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

After two days secluded in the Forbidden Jutsu Room, Roshi had finally grasped a basic understanding of the Flying Thunder God jutsu.

At its core lay the Flying Thunder God Formula. Only by mastering that intricate mark could one perform true spatial transfer, moving instantly to any location where the formula had been placed.

Learning the formula required proficiency with cursed seals—not the twisted kind developed by Orochimaru, but the traditional ones, like Danzo’s Tongue Restriction Seal. They allowed chakra to be embedded directly into a target through physical contact.

To proceed further, one also needed a solid grasp of basic sealing formulas.

The jutsu’s activation depended on few things—sensing the formula, locking onto it, and then performing instantaneous teleportation through space.

But for Roshi, this part presented a unique difficulty. He couldn’t rely on the inherited memories of his previous body; that vessel had lived only fourteen years, and mastering as many elemental Ninjutsu as it had was already a miracle. The rest, Roshi would have to learn himself.

While Roshi buried himself in his studies, Itachi had regained his composure. His face was once again calm, devoid of the slightest ripple.

The Uchiha Clan’s prodigy, Fugaku’s eldest son, Sasuke’s brother—he wore his serenity like a mask once more.

But that afternoon, the Itachi who appeared by the Naka River was not a ”genius” or ”clan heir.” He was just a boy meeting a friend.

Uchiha Izumi, eight years old like him, sat by his side. Her long brown hair cascaded like silk, a small teardrop mole resting beneath her right eyelid. She was still a student at the Ninja Academy.

She quietly studied him.

”Itachi, you’re in a bad mood.”

”I’m sorry… right now, I suppose I am.”

He didn’t need to pretend in front of Izumi. As a friend, he could let down his guard. Even the way he ate his dango was absentminded.

”Did something happen?” she asked softly.

”Something… I can’t fix, no matter what I do.”

Izumi tilted her head, studying his expression.

”So even perfect geniuses get troubled like normal people.”

”I’m not a genius.” Itachi lowered his gaze, his fingers rolling the skewer between them. ”I just know a few Ninjutsu.”

The more he experienced, the clearer it became: the jutsu and lessons of the past felt powerless against truly complex dilemmas.

He wasn’t talented—just efficient at fighting and killing.

”Well,” Izumi said, ”I don’t know what geniuses do when they have problems, but ordinary people like me ask our moms or teachers.”

”It doesn’t help to just worry by yourself, Itachi.”

She didn’t understand the scale of his burdens—how could she? But her words, born of simple kindness, carried a warmth logic couldn’t provide.

Parents… teachers…

Itachi’s gaze drifted toward the shimmering water.

”Don’t you have a senpai you trust?” Izumi asked suddenly, her eyes brightening.

”Shisui?” Itachi gave a faint, bitter smile. ”Even he’s struggling with the same storm.”

”I mean your captain! You talk about him a lot.”

”Senpai…” Itachi murmured. His voice grew softer, nearly lost to the breeze. ”Senpai told me to think for myself.”

A sudden prick of pain drew his attention. He turned to see Izumi pouting, retracting the skewer she had used to poke his cheek.

”Listen, Itachi,” she said with mock sternness, ”when a senpai tells you to ’think for yourself,’ it means you do think—but if you still can’t figure it out, then you go ask! What else would you do?”

She bit into a dango with mock seriousness. ”You make things way too hard for yourself.”

”But…”

”Go ask him again!” Izumi interrupted. ”If he’s really someone you trust, he won’t mind!”

Itachi blinked. ’Can I really…?’

But her confidence was contagious. Slowly, he stood, his movements lighter than before.

”Thank you, Izumi.” He bowed slightly.

’No matter what, I’ll ask him. Even if it seems presumptuous—it’s better than being stuck.

If I bring a small gift, perhaps Senpai will forgive the intrusion.’

When Itachi stepped into the Uchiha compound, he didn’t expect to see his father at home.

Fugaku sat in the inner room, several documents spread neatly before him.

Itachi quickly composed himself, concealing the faint trace of warmth that lingered from his talk with Izumi. The heir to the clan could not show emotion so easily.

Fugaku looked up at the sound of his son’s footsteps. His gaze lingered for a moment before he calmly rolled up the papers, each motion deliberate.

He had deliberately ignored Itachi’s emotional outburst that night. It was natural for anyone’s mind to waver after awakening the Three Tomoe Sharingan—and besides, his son had recovered his composure afterward.

But now, Fugaku studied him quietly, as if weighing something in his mind.

”Itachi,” he said finally, ”there’s something I need to ask you.”

”Yes, Father.”

Fugaku had been deliberating for a long time.

He couldn’t simply hand over the Police Force personnel list because someone asked—but that person had offered an idea far better than any plan Fugaku himself had conceived.

If the Uchiha could form alliances with other clans by conceding a few positions in the Military Police Force, then even if the village turned hostile, Konoha’s leadership would have to think twice before acting.

And perhaps… the Uchiha’s long-cherished dream could finally take shape. If one of their own became Hokage, it would vindicate their power, restoring the clan’s dignity.

Rebellion was always the final resort. Roshi’s words had made Fugaku confront a harsh truth—the village’s suspicion of the Uchiha ran deep. Even with his Mangekyō hidden, overthrowing the Third Hokage and his allies in a single strike was near impossible.

And if the Village had already prepared countermeasures—if Jiraiya was still lurking, and Tsunade might return—then a premature uprising would only lead to annihilation.

Given all that, perhaps yielding a few positions was acceptable… as long as Uchiha leadership remained intact.

But that raised new questions: what to do with the clan members displaced from the police force? Offer stipends? From which funds? The Uchiha had many mouths to feed, and not all could serve. Supporting idle members indefinitely would be unsustainable.

Yet if he gave stipends only to those removed, resentment would fester among the rest.

And if he offered nothing at all… the discontent would boil over.

’Should I use the Mangekyō…?’

Fugaku frowned, unable to settle his thoughts. Roshi’s calm yet distrustful gaze echoed in his memory.

He wasn’t afraid of a fourteen-year-old Special Jōnin—but the forces behind that boy carried the weight of the long-dormant Senju will.

Refusal would mean war.

Under these conditions…

It was just a personnel list—names, ranks, records. No secret techniques, no classified missions.

It might be worth seeing what the man intended to do with it.

Still, a direct decision was dangerous. If Roshi proved untrustworthy, the clan could suffer.

So, Fugaku placed the decision in the hands of his son.

”Itachi,” he said slowly, ”do you trust your captain?”

With his perception, Itachi wouldn’t misjudge someone he’d observed this long.

”Captain Roshi is an exceptional leader,” Itachi replied. ”He always forces his enemies to fight on ground of his choosing.”

That was the Uchiha way to express trust—through acknowledgment of strength and ability.

Fugaku nodded. It was high praise, especially from his eldest son.

He had always believed in Itachi’s potential—his brilliance in battle, his calm judgment, his awakened Three Tomoe Sharingan. This was a child who would one day surpass him.

”Tomorrow,” Fugaku said finally, ”you will deliver a document to your captain. This matter requires absolute secrecy. I will have Shisui accompany you in the shadows.”

”Yes, Father.”

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