Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 93

The office of the Third Hokage was dim, shadows stretching across scroll-laden shelves. The faint smell of ink and burning tobacco hung in the air.

Hiruzen Sarutobi sat behind his wide desk, his hands steepled together as his eyes lingered on the young man standing before him.

“Itachi,” the Hokage said at last, his voice low, carrying the weight of years. “You’ve read the reports. You know why you’re here.”

Itachi inclined his head. “Yes, Lord Hokage. The missing Uchiha child—Akuma. Taken by Orochimaru.”

The Hokage’s fingers tightened around his pipe, though he didn’t lift it. “He didn’t just take the boy. He used him. Our scouts were slaughtered, and one barely returned alive. Akuma fought against his own kin.”

For a moment, silence pressed between them. The masked ANBU stationed along the wall didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud, but their presence sharpened the tension.

Itachi’s expression didn’t change, though his voice cut like steel. “Do you wish me to retrieve him? Or eliminate him?”

The Hokage studied him with weary eyes. “If the boy can be saved, save him. But if Orochimaru has twisted him beyond return… you must do what is necessary.”

There was no flicker of hesitation. Itachi inclined his head once more. “Understood.”

“You’ll infiltrate the Land of Rice,” Hiruzen continued. “Otogakure is still a shadow to us. No maps, no precise location. Farmers whisper of masked shinobi, of disappearances. That is all. Your task is to find the truth. Observe, report, and if the opportunity arises, strike.”

Itachi’s eyes lowered for a breath, then rose again, calm and unwavering. “When do I leave?”

The Hokage leaned back in his chair, releasing a slow exhale. “Immediately. You’re the only one I trust to walk into Orochimaru’s den and return.”

A faint light glimmered across Itachi’s irises as his green Rinnegan flickered beneath his lashes. He gave the faintest bow. “Then I will return with what you need.”

The Hokage dismissed him with a wave of his hand. The ANBU straightened as Itachi turned to go, his dark cloak whispering across the floorboards.



The morning air inside the Pottaru Estate was tense, even though everything appeared normal. The faint smell of parchment and ink filled the study where Itachi moved with quiet precision, laying out items on the low table one by one.

A row of kunai gleamed under the light, their edges sharpened until they could cut even the air. Next came shuriken, neatly stacked in black pouches, and a scroll of explosive tags sealed tight with chakra ink. Beside them sat several vials—healing potions Harry had brewed himself, their colors ranging from pale green to deep crimson.

Harry stood behind his son, hands folded in his sleeves, his sharp eyes observing each movement. “Don’t take too much steel,” he advised. “Your wood release will cover what metal cannot.”

Itachi gave a small nod, his face calm but intent. “Still, weight distribution matters. I’ll need a balance.”

Harry moved closer, setting down a wooden box filled with dried herbs, rice, and powdered soup stock. “Food first, weapons second. If this mission stretches weeks—or months—you’ll thank me later.”

Itachi paused, resting his hand on the box. His lips curved ever so slightly. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“Of course I have,” Harry replied, tightening the lid. “I’ve sent men into wars, and I’ve buried enough of them. You are my son—I’ll not make that mistake with you.”

Across the room, Naruto sat cross-legged, arms crossed, his cheeks puffed in a sulk. His headband hung loosely around his neck, and he scowled at the scene before him. “It’s not fair! Why does Itachi Nii-san get all the big missions? Orochimaru is dangerous—I can help!”

Hinata, sitting beside him, touched his arm gently. “Naruto-kun… missions like these aren’t for us yet. You know that.”

Midori smirked, brushing her dark hair back. “Besides, you’d only slow him down. This isn’t about pranks or showing off.”

Naruto spun on her, glaring. “Slow him down? You saw me take down those jonin! I’m strong enough!”

Itachi didn’t turn, only adjusted the strap of a pouch at his hip. “Strength is not the only requirement. This mission requires silence, subtlety, and patience. Qualities you are still learning, little brother.”

Naruto growled low in his throat. “Tch, always so calm. Fine, go on your boring solo mission—I’ll get stronger here and make you regret leaving me behind!”

Hinata and Midori exchanged a glance, trying not to laugh at his pouting, though their eyes softened at his frustration.

Behind them, Shizune entered carrying another set of wrapped bandages and ointments. “You’ll need these as well. Don’t take risks with wounds, Itachi-kun.”

Harry accepted them and slipped them into the kit. His voice dropped into something firmer, darker. “Remember: if you face Orochimaru directly… do not play games.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Everyone in the room knew the kind of man Orochimaru was—powerful, brilliant, and utterly twisted. Even the name made Shizune shiver.

But Harry’s expression never wavered. “With your wood release alone, you can crush him. But should you need it…” His gaze flicked to his son’s eyes. “…use the Rinnegan. End it quickly.”

Itachi met his father’s stare for a long moment. His voice, calm as still water, carried an unshakable resolve. “I won’t fail.”

No one outside this room knew about the Rinnegan—not the Hokage, not the clans, not even the elders. It was the secret of the Pottaru family, and they meant to keep it that way.

Naruto’s sulk softened into worry as he looked at his brother’s back. “…Just come home safe, Nii-san.”

Itachi finally turned, laying a hand on Naruto’s head. “I will.”


The forests of Fire Country gave way to damp marshes and misty fields as Itachi moved eastward, his passage as silent as a shadow’s breath. Villagers spoke in hushed voices as he passed—rumors of children vanishing, of cloaked figures seen at the edge of the rice paddies. He didn’t linger.

Each night, he camped beneath the cover of thick trees, his senses stretched outward, his chakra suppressed to nothing. He traveled alone, but he was not unguarded—his eyes caught every movement in the dark, every ripple in the earth.

By the seventh day, he stood on a ridge, looking down into the lowlands. The horizon was veiled in a rolling fog, and beneath it, the Land of Rice spread out like a vast, silent sea. Somewhere in that mist, Orochimaru had carved out his hidden village.

Itachi’s gaze narrowed, unreadable.

The mission had begun.


Itachi moved with the same patience he had learned from his father. Disguise was not just a trick of clothes and paint — it was art, precision, and discipline. His chakra was buried so deep it felt as if he had none at all. The prodigy became an old man: stooped shoulders, a weathered face, coarse gray hair tied back beneath a travel-stained cloth. His robes were simple, patched in places, the kind any wandering elder might wear.

When he entered the first town in the Land of Rice, not a single eye lingered on him. He shuffled along with a slow gait, blending among peasants and merchants. The market smelled of rice wine and damp straw, but beneath the daily bustle was something heavier — fear. It clung to the air, unspoken yet palpable.

Itachi watched quietly from a bench outside a food stall, his gaze following mothers clutching their children too tightly, fathers keeping nervous eyes on the roads. The whispers carried the same dread everywhere.

“They came again last night.”
“Three children this time.”
“Where do they take them? No one ever returns…”

From what he gathered in hours of silent listening, Otagakure was not a village in the sense people understood. It had no structure, no loyalty, no governance. To the people of Rice Country, it felt more like a bandit camp that happened to wear headbands. But these were not mere brigands — they were shinobi, and shinobi were monsters in the eyes of common folk.

And what chilled Itachi most was the pattern: the children. Every raid targeted the young. No ransom, no message. Just abductions.

He stayed two nights, blending perfectly among the townsfolk. In the evenings, he took lodging in an inn, his disguise unbroken, always a weary old man sipping tea by the corner fire. But once the town slept, he climbed to the rooftops and wrote.

By the pale light of an oil lamp, his brush moved across parchment, sealing his words in careful code. Otagakure is not a true hidden village. It is a front. A place where children are taken. People fear it, reject it. The daimyo never sanctioned it. It reeks of experiments. I will follow the next unit when they return. Expect further word.

At midnight, when even the guards were half-asleep, he slipped into the fields beyond the town. A single white owl, trained to carry messages back to Konoha, perched on his arm. He tied the letter securely, whispered a word of chakra into its wings, and released it into the dark sky.

The owl vanished like a shadow among the stars.

Itachi stood still, his disguise still wrapped around him, the weight of silence pressing against his mind. The next time the sound-nin came to steal children, he would follow. And then… he would see Orochimaru with his own eyes.


Itachi did not rush. Patience was his greatest weapon, and for a week he lingered at the edges of villages, waiting, listening, watching the rhythms of the Land of Rice. Every night, he sharpened his awareness, suppressing his chakra until he was indistinguishable from the merchants and farmers that filled the towns.

On the seventh night, his patience bore fruit.

Three figures emerged from the forest path, their step light but practiced, not the weary gait of civilians. They moved like trained shinobi, even if young. Itachi recognized the flow immediately. These were Orochimaru’s subordinates.

The first was tall, older than the other two, with short, bright orange hair. His posture was confident, yet he carried himself with an unusual calm. Not the arrogance of a young shinobi — something steadier, quieter. He spoke little, but when he did, his tone was gentle, almost protective toward the other two.

Beside him walked a red-haired girl with round glasses perched on her nose. She was slender, about Hinata’s height and likely her age as well. The way she adjusted her glasses constantly betrayed nervousness, but her chakra… Itachi narrowed his eyes. The pull of her chakra felt distinct. Familiar. He had lived near Naruto all his life, close to the boy’s storm of energy, his bright heritage. The girl carried the same unmistakable resonance. Uzumaki, Itachi thought at once. And that meant a link to Konoha — a duty to protect.

The third was harder to miss. A boy with sharp, white hair and jagged teeth that caught the light when he grinned. His movements were restless, twitching with a feral edge. His chakra signature carried the tang of water and blood. Itachi had seen it before in the mists of Kirigakure. A survivor of the purge, he realized. A boy who must have fled when bloodline users were hunted down like animals.

They carried no children with them, no bound captives, no signs of a raid. Their clothing was torn in places, and their weapons stained with use. Itachi judged quickly. These three were not here to abduct. They were returning from a mission. A successful one.

From the shadows of the trees, the disguised Itachi began to follow. His step left no sound, his chakra still buried so deep it blended with the soil itself. His eyes never left them.

The Uzumaki girl laughed nervously at something the white-haired boy said, though her voice trembled, betraying unease. The orange-haired one placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her, his calm presence like a shield.

Itachi’s mind worked swiftly. An Uzumaki under Orochimaru’s command… He could not allow that. The alliance between Konoha and the Uzumaki was more than political; it was blood-bound, forged in trust. She did not belong here. She was meant to be protected, not turned into a pawn.

His resolve sharpened. He would learn where they were going. And when the time came, he would take her back.

For now, he remained the shadow at their heels, silent and invisible, as the three young shinobi of the Sound disappeared deeper into the forests of the Land of Rice.