Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 111

It had always been a bitter, unspoken truth among the Five Great Nations.

Konohagakure produced monsters.

Not the mindless kind—but geniuses. Prodigies. Shinobi who bent the rules of the world and survived. And worse, when those monsters broke away, they became legends of terror that haunted every border.

Other villages whispered the same complaint every time a catastrophe struck.

“Konoha made him.”

“Konoha let him escape.”

“Konoha should clean up its own mess.”

That was why the Konoha Hunter-Nin Division existed.

Their purpose was simple:

If a shinobi born in the Leaf turned rogue and threatened the world, the Leaf would hunt them down.

Not for money.

But to erase the stain.

The bounty system itself was a farce—at least where Konoha was concerned.

Massive sums were plastered across bingo books: millions in ryo, rare artifacts, land grants, favors from daimyo. Foreign bounty hunters salivated over names like Orochimaru’s.

But Konoha shinobi?

They never received those rewards.

If a foreign shinobi captured or killed a missing-nin, the bounty was paid in full. It was incentive—blood money, pure and simple.

If a Konoha shinobi did the same?

It was called duty.

At best, they received a modest bonus, a commendation, maybe a promotion down the line. No riches. No fame. No celebration.

Because acknowledging the bounty meant acknowledging failure.

The sun hung low over Konohagakure when Itachi arrived.

He didn’t walk through the main gates.

He appeared on the outskirts of the village in a soft distortion of space, cloak dusty from travel, expression unchanged. Strapped to his back was a large sealing scroll, layered with complex containment arrays—so dense that even veteran sensor-nin felt uneasy when they sensed it.

Two ANBU guards appeared instantly, blades half-drawn.

“Itachi Pottaru,” one said sharply. “Identify the contents of the scroll.”

Itachi met their gaze calmly.

“Orochimaru,” he replied.

Silence fell.

Then—

“…What?”

Itachi unsealed the outermost layer.

Not fully.

Just enough.

A pulse of residual malice leaked out—ancient, poisonous, unmistakable.

The ANBU staggered back a step.

“…Confirmed,” the second ANBU said hoarsely. “It’s him.”

Word spread faster than wildfire.

By the time Itachi reached the Hokage Tower, half the village already knew.

Shinobi paused mid-training.

Merchants whispered nervously.

Veterans exchanged grim looks of disbelief.

Orochimaru is dead.

The news didn’t sound real—even when spoken aloud.

Inside the tower, Hiruzen Sarutobi stood by the window, pipe forgotten in his hand, eyes fixed on the village below.

He didn’t turn when Itachi entered.

“So,” the Third Hokage said quietly, “it’s finally over.”

Itachi knelt and placed the sealing scroll on the floor.

“Yes, Hokage-sama.”

Hiruzen closed his eyes.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of decades.

“…Do you know how many official complaints I have received because of him?”

Itachi remained silent.

“How many villages demanded compensation. How many diplomats accused Konoha of sheltering a demon. How many times I was asked why we allowed him to live.”

Hiruzen turned at last, gaze sharp but tired.

“And now he’s dead.”

Itachi bowed his head slightly. “He won’t hurt anyone else.”

That, more than anything, made Hiruzen’s shoulders sag.

“…Good.”

Hiruzen studied the scroll again.

“You are aware,” he said, “that there will be no official bounty.”

“I understand.”

Hiruzen searched Itachi’s face, perhaps expecting resentment.

He found none.

“You don’t seem disappointed.”

Itachi’s voice was calm. “I didn’t do it for the reward.”

Hiruzen exhaled slowly. “Your father raised you well.”

At the mention of Harry, Itachi’s eyes softened—just barely.

Ironically, the world reacted far louder than Konoha did.

By the next morning, Sunagakure’s messengers had already spread the tale across borders:

Orochimaru confronted Gaara of the Sand

A mysterious shinobi intervened

Orochimaru was slain decisively

And the name attached to the deed spread like a curse:

Itachi Pottaru.

Bingo books were rewritten overnight.

Where once Itachi’s name carried warnings and uncertainty, it now carried finality.

If Orochimaru couldn’t escape him… who could?

Instead of lowering his bounty, the underworld did the opposite.

They increased it.

Not because he was a criminal.

But because he was terrifying.

Bounty hunters began crossing his name out—not as a target, but as a do-not-engage warning.

That night, Itachi returned home.

Harry was already waiting.

No dramatic reaction.

No shock.

Just a long look—one father to his son.

“You did it,” Harry said quietly.

“Yes.”

Harry nodded once. “Good.”

That was all.

They sat together in silence for a while.

Harry placed a hand on his shoulder.

“And for the rest of the world,” he added, “one less nightmare.”

Outside, Konoha slept—unaware that a chapter of its darkest history had finally closed.

Itachi did not stay in Konoha long.

There were no lingering conversations, no quiet days of rest, no celebrations to mark the end of a monster. He returned home, spoke briefly with his father, accepted the silence that passed between them, and then—before dawn—he was gone again.

Because somewhere beyond borders and rain, Jiraiya was waiting.

And there were still gods to be challenged.

Amegakure greeted Itachi the same way it always did.

With rain.

Not the gentle kind. Not the cleansing kind. But the heavy, unyielding downpour that soaked through stone and spirit alike. The sky was iron-gray, the streets slick and hollow, the air thick with the ever-present chakra of the village’s ruler.

But none of it touched him.

Itachi slipped through the alleys and rooftops like a thought never spoken, until he reached the familiar, unremarkable corner where nothing should have existed.

He stepped forward.

The magical tent shimmered into view, its seals unfolding silently to admit him.

Inside, warmth replaced the cold instantly.

Lantern light glowed softly. The smell of tea lingered in the air.

Jiraiya sat at the table, scrolls spread out before him, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup. He looked up the moment Itachi entered—eyes sharp despite the fatigue etched into his face.

“You’re back,” Jiraiya said.

“Yes.”

Jiraiya studied him for a long moment.

“…And?”

Itachi didn’t sit. He didn’t circle the truth. He didn’t soften it.

“Orochimaru is dead.”

The words settled into the room like falling ash.

Jiraiya didn’t speak.

His fingers tightened slowly around the cup. The steam rose, wavering, as if unsure whether to continue.

For the world, it was closure.

For Jiraiya…

It was something else entirely.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, rain pattering faintly beyond the tent walls.

“…I always wondered which of us would go first,” he said quietly. “Me… him… or Tsunade.”

His voice was calm, but there was something fragile beneath it.

“He was my teammate,” Jiraiya continued. “My rival. My friend.”

A pause.

“…And my greatest failure.”

Itachi remained silent, allowing the words to breathe.

“I knew he was lost,” Jiraiya said. “Long before anyone else admitted it. I just… kept hoping there’d be something left to save.”

He exhaled, long and heavy.

“But hope doesn’t erase blood.”

Jiraiya looked at Itachi then—really looked at him.

“You did what I couldn’t,” he said. “And I won’t fault you for it.”

Itachi inclined his head slightly. “I didn’t do it for vengeance.”

“I know,” Jiraiya replied. “That’s what makes it hurt more.”

The silence that followed was not awkward.

It was resolved.

Jiraiya set his cup down and rolled his shoulders, the sadness hardening into something colder—more focused.

“Well,” he said, voice steadier now, “one monster down.”

Itachi’s eyes sharpened. “And one god remains.”

Jiraiya nodded grimly.

“Pain,” he muttered. “Or Yahiko. Or whatever he calls himself now.”

He stood and began pacing slowly.

“We can’t strike him here,” Jiraiya said. “Inside Amegakure, he’s untouchable. The rain itself is his surveillance. The Six Paths are everywhere. Even you—” he glanced at Itachi, “—would be gambling with too many lives.”

“I agree,” Itachi said. “That’s why I waited.”

Jiraiya stopped. “Waited for what?”

“For Orochimaru to be removed,” Itachi replied calmly. “And for you to recover.”

Jiraiya chuckled dryly. “Always planning ten steps ahead.”

“Pain believes himself untouchable,” Itachi continued. “That belief makes him careless outside his territory. He leaves the village. He moves with limited protection.”

Jiraiya’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re suggesting we take him away from Amegakure.”

“Yes.”

Jiraiya considered that. “Somewhere secret. Somewhere isolated.”

“Somewhere safe,” Itachi corrected. “For everyone else.”

Jiraiya nodded slowly. “If we’re going to kill a god… we don’t do it in the middle of a city.”

The words felt heavy—but inevitable.

Jiraiya leaned against the table, arms folded.

“You know,” he said, softer now, “I once taught three kids in a war zone. I wanted to believe that was enough. That teaching them kindness would outweigh the cruelty of the world.”

His eyes darkened.

“I was wrong.”

Itachi listened.

“But this time,” Jiraiya continued, “I won’t look away. I won’t hesitate.”

He met Itachi’s gaze.

“If we do this… there’s no coming back from it.”

Itachi’s voice was steady. “I crossed that line long ago.”

Jiraiya gave a sad smile. “Yeah. I figured.”

The rain outside intensified, drumming against the unseen barriers of the tent.

“Then we move quietly,” Jiraiya said. “We gather what we need. We wait for Pain to step outside his kingdom.”

“And when he does,” Itachi finished, “we end it.”

Jiraiya nodded.

“For Yahiko,” he said.

“For Nagato.

“For everyone they crushed along the way.

“And for Orochimaru too,” he added quietly. “Because even monsters start as human.”

Itachi said nothing.

As the lanterns dimmed and the storm raged on beyond the tent, two figures sat across from one another—one a legend, the other becoming one.

Time passed differently inside the rain.

Days blurred into one another as Itachi and Jiraiya remained concealed within the magically expanded tent, observing, listening, and waiting. Unlike other missions where urgency dictated reckless action, this one had no time limit—and that made it far more dangerous.

Pain did not rush.

Pain ruled Amegakure like a god who knew no one could challenge him within his domain.

And that knowledge made him patient.

“It’s strange,” Jiraiya muttered one evening, leaning over a map spread across the table. “For someone who claims he’ll bring peace to the world through force, Pain barely leaves his throne.”

Itachi sat opposite him, eyes half-lidded, senses stretched far beyond the tent.

“He doesn’t need to,” Itachi replied. “Amegakure is his fortress. The rain is his sight. His Paths are his hands. Leaving the village exposes him to risk he doesn’t need to take.”

Jiraiya frowned. “So he hides behind walls while others do his dirty work.”

“Yes,” Itachi said calmly. “Except when recruitment is involved.”

That caught Jiraiya’s attention.

“You’ve noticed it too, huh?”

Itachi nodded. “Pain leaves the village only for one reason—to recruit.”

They had pieced it together over days of observation, intercepted movements, and faint traces of chakra rippling outward from Amegakure. The pattern was unmistakable.

Every time the Akatsuki sought a new member, Pain himself appeared.

“Orochimaru’s death changed things,” Jiraiya said quietly.

“Yes,” Itachi agreed. “Akatsuki has lost an S-rank asset. They will replace him.”

Jiraiya rubbed his chin. “And Pain won’t trust just anyone to fill that gap.”

Silence followed.

Then Itachi spoke words that made even Jiraiya stiffen.

“I will kill another member.”

Jiraiya’s eyes snapped up. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not bait,” Jiraiya said grimly. “That’s declaring war.”

“That is exactly the point,” Itachi replied, unfazed. “Pain believes himself untouchable. If an Akatsuki member dies outside his territory, he will come personally.”

Jiraiya exhaled slowly. “You’re counting on his pride.”

“And his need for control,” Itachi added. “Akatsuki is not just an organization to him. It is an extension of his will. Losing a member threatens his image of inevitability.”

Jiraiya leaned back, staring at the tent ceiling.

“…This is dangerous,” he admitted. “If Pain comes with all Six Paths—”

“I won’t fight him inside Amegakure,” Itachi said. “I will fight him on ground of my choosing.”

Jiraiya studied Itachi for a long moment.

“You sound very certain you’ll survive long enough to choose.”

Itachi met his gaze evenly.

“I am.”

The decision was made.

They could not remain together forever. If Pain moved, information had to reach Konoha. And if Itachi acted, someone needed to be ready for the aftermath.

They left Amegakure separately, slipping away in the dead of night, the rain swallowing their trails as if they had never existed.

At the border of the Land of Fire, they stopped.

The forest here was quiet, bathed in moonlight—a stark contrast to the iron city behind them.

Jiraiya adjusted his cloak. “I’ll go straight to Konoha. The Hokage needs to know everything—about Pain, the Six Paths, the Rinnegan… except yours and your father’s. That stays buried.”

Itachi inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Jiraiya hesitated, then placed a firm hand on Itachi’s shoulder.

“You’re walking into the jaws of a god, kid.”

“I know.”

“And this time,” Jiraiya added quietly, “I might not be there to pull you out.”

Itachi’s voice was steady. “I don’t intend to need saving.”

Jiraiya snorted softly. “You really are Harry’s son.”

A beat passed.

“…Come back alive,” Jiraiya said. “I still owe you dinner for breaking me out.”

Itachi allowed himself the faintest smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With that, Jiraiya turned and vanished into the trees—moving fast, purposeful, burdened with knowledge that could shake the world.