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

The curfew’s remnants still clung to the streets—overturned crates, torn banners, and the faint scent of smoke—but the suffocating chaos had already faded into uneasy calm.

At a quiet corner near Haifi Pavilion, Roshi was taking care of the final loose end.

Genshoku’s body would never return to the Village; it was to be erased here.

The fire crackled quietly, its orange tongues devouring what remained. Roshi stood motionless before it, his expression unreadable as the flames consumed flesh and fabric alike. There was no heavy smoke, only the faint hiss and pop of burning matter and a bitter, metallic tang in the air.

Before long, all that was left was a small heap of gray-white ash. The wind caught it, scattering it into the night until not even a trace remained.

Jubei—the true core of the Black Snake Group—existed now only as a lump of flesh. Since he seemed to hold information about Orochimaru, Roshi decided he would be brought back to the Village for interrogation.

Gaiku and Hebizu had already been sealed within scrolls, to be delivered to the higher-ups. They’d likely be exchanged for resources… or funding.

After this battle, both Anko’s and Itachi’s gear were in need of repair—or replacement entirely.

Tanzai’s commission payment was far from enough. Once they returned, they’d have to negotiate with the village about expense reimbursement.

Under these circumstances, perhaps the annihilation mission and the intelligence-gathering objective could be counted as completed together.

Deai Port, meanwhile, was slowly recovering from the chaos.

After the Black Snake Group’s ambush failed, the Chayama Gang lost its leadership and quickly unraveled. Without Jubei’s iron grip, they were nothing more than ordinary thugs—easily crushed by the port’s local forces.

The Hejies family had kept their gates sealed since the curfew began and showed no sign of lowering their guard. The local merchants had no intention of crossing the Daimyo, and Wasabi House was still busy tending to their wounded. No one dared stir further trouble.

Through Wasabi Family’s connections, Roshi managed to secure several key members of the Chayama Gang from the Fishery Association’s chairman—including the scarred former captain of the city gate guard. Perhaps, with a bit of pressure, he could pry something useful from them.

Inside a guest room of the Haifi Pavilion Inn, Roshi sat bent over a desk, organizing the compiled intelligence. His pen scratched steadily across paper.

The door creaked open. Anko stepped in and dropped a stack of hastily scribbled confession notes on top of his report.

”A bunch of spineless cowards,” she scoffed, dragging a chair over and collapsing into it with a heavy sigh. Her boots landed on the edge of the table.

”They pissed themselves before the snake even showed its fangs. None of them knew a damn thing. They were terrified of Jubei—said he ruled through sheer force and brutality, crushing anyone who resisted.

”The money they stole? Jubei took most of it himself. Whatever scraps were left, they spent on booze and food. As for where the rest went—or who it went to—they have no clue. They didn’t even know the name ’Black Snake Group.’ They thought Jubei was just some wandering samurai with too much power and no conscience.”

Her words came quickly, but her gaze never quite met Roshi’s.

The room fell into silence again, the only sound the quiet, rhythmic scratching of Roshi’s pen.

Anko’s toes twitched against the table leg. Her lips parted and closed several times, hesitant, until finally she spoke—her tone low and dry:

”Hey, Roshi…”

”That guy—before he died—he didn’t say anything else about Orochimaru.”

The pen stopped mid-stroke. Roshi looked up, meeting her eyes calmly.

”Once we’re back, the Village will have its hands on new intel,” he said simply.

”Yeah… I know.” Anko’s shoulders slumped slightly. She turned her head toward the window.

The sea breeze drifted in, stirring the stray strands of her violet hair.

”It’s just…” Her voice softened—half confession, half whisper lost to the wind. ”Every time I hear his name—something in me just… loses control.”

She ran a hand through her hair with visible frustration. ”I know it’s pointless to rush things, but I can’t help it. I want answers. Anything. Even a scrap.”

Roshi said nothing. His pen resumed its quiet rhythm, the sound steady and deliberate—the only response she needed.

Anko’s gaze drifted, unfocused. ”Part of my memory… he sealed it himself. And he left a cursed seal on me.”

Her voice was flat, but the tremor beneath it betrayed something fragile.

”But he didn’t kill me.”

She paused, as if chasing a thought that had just surfaced. ”Roshi, I think… I’m starting to remember.”

”It wasn’t that Orochimaru abandoned me.” Her lips trembled slightly. ”It was me. I chose to stay in the Village.”

Her head lowered, shadows gathering across her face.

”Konoha is my home. The place where my parents lived… where my comrades are.”

”But when I came back, the Anbu locked me up.”

Her tone faltered—quiet, hollow, like something long buried clawing its way out.

”That room had no windows. I stopped keeping track of time. Every so often, they’d come in… the interrogations, again and again.”

Her breath hitched. ”Hokage-sama came once. He said it was necessary—for the safety of the Village… and to give the families of those killed by Orochimaru some kind of answer.”

Her shoulders trembled. ”So many people died because of him—Genin, Chunin, Anbu… even Jōnin.”

”I understand all of it.”

She stopped.

The rest caught in her throat—a surge of grief that swelled until it broke free.

Her vision blurred. Tears welled up, unbidden, spilling down her cheeks in silent drops that struck the dark tabletop. Plop. Plop. Each drop spread into a faint circle on the thin layer of dust.

Anko pressed her forehead to the cold surface, her voice stifled, trembling. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

The scratching of Roshi’s pen stopped.

Only her muffled sobs remained, soft and uneven in the stillness of the room.

Then—a hand, calloused but warm, gently came to rest on her head.

He said nothing. Words were useless here.

The warmth from his palm slowly seeped through her tangled dark-purple hair, into the space between silence and sorrow.

Anko’s body stiffened. Her sobs hitched—then returned, even more raw, more human.

She didn’t lift her head. She simply buried it deeper into her arms, trembling like a wounded girl that had finally found a place safe enough to break.

Roshi’s hand remained there—steady, wordless—feeling the quiet, fragile shaking beneath his palm.

The Next Morning

Dawn broke through thin clouds, spilling soft light over the Wasabi House estate. The courtyard, once drenched in blood, had been cleaned overnight. The heavy copper scent of battle was fading, replaced by the rhythm of hammers, the creak of wood, and the murmur of workers rebuilding what had been destroyed.

Shizune moved briskly among the wounded. Her right hand was tightly bandaged, but her touch remained deft as she treated a guard’s mangled arm, her brow furrowed in focus.

When Roshi and Anko stepped into the courtyard, she only gave them a brief nod before returning to her work—there was no time for words.

Itachi had been moved to a quiet room deep within the estate.

Sunlight filtered through the paper door, drawing golden lines across the tatami floor. The young Uchiha sat by the window, leaning against a cushion. His complexion was pale, but his eyes were clear—steady. His breathing had returned to normal. The worst had passed.

Tsunade sat beside him, calm as ever.

”It was just residual foreign chakra—laced with natural energy. Nasty mix,” she said, setting down her teacup. ”But it’s been completely purged now.”

Itachi inclined his head slightly. ”Thank you, Lady Tsunade.”

His voice was quiet, controlled—but beneath it, there was the faint echo of the rage that had driven him to the brink of death the night before.

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