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."