest.

The official reasoning was lofty: proximity to the Police Force headquarters, efficiency in patrolling, maintaining public order.

But every shinobi who had lived through that night still remembered it vividly—the Nine-Tails, its eyes swirling with the crimson tomoe of the Sharingan. That image alone was damning.

The “exile” could not have been more blatant.

Uchiha Fugaku, the clan head, had swallowed it in silence. Rage and humiliation burned in his chest like molten iron, but he could do nothing.

At the entrance to the Uchiha district, a small figure already waited.

Uchiha Itachi. His clan uniform of deep blue bore the fan crest proudly on his back. His black eyes, calm and unreadable, turned toward Roshi.

“Roshi-senpai,” he said with a polite bow, voice steady. “Father instructed me to wait here and escort you.”

“Thank you, Itachi.” Roshi inclined his head, studying the boy.

Today, Itachi’s presence felt even calmer, more reserved than usual.

Now that Roshi had officially earned the rank of Special Jōnin, he was also stepping into his new role as captain. Itachi joining his squad was already decided—but sending an eight-year-old into missions ranked B and higher required one unavoidable formality: facing Uchiha Fugaku.

Roshi himself had gone to war at eleven. But in the shinobi world, eight and eleven were starkly different. One was still a child at the Academy; the other, already a soldier with blood on his blade.

“Senpai, this is your first time in the Uchiha district, isn’t it?” Itachi asked as he led the way, his tone quiet but steady.

“Yes. I was stationed at the border for years,” Roshi replied, his eyes following the boy while also scanning the surroundings with measured caution.

The Uchiha compound felt… enclosed. An invisible barrier seemed to separate it from the rest of Konoha.

Inside the entrance, the streets were immaculately kept, flanked by traditional wooden houses with tiled roofs. Small shops lined the lanes: tool vendors, modest eateries exuding savory aromas, even a refined dessert shop with delicate mochi displayed behind spotless glass.

Pedestrians were few—mostly Uchiha in their clan blues and blacks, nodding politely as they passed each other, forming the air of a self-contained, insular community. It was clean. Disciplined. Almost too perfect.

But Roshi noticed the eyes.

The civilians—women, elders, and children—looked at him with curiosity, tinged with unease. The shinobi, however, were different. Their gazes cut sharp as kunai, openly appraising him, weighing, measuring… and quietly rejecting.

The district itself seemed detached, a village within a village—watchful, walled-off, and quietly hostile.

Roshi’s steps faltered for the briefest instant. It wasn’t the stares. It was something else—an unseen gaze, distant yet unwavering, fixed on the main gate behind him.

“Brother! Brother!”

A high, innocent voice rang out, shattering the tension.

From a side alley, a tiny figure—barely three years old—came barreling forward in a blur of enthusiasm. Dressed in a miniature clan uniform, his little legs pumped furiously as he launched himself toward Itachi.

Uchiha Sasuke.

He ignored Roshi completely, eyes locked on his brother as he collided into him like a cannonball, clinging tightly to Itachi’s leg. His wide, grape-black eyes sparkled with pure joy.

“Brother! Play shuriken with me! Right now!”

For the first time, Itachi’s mask of calm cracked. His expression softened, melting in an instant.

Bending down, he ruffled Sasuke’s soft black hair with infinite gentleness.

“Sasuke,” he said softly, “I need to take Senpai to see Father first. I’ll play with you later, alright?”

Sasuke’s tiny mouth immediately pouted, his round face crumpling with grievance. His large eyes shimmered with unshed tears, yet despite his reluctance, he obediently nodded and let go of Itachi’s hand.

Before retreating, he stole a curious glance at Roshi, then scampered back into the alley, glancing over his shoulder every few steps as though unwilling to leave his brother’s side.

At some point, Fugaku had appeared at the entrance of the residence. He stood in silence, his expression unreadable. Only when Sasuke disappeared into the alley did his deep gaze shift to Roshi—an inscrutable glint flickering within it.

Itachi straightened, his composure returning instantly. He gave Roshi a small nod, signaling to continue forward. Soon, they arrived before an imposing residence.

Halting at the threshold, Itachi stepped aside with practiced respect.
“Senpai, Father is waiting for you inside.”

Fugaku’s eyes were already on Roshi.

Roshi offered a courteous nod, slipped off his sandals, and stepped into the entryway. Itachi remained in the shadow of the outer corridor, while Fugaku stood tall within the inner hall, his presence commanding.

The Uchiha patriarch was as rigid as a pine tree, dressed in dark clan robes, his face composed as still water. His gaze carried the weight of scrutiny, cool and assessing.

“Roshi, Special Jonin,” Fugaku intoned, his voice deep and even, as though simply verifying facts. “I have long heard of your achievements at the border—and of your recent promotion to Special Jonin. Truly, a formidable young man.”

“Clan Head Fugaku, you honor me,” Roshi replied, bowing slightly, his tone measured and respectful. “I have only done my duty.”

Fugaku inclined his head and gestured toward the interior. They moved into the reception room, kneeling opposite one another on the tatami mats.

Mikoto quietly entered, setting down steaming cups of green tea before excusing herself. The faint aroma lingered in the air, along with a subtle tension.

To Roshi’s mild surprise, Fugaku did not begin with warnings about Itachi’s safety or the risks of missions. Instead, he lifted his cup and asked in a calm tone:
“I hear you reside in the old estate on the western outskirts… raised and tutored by Lady Momoka herself?”

“Yes,” Roshi answered evenly, raising his cup. “Grandmother has always looked after me.”

Fugaku set his tea down with a faint clink against the low table.
“It is said your Ninjutsu is exceptional—mastering all five elements. War on the border truly forges talent.”

“Only through necessity was I able to practice so widely,” Roshi replied modestly.

Fugaku gave a small nod, then let the matter drop. His gaze drifted past the paper screen to the courtyard beyond.

“Roshi-kun, you entered with Itachi just now. What impression did our district leave upon you?”

Roshi paused, weighing his words carefully.
“It is tranquil, the clan members live orderly lives, and everything one needs is within reach. It seems… the Uchiha are very self-sufficient.”

“Self-sufficient…” Fugaku repeated softly, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze lingered on the quiet courtyard as his voice deepened. “Yes. We are peaceful and self-contained. But distance from the village center also means less… interaction.”

He let the words hang briefly, then turned back to Roshi with the calm authority of a leader.
“From now on, when Itachi joins missions, I will entrust him to you. His talent is great, but his experience is shallow. He will need your guidance.”

“It will be my responsibility, Clan Head Fugaku. You have my word.”

A sharper gleam flickered in Fugaku’s eyes for an instant, gone before Roshi could place it. Rising smoothly, the clan head ended the meeting.
“Itachi, see Roshi-kun out.”

Both men stood. Fugaku accompanied Roshi to the entrance, but went no further.

Stepping outside, Roshi blinked against the bright afternoon sun. Itachi waited quietly beneath the veranda. When Roshi emerged, the boy moved ahead, guiding him wordlessly down the street.

Even as they walked away, Roshi could still feel Fugaku’s gaze pressing against his back—a heavy weight of silent scrutiny that lingered until he turned the corner and it finally lifted.

The air within the clan district remained thick with detachment, the faint sweetness of mochi drifting from the small dessert shop nearby.

Itachi’s steps were steady, but to Roshi’s keen eyes, the boy’s silence carried a subtle note of inner conflict.

'Senpai holds another identity Father is wary of,' Itachi thought. 'But the question… I cannot ask.'

[NNSS] Chapter : 17

The afterglow of the setting sun washed the courtyard of the old Senju compound in shades of amber and crimson, stretching the eaves’ shadows long across the ground. When Roshi pushed open the wooden gate, he found Grandma Momoka with her back to him, quietly trimming a potted pine. The soft snip-snip of her scissors carried clearly in the hushed air.

“Grandma, I’m back.” Roshi’s voice broke the stillness.

She didn’t turn. Only a faint nod, almost imperceptible, acknowledged his arrival.

“How was the assessment?” Her tone was flat, stripped of warmth or surprise.

“I passed. Special Jōnin qualification.”

“Hmm.”

The silence stretched. Roshi shifted slightly, lowering his voice.
“The examiners were two ANBU. One… silver-haired, strong in Lightning Release and taijutsu. The other…” His gaze flickered. “…used Wood Release.”

At that, Grandma Momoka’s hands froze mid-motion. She laid the scissors down, turned, and fixed Roshi with a gaze suddenly sharp as steel. Her voice cut through the stillness:
“You countered with Wood Release?”

“No.” Roshi shook his head firmly, meeting her piercing stare. “I relied only on ordinary ninjutsu.”

The courtyard fell quiet again, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. After a long pause, a dry scoff escaped her lips.

“Hiruzen… oh, Hiruzen. You’ve grown so old.”

Roshi’s eyes narrowed. “Grandma… you already knew of this Wood Release shinobi?”

“Mm.” She didn’t deny it. Her hand returned to the scissors, but instead of resuming her pruning, her fingers absently stroked the cold metal handle.

“That child’s ANBU codename is Tenzo. Long before that, in Danzo’s Root, he was called Kinoe.” Her voice lowered, heavy with scorn. “A defective creation of Danzo and Orochimaru… built upon a mountain of corpses. He survived, yes, and he can force trees to grow—but he is a pale shadow of Lord Hashirama… and of you.” Her gaze flicked to Roshi, weighted with meanings he could not yet parse. “He is something… different.”

Roshi’s pupils contracted. Orochimaru. Danzo. The Wood Release experiments. Kinoe… Tenzo. Grandma knew these names too well.

“You…” His voice dropped, taut with disbelief. “…you were involved?”

The scissors halted. Slowly, Momoka raised her eyes, her gaze like a honed blade, sinking deep into his. This scrutiny was sharper than before, a silent test of his composure. The air beneath the veranda seemed to harden, the evening wind skirting around the tension rather than dispersing it.

At last, she spoke, her words slow, deliberate, and heavy.

“In the earliest Hashirama cell implantation trials, the volunteers were our own—loyal, capable, trustworthy. Us. But the toll was too great for the village to bear, and so the project was halted. Officially.”

Her eyes grew colder.
“But Konoha still craved a weapon to control the Tailed Beasts. If their own couldn’t be sacrificed, then outsiders were chosen. Danzo and Orochimaru were given silent permission to continue. And because these were Hashirama’s cells… the Senju could never be fully absent.”

Each word fell like a hammer blow on Roshi’s chest, stripping away the gilded surface of Konoha to expose the rot festering beneath.

Yet to her quiet astonishment, Roshi’s expression barely shifted. His brows furrowed, his gaze turned inward with thought, but the storm of emotion she expected never came. Instead, he met her revelations with an almost unnerving calm—cold, and steady.

There was no anger, no wounded disappointment—only a strange serenity, as though Roshi had long anticipated this revelation and was calmly digesting it now.

Momoka’s heart stirred. Something about this reaction was wrong. Too composed.

A fourteen-year-old boy, hearing such dark truths for the first time—where was the outrage? The shock? Instead, his profile remained calm in the fading light. The thought that had haunted her since his grave injury—that she wished only for him to live safely—rose once again, blotting out her tangled emotions.

“You…” Her voice carried the faintest trace of probing, but her tone softened without her noticing, tinged with an elder’s concern. “Don’t you feel angry… at what the Village has done? Don’t you feel… betrayed?” Her words pressed harder.

Roshi was quiet for a moment. His gaze drifted past her, settling on the moss-covered stone lantern in the corner of the courtyard. Bathed in twilight, the dark green clinging stubbornly to its surface seemed almost defiant in its quiet endurance.

“An individual’s moral code cannot restrain a vast collective that survives on power,” Roshi finally said, his voice steady. “Nor can it be used to judge a leader forced to choose in a cruel reality.” He paused, his eyes returning to hers, calm yet impossibly deep. “Survival and development are the truest correctness. Whether something is ‘dirty’ depends on what it’s meant to achieve… and whether there was ever a cleaner choice to begin with.”

“Private morality can neither bind the beast that is the collective, nor serve as the sole measure for a leader wading through the mire.”

The words fell like stones into still water, sending ripples through Momoka’s long-settled heart.

The ruthless clarity, the pragmatic wisdom—they struck her harder than she cared to admit. For the first time, she felt with startling certainty that this boy she had raised had… changed.

No, more than changed. Reborn.

That composure, that insight into the world’s harsh machinery, far outstripped his years. A flicker of surprise, laced with an emotion she could not name, passed through her chest.

“…The Village does need power to balance the Tailed Beasts,” Roshi continued.

“But the Uchiha’s Sharingan—doesn’t it also have the ability to control them? If it’s truly about the greater good, wouldn’t they…”

“Uchiha?”

Her sharp laugh cut him off. She looked at him as though he had said something naïve, almost childish.

“In all fifty-four years since Konoha’s founding, the Sharingan has controlled a Tailed Beast exactly twice.” Her eyes hardened. “The first was Uchiha Madara—when he attacked the Village with the Nine-Tails. The second was just three years ago—the Nine-Tails’ rampage.”

Her voice rose, edged with scorn.
“The Sharingan once again bound the Nine-Tails, unleashing it upon the Village! That night cost us the Fourth Hokage, dozens of Jōnin, hundreds of Chūnin and Genin—sacrificed just to restrain the beast’s fury!”

Her hand clenched faintly over the scissors.
“This so-called ‘ability to control Tailed Beasts,’ in the Uchiha’s hands, is nothing but a blade hanging above the Village’s throat, ready to fall at any moment.”

Roshi said nothing. There was no counterargument—only the weight of blood and truth.

Even without Madara, the scars of the Nine-Tails’ rampage three years ago had yet to fade.

“…Do I need to report back an answer to the Hokage's… probe?” Roshi shifted the conversation, his voice returning to its unsettling calm, as though the heavy words about the Uchiha had left no mark on him.

Momoka studied him in silence. Her sharp gaze searched for cracks in his composure, for the thoughts he would not say aloud. But all she found was stillness.

At last, her sigh escaped, heavy with exhaustion yet tinged with reluctant understanding.

“…So be it.” She waved her hand, as though brushing away dust that wasn’t there. “This old woman will make the arrangements.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 16

Three days later, at noon.

Konoha’s Third Training Ground lay under the merciless summer sun. The earth was baked yellow and hot enough to scorch bare skin, the air shimmering with heat haze. Cicadas shrilled relentlessly, amplifying the heavy dryness of the day.

Roshi arrived precisely on time. He wore Konoha’s dark-green flak jacket, forehead protector polished and straight. At the center of the training ground, two figures already stood waiting in silence.

Both wore the standard dark-gray uniforms of the Anbu, faces hidden behind expressionless animal masks that revealed neither identity nor emotion.

One was taller, his stance carrying an almost lazy nonchalance. Stray strands of silver hair slipped free from the mask’s edge, catching the sunlight like slivers of steel.

The other was thinner, younger—perhaps a year or two below Roshi—his posture perfectly straight, and unmoving.

“Special Jōnin promotion assessment. Subject: Roshi,” the taller Anbu announced, his voice flat, measured—yet beneath the mask, that faint, drawn-out tone carried a trace of familiarity.

“We are your examiners. Demonstrate the ninjutsu you’ve mastered. Evaluation criteria: power, control, efficiency, and combat adaptability.”

Through the mask’s hollow eyes, his gaze fixed on Roshi.

“Begin when ready.”

There was no ceremony, no wasted words—just the cold efficiency of Anbu.

The very next instant, the silver-haired Anbu blurred.

Roshi’s pupils constricted, body snapping to the side on instinct.

“Zzzzt—!”

A blinding spear of blue lightning carved through the space he had just vacated, leaving a blackened scorch and the sharp stench of ozone.

The silver-haired Anbu stood there, right hand blazing with writhing lightning—Lightning Release: Chidori! Even restrained, the sheer speed and oppressive killing intent revealed the gulf in experience.

“Combat reaction—satisfactory,” the voice murmured from behind the mask. But the assault didn’t stop. His hands blurred into seals.

“Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu!”

A roaring sphere of flame surged forward, cutting off Roshi’s escape.

Roshi’s hands moved even faster.

“Water Release: Water Wall!”

A surging wall of water burst up, colliding with the fireball.

Hissss—! Steam exploded outward, engulfing the battlefield in a choking white mist.

Using the cover, Roshi retreated swiftly, fingers weaving another set of seals.

“Wind Release: Great Breakthrough!”

A howling gale erupted, dispersing the mist in seconds and hurtling toward the silver-haired Anbu.

But his opponent’s figure swayed like a phantom, slipping between the gusts as though he had predicted their flow.

“Earth Release: Earth Wall!”

A solid barrier erupted from the ground, intercepting the wind head-on.

Yet just as the wall rose, razor-thin wind blades sliced in from a blind angle!

“Tch.” A faint click of annoyance echoed from behind the mask as the Anbu twisted at an impossible angle, barely evading. The hem of his cloak fluttered to the ground, neatly severed.

“Wind Release control—excellent,” he muttered.

At that moment, the younger Anbu finally moved.

He clasped his hands together, chakra surging with rigid precision.

“Wood Release: Silent Strangling Jutsu!”

From beneath Roshi’s feet, thick vines erupted like awakened serpents, coiling hungrily toward his ankles.

Wood Release? Yamato? Roshi’s heart tightened.

“Earth Release: Rock Collapse!”

The ground beneath him split with a violent crack, collapsing into a shallow pit. The vines were crushed and tangled in the falling stone, their advance instantly stalled.

Seizing the opening, Roshi leapt skyward, hands already completing another string of seals.

“Lightning Release: Ground Flash!”

Blue arcs crackled like a spreading spiderweb, racing through the fractured ground, streaking straight toward the younger Anbu who had just finished his jutsu!

The shorter Anbu betrayed no panic. His hands came together again, movements smooth and mechanical.
“Wood Release: Wood Golem Wall!”

Thick wooden pillars arched from the ground in a perfect curve, forming a seamless barrier around him. Lightning slammed into the wall with a crackling roar, leaving scorched black marks, but the dark-brown wood held firm, unmoved by the assault.

From the flank, the silver-haired Anbu closed in silently, a kunai crackling with dense lightning in his grip—its shrill hum sharp and venomous, like the fangs of a snake poised to strike.

With a piercing screech, the blade darted for Roshi’s ribs, aiming at his blind spot.

Caught mid-air, nowhere to plant his feet, Roshi did not falter. His fingers flashed through two quick seals—Snake, Dragon.

“Wind Release: Gale!”

A powerful gust burst forth, its recoil blasting his body sideways, narrowly carrying him out of the kunai’s lethal arc.

He landed in a crouch, breath uneven, sweat beading on his forehead.

The silver-haired Anbu dropped to the ground opposite him, expression unreadable behind the mask.

“Ninjutsu application—proficient. Chakra reserves… abundant.” His voice was flat, clinical. With this much alone, Roshi’s qualification as a Special Jōnin was all but certain.

But the assessment wasn’t finished.

The shorter Anbu stepped forward, his mask’s hollow eyes locking onto Roshi. His hands clasped together once more.
“Wood Release: Deep Forest Emergence!”

Rumble!

The earth heaved violently. Countless gnarled roots burst free, thick as pythons, writhing skyward as trees exploded into being. In moments, the open training ground became a suffocating miniature forest, a living cage pulsing with primal vitality. Branches swayed with deceptive grace in the sunlight, yet the crushing force behind them was suffocating, pressing in from every direction to strangle the lone shinobi within.

The silver-haired Anbu leapt back, gaze locked on the storm at the center of the field.

Roshi inhaled deeply, forming a Shadow Clone in an instant. Chakra surged in his body, refined and molded at a furious pace. His hands blurred through seals, fingers leaving afterimages.

“Fire Release: Fire Dragon Bullet!”

From his mouth erupted a condensed crimson dragon of flame, its heat searing, its roar splitting the air as it tore into the encroaching trees.

At the same time, the clone’s hands danced through its own seals. A savage gale spiraled into being.

Wind fuels fire!

BOOM!

The crimson dragon swelled monstrously, its flames turning blinding white-hot. No longer fire—it was a blazing wind dragon, incandescent and unstoppable, barreling toward the forest’s weaker flank.

Rumble-rumble-rumble!!!

The explosion shattered the air. The blazing beast carved through the trees, ripping them apart like brittle kindling. Branches and trunks, sturdy enough to withstand lightning, disintegrated into ash and sparks under its fury.

In its wake, a scorched passageway was torn open through the forest, blackened and burning, smoke curling thick in the sweltering heat.

Roshi burst out from the flaming corridor, his figure cutting through the haze. His flak jacket was scorched, his face streaked with ash, but his eyes remained steady—calm and unwavering as they locked on the two examiners.

The training ground lay in ruin. The lush green forest had been carved open by raw force, its smoldering edges crackling with dying fire. Charred branches collapsed with sharp snaps, the acrid scent of smoke filling the air.

The silver-haired Anbu studied the destruction, then the shinobi who had emerged from it. Slowly, he lowered his lightning-clad kunai.

“Ninjutsu coordination… timing, power, control—excellent.” His voice, though flat, carried finality.
“Assessment concluded. Special Jōnin qualification: confirmed and granted.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 15

Anko Mitarashi—disciple of Orochimaru, one of Konoha’s legendary Sannin—had once stood in good esteem. But ever since her master was exposed for conducting forbidden experiments on villagers and declared a rogue ninja, her position in the village had grown increasingly precarious.

She and Roshi shared the same birth year, Konoha Year 40, and had even sat in the same Ninja Academy class—though never in the same group. Their connection, at best, was little more than acquaintanceship: familiar faces, nothing more.

After Orochimaru’s fall, Anko was imprisoned by the Anbu for months. Only after exhaustive investigation was she cleared of suspicion and released—a gesture that felt more like a formality than genuine absolution. Orochimaru’s crimes were too grave for even Hiruzen to shield: the murder of villagers, human experimentation, and the shattering of Konoha’s most sacred foundation.

For over fifty years, clans had united under the banner of Hidden Villages. The most basic condition of coexistence was simple—clans did not prey on each other. Orochimaru had violated that rule, and for that alone, he could no longer remain within Konoha.

Yet killing him outright was another matter. Orochimaru was a Sannin, a war hero, the Hokage’s own disciple. His contributions to Konoha were countless, his influence within the village vast. A clean execution might have satisfied justice, but it would also fracture the village. In the end, Hiruzen had chosen the middle road: he struck Orochimaru down, but stopped short of the killing blow, allowing him to flee. Officially, Konoha would treat him as any other missing-nin. Unofficially, he had been allowed to escape.

And if such leniency was shown to the master, it naturally extended to his disciples and subordinates. In a true military purge, Anko and others like her would never have walked free. But Konoha’s punishment was more thunder than rain.

For Roshi, this made his squad situation complicated. Two teammates—one a child, the other fresh out of interrogation—each carrying backgrounds that would draw stares. Hardly an ideal team, but he wasn’t in a position to argue.

The Special Jōnin assessment arranged by the Hokage was still pending. The examiners were out on missions, and until their return, Roshi could only wait. Waiting, however, did not mean idleness.

In the old forest behind the Senju compound, he sat cross-legged in meditation. Weeks of quiet training had sharpened his senses. Now he could clearly sense the subtle disturbances caused when his Wood Release drew at the edges of Natural Energy—ripples, faint yet distinct, like silent currents moving through the deep sea.

The threshold of perception had been crossed. The next step was guidance—drawing this primal energy into himself. But to recklessly touch it with his own body was suicide. One mistake, and he would end as nothing more than a petrified husk among the roots.

In the original story, Naruto had overcome this hurdle with Shadow Clones, using them to absorb natural energy in his stead. Roshi had something even better.

Wood Clones.

Unlike Shadow Clones, they weren’t just fragile copies. They could carry his power, move with his flexibility, and—most crucially—share their senses with the original in real time. Where Shadow Clones needed to disperse to transfer memories, Wood Clones were seamless extensions of self.

This meant he could attempt Sage training with them. Even if a clone failed and turned to stone, only the clone would be lost. His true body would remain unharmed.

The realization struck with the clarity of lightning. Roshi pressed his hands together, and with a soft rustle of bark and leaves, a Wood Clone peeled itself away from his body.

Roshi closed his eyes, mind drawn taut like a bowstring. His perception stretched outward, threading itself into the Wood Clone’s body like unseen neural synapses, sharing its every sense. His intent pulsed clearly through the link: Perceive. Guide. Absorb the Natural Energy drifting through this forest.

The Wood Clone obeyed. At first, only the whisper of leaves stirred by the wind filled the silence. Then—a subtle heaviness bled into the air. The atmosphere thickened, the motes of light seeping through the branches seemed to drift sluggishly, as though weighed down.

Through their shared senses, Roshi felt it.

This was no longer a vague ripple—it was immersion in a vast, invisible ocean of life. Countless motes of energy, shimmering like translucent stardust, drifted and flowed around the Wood Clone, each particle pulsing with primal vitality.

The clone reached out, guiding its Chakra to brush against a single wisp—

The instant that thread of natural energy entered its body, a violent torrent erupted! Brimming with vitality yet burning with corrosive force, it rampaged through the clone like molten life-essence poured into a fragile vessel.

The Wood Clone convulsed. Chakra that formed its body warped and buckled. Rough wooden textures crawled across its skin, twisting its form into something monstrous. Joints cracked and groaned as its body swelled, reshaping into a grotesque fusion of man and tree.

“Ugh…” Roshi’s brow furrowed. His face blanched as the backlash tore through their shared link. The pain was sharp, raw, as though his own flesh were being warped into bark and fiber. Yet he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to watch.

The clone’s transformation accelerated. Just before its human shape was lost entirely, a creeping pallor spread across the wooden growths. Ashen stone-like petrification devoured the rampant vitality, racing over bark and limb until the entire figure threatened to become nothing but a twisted statue.

Roshi’s heart tightened. His voice cut through the stillness.

“Release!”

With a sharp bang, the half-tree, half-stone monstrosity collapsed into a heap of charred wood and scattered fragments, dissolving into fading motes of dust.

Roshi exhaled slowly, his eyes opening. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his brow, but a glimmer of insight sharpened his gaze.

Failure—but not without reward.

The experiment revealed the truth: Natural Energy did not strengthen everything blindly. It magnified what was inherent. For the toads of Mount Myōboku and the serpents of Ryūchi Cave, it heightened the powers of their kind. For his Wood Clone, forged from Wood Release itself, it seized upon the latent essence of “Wood”—a shadow of the Divine Tree’s nature—and drove it into rampant growth until the vessel collapsed.

He studied the charred remnants scattered across the forest floor, thoughtful. So… Natural Energy responds to the core of what you are.

As the realization settled, a sudden flutter of wings disturbed the silence. A black-feathered eagle swooped soundlessly from the night sky, alighting on a branch before him. Its sharp eyes glinted as it extended its beak, offering a small wooden message tube sealed with wax—the unmistakable mark of the Hokage’s office.

Roshi unrolled the parchment. The familiar, slightly scrawled yet forceful handwriting of Hiruzen sprawled across it:

“Roshi, the assessment examiner has returned. Three days from now, at noon—Third Training Ground.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 14

The air inside the Hokage’s Office felt thick enough to wring out.

Dim light filtered through the window, cutting across the tobacco haze in fractured beams. The drifting smoke blurred Hiruzen’s features, turning the Third Hokage into a shadowed figure behind the veil.

Danzo’s voice broke the silence—low, steady, and heavy, like a stone sinking into still water.
“Hiruzen, that injury report, plain as day. A wound that deep, blood loss, organ rupture… by all rights, no one should have survived.”

His finger tapped the hospital report on the desk. Each dull rap of his knuckles against the parchment drove his words deeper.

Hiruzen did not answer. The ember in his pipe flared and dimmed, the only light in his silence.

They both knew. That report described a certain death, a one-way path to the Memorial Stone. Yet Roshi still walked beneath the sun. Like the smoke between them, the unspoken truth lingered—dense, unyielding, impossible to ignore.

Most of the Senju clan’s Jutsu rested in the Forbidden Archive, entrusted by Tobirama Senju himself. The clan might have developed new techniques before its decline, but what had truly allowed Roshi to cheat death… was not hard to imagine. The risk must have been so great that even Momoka only dared act at the last moment.

Hiruzen drew in a long breath from his pipe, the pungent smoke burning down into his lungs. He exhaled slowly, studying Danzo through the haze.
“What are you trying to say?” His tone was calm, unreadable.

“He’s unfit to lead Itachi Uchiha.” Danzo cut straight to the heart, his words sharp as a blade. “Give Itachi to me.”

His intent was bare, impossible to mistake. Roshi was nothing but a convenient excuse—Danzo’s true prey had always been the Uchiha prodigy.

Hiruzen’s eyes hardened.
“Impossible.” The word fell like a hammer, final and unbending. Even if Itachi were to undergo special training, he would never be delivered into Root’s hands. “Fugaku would never allow it.”

And with good reason. Root’s members bore cursed seals—life and death bound to Danzo’s will. To entrust the Uchiha clan head’s son, their brightest hope, to that cage of shadows? Even ordinary clansmen recoiled at Root’s name.

“Fugaku doesn’t need to know.” Danzo’s confidence was chilling, his tone disturbingly casual, as if bending wills was second nature. “I have ways to make Itachi… join willingly.”

The sharp tap of Hiruzen’s pipe against the desk cracked the air, scattering sparks across the wood.
“No.”

“They’re already stirring!” Danzo’s voice suddenly rose, rough with urgency.

Hiruzen inhaled deeply, smoke curling in his lungs, then released it in a heavy sigh. The haze veiled the weariness etched deep in his eyes.

“The Hidden Cloud has sent signals for peace talks,” he said, shifting the discussion. “That is our priority now.”

Danzo let out a cold, derisive snort but eventually followed Hiruzen’s lead.
“After their last failed operation, Kumogakure has indeed pulled back from the border.”

“The village can’t hold out much longer either.” Hiruzen’s voice was steady, but the weight behind it was clear. His fingers absently traced the warm curve of the pipe.

Three years of deadlock at the border had drained both sides. For the Hidden Cloud, the true danger wasn’t only mounting casualties. The Land of Lightning was a realm of mountains and cliffs, with little flat ground for farming. Its scarce fertile land grew cash crops for profit. With the collapse of trade with Fire Country and Konoha’s allied nations, their grain imports had all but dried up.

On the surface, Konoha was nothing more than a military village—a hired blade. It had no authority to dictate the Land of Fire’s policies, nor to meddle in foreign trade. But reality rarely aligned with appearances.

Danzo’s Root was never bound by the courtesies of diplomacy. They struck like ghosts across every route, not only ambushing merchant caravans bound for the Land of Lightning with surgical precision, but also turning the spoils into supplies—feeding Konoha’s war machine.

With land routes completely paralyzed, the Land of Lightning was forced to rely on sea transport alone. Grain prices soared, basic goods grew scarce, and civilian life collapsed into hardship. The Raikage, harried by mounting complaints, had been summoned repeatedly by the Daimyō.

The Kumogakure raid that wiped out Roshi’s squad had been the last desperate lunge of an exhausted force. Its failure left only silence—a silence that spoke of collapse.

Konoha, by contrast, still had food and supplies, but years of unending conflict weighed like a millstone, grinding down the villagers’ patience and hope. War-weariness spread like wildfire in the unseen corners of the village.

With Kumogakure now extending an olive branch, both sides had finally reached the end of this war of attrition.

“These past few years, the village has been stretched thin,” Hiruzen said, his voice cool and official once more. “Too many missions have piled up. Rogue ninja run rampant in the Land of Trees and at Deai Port. Order is fraying. Root will investigate first. Stabilize the situation.”

“I will see to it.” Danzo’s reply was flat, drained of inflection.

He rose with the aid of his cane, his wide robes stirring a faint draft. Two masked Root operatives slipped out of the shadows behind him, their presence quiet, suffocating, like still water.

The heavy doors creaked open. Light from the corridor spilled inside, scattering the gloom and smoke for a brief instant. In that sliver of brightness, Danzo came face-to-face with Roshi, who was just about to knock.

“Advisor.” Roshi inclined his head, his tone even.

Danzo did not break stride. His hawk-like gaze, sharp and merciless, cut across Roshi as if to peel back flesh and lay bare every secret within.

At last, he exhaled a faint, dismissive “hmph,” and swept past. With the two Root shinobi gliding behind him, the three figures bled back into the darkness of the corridor until they were gone.

Only then did Roshi lift his eyes again and push open the Hokage’s door.

The familiar smell of tobacco, heavy and bitter, mingled with the dry scent of parchment. Roshi approached the desk and set down a paper packet—his compiled mission history and personal records from the past years.

“Hokage-sama.” His voice broke the silence.

The solemn weight on Hiruzen’s face seemed to ease, if only slightly. Setting his pipe aside, he regarded Roshi with a softened, almost paternal gaze.

“You’re here. About the recommendation letters…” He slid open a drawer. “Hayami and Kaji have already sent theirs.” Producing two sealed scrolls, he placed them neatly on the corner of the desk. “The assessment mission will focus on specialized ninjutsu evaluation. Your mastery of elemental techniques has always been excellent. This should not pose a problem, should it?”

“I’ll be prepared.” Roshi’s response was sharp, disciplined—no wasted words.

“One more thing.” Hiruzen reached into the drawer again, withdrawing a slim file. He passed it across the desk. “Regarding your squad members. This child… for certain reasons, we haven’t been able to place her on a team. After consideration, I believe joining yours may be the best option.”

Roshi accepted the file, his eyes falling on the photograph clipped inside.

A short girl with untamed, violet hair stared back at him. Her gaze carried a streak of wildness, and the faint curve of her lips hinted at a careless, mocking smile.

Anko Mitarashi.

[NNSS] Chapter : 13

The courtyard of the Senju old residence was steeped in twilight.

The evening breeze stirred the ancient tree, its leaves whispering like faint sighs. Lanterns beneath the eaves glowed softly, scattering warm halos across the worn veranda. Grandma Momoka sat unmoving, as solid as stone. When Roshi slid open the door, her half-lidded eyes rose just enough to acknowledge him.

“You’re back?” Her voice was flat, almost indifferent. Yet her weathered gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than habit demanded.

“Yes, Grandma,” Roshi replied, settling onto the veranda with practiced ease. “The Third Hokage summoned me. It was about squad assignments… and my promotion to Special Jōnin.”

He left out the details about Itachi. There was no reason to burden her with the full truth. The way Hiruzen had paired them, then dangled promotion immediately after—it reeked of negotiation. No, not even negotiation. Exchange.

At that word, the fingers holding Momoka’s teacup faltered almost imperceptibly. She said nothing, her gaze drifting toward the shadowed corners of the courtyard.

“I’ll need recommendation letters from two active Chūnin or Jōnin,” Roshi continued, his tone as formal as an official report. “Plus a special ability assessment. For the letters… I’ll have to trouble you.”

“Recommendation letters?” Momoka finally turned her head. The words seemed to still the air beneath the eaves. She lifted her cup and sipped, though the scalding tea could not mask the flicker of meaning in her eyes.

Those people.

In Roshi’s tangled memories, they were like distant, estranged relatives.

Every year, they came at set times—quiet visits to this half-forgotten residence. Their offerings were never lavish, yet always proper: a box of fine pastries, fresh seasonal fruits, or a rare trinket from beyond the village.

The recollections blurred at the edges. Some faces wore the weight of nostalgia, speaking to Grandma Momoka with unfeigned respect. Their eyes turned to him, young Roshi, with a complexity he hadn’t understood then—as if he were a living token of the past carried into the future. They would pat his head or shoulder, ask about his studies at the Academy, remark that he had grown taller. Their words were gentle, warm even… but always held a certain distance.

For the Roshi of today, those ties were paper-thin. Strangers who appeared only on festivals could hardly be called family. Yet now, in need of recommendation letters, he could only rely on Momoka—the matriarch who still bound them together.

From an adult’s perspective, it was the most sensible, even necessary path. Better for her, an elder, to reach out than for a fourteen-year-old boy to beg favor from vague “uncles” and “aunts” whose names he barely remembered.

Momoka set down her cup. Porcelain met saucer with a soft, deliberate click.

Her gaze lingered on his youthful face. Fourteen years old—already old enough, in the shinobi world, to shoulder blood and war. And yet, to her, he was still unbearably young.

A recommendation letter was no simple formality. It was a declaration of stance.

When a parent wrote one, it meant they recognized the child as heir to their name. When a Chūnin wrote one, it meant they were willing to accept that shinobi’s authority. When a Jōnin wrote one, it meant true acknowledgment—that they deemed this person a comrade worthy of standing beside them.

To ask those people for such letters meant more than simple signatures.

It meant bringing Roshi into their circle.

Should he be pulled into that water now?

After Lord Hashirama and Lord Tobirama’s deaths, they had gathered here often, seeking to preserve a connection that could serve them in times of need.

But behind that connection lurked expectations, burdens… and calculations.

And for Roshi, still standing at the threshold of his path, those waters ran far too deep.

“About the recommendation letters…” Momoka finally relented, her voice calm yet firm. “I will handle them.”

“Do I need to prepare anything?” Roshi asked.

“You just focus on the assessment.” With a casual motion, Momoka slid a ceramic cup of steaming tea across the table toward him. “Everything else is not your concern—at least not yet.”

Roshi accepted the cup, warmth seeping into his palm. “Yes, Grandma.”

He responded without hesitation. If the elder was willing to take personal charge, there was no reason for him to worry.

“The recommendation letters will be delivered directly to the Hokage’s Office,” she added offhandedly.

Roshi’s gaze lingered on the cup in his hands as his mind began to drift.

The body’s original owner had possessed a remarkable foundation—capable of wielding all five elemental Ninjutsu, backed by an extraordinary well of chakra. Abundant chakra meant not only endurance but also physical strength, and his Taijutsu reflected that. As for Genjutsu? Senju Momoka, his guardian, had once stood as a famed Genjutsu master in the turbulent Warring Clans era, even matching wits against the Uchiha.

Under her tutelage, Roshi might not have mastered illusions to perfection, but neither was it a weakness.

Now, however, both the quantity and quality of his chakra had advanced to an entirely new level. His perception sharpened day by day; his senses grew keener with each passing week.

The Special Jōnin assessment? For him, it was less a trial and more an exercise in restraint—showing the precision expected of a Jōnin without revealing just how much he had truly grown. Passing was never the question. The real challenge lay in controlling how much strength to display, enough to succeed without arousing suspicion.

What weighed more heavily on his mind was the training of being able to sense natural energy.

Through patient training these past weeks, he had begun to faintly sense the strange ripples in the air whenever his Wood Release attempted to draw in natural energy. The sensation was fragile, elusive, but real. Though he had not yet learned to actively absorb it, the very feedback proved he was on the right path. All he needed was persistence.

At the same time, the deeper potential of Wood Release demanded exploration.

His earlier attempt to channel Wood Release with natural energy had ended in petrification, a failure—but even failure carried lessons. His trees had been too fragile, their foundations lacking. Should he first focus on strengthening their resilience? Or experiment with diversifying their forms?

The questions piled up, but the answer was clear: he had to understand Wood Release at its core, unravel the bond it shared with natural energy. Senju Hashirama’s path lay before him, but Roshi needed to carve out his own.

Only power—true, undeniable power—could secure his place in the shifting era he knew was coming. The assessment was nothing more than a passing ripple; what mattered was the strength he continued to forge.

Outside, night deepened. The glow of lantern light softened the old residence, shadows brushing against the window frames. Momoka’s eyes lingered on the boy before her, still clutching the teacup, gaze distant as if lost in another world. Seeing him so intent, so absorbed in his own thoughts, the stern lines on her face eased. She lifted her own cup, the tea long cooled, and took a slow sip in silence.

[NNSS] Chapter : 12

“Thank you for the food, senpai. I’ll take my leave now.”

Itachi declined to share in Shinmi’s ill-gotten gains. He calmly stated that he had not contributed to the matter, nor had he been part of the initial agreement for remuneration. He accepted only the 20,000 ryō stipulated by the mission. In turn, Roshi quietly settled the bill.

As dusk deepened, Roshi rubbed his aching shoulders, preparing to resume his training. Just as he turned a corner, a figure in an animal mask appeared soundlessly, cloaked in shadows.

“Hokage-sama requests your presence." The Anbu’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

Roshi scratched his head helplessly and glanced up at the crimson evening sky. The feeling was all too familiar—like being called in for overtime in his previous life. With a weary sigh, he followed the silent escort, his figure soon swallowed by the night.

Inside the Hokage’s office, the final rays of the setting sun spilled across the room, gilding it in warm gold. Hiruzen Sarutobi stood with his back to the door, the hem of his robe stirring gently in the breeze. Hearing footsteps, he turned slowly. Smoke curled lazily from his pipe, rising into the beam of light.

“This mission was carried out well. You’ve worked hard,” the Third Hokage said, his voice gentle, though his seasoned eyes remained piercing. He tapped the pipe lightly, scattering a few ashes onto the tray.

“Hokage-sama, you flatter me.”

“No—it’s the truth.” Hiruzen’s tone softened, but then shifted. “When you were on border duty before, you didn’t display such talent…” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Roshi, what do you think of that boy, Itachi?”

“His talent is exceptional—far beyond his peers.”

“That child has lost his comrades, as have you.” The Hokage’s voice grew heavier. “Since you work well together, why not continue? As for the missing member of the squad, I’ll arrange a suitable candidate.”

Roshi frowned. “With my qualifications, I’m afraid I’m not yet suited to be an instructor.”

By Konoha’s tradition, such a team arrangement left only two options: either he would lead as captain with two Genin under him, or else a Chunin—or even a Jonin—would be transferred in, and the squad’s missions would immediately escalate to B-rank or higher.

“This is Itachi’s own request,” Hiruzen explained, his gaze shifting toward the twilight outside. “He no longer wishes to be paired with Genin…” The sentence trailed off, but Roshi understood. After witnessing his comrades’ deaths, the young Uchiha no longer wanted to experience that pain.

“If you’re unwilling, I won’t press the matter.” The Third exhaled a smoke ring, fingers tapping softly against the desk. “It’s not fair to involve Genin in high-level missions. Nor would it be responsible for you.”

The office fell into silence, broken only by the faint crackle of burning tobacco. Then, with a sudden movement, the Hokage stood, his robe sweeping across the floor.

“Still…” His expression softened, his tone earnest. “I hope you’ll think it over. If you refuse, there are Uchiha willing to take him on missions. But if possible, I’d rather their children not limit themselves solely to the clan.” A flicker of complexity passed through his eyes.

Roshi asked cautiously, “And his father? What is the Uchiha clan’s stance?”

“Fugaku will not object,” Hiruzen replied evenly.

“In that case,” Roshi inclined his head, “I have no objections either.”

The Hokage’s expression eased, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “As expected… Roshi, how is Lady Momoka’s health?”

“Very good,” Roshi answered simply.

Hiruzen nodded, then pulled an old file from a drawer. Roshi caught a glimpse—it was his own record. Without a word, the Hokage uncapped his pen and wrote on it before Roshi’s eyes.

“For the time being, you won’t need to accept new missions,” he said. “Use this period to prepare for your promotion… to Jōnin.”

“Jōnin?” Roshi’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.

The word carried weight. Jōnin were the backbone of Konoha, the true core of its strength, second only to the Hokage. Each one possessed the qualifications, at least in theory, to contend for that very seat. It was not a title granted lightly. And its numbers were always kept few.

Throughout Konoha’s history, only a handful had ever risen to the rank of Jōnin while still in their teens—Kakashi Hatake, Might Guy, and, in the years to come, Hyūga Neji. Such promotions demanded not only extraordinary talent and the strength to match, but were often tied to unusual circumstances or bitter sacrifices. Kakashi’s father, the White Fang, had died under mysterious circumstances; Maito Dai gave his life to save his son, crippling the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist in the process; and Hyūga Hizashi willingly surrendered himself to prevent a war.

Konoha’s promotions, then, were not always decided by merit alone, but sometimes as gestures of recompense… or appeasement.

“Just Special Jōnin,” Hiruzen said at last, breaking Roshi’s thoughts.

Roshi let out a quiet breath of relief. Special Jōnin stood in a class of their own. Unlike full Jōnin, they were not promoted for all-round excellence, but for mastering a particular field or possessing talents too valuable to ignore—keen sensory perception, unrivaled medical Ninjutsu, or advanced sealing techniques. Their authority was lower than that of standard Jōnin but higher than Chūnin, often tasked with specialized missions or serving as expert advisors.

This arrangement also spared him the political wrangling a direct Jōnin promotion might stir.

“Understood,” Roshi replied evenly. In truth, Special Jōnin suited him better: greater mission authority and higher pay, with fewer administrative chains tying him down. It was, in many ways, ideal.

The Third Hokage slid the file back into the drawer with a muted scrape. “Someone will inform you of the promotion process. You’ll need two letters of recommendation from active Chūnin or Jōnin, and you’ll have to pass an assessment in your area of specialty.” His eyes lingered on Roshi, carrying a silent weight. “With your ability, I doubt it will pose a problem. As for the recommendation letters…”

Roshi understood immediately. His parents had fallen on the battlefield. His Jōnin instructor had died during the Nine-Tails’ attack. His comrades from border duty had perished against Kumogakure. The most obvious candidates to vouch for him were all gone. If necessary, Hiruzen would arrange replacements—but Roshi preferred to rely on his own strength.

“I’ll handle it myself,” Roshi said firmly.

Grandma Momoka could likely contact some of the Senju who had gone into seclusion. Though many had changed their names and blended quietly into Konoha’s fabric, they had once been the village’s core strength. He had seen them at family gatherings during festivals. Several of them still held the rank of Chūnin or Jōnin—securing their recommendations should not be difficult.

Hiruzen gave a small nod. “Very well. Prepare yourself. As for Itachi’s team—once it is complete, the Anbu will notify you.”

“Yes.” Roshi bowed, then turned and took his leave.

By the time he stepped out of the Hokage Building, night had already claimed the village. Lanterns flickered along the streets, casting warm halos across the cobblestones. A cool evening breeze brushed against his face, carrying with it the faint traces of tobacco smoke from the Hokage’s office.

Promotion to Special Jōnin… The title itself meant little to him. But the freedom, access to higher-level missions, and more generous pay—those were things he could use. And for now, that was enough.

[NNSS] Chapter : 11

Days later, when they crossed paths in the quiet corridor of the Hokage Building, Itachi’s gaze lingered on Roshi.

“Your complexion isn’t very good, Senpai,” he said softly, eyes noting the faint shadows beneath Roshi’s eyes.

“Yeah… training.” Roshi rubbed his temples, barely stifling a yawn. “The money’s in. Let’s head to Yakiniku Q—we can eat and split it there.”

Itachi, already used to Roshi’s ways, had told his mother beforehand and followed without hesitation.

The pair slipped into the evening bustle, the streets alive with chatter and the warm glow of lanterns. The smell of grilled meat wafted from nearby stalls. Roshi hummed an off-key tune as he walked ahead, Itachi trailing half a step behind.

For Itachi, there was something oddly soothing in these moments. Around Roshi, there were no probing eyes dissecting him as a “genius,” no suffocating weight of expectation—just the simple feeling of being an ordinary kid.

The barbecue shop was overflowing with energy.

Pork belly hit the grill with a sharp sizzle, fat dripping onto hot coals, sending up sparks. Roshi snatched a slice as its edges charred to golden crispness, dunked it in dark sauce, and popped it into his mouth without hesitation.

The hot juices burst across his tongue, mingling with savory richness. For a moment, the exhaustion of days of training melted away in that taste.

“Hoo…” He exhaled with satisfaction, eyes narrowing in pleasure. Then, without thinking, he dropped another perfectly grilled slice onto Itachi’s plate. “Eat more—you’re still growing.”

“Are you working on a new Ninjutsu, Senpai?” Itachi asked, glancing at the steaming meat before him.

“Something like that. But it’s not going too well,” Roshi admitted vaguely, picking up another piece for himself. “What about you? What’ve you been practicing?”

“Taijutsu, Ninjutsu, shuriken training.” Itachi lifted his chopsticks. “With a senpai from the clan."

“Uchiha Shisui?”

Itachi’s chopsticks paused almost imperceptibly. His dark eyes flicked up to Roshi. “you know Shisui?”

“Besides you—the fastest graduate in a generation—his name is the most prominent in the Uchiha,” Roshi replied calmly, sipping his barley tea. “I’ve heard of him, though we’ve never met.”

Several rounds of meat later, the gnawing emptiness in their stomachs was replaced by warmth and satisfaction. Roshi dabbed his mouth with a napkin and leaned forward.

“The reward’s confirmed. That Sand shinobi’s scroll contained about ten million ryō…”

The number hung heavy in the air. For an ordinary Chūnin, that sum was more than a lifetime’s earnings.

“Senpai,” Itachi set down his chopsticks, eyes clear and steady, “why did that Sand Ninja betray his village?"

Roshi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he countered: “What do you think a village is?”

Itachi considered carefully before giving the academy answer. “A place where shinobi live, take missions, and protect each other.”

Roshi nodded, though his gaze shifted to the city lights beyond the window. “At first, Konoha was nothing more than a settlement—born when Senju and Uchiha set aside their blood feud.”

“When the two strongest clans in the world clasped hands, side by side…” He tapped the table lightly with his chopsticks. “The other families in the Land of Fire had no choice. No clan could stand alone against such an alliance. For survival, they had to join Konoha.”

Itachi straightened unconsciously, listening intently.

The glorious history he’d heard in the academy now sounded stripped bare. Through Roshi’s calm words, the founding of Konoha wasn’t a tale of ideals—it was survival, driven by power and necessity.

“When most of the Land of Fire’s clans gathered under one banner,” Roshi continued, “the village naturally became the nation’s strongest military force. Even the Daimyō’s court couldn’t play shinobi against each other as easily as during the Warring Clans era.”

A thick cut of meat dripped fat onto the coals, sizzling loudly, smoke curling upward.

“So, at its beginning,” Roshi’s gaze returned to Itachi, “the village was a platform. A way for clans to work together under rules that offered protection… and competition.”

“Back then, Konoha was nothing more than a fragile alliance—a dozen families huddled together against the cold.”

His eyes sharpened. “Until the Senju Clan voluntarily disbanded. Until the village began drawing in orphans, wanderers, and shinobi without clan ties. And when the Second Hokage founded the ANBU…” He paused, weighing his words. “That’s when the Village gained power of its own. Power no longer tied entirely to the clans. Power that belonged only to the Village.”

Outside the private room, the footsteps of a server carrying a tray faded into the distance, leaving a brief silence in their wake.

“This transition was crucial." Roshi’s voice dropped, steady and deliberate. “The Village was no longer just a gathering of clans. Once the pressure of survival eased, suppressed desires began to surface. Individual pursuits, hidden beneath the collective, emerged—and some of those…” He lifted his teacup, gazing at the amber liquid inside, “…were bound to clash with the Village as a whole.”

The rising smoke from the grill curled between them, half-hiding their faces.

“Senpai, you once said being a shinobi is just a job,” Itachi pressed quietly. “Then… how do you view rogue ninja?”

Roshi’s expression did not waver. “Under normal circumstances? Enemies. Because within the system of the Hidden Villages, shinobi are restrained. They cannot casually slaughter civilians.”

He dipped a piece of charred meat into the sauce, the oil shimmering under the light. “That restraint allows farmers to till their fields, merchants to run shops, families to live their lives. It keeps violence contained, lets economies grow, and makes simple pleasures like this—” he gestured at the table full of food and the sizzling grill, “—possible.”

“As for rogue ninja, like that one from Suna…” Roshi’s tone hardened. “He left his village for what he thought was a better life. On the surface, it sounds harmless. But in truth—” a dry chuckle escaped him, the smile not reaching his eyes.

“That was just a cautious Chūnin, too wary of the Village’s strength to go wild. But if we faced someone without restraint, who trampled human lives without a second thought…”

He paused, taking a sip of tea. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed.

“I only want to eat in peace,” he said evenly, setting the cup down with a crisp tap. “If anyone insists on ruining that… then, within my limits, I will stop them.”

Itachi listened without a word, his small fingers absently tracing the rim of his teacup, feeling the faint ridges of the ceramic.

“Senpai,” he finally spoke, voice softer still, “do you think the village system can maintain this order… forever?”

Roshi’s gaze shifted toward the window.

Outside, dusk had settled. The streets of Konoha glowed under lantern light, shadows of families and shopkeepers moving across the roads. “No system is perfect, Itachi,” he said at last.

“What matters is whether it creates something better than what came before. And the Hidden Village system…”

He drew his eyes back to the boy across from him. “It ended the Warring Clans era. It stopped clans from tearing each other apart without end. In that sense, it is better.”

Roshi tapped his chopsticks against the table, slow and deliberate. “The Village gave shinobi something new—a sense of belonging, a place they could call ‘home.’ But with that came new restrictions… and new contradictions.”

“Every system carries contradictions. Some can’t ever be erased. A shinobi’s personal ambitions will always clash with the village's needs. Clan traditions will always rub against the village's unified will. These conflicts can’t be avoided. They can only be balanced—generation after generation.”

“Then… Senpai,” Itachi asked cautiously, “does that mean a powerful clan should not exist within the Village?”

“Not exactly.” Roshi shook his head. “The village still needs clans. Especially those with unique bloodline limits. Families like that are the most effective way to protect and pass down those powers.”

He reached for a lettuce leaf, wrapping it around a piece of grilled meat. “In fact, clans lighten the village's burden. They nurture special talents, safeguard secret techniques, and act as buffers. Without them, gifted shinobi might come into sharper conflict with the village's rules.”

His voice dropped, calm yet firm. “But a clan’s power must never grow greater than the village's. Never above it. Because…”

He glanced at the glowing coals, at the hiss of fat dripping into fire. “In the mountains of corpses and seas of blood of the last three wars, it wasn’t only the great clans who carried the Village. Many of its saviors were nameless shinobi, born without any bloodline or legacy. It was their sacrifices—the countless, ordinary lives—that allowed Konoha to stand and endure.”

Itachi lowered his head. On his plate lay the slice of grilled meat Roshi had placed there earlier, now cooled, its sheen dulled under the warm yellow light.

In the silence that followed, only the faint crackle of burning charcoal filled the private room, blending with distant laughter and chatter from beyond the walls.

[NNSS] Chapter : 10

The next morning, the sun rose over the village.

Grandma Momoka, always an early riser, had already laid out breakfast: glistening white rice, pan-fried saury crisped to perfection, moon-shaped slices of pickled radish, and a steaming bowl of soup.

With no missions assigned, Roshi stretched in the grove beside the house, mind already turning toward the training plan he needed to forge.

He knew the script of this world.

Akatsuki. Madara. The God Tree. Ōtsutsuki.
Each name hung over him like a blade suspended by a single thread.

Even though Roshi had a love for life’s simple pleasures, he understood one truth: in this world, strength wasn’t a luxury—it was survival.

The shinobi’s path to power had always been clear:

• Temper the body. Squeeze out potential. Hone Taijutsu.

• Refine skills. Master ninja tools. Adapt to all change.

• Study Ninjutsu. Expand one’s methods. Bend to the environment.

Among these, Ninjutsu brought the fastest results, but the foundation always lay in the body.
Tempering the body was forging physical energy, and every time he pushed past pain, his will sharpened. Physical strength and mental fortitude fed into one another, nurturing chakra until both reached the peak of his natural limit. Only then was a shinobi ready to pour himself fully into ninjutsu.

In truth, aside from chakra and the staggering potential hidden within the 130 trillion cells of this world’s humans, the logic of growth wasn’t so different from Earth.

As a descendant of the Senju, Roshi already possessed greater chakra reserves and a sturdier foundation than most. Now, with the perfect fusion of Hashirama’s cells, his ceiling soared far above ordinary shinobi.

But even that was not enough. Kage-level strength might match the Akatsuki—but beyond them loomed a calamity that only those at the Sage of Six Paths’ level could endure.

There were only two known roads to such heights: the Ōtsutsuki system and the Sage Art system.

The Ōtsutsuki—the very source of chakra—were a race of star-born marauders who devoured life-force, converting it into power. The Senju, Uchiha, Uzumaki, and Hyūga all bore traces of their bloodline, strengthening themselves through chakra.

The Uchiha path, as shown in the original tale, was clear: fuse Hashirama cells, gain powerful Yang chakra, blend it with their own Yin, awaken the Rinnegan, seize the Ten-Tails, and ascend to an Ōtsutsuki-like state.

The Senju’s method was never made explicit. Perhaps it required a Sharingan—or something equally impossible to grasp.

But Roshi noted a crucial detail often overlooked.
Madara, who awakened the Rinnegan, was the reincarnation of Indra, son of Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki. Hashirama was the reincarnation of Asura, Indra’s brother. Both carried fragments of Hagoromo’s power, once the Ten-Tails’ jinchūriki.

That meant the Rinnegan’s awakening required not just the fusion of Yin and Yang, but also an inherited spark from the Ten-Tails itself.

For Roshi, that path was still shrouded in mist. For now, he set it aside.

The Sage Art system, on the other hand, offered something closer—yet still daunting. Its peak was below the Ōtsutsuki, but far above the limits of ordinary shinobi. The strongest known Sage was Hagoromo himself, with Hashirama standing just beneath him, a living god of his era.

The first step was the hardest: developing the ability to feel natural energy itself. From there, one had to absorb it, balance it with physical and spiritual energy, and refine it into Sage chakra.

For most, the obstacle was ignorance—they had to first believe in natural energy before they could sense it. Roshi, however, had no such blind spot. He knew it existed.

And natural energy was everywhere.

He even suspected it was the reason humans in this world were stronger than Earth’s, why giant beasts walked freely—the land itself had been steeped in that power for generations.

He had already tried once, when first adjusting to his body, but his attempts to sense it ended in nothing.

This time, however, he would not fail.

Upon returning from the mission, Roshi re-evaluated his path forward.

There were two well-known Sage regions in the shinobi world: Mount Myōboku’s Toad Sage Arts and Ryūchi Cave’s Snake Sage Arts.

The Toad method was patient and progressive—disciples coated themselves in the sacred Toad oil to awaken sensitivity to natural energy. Those who succeeded bore the toad-like eye markings and shadows of Sage Mode.

The snake method, by contrast, was brutal. The White Snake Sage forced natural energy directly into the body. Survive, and you succeed. Fail, and you die.

Different approaches, same essence—forcing the practitioner into direct contact with raw, untamed natural energy.

But Roshi wondered: were there other ways?

Yes. The God Tree.

The Ōtsutsuki planted it to drain planets dry, siphoning natural energy into a chakra fruit. One such tree had already risen in this world, its fruit harvested once before. If it could digest natural energy, then perhaps its echoes lingered still.

And then there was Wood Release. Hashirama Senju’s secret art could suppress even Tailed Beasts, absorbing chakra at its root. Roshi hypothesized that Hashirama, through his bloodline and Asura’s chakra, had instinctively mirrored the God Tree’s nature itself.

If so, then Roshi’s path wasn’t simply to master Wood Release jutsu. It was to pierce its core, to draw out the true essence of that bloodline power.

“Wood Release: Verdant Growth Jutsu!”

His voice was low, steady. The ground trembled.

From the soil, a tender sapling pushed upward, unfurling at a visible rate. Sunlight caught on its young bark, and leaves whispered as they stretched wide.

When the tree reached shoulder height, Roshi deliberately slowed his chakra flow, keeping only the faintest thread of connection.

“Keep growing,” he murmured.

He extended his senses, weaving invisible threads of perception into the sapling’s spiritual core.

The tree responded with startling vitality. Roots stabbed deep into the earth, spreading like a predator hunting prey. The soil swelled and churned.

More unsettling were the branches. Tender twigs hardened in the light, twisting unnaturally. They swayed, then froze—every one of them aimed directly at him.

The craving hit him like a wave. The tree was hungry, a raw, primal thirst for chakra.

A sharp sting raced across his skin. Sweat slid down his temple.

“Calm down…” he whispered, hands flashing into the Snake seal.

The branches halted an inch from his face, writhing with frustration.

Roshi pushed, redirecting the tree’s focus. Guiding. Urging it toward that unseen current. Toward Natural Energy.

And then—it shifted. Fury softened into confusion, and confusion gave way to something else.

The sapling caught it. That elusive, omnipresent force Roshi himself had failed to sense now pulsed faintly through its being.

Just as hope surged within him, the change came.

The tree shot upward again, trunk groaning, branches stretching—and then twisting into grotesque forms. Bark blackened with flowing, unnatural patterns.

Roshi stepped back instinctively.

From the roots upward, a pallid gray spread like wildfire. Death in purest form.

Wherever the color passed, life vanished. Bark, leaves, even the trembling tips of branches—all fossilized in moments.

In three heartbeats, the living sapling became a flawless stone sculpture.

Roshi stood frozen, chest heaving, forehead slick with sweat.

He had failed.
And this failure had been perilously close to killing him.

Wood Release constructs, even supported by his chakra, were fragile. They lacked the foundation to endure raw natural energy. Against its flood, they collapsed like sandcastles before the tide.

And yet, amidst ruin, there was discovery.

At the very instant the Wood Release brushed against Natural Energy, the air itself had rippled—small, subtle waves, like a pebble cast into still water.

That ripple was everything.

For the first time, Roshi, who could not naturally perceive Natural Energy, had brushed against its aura—faint, fleeting, but real.

In the quiet of the forest, he closed his eyes.
Replay the ripple. Memorize it. Feel it again.

This was the beginning.

[NNSS] Chapter : 09

More than fifty-four years had passed since Konoha’s founding. The Uchiha, Hyūga, Sarutobi, and the Ino–Shika–Chō clans—countless clans with secret arts—still kept their traditions and pride alive. Only the Senju were different: the name survived mostly as rumor, a memory carried by those who remembered Tsunade wandering the lands.

The Senju were not destroyed so much as they chose to dissolve themselves—by Hashirama’s will.

Senju Momoka remembered that moonless night as if it were carved into her bones. The air had been so heavy it felt like blood could be wrung from it. Candlelight threw monstrous, trembling shadows across the tatami; the whole room felt like a threshold between life and some other, bleached world.

Hashirama sat in the main seat. The familiar kindness in him was gone, replaced by a silence that pressed against the ribs. He still smelled faintly of blood and dust, but deeper than that was a weary sorrow, as if some part of his soul had been burned away. Momoka knew why—he had just ended Madara: friend, rival, the apocalypse folded closed by his own hand.

Tobirama stood to one side, silver hair catching the dim light like cold steel, his eyes sharp as knives. The night wind whispered through the crack of the door; the candle flame guttered, and shadows flickered like uneasy thoughts.

“After my elder brother steps down, I will take the mantle,” Tobirama spoke into the hush, calm but unflinching. “Madara is dead; we cannot avoid this. Yet the danger that follows is subtle.”

His gaze swept the assembly, finally finding Hashirama, then returned to the room with hard lines sharpening his words. “What difference will others see between a Konoha with the Senju perpetually at the head and the old ‘Senju clan’ itself? They will call Konoha ‘the Senju village.’ That suspicion will coil around our foundation like a poison vine. Other clans will lose heart; their will to build a shared future will rot away.”

The candle flared, casting Hashirama’s profile in alternating light and shadow. He lifted his head slowly; the eyes that had once been as green as a forest now seemed sifted with ash, emptied by a wildfire.

“What Tobirama says is true,” Hashirama said hoarsely. Each word seemed to cut and scar. “I killed Madara… for the Village. When ideologies clash, even the deepest friendship and the greatest power can only end in ruin.”

Pain threaded his voice—a grief that had strangled his closest friend—yet that very suffering had forged something else in him: a resolution as cold and inexorable as iron.

“We created this Village to end the endless slaughter between clans—to make sure children would not grow up in oceans of corpses like we did. This place must not remain the property of one clan. It must belong to everyone. It must carry everyone’s dreams. That is the path I have chosen.”

He drew a steady breath. “For the purity of this Village—so Konoha will not be seen as the Senju’s private holding, so no suspicion can rot its root, so every clan can truly call it home—”

Hashirama’s gaze fixed on Momoka. “For the Village, friends, brothers, and even… my own flesh and blood, if they threaten its future… may be sacrificed.”

The words fell like a tide of ice. Momoka felt an almost physical presence press through the room: not violence, but the absolute, unbending authority of a man who had paid the highest price and found the price still not enough. Resistance before such will was not merely foolish—it was inconceivable.

Hashirama spoke with the quiet finality of decision. He had chosen the village system as the only viable future, and he would accept whatever it required—including the fading of his clan’s name from prominence.

Tobirama continued without pause. “Therefore, we will dissolve the Clan.” His voice was methodical, clinical. “This generation may keep the name, but the next will not.”

He unrolled a thick scroll with deliberate care and read the terms aloud. “Those who choose to leave the clan and adopt a new name will receive compensation from the Clan’s assets. Money, secret jutsu scrolls, land, tools—everything will be distributed under detailed regulations. Enough resources will be provided so any departing member can secure a livelihood and pursue personal development far beyond what the clan system could have afforded them.”

The decree hung in the candlelit room: a formal unraveling of legacy, a promise of provision, and the end of a chapter written in blood and sacrifice.

The candlelight wavered, throwing shifting shadows across the room and painting the conflicted faces of those gathered.

Shock and anger had come first—but slowly, calculation replaced it. To abandon the proud name of Senju? It cut to the bone. Yet Hashirama’s words carried a weight no one could deny.

And then there was the compensation.

Scrolls of secret techniques once guarded with bloodshed, wealth that entire generations had sacrificed for—now offered freely. On top of that, with both Hashirama and Tobirama holding the mantle of Hokage in succession, who would dare lay a hand on those who shed their clan name?

The reality was inescapable. Without a unified will or a leader bold enough to resist, faced with immense benefits, the shelter of future Hokage, and Hashirama’s immovable conviction forged in blood and war, the will to fight dissolved like snow beneath the sun.

The younger members, especially, betrayed flickers of yearning in their eyes—longing to break free from the suffocating weight of tradition and taste a life unbound.

Momoka’s gaze drifted between the two brothers as the low hoot of an owl echoed through the night—like a requiem for the clan’s end.

The Senju chose the Village over the Clan, the dream of tomorrow over the glory of yesterday.

To erase suspicion of a “Senju Konoha.” To win genuine trust from the other clans. To let the idea of the Village sink its roots into soil watered by sacrifice. To achieve this, they willingly dismantled the banner that had once shone with unmatched glory.

Momoka bowed deeply. Resistance was not only useless—it was unwise.

The age of clans had ended. In the era of the Villages, shedding the Senju name might grant ordinary members more freedom, more chances, more life. Hashirama truly believed in this system. He had even cut down Madara for it.

And so, the Senju would not be diminished by losing their name—for the Hokage was Senju Hashirama, and after him Senju Tobirama. Techniques and resources once won by blood could now be acquired with ease. From one angle, it was an easier, safer, more prosperous path—the future Hashirama had envisioned for them within the great family of Konoha.

Thus the proud Senju Clan faded like a tide, merging into Konoha’s streets.

Some chose new surnames, scattering like seeds through the village. Others clung to their last shred of pride, keeping the Senju name but living quietly. Momoka belonged to the latter, as did Roshi’s ancestors.

Yet whether they changed their names or not, all blended into the background of Konoha, as countless had before them. The Senju brothers allowed it in silence, leaving the clan’s old residence in the hands of those last guardians—a faint consolation for history lost.

Now, only Momoka and Roshi lived there permanently. With time, their kin drifted away into assigned apartments or bustling districts, returning only during New Year or festivals—brief visits to remember old glory and share news.

Roshi’s father had grown up on Senju stories and stayed in the house even after starting his own family. But when both his parents fell in battle, it was Momoka who raised nine-year-old Roshi. She watched him graduate from the Academy at eleven, nearly die at fourteen on the Kumogakure front, and then be dragged back from the edge of death by the power of Hashirama’s cells.

Now, Roshi sat silently at her side, studying her profile as her thoughts wandered deep into memory. Only when she returned from that distant haze and gently motioned him away did he quietly rise, excusing himself and retreating to his room.

[NNSS] Chapter : 08

The dango in Koizumi Town couldn’t hold a candle to Konoha’s. Its texture was coarse, and the sweetness clung unpleasantly to the tongue. Roshi grimaced, finally giving in and ordering a bowl of ramen to rinse the taste away.

The ramen, at least, was worth the detour. Though not as legendary as Ichiraku’s, the broth was hearty thanks to the fertile pastures nearby, and the meat practically melted in his mouth. Only the noodles disappointed—lacking that springy bite.

Itachi, nibbling on his skewered dango, listened in silence as Roshi critiqued every detail. He didn’t need ramen to mask the sweetness. While Roshi ate with gusto, Itachi’s brush moved steadily over parchment, his small hand recording the mission report.

Their agreement was clear: Roshi carried the mission’s execution, and the split was sixty-forty in his favor. Writing the report was Itachi’s share of the work. Not that he minded. Even without the arrangement, shirking responsibility wasn’t in his nature.

But Roshi… Roshi wasn’t like the others. Itachi couldn’t quite define it—he didn’t even have a clear concept of “laid-back” yet—but his senpai radiated something different from the typical shinobi mold.

“Senpai.”

“Hm?” Roshi looked up from his bowl, a strand of broth glistening at the corner of his mouth.

“What is a Ninja… to you?”

“A job.” The answer came as naturally as breathing.

Itachi blinked. He had heard so many grand definitions—the blade of the village, the heir to a will, the foundation of peace. But never something so blunt.

“I like to eat, to enjoy life,” Roshi said, slurping another mouthful. “Being a ninja just pays the bills. That’s all.”

“And you, Itachi?”

“Me?” The boy froze. For him, there had never been a choice. His path had been set from birth. At four, he had stood on the battlefield beside his father. At six, he had graduated from the academy. As the Uchiha clan’s prodigy, he had never once asked why.

“A ninja is just a profession,” Roshi continued, setting down his chopsticks. His tone sharpened. “Strip that away—what are you? An Uchiha genius? A weapon molded by the village? What is it that you want?”

Itachi stared into the steam rising from his tea, the question sinking deep.

“You don’t need an answer yet,” Roshi added more gently. “One day, you’ll find it. Just remember: ‘Ninja’ may sound heavy, but at the end of the day, it’s just one role among countless others.”

Roshi suddenly grinned. “Want some ramen?”

“No, thank you, senpai.” Itachi shook his head, hair brushing against his cheek.

“It’s really good. Better than those sticky dumplings. You can’t fill your stomach with sugar alone.”

“I… still prefer not to,” Itachi replied steadily, though the faintest tremor laced his voice.

“Trust me,” Roshi said with mock gravity, “sweet things always taste better with something savory on the side.”

“Senpai.” Itachi’s gaze lifted, uncharacteristically firm. “Sweet dango is enough, with clear tea.”

It was the first time he had directly contradicted Roshi. The older ninja sighed theatrically, regret written on his face—yet his lips curved in quiet satisfaction. To his surprise, a tiny smile ghosted across Itachi’s own face, fragile and fleeting, like the first crack in frozen ice.

The Land of Rivers wasted no time confirming the bandits’ extermination, broadcasting the news far and wide. Roshi and Itachi returned to Konoha soon after.

Submitting the mission report at the Hokage Building was routine. The real work lay in delivering the rogue Sunagakure Ninja’s head to Intelligence. The reward would depend on what could be extracted—if Shinmi’s information proved useful, perhaps an extra 150,000 ryō; if not, closer to 100,000.

As for Shinmi’s sealing scroll, since recovering stolen goods wasn’t part of the Land of Rivers’ commission, the spoils naturally belonged to Konoha. Roshi left it with the Village’s sealing experts, confident it would yield something valuable.

“Of course,” said Torii, the chunin overseeing registration at the Hokage Building, nodding briskly. “If the items within the scroll contain secrets tied to other villages, Konoha will keep a portion for storage or research and provide compensation equal to its worth. Given that, the Village won’t charge an additional fee for the unsealing.”

“Thank you for your trouble. How long will it take?”

“Return in three days. By then, the Intelligence Division should have finished combing through the head.”

With the formalities concluded, dusk was already settling in. Itachi parted ways with Roshi. On missions, living rough was routine, but once back in the Village, he was still just an eight-year-old child—dinner at home awaited him.

Roshi lingered, watching Itachi’s small frame vanish around the street corner before turning his steps westward, toward the outskirts. His destination was an old mansion, standing for more than fifty years, spared during the Nine-Tails’ assault three years ago only because it lay far from the village center.

Cherry blossoms flanked both sides of the estate, their nearly spent petals drifting in the wind. A few alighted briefly on Roshi’s shoulders before slipping away in silence.

“I’m home, Grandma Momoka.”

In the courtyard sat an elderly woman in a deep brown kimono, her silver-white hair carefully combed. At his voice, she didn’t look up—only inclined her head slightly.

“Your body—no problems?”

“None. I can control this power now.” Roshi lifted his palm. Emerald light unfurled in his hand, coaxing a sprout that grew rapidly before their eyes.

Once, Roshi had been beyond saving, his body collapsing despite Konoha’s finest medical-nin. It was Grandma Momoka who had taken him from the hospital, gambling on a forbidden hope: Hashirama’s cells.

The worst outcome, she had thought, was death.

In the twilight of her seventies, she had carried out that crude procedure herself here in this old mansion—injecting the cells, binding them with a suppressive jutsu, and leaving the rest to fate.

Roshi’s body still remembered.

The sensation of a dam bursting, power flooding uncontrollably.

Cells like ravenous beasts, clawing through his flesh, devouring him alive.

Roots splitting organs apart, branches threatening to tear through skin.

Thousands of red-hot needles stabbing every inch of flesh, bones grinding and reshaping, blood seething in his veins.

It had been pain beyond the limits of language. Even now, the memory left a dull ache deep inside him.

“That Uchiha—the so-called genius. What do you make of him?” Grandma Momoka’s tone was flat, almost casual.

“Just a child.” Roshi closed his hand, extinguishing the green light and the sprout along with it. His answer was calm, unflinching.

Her lips twitched—an almost invisible ripple, like wind skimming water—and then she fell silent. Only the hush of falling blossoms stirred the courtyard.

At length, she rose, her movements dignified yet faintly frail with age.

“If your body holds steady…” Her gaze swept past Roshi, settling on the drifting petals. Her eyes seemed to pierce beyond the present, into the dust of time itself. “Then live well, Roshi.”

A breeze passed, scattering withered blossoms. Her voice deepened, steeped in long-buried fatigue and sorrow.

“Our clan has given too much to Konoha.”

She paused, eyes still on the ground carpeted with fading petals. Her words were almost a sigh, yet carried the gravity of years:

“We gave up our lives. We gave up our hatred. And in the end, we couldn’t even keep our ancestors’ name… Lord Hashirama, Lord Tobirama… For the Village, what remains of us?”

Her whispers trailed off, thinning into the twilight. They dissolved into the silence of the courtyard, leaving behind only the rustle of blossoms—soft, melancholy reminders of a glory long gone, and a decay quietly taking its place.

[NNSS] Chapter : 07

The instant Shinmi unleashed the wind release jutsu, the ground beneath his feet gave way.

A mud-slicked hand shot up from the earth, clamping around his ankle like an iron vise.

“Damn it—!”

His pupils shrank as a powerful force dragged him downward. The soil swallowed him whole like a living creature, until only his head remained exposed above the surface.

He stared in disbelief as the “Roshi” riddled with poisoned senbon dissolved into a puff of white smoke, dissipating into the morning air.

Earth Release: Headhunter Jutsu.
And… a Shadow Clone.

Jōnin?!

Shinmi writhed furiously, but the mud crushed tighter around him. Then pain erupted in his abdomen, sharp and merciless.

“Ugh—!” His face twisted in agony.

Wooden spikes had pierced his organs, sprouting violently from within. Veins bulged with invasive fibers, spreading through his bloodstream, stabbing into flesh with every heartbeat. From the wounds, more branches grew, shredding him from the inside.

“Cough—!”

Blood sprayed from his lips, dripping onto the mud. Crimson welled from his nose, ears, and eyes, soaking his chin before spattering the earth.

“Puppet jutsu… poisoned senbon… Sunagakure’s style.”

Roshi stepped into view, looming above him. His gaze was steady, unreadable. “So, a rogue ninja?”

He crouched slightly, his tone flat and precise. “The villagers only found a fraction, didn’t they? Where’s the rest hidden? Not on your person…” His eyes narrowed. “Do you have any last words? A reason for defecting? It would help the report.”

His voice remained calm, almost bored. “If not, I’ll just make one up.”

Shinmi’s eyeballs bulged, bloodshot veins spiderwebbing across them as the wood tore him apart inside. He forced his mouth open, only to spit up bloody foam. A rasping, broken voice squeezed from his throat.

“Too… too… tiring… can’t… see… hope…”

Sandstorms… each year worse than the last.
Missions growing fewer.
The Daimyō cutting the military budget again.
War… endless, thankless war.

And yet—weak, ordinary merchants lived safer, more prosperous lives than shinobi who bled for their nations. Why? Why did the powerful toil, suffer, and die, while the powerless enjoyed peace?

He couldn’t stand it.

He had fled during the chaos of the Third Great Ninja War, lying low until Anbu confirmed his “death.” He built carefully: recruiting men, targeting weak points, stockpiling wealth. All to buy freedom. All to one day retire quietly.

The plan had been flawless.
He would discard the restless followers when the time came.
He would silence the villagers if needed.

A villa in the Land of Tea… he could see it even now. White walls, red roof. Camellias in the sea breeze. Waking each day to warm sunlight.

Now… everything crumbled.

His breath came ragged. His blurred vision fixed on Roshi, who stood like a black silhouette against the pale morning light.

A flash of steel.

Shinmi’s head tumbled to the ground.

Roshi retrieved a sealing scroll from his chest, unrolled it, and placed the severed head upon it. His hands blurred through seals. Light shimmered, and the head vanished, leaving only a pattern of fading runes.

Protocol. When encountering a foreign rogue shinobi, the head must be sealed and returned. Intelligence could sift through it for secrets. Perhaps there would be a bonus. At worst, a standard bounty.

As the glow faded, footsteps echoed at the gate.

Itachi emerged, his young face calm.

“Settled?”

“Yeah.” Roshi rose, dusting off his hands.

“As you instructed, I finished negotiations with Kisuke and the elders. I made it clear: Konoha will keep silent about what happened here. Officially, the bandits were annihilated by you and me.”

He produced a small cloth pouch. “They turned over valuables as compensation. I accepted them on your behalf.”

Roshi tucked the pouch away. “Good. Sweep the stronghold. See if this Sunagakure rogue left anything worth taking.”

He glanced at the corpses scattered across the ground. “As for the cleanup—leave it to the villagers.”

Originally, the bodies were meant to serve as proof of the mission’s success for the Land of Rivers.

Now, that was no longer necessary.

The severed head of a Sunagakure rogue-nin was more than enough.

Konoha’s intelligence division would identify him as the mastermind, and the mission’s completion was beyond dispute. What began as a mere C-rank assignment had escalated far beyond expectations—the death of a trained shinobi was proof of that.

Itachi walked toward the scattered remains of the dismantled puppets, careful not to approach the main body directly. His hands flashed through seals, summoning a shadow clone.

The clone advanced cautiously, extending one finger to the wooden frame. The moment it brushed the surface, the wood shimmered faintly, blooming into a bluish-purple stain.

Poison.

Not strong enough to dispel the clone outright, but dangerous all the same. Itachi willed his duplicate forward, speeding up its movements. Carefully, it pried open the puppet’s chest cavity and retrieved a sealed scroll hidden inside.

The scroll itself was clean.

Even so, Itachi had the clone unroll it and test for traps before allowing his real body to step closer. Only when he was sure it was safe did he examine it with his own hands.

“Senpai, it’s a sealing scroll,” Itachi reported quietly. “Blood-sealing type.”

Roshi’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “Then the rest of the valuables should be inside.”

He wasn’t versed in unsealing techniques. That would have to wait until their return to the village. For now, he pulled out a small specialized tube, collecting a sample of Shinmi’s blood and sealing it carefully.

Blood was the key.

Chakra was a fusion of physical and spiritual energy. Once refined, traces of it remained in a shinobi’s very cells. That’s why blood could be used as a summoning medium—or, in this case, to break the blood-seals created by its owner. So long as the blood still retained vitality, a sealing expert could unlock it.

Roshi tucked the scroll into his tool pouch, then swept the stockade one final time. Satisfied that nothing was left behind, he dusted off his hands and turned to the boy beside him, a rare, easy smile spreading across his face.

“That’s basically it. The mission's wrapped up. All that’s left is filing the report.”

Itachi stood quietly, his face as unreadable as still water.

Roshi blinked, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something. “Oh, right. Before we head back, want to stop by Koizumi Town?”

“…Visit?”

The eight-year-old tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in faint puzzlement.

“The mission’s done,” Roshi said with a grin, patting Itachi lightly on the shoulder. “Can’t just go home without winding down a bit.”

“Yes, Senpai,” Itachi replied evenly.

Roshi crouched until their eyes were level, his voice firm but gentle. “This isn’t an order. So don’t give me a soldier’s answer. Just tell me if you want to go or not.”

The boy was silent. The morning wind stirred the air, carrying both the metallic tang of blood and the fresh scent of grass and soil. His gaze drifted past the broken fence, following the faint outline of the trade route winding down the mountain.

“…Dango?” he asked at last, almost a whisper.

Roshi’s grin widened. “Excellent idea.”

He rose, stretching lazily as the first sunlight traced the edge of his silhouette. “Then let’s head down to Koizumi Town and try their dango. And while we’re at it, we’ll bring back some local specialties too.”

[NNSS] Chapter : 06

Deep within the stronghold, Shinmi sat perched on a smooth stone. At first glance, he seemed utterly ordinary—average height, plain coarse clothes, a face that would vanish in a crowd. Yet when his eyes met Kisuke’s, a fleeting glimmer betrayed the danger lurking beneath the surface.

“The Daimyō’s palace has sent men again,” Kisuke said, his voice dry, gaze fixed on Shinmi. “You all… had better go into hiding.”

Koichiro and several young men muttered in protest, defiant. “What’s there to be afraid of?” But Shinmi, to everyone’s surprise, simply nodded, his manner sincere. “You’re right. We should hide.” He even bowed slightly.

The tightness in Kisuke’s shoulders eased the faintest bit. “It’s not easy out there. Tonight… eat and drink your fill before you go.” He gestured for the men behind him to set down their burdens.

“Much appreciated…” Shinmi’s smile deepened, faint lines creasing the corners of his eyes. “Koichiro, tell everyone. Eat well, rest, and we’ll leave at dawn.”

The stronghold quickly filled with noise and cheer.

Though many grumbled at the thought of fleeing again, Shinmi’s calm words soothed them easily.

During the feast, Kisuke and his men were unusually warm, urging the bandits to drink more, eat more, over and over reminding them to be cautious on the road.

After several rounds, Koichiro's and the others’ faces flushed red, their eyes hazy and unfocused. Shinmi drank deeply too, yet his gaze remained sharp, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Kisuke watched him, heart sinking. Something cold coiled beneath that smile.

Night deepened. A pale moon hung in the treetops. Only when the stronghold echoed with the steady rise and fall of snores did Kisuke slowly stand. He waved toward the shadows.

A faint rustle, like a snake gliding across fallen leaves, rose from the trees.

Led by Sōsuke, villagers emerged from the dark, farm tools honed into weapons clenched in their fists.

Some faces wavered with hesitation—until the first scream tore the silence apart. After that, expressions hardened, and numb determination took its place.

“They chose this path themselves,” Sōsuke said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it pierced the night like an ice pick.

“Robbing merchant caravans, dragging our village into the fire.” His sharp gaze swept the crowd. “Think of your empty rice jars. Think of the unsold goods in your homes.”

Sōsuke’s words cut through the chaos. “When the small caravans are gone, do you think they’ll stop? No—they’ll turn on the very merchants who trade with us.”

“Once people taste easy profit, they never turn back.”

“This is their retribution for trusting an outsider’s poison!” His last words hissed through clenched teeth.

Under moonlight, dark red dripped from sickles and pitchforks, spattering the mud with dull thuds.

The elder strode to Shinmi’s body, driving a pitchfork through it several times before straightening. “Gather your things.”

He didn’t spare Kisuke, pale and trembling, even a glance.

There wasn’t much wealth in the stronghold. Sōsuke divided the meager loot among those who fought, bundling the rest.

“These, along with…” his hand pointed at the corpses littering the ground, “…take them to report, Kisuke. Tell those ninja this is all that’s left. Say the rest was squandered by the bandits long ago.”

“Yes… yes,” Kisuke’s voice shook violently.

“This matter ends here,” the elder’s eyes cut across each villager like a blade. “No one speaks of it again. The story is simple—the bandits were wiped out by Konoha’s Ninja.” Only when every head bobbed stiffly did he look away.

The Shirakawa villagers, burdened with their pitiful “spoils of war,” vanished into the darkness before dawn, leaving behind silence and the stench of blood.

When the horizon began to pale, a corpse twitched.

Shinmi slowly sat up, brushing dried blood from his clothes. He gazed east, lips curving in a playful smile.

“I meant to keep them a while longer…” he muttered with mockery in his tone. “Now it’s less trouble.”

His eyes swept over the villagers’ bodies, once so loyal to him. His smile widened. “At last, I can live peacefully in the Land of Tea.”

“You're a ninja, huh?”

The cold, clear voice shattered the silence.

Shinmi froze, snapping his head up.

A young man stood atop the ruined palisade, dark-green attire blending with the dawn shadows, forehead protector glinting faintly.

He descended lightly, as if carried on the wind.

Shinmi’s pupils shrank. He stepped back, muscles coiled tight, eyes fixed on the symbol gleaming on the stranger’s brow—Konoha.

“A band of ordinary villagers, able to slip past the Land of Rivers into the Land of Fire, and even into the Land of Rain… there’s no doubt someone’s guiding them." Roshi’s voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed like probing needles.

Shinmi’s throat bobbed, but his tone stayed steady. “A gang of petty thieves, nothing more. At best, a C-rank mission. Fewer than twenty of them. The Land of Rivers wouldn’t pay more than fifty thousand ryō.” His gaze lingered on Roshi’s hands, wary of forming seals.

“This sum,” Shinmi continued, subtly steadying his breathing, “isn’t worth two shinobi risking their lives. I didn’t act directly, and my name’s not on the Land of Rivers’ wanted list. If you report truthfully and let me go, the mission still counts as complete.” He spread his hands, a gesture of harmlessness. “Why gamble with your lives for pocket change? A shinobi battle is far too unpredictable.”

Roshi’s fingers brushed his tool pouch. “You seem to know the market well. Kept the scale small, just enough to avoid raising the bounty high enough to spark a shinobi conflict?”

A faint smile tugged at Shinmi’s lips. “The corpses at your feet will be proof enough for your report.”

“In theory, yes.” Roshi inclined his head. “But the Land of Rivers posted the request to Konoha, Sunagakure, and Amegakure. To calculate so precisely… Sunagakure’s work? Or perhaps Amegakure?” His gaze narrowed. “So careful. I’d say you’re—”

Before the words finished, one of the “corpses” behind Roshi burst upright with a violent crack, splinters of wood flying. A cold, humanoid puppet emerged, joints grinding as its jaw clattered open. Dozens of senbon, glowing faintly blue, shot forth!

Roshi spun with lightning reflexes, countering instantly—

But Shinmi’s hands blurred the moment his focus shifted.

His wide sleeves snapped open like a viper’s hood, and hundreds of poisoned needles fanned into the air.

At the same time, Shinmi’s chest swelled, the surrounding air sucked inward—

“Wind Release: Great Breakthrough!”

A roaring gale exploded from his mouth, sweeping the cloud of senbon into a deadly storm. The wind drove the projectiles with terrifying speed and force, weaving a whistling net of death across Roshi’s back.

“Puff, puff, puff—”

The sickening rhythm of metal punching into flesh echoed like rain striking broad leaves.

Roshi convulsed, blood blossoming in countless tiny bursts across his body—eyes, cheeks, neck, chest, limbs. The venom spread in dark veins from every wound. He staggered, then collapsed face-first into the mud, still.

Shirakawa Village lay cloaked in the grey mist of dawn. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and leaves, undercut by a faint metallic tang.

At the gate, Itachi stood silently, watching the villagers file in with small bundles on their backs. Their faces carried no grief—only exhaustion and a hollow numbness.

Kisuke walked last, his steps faltering as though each one might bring him to collapse.

The sight of Itachi was like a stone dropped into stagnant water. The line of villagers froze, all eyes shifting to the small shinobi standing before them.

Sōsuke pushed forward, his bark-like face hardened by years, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s.

“Ninja-sama of Konoha,” the elder rasped. “The bandits have been cleared. There isn’t much left—just this.” He pointed to the bundles. “The Village Head will explain.”

Itachi’s gaze swept over them—farm tools, rough clothes, all smeared with dark stains. His black eyes returned to Sōsuke, calm and unwavering, voice cutting through the mist:

“Roshi-senpai asked me to deliver his message.”

Silence fell so deep that even breath seemed to still.

“First—Konoha knows everything that happened in the stronghold last night.”

The words struck like ice water. Several villagers swayed unsteadily.

Kisuke’s head jerked up, horror etched in his face.

Sōsuke’s expression darkened, the veins on his cane hand bulging.

“Second,” Itachi continued, voice flat, “outwardly you will give one story only: the bandits were tracked and destroyed by Roshi and myself, Uchiha Itachi. The villagers of Shirakawa merely provided assistance.”

He paused, locking eyes with the elder. “Third, cleansing your own house is your internal matter. Konoha will neither judge nor interfere. On the condition that it ends here. No further incidents. No harm to trade routes. No breach of the client’s trust.”

Sōsuke’s chest heaved, his gaze burning into the boy before him. After a long silence, he ground out a single word: “…Understood.” His voice rasped like sandpaper.

Itachi gave a small nod. He spoke no further, simply turned, and melted back into the fading mist. His small silhouette vanished toward the stronghold.

Only when he was gone did whispers erupt—fear, unease, dread curling like mist around the villagers.

Sōsuke slammed his cane down, voice cracking like a whip. “Enough! Do exactly as the Ninja-sama commanded! Finish cleaning up, get to your work! And remember—if any man, woman, or child speaks one word of today’s events—”

His bloodshot eyes swept over them, the unspoken threat freezing their tongues. Not even cicadas in winter could have been quieter.

Kisuke glanced at Sōsuke, lips trembling, but no words came. His back hunched lower still, as if crushed under the weight of it all.

[NNSS] Chapter : 05

Roshi and Itachi's silhouettes receded along the trade road. From the shadows, one watchful gaze finally withdrew; a figure darted back toward the village, while several others slinked after Roshi's departing Shadow Clone, trailing it toward Koizumi Town.

Beneath the broad shadow of a zelkova tree was Roshi with Itachi at his side. They watched in silence as the pursuers vanished into the distance. Itachi's eyes lingered, dark and unreadable, until the last hint of movement dissolved into the night.

Inside the village chief's residence, the oil lamp burned brighter than usual, casting restless light across the room. Several of the village's elders had gathered, their faces drawn tight, the air so heavy with unease it pressed against the lungs.

"I told you from the start we should have reported this!" A hoarse, angry voice broke the silence. The speaker's hands trembled with contained fury. "When those boys crept back in, I knew it would end like this!"

At first, no one in the village had known what their youths were doing after leaving home. But when news spread of bandits being hunted in the Land of Rivers—at the same time a dozen young men from Shirakawa went missing—the pieces began to align. And when those missing youths reappeared, so too did the raids. It didn't take much for the village leaders to connect the dots to an ugly truth.

Opposite the speaker, a middle-aged man adjusted his round-rimmed spectacles, the lamplight glinting coldly off the glass. "When the pursuit team questioned us, we swore ignorance. And now you want us to change our story? What will the authorities think?" His tone was soft, but every word cut clear. "Life is hard, yes, but still manageable. If the outside world learns Shirakawa harbors bandits, the village will collapse."

"Easy for you to say!" A scar-faced brute slammed a calloused palm on the low table, rattling the teacups. His bloodshot eyes burned. "Your warehouse is bare! Mine still holds half a year's grain, and it's rotting by the day! If this keeps up, the whole village will starve!"

From the head seat, Kisuke spoke at last. His dry voice rasped as though it had been wrung from the depths of his chest. "Those two ninja… already know."

The room froze. Silence deepened like a pit.

"Bang!" Shirakawa Sōsuke—an elder with a hawk's gaze and a mane of white hair—struck the table, sending water sloshing from the cups. His voice bore the weight of command, sharp and heavy. "Kisuke! We can't waver any longer. Those aren't peddlers—they're ninja on a mission." His skeletal fingers clenched the table edge. "Where are they now?"

Kisuke's lips quivered. "I… I sent word to Koichiro. To have them followed…" His voice faltered; his gnarled hands twisted the fabric of his robe. "That child… he was only led astray by outsiders. He was a good boy once…"

"Enough!" the scar-faced man barked, voice grinding like stone. "Koichiro's hands are soaked in blood! He's no child anymore! Chief—if you protect him now, you'll doom us all!"

Sōsuke rose slowly. His hunched frame stretched into a looming shadow that swallowed Kisuke beneath the lamplight. His voice rumbled, low and cold, like distant thunder. "This is no longer about a few outsiders dying. Once ninjas are involved, there must be resolution."

"…We can't hand them over," the man with glasses murmured after a long silence, his words taut as a drawn bowstring. "And we cannot—must not—let the world know Shirakawa's sons became bandits."

"Then what do you propose?!" The scar-faced elder snarled, eyes flashing with animal ferocity.

Sōsuke closed his eyes, the deep lines of his face cut deeper by the flame's trembling glow. "Since the Warring Clans era ended, this trade road has been our lifeline. Only in recent years have we lived decent lives. If Shirakawa's name is stained, the caravans will vanish, and every household here will fall with them." His eyes reopened, icy and resolute. "Our reputation is survival itself. Kisuke—you must cooperate."

"Brother, but—"

"No buts!"

The old chief's faint protests were devoured by the hiss of the lamp's wick until only heavy, suffocating sighs remained.

Moments later, when the watcher outside confirmed the ninjas had indeed left Shirakawa's borders, the tension in the room snapped like a bowstring. No more words were spoken. The elders dispersed swiftly, their shadows slipping into the night, carrying with them the village's secrets.

Soon after, on the threshing ground, more than forty young men gathered beneath the cold moonlight. In their hands were no longer hoes and rakes, but weapons that glinted with killing intent—sickles honed to razors, pitchforks sharpened into spears, hunters' bows drawn taut. Faces once familiar and warm were now drawn tight, their expressions shadowed by resolve.

At the head stood Sōsuke, his mane of white hair ghostly under the moon, with Kisuke beside him. Behind them, several villagers carried heavy loads of wine and meat. The moon stretched the procession into long, wavering shadows, each blade-tip casting distorted shapes across the earth. No words were spoken—only ragged breathing and the soft clink of iron filled the night air.

This was no era of peace. Barely fifty years had passed since the end of the Warring Clans era, when not only ninja but farmers and hunters alike had been dragged into bloodshed. Sōsuke was one of the few who had crawled out alive from that mountain of corpses. He still remembered how to lead men to slaughter. Under his command, the line of villagers wound into the forest like a silent serpent, gliding toward the mountain's dark heart.

"Did you foresee this, Senpai?" Itachi's young voice broke the stillness from the trees above the road. His dark eyes reflected the moving column below.

Leaning against the trunk, Roshi shook his head slowly. The shadows carved hard lines across his face.

"I considered many possibilities. They might confess and beg us to keep their secret. One of them could tip us off out of conscience. Or perhaps they'd collapse into infighting…" His gaze followed the cold gleam of sickles below. "But this? I didn't anticipate this."

Those blades were held by neighbors, by uncles he'd once greeted with casual warmth. "For the sake of their reputation, for their livelihoods, they've chosen to bloody their own hands."

An uneasy weight tightened in his chest. Were the villagers reckless fools—or had he been the fool, blind to the truth of this world?

"It is also the correct choice," Itachi said, his voice steady, far too calm for a boy of eight. His eyes remained fixed on the column of villagers. "By destroying the rot with their own hands, they make atonement. And they preserve the village's foundation."

Roshi turned, studying the boy's profile—the face still soft with youth, yet the eyes already fathomless, black as a midnight pond.

Perhaps it was true. His own understanding of this world was far too naïve. He turned away again, gaze sinking into the jagged ridges of the mountain, their outlines cut sharp by moonlight.

Halfway up, hidden in a natural hollow, lay the bandits' refuge: a crude stockade of wooden fences, its entrance guarded by only two men beside a bonfire. When they saw Kisuke leading a small group up the mountain path, their faces lit with familiar ease.

"Chief! You came all the way yourself? And with so many gifts!"

One of them stepped forward, smiling brightly. Koichiro. His face was full of vigor, still boyishly handsome. He reached to take the carrying pole from Kisuke's shoulders, as though welcoming an elder relative.

Kisuke froze, his steps suddenly heavy. Under the flickering firelight, his smile twisted stiffly across a face creased by age and fatigue. "Koichiro… Down in the Village, people are investigating again. It's a commotion. You truly don't plan to leave and lay low?"

"Oh, Chief, we already promised you!" Koichiro waved dismissively, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. "We're careful! We only rob foreign profiteers. Never the traders who deal with Shirakawa! Those greedy merchants deserve to be bled dry. You can rest easy!"

His eyes flicked to the bundles, where jars of wine and slabs of meat peeked through. His grin widened, boyish delight sparkling across his face. "You even brought so many good things for us! Wait—I'll call Brother Shinmi! He was just grumbling the wine wasn't strong enough!"

Kisuke's facial muscles twitched uncontrollably.

That outsider. That smooth-tongued parasite who had fed Koichiro dreams of an "easy life." Shinmi—the man who had twisted a hardworking, sensible boy into this reckless bandit.

Grief, rage, and despair crashed over Kisuke, threatening to break his frail body.

Because he knew—here, under this merciless moon—what had begun could no longer be undone.

[NNSS] Chapter : 04

The halo of the oil lamp flickered in Itachi's eyes, yet no answer came to his lips.

The Uchiha had a way of doing things—fixed, absolute. Genjutsu to control, force to suppress, storm the target, and seize evidence later. Simple. Direct. Whether innocents were harmed or conflict escalated had never mattered. The weak did not deserve the clan's explanation, and the strong would never ask for it. Such was the Uchiha's creed—such was the cruel logic of the shinobi world.

In the mission system, the scale reflected this divide. Missions involving only civilians rarely rose above C-rank, the rewards capped at a hundred thousand ryō. But the moment shinobi entered the equation, the mission became B-rank at minimum—rewards starting at eighty thousand, with no ceiling.

Yet Itachi had never accepted this. Every time he thought of the arrogance etched into his clansmen's bones, a quiet nausea stirred in him. He loathed the Uchiha's methods—and even more, the curse of power born from grief. To glorify strength bought with loss, to parade suffering as "the Uchiha's pride"… that suffocated him.

The wavering lamplight dragged him back to the memory he hated most: the day he awakened his Sharingan, staring at the still bodies of his teammates. And his father's words, cool and approving—"You are indeed my son."
In that instant, his heart had plunged into ice.

'I didn't walk this path for the sake of these eyes.' The thought had echoed inside him ever since, though he had never voiced it. Now, faced with Roshi-senpai's calm question, the emotions he had buried began to swell.

He lifted his gaze. In the shifting glow, the faint outline of the double tomoe shimmered in his eyes.
"...Forgive me, Senpai," his voice was low. "I don't have an answer."

"Then," Roshi said simply, "we'll proceed my way."

The following morning, before the mist had burned off, Roshi led Itachi down the damp stone paths of Shirakawa. Dew clung to their sandals, leaving dark prints on the bluestone. Cooking smoke rose lazily from the houses, but the tension in the air was thicker than fog.

They went door to door. The villagers' guarded faces were like closed shutters. Even polite questions were met with vague replies, and more than one family, noting the shinobi were only boys—one fourteen, the other eight—shut their doors outright without pretense.

Roshi's expression never wavered.

He shifted the rhythm, beginning with harmless chatter: "The harvest looks good this year." … "The inn seems quieter than before." Small talk, nothing more—but each word pried, little by little, at the villagers' silence.

Itachi stood by, silent but sharp-eyed. If Roshi was the hand that knocked, Itachi was the hawk that saw everything. Shifting gazes, hesitations in tone, the tightening of knuckles—he noted them all with precision, recording each with a credibility mark in his small notebook.

By sunset, the sky awash with orange, they stood beneath the old sophora tree at the village gate. Itachi opened his notebook and spoke in a calm, steady voice that belied his age:

"Thirty-seven villagers are habitually away. Fifteen stay in regular contact. Six more are sporadic, but with stable work elsewhere—those accounts match. The remaining sixteen…" his eyes narrowed, "their whereabouts are unclear. The villagers' claims are vague, often contradictory."

Roshi gazed at the rooftops fading into twilight. "Not all of them are bandits. Some left for livelihood, some for adventure. But…" he smiled faintly, "the chief's reaction last night told me enough. He knows."

Itachi snapped the notebook shut. "Another pattern—the number of traveling merchants dropped sharply after the bandit raids. The inn owner reported nearly thirty percent less income, and villagers complain of stockpiled goods. Trade has slowed. They're suffering for it."

Roshi's lips curved into a knowing smile.

If Shirakawa had been a barren village, only ruthless methods would have worked. But this place had tasted prosperity before—it had known the sweetness of trade routes. And for those who had once climbed high, even a fall halfway down was bitter enough to wound.

Which meant the timing was perfect. Where force alone might fail, cooperation could be bought. And bringing an eight-year-old partner left a window to resolve things with finesse rather than blood.

So the two turned back toward the chief's courtyard.

This time, Roshi's presence was colder than the night before.

"Village Chief Shirakawa." Roshi laid the neatly organized investigation scroll on the table with deliberate calm. His voice was steady, almost gentle. "Now… do you have anything you wish to tell me?"

The old man's Adam's apple moved with effort. His withered fingers curled into the fabric of his robe as though clinging to it for strength. "I….I not understand what you mean, sir…"

Roshi circled around the table, his footsteps unhurried, until he stood before the Village Chief. The last strands of sunset cut across the room, casting his shadow long and sharp on the floor. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering.

"Shirakawa Kisuke," his words dropped like stones into still water, "you know very well we could have chosen a much simpler—much harsher—solution."

The air in the room thickened. Even breathing became a careful, stifled act.

"Every line recorded in this scroll represents the restraint and respect we've shown your Village." Roshi's voice was calm, almost too calm, the depth of a still pond hiding unseen currents. "True, you can argue this isn't decisive evidence. But evidence… is rarely what decides matters. People believe what they want to believe. And if I were to submit this report to the Land of Rivers, letting word spread that Shirakawa not only breeds bandits but also shelters them—what do you think would happen?"

"Ninja-sama!" Panic cracked through the old man's voice as he lifted his clouded eyes, desperation flashing within. "Please—please, I beg of you, do not! Our Village would never—"

"Yesterday," Roshi interrupted, straightening with composed ease, "I already made things clear. Our goals can align. We want the mission completed, the trade routes secured, the threat removed. You want peace, the return of the caravans, your warehouses cleared of unsold goods."

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his eyes drifting toward the deepening twilight outside the window. "As for minor details—such as where these bandits truly came from—that lies far beyond the scope of a C-rank mission. My time is limited, Village Chief. If you insist on wasting goodwill…"

The unfinished words lingered in the silence, heavier than any threat. Roshi lifted a hand, almost kindly, and patted the old man's trembling shoulder before turning away.

"At your age, you should know better than to protect the wrong things, Village Chief Shirakawa."

Sliding open the paper door, he let in the evening wind—carrying with it the mingled scents of grass, smoke, and simmering meals. "Let's go, Itachi. There's nothing worth eating here. Tonight, we'll dine in Koizumi Town."

"Yes, Senpai." Itachi's quiet reply followed. He cast one last glance at the Village Chief, frozen in place, his back bent further under invisible weight—aged another ten years in a single moment.

The sound of wooden clogs echoed on the stone path, fading step by step until the village road swallowed them whole. Alone in the dim room, Shirakawa Kisuke slowly closed his eyes. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp's flame remained, devouring what little warmth was left.

[NNSS] Chapter : 03

Shirakawa Village, nestled along the trade route, lay quietly in the deepening twilight. Neat wooden fences encircled the settlement, and its heavy gate stood wide open.

A handful of villagers lounged on stone stools near the entrance, chatting idly. At first, they hardly noticed the approaching figures—but once their eyes fell upon the Konoha headbands and shinobi garb, their casual expressions hardened into seriousness.

The man in front quickly rose and bowed deeply.
"Honored sirs, you grace our village. How may we be of service?"

Roshi's gaze swept across the group, calm yet firm. From within his Chunin flak jacket, he produced a scroll and unrolled it with deliberate slowness.
"Konoha shinobi," he announced, voice low but carrying the weight of authority, "dispatched under the order of the Daimyo of the Land of Rivers."

The villagers stiffened instantly. Eyes flickered between one another, and the leader stepped aside without another word.

Itachi, standing silently at Roshi's side, noticed the change. Roshi's manner here was utterly different from the relaxed tone he had shown back in Koizumi Town's restaurant. Here, every syllable, every gesture radiated control. Matching his senpai's composure, Itachi remained quiet, sharp eyes observing everything.

"Where is the village chief?" Roshi asked.

"He… he's at home," one villager stammered, hastily pointing the way.

The two shinobi entered the village. Though night had only just fallen, Shirakawa was already lit with scattered lamps. The warm glow from paper windows outlined tidy homes, giving the place an air of carefully preserved comfort.

At the village center, one building stood out: a grand inn with elegant eaves and ornate brackets, clearly built with pride. Yet its porch was eerily empty, a stark contrast to the lively lights flickering from the other homes.

As they walked, Itachi felt the weight of hidden eyes peering from behind shutters and fences. Outwardly calm, inwardly vigilant, he kept his senses sharp. Roshi, however, strode steadily forward, unbothered, heading straight for the chief's home.

An old man awaited them at the doorway, framed by the glow of a lantern. His back was slightly stooped, hair white with age, but he stepped forward quickly and bowed, ushering them inside with practiced respect.

The hall was plain but tidy. Once all were seated, the old man spoke in a careful tone, his calloused hands unconsciously twisting together.

"I am Shirakawa Kisuke, chief of the village. May I ask what matter brings you two here?"

Roshi leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with the faintest trace of a humorless smile.
"I imagine the chief already has some suspicion. Bandits have been troubling the trade route nearby. Surely your village is not unfamiliar with them."

"This… this…" Kisuke's forehead glistened with sweat under the oil lamp. "Officials have indeed inquired before, but I truly…"

"Oh?" Roshi's fingertip tapped the table, producing a crisp, deliberate sound that cut the air.
"Then I'll rephrase. Are all the registered villagers of Shirakawa present within the village?"

"I—" Kisuke began.

"Senpai." Itachi's clear, youthful voice interjected smoothly, shattering the silence. "When we entered, I noticed several houses with windows unlit—as if no one lived there."

For the briefest instant, the old man's shoulders tensed. He quickly forced a reply.
"Some families… left to make a living outside."

Roshi's eyes drifted across the room, noting the sturdy, finely made furniture—plain, but not poor. His tone remained even.
"From what I see, Shirakawa lives comfortably. In such stability, it seems unlikely many young people would abandon home to wander."

"Yes… yes," Kisuke dabbed his brow with a sleeve, words tumbling over each other. "But the trade road brings merchants, travelers. Young folk see the outside world… and their hearts grow restless."

"Those bandits must weigh heavily on the village's livelihood," Roshi said, his gaze sliding toward the silent, empty inn visible through the paper window. "Such a fine inn, yet abandoned."

The chief lowered his eyes, his voice heavy.
"Indeed. That is why this old man prays day and night for you honorable shinobi to rid the road of this scourge."

Then, as if a shadow lifted, Roshi's pressure eased. His tone softened to something almost cordial.
"Then let us work together, Chief. Do you have any clues you can share? Our aims are aligned. Even the smallest detail might prove valuable."

Kisuke's hands tightened, his voice colored with helplessness.
"This old man truly knows nothing… nothing that could aid you."

Roshi's face betrayed nothing. He ran through a few routine questions about population and recent outsiders, then rose to leave. "We'll lodge at the inn tonight. If you learn anything, inform us immediately."

In the tatami room above the inn, the oil-lamp glow held the space in a steady, amber calm. Itachi checked the doors and windows, confirmed the night was quiet, then turned to Roshi. "Senpai, did you learn anything from the village chief?"

Roshi had returned to his gentler manner, seating himself on the mat with a faint, almost amused smile. "What do you think, Itachi?"

The eight-year-old genin considered for a moment before answering with unnerving clarity. "You think the bandits are connected to this village, and that the village elders know more than they admit—possibly that they're even complicit. That's why you switched to the strict tone at the gate."

"It's a fair read," Roshi said, intrigued. "But if you suspected that, why not act casual to gather information quietly? Why start stern?"

Itachi's brow furrowed—this had been his same question. Roshi explained, "Opening with a difficult posture is groundwork. Being too friendly can invite probing questions and let them cover tracks. By acting strict, we force a reaction. The villagers' heightened attention when we arrived—far beyond what merchants get—tells us something. A village with a fine inn and steady trade shouldn't stiffen at unfamiliar shinobi unless there are other reasons to worry."

He paused, letting the point land. "If I'd been gentle, a practiced chief would have deflected us cleanly. His reaction made clear the village can't fully separate itself from the youths who left—and the bandits' appearances."

Itachi nodded. Those subtleties of social pressure and inference weren't taught at the academy.

"So what next, Senpai?" he asked.

Roshi tilted his head and returned the question. "If you were in command, what would you do?"

After thinking, Itachi replied: "I would use genjutsu on the chief to extract more precise information—where the bandits might hide. Once we have a location, we can eliminate them."

"A sound tactical option," Roshi acknowledged, then steered the discussion forward. "But suppose we use genjutsu—what outcomes should we prepare for?" He raised a finger. "One: the chief truly doesn't know the core details, and the genjutsu gives little. Two: the bandits are concealed inside the village. Three: they're in the hills outside the village."

"The last two are messy," Roshi continued, sitting straighter, voice steady. "Without hard evidence and with no overt hostility, these 'bandits' could appear to be ordinary neighbors—farmers at work from dawn till dusk. The mission brief said the Land of Rivers' pursuers couldn't even identify them by appearance. That means if we uncover a location, what we find may be people who, to everyone here, look like family."

He fixed Itachi with a look that weighed the moral calculus. "If we strike without irrefutable proof, we risk sparking the villagers' wrath. People naturally shield those they know. They may obstruct, question, defend—anything could happen."

Silence settled, broken only by the faint pop of the lamp wick. Itachi's young face tightened into thought, the problem now clearly bigger than any simple takedown. This was about human loyalties, law, and how to act when facts are muddy.

[NNSS] Chapter : 02

The Land of Rivers, as Roshi once described it using a metaphor from his previous life, was like a demilitarized zone in the shinobi world.

It had an imposing daimyō, a functioning bureaucracy, and even samurai who carried gleaming blades. Yet it lacked one crucial thing—a hidden village.

In a world ruled by chakra, that absence was no different from walking naked among wolves.

Whenever threats grew beyond what a samurai's sword could resolve, the Land of Rivers had no choice but to send requests to Konoha, Sunagakure, or even Amegakure—trading ryo for borrowed strength.

This peculiar arrangement gave birth to border towns like Koizumi: strange, lively, and thriving despite the instability.

There were no high walls, no gates, no checkpoint inspections—only a winding dirt road that wound lazily through town. Caravans from the Land of Wind brought spices, while hunters from the Land of Fire carried mountain delicacies. Their mingling scents clung to the air, a constant perfume of trade and survival.

In one of its humbler restaurants, Itachi sat before a steaming bowl of beef stew. Though his face remained calm, a trace of uncertainty flickered in his dark eyes.

Their itinerary had been uneventful so far: smooth passage to the border, the official handover, a briefing on the bandits, and—by custom—the obligatory check with the local trading officials.

"They're nothing but a rabble of ruffians," the Chamber head had said earlier, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. The man was round-bellied, good-natured on the surface, but dismissive in tone.

"They've plundered a few caravans, yes—but merely a minor inconvenience to trade." After that, he had buried them in pleasantries and empty well-wishes, his true meaning clear: deal with it quickly and don't trouble us again.

Roshi had listened without expression, recording the information that matched word for word with the mission scroll. Then, without warning, he had shifted the topic.

"Koizumi Town draws goods from three countries," he remarked, voice casual. "It must have everything, then?"

"Of course, of course!" the portly man replied with an eager smile.

"I've heard the beef here has a unique flavor?" Roshi continued, as if merely indulging idle curiosity.

The man's eyes lit up, delighted to expound: "Ninja-sama has fine taste! If you wish for authenticity, you must try Zaemon's beef stew—it is the pride of our town!"

And just like that, Roshi had lost all interest in further conversation. He had offered polite farewells, then led them straight to Zaemon.

Now, in the quiet shop, the aroma of the famous stew drifted thickly around them.

Itachi's gaze fell to his bowl. The broth shimmered amber beneath the steam, its surface broken by generous chunks of beef so tender they yielded at the lightest touch of chopsticks. Reddish-brown meat gleamed with a thin coat of oil, topped with crisp green scallions. The fragrance was intoxicating—star anise, cinnamon, and herbs blending with the deep richness of simmered beef.

At last, Itachi spoke, his voice so low it was almost lost in the hiss of steam.
"Senpai… are we not going to complete the mission?"

"The mission will get done," Roshi replied offhandedly, lifting a trembling piece of beef to his mouth with steady hands.

The moment the meat touched his tongue, the flavors bloomed—tender flesh melting with savory richness, layered with spice, and finished with a faint, grassy sweetness born from the Land of Rivers pastures.

His eyes half-closed, a sigh of satisfaction almost slipping past his lips. For the first time since awakening in this unfamiliar world, the tension in his chest seemed to ease, soothed not by strategy or strength, but by the simple perfection of a meal.

Itachi picked up his chopsticks with quiet resignation and murmured, "I'll dig in."

Roshi's lips curved faintly. With an easy motion, he lifted his hand toward the counter.
"Boss, another serving, please."

His eyes lingered on the lean shopkeeper, who was carefully polishing a ceramic pot. Genuine admiration flickered in Roshi's gaze.
"The control of the heat is remarkable, and the sauce… perfectly balanced. It doesn't smother the beef's natural flavor—it elevates it."

Zaemon, the shopkeeper, immediately brightened. His weathered face lit with pride, the creases at his eyes softening. Wiping his hands on a faded apron, he chuckled.
"Ah, sir, you truly have a discerning palate! We use only the finest cuts, fresh from the stables each morning. Then we slow-simmer for hours to bring out this flavor. Mastering the nuances takes as much effort as mastering a difficult ninjutsu." His eyes flicked knowingly to the leaf insignia on Roshi's forehead protector, choosing his words to resonate with a shinobi.

"Would you care to try our grilled beef? I still have two fine cuts left today," Zaemon offered eagerly.

"That would be excellent," Roshi agreed without hesitation.

A small charcoal grill was soon placed at their table. Zaemon personally laid the marbled slices across the grate. "This is short rib—rich in fat. And this is feather blade—tender, delicate. Shall I handle the grilling for you?"

"Please do," Roshi said with a polite nod, his eyes following the fat as it sizzled and dripped into the coals below, releasing smoky tendrils fragrant with char. Then, almost casually, he asked, "I've heard there's been trouble around Koizumi lately. Bandits on the roads. Has your beef supply held steady?"

Zaemon turned the meat with practiced ease, the fire crackling cheerfully.
"Bandits, yes," he admitted. "But most of their victims are new caravans—merchants unfamiliar with the routes. My suppliers are old ranchers, families with decades of history. They know every path, every contact. Business has gone on without much trouble. And caravans now travel in larger groups, rarely stopping along the way. It's become the safer method."

Itachi's chopsticks stilled for the briefest moment. The trading official hadn't mentioned this crucial detail—the bandits weren't indiscriminate. They were selective.

"Please enjoy," Zaemon said warmly, dividing the grilled beef onto their plates.

The meal was unhurried, almost indulgent. By the time Roshi and Itachi stepped back into the street, the sun had already dipped low, dyeing the rooftops of Koizumi Town with a warm orange glow. Merchants' shouts echoed faintly as caravans unloaded goods, while the breeze carried the mingled scents of grass from the nearby forest and lingering aromas from food stalls. Roshi inhaled deeply, savoring the border town's unique atmosphere.

The food had been excellent—worth every bite. The 750 ryō bill, though heavy, equaled several days' hard labor for an ordinary villager. But with a mission reward of thirty thousand ryō, Roshi considered the expense a luxury well within reason.

"Senpai, are we going to investigate the caravans that were attacked?" Itachi asked as he caught up, his tone steady but questioning.

"No need," Roshi replied without breaking stride. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where Shirakawa Village's lanterns had begun to flicker against the twilight. "Tonight confirmed two things."

"First—those bandits deliberately avoided caravans with deep local ties. The trading official may have looked cooperative, but their concern was half-hearted, their information deliberately shallow."

"Second—those bandits once fled all the way into the Land of Rain, yet risked everything to return here, to the very borderlands hunting them. That kind of recklessness can only mean two things."

He paused, eyes narrowing as he looked out across the darkening fields. Villages glittered in the distance like scattered stars.

"Either they left something behind—something so important they'd rather risk death than abandon it." His gaze sharpened, settling on the familiar outline of Shirakawa. "Or the simpler answer—they aren't outsiders at all. This is their home. They never left it behind."