Naruto: Being a Shinobi with no System But...

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.