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

”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.”

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