Marcus wasn't in any rush to kill the calf immediately. Instead, he fed it wheat to help it quickly grow into a full adult.
Then he began the breeding process again.
"Looks like the breeding cooldown still follows Minecraft timing," he observed, watching the heart particles fade away.
There were now five cows under the deck canopy, creating quite the little farm operation.
But just like before, the original real-world animals seemed genuinely terrified of these newly born creatures.
Especially the two original bulls, at this moment they were huddled in the corner, trembling.
Marcus fed wheat to another calf, and within moments it transformed into a full-grown adult cow.
Looking at the increasingly traumatized original animals in the shelter, he felt a pang of guilt and decided to lead the newly matured cow into a separate room for what came next.
He looked at the blocky cow that was nuzzling against him affectionately and patted its head.
"Sorry about this, buddy. It's nothing personal."
Then Marcus jumped up and struck the cow with his fist.
As expected, the cow simply panicked and ran around in circles, making distressed mooing sounds but showing no signs of injury or aggression.
Finally, with a second hit, the cow dissolved into a puff of green smoke, disappearing completely and leaving behind two glowing experience orbs and several pieces of raw beef.
"It works just like in the game."
Looking at the mere three pieces of wheat left in his hand, he realized that relying on cattle slaughter to level up was going to be a very long-term project.
"Well, guess I'll take it slow and steady."
He looked back at the cows in the main shelter area.
The two original-world bulls had served their breeding purpose, but now they were basically just taking up space and resources.
Just then, both girls emerged from their bath, looking refreshed and cleaner.
"Marcus, this water really does work for bathing," Alvida confirmed with a satisfied smile.
Although her Slip-Slip Fruit meant her skin couldn't actually get dirty anymore, Kira didn't have that advantage.
The girl had scrubbed herself thoroughly, rubbing off so much accumulated grime that the bathwater had become murky.
But when the dirty water was poured onto the deck, it quickly vanished according to Minecraft rules. Even though some of the dirt remained on the wooden planks, the MC wood blocks had a self-cleaning function that restored them to spotless condition within moments.
"Hmm? There's another cow now?"
"So what do you want for lunch? How about some roast beef?"
"We're eating them already?"
"Wait, we're really going to eat them?" Kira seemed reluctant at first, showing some attachment to the animals.
Then she immediately devoured two roasted beef legs without any further moral qualms.
After that, Marcus processed the sheep and chickens in a similar fashion, leaving only the Minecraft versions of all three animal types on their ship.
As it turned out, only MC animals provided experience points when killed.
Kira successfully acquired herself a soft little pet chicken that didn't poop, didn't need constant feeding, and had no strange odors.
As for the rest of the Minecraft livestock, Marcus placed them individually in various empty rooms throughout their expanded ship to keep them organized and contained.
Unfortunately, there were no grass blocks available on the ship, only dirt, so sheep couldn't naturally regrow their wool through grazing.
Still, he could raise lambs, wait for them to mature, and then shear them for renewable wool production.
He crafted a Minecraft-style bed and lay down on it curiously, wondering if it would have any special properties.
Nothing happened. The MC bed wasn't particularly hard or uncomfortable, and lying on it felt just like resting on any ordinary bed.
"Could it be because it's daytime? I'll try again tonight."
When evening arrived, Marcus eagerly climbed into the bed to test its abilities.
The hoped-for ability to skip through the night didn't activate as he'd expected, but instead a wave of overwhelming drowsiness swept over him.
Within three seconds of his head hitting the pillow, he was completely unconscious.
When he opened his eyes again, dawn was already breaking over the ocean.
He stared blankly at the wooden ceiling above him, feeling well-rested.
"That was incredible."
No dreams.
No residual fatigue.
He felt completely refreshed and energized when he got up.
Moving to the main deck, he found Kira already busy at work, hauling up the anchor she'd dropped the previous night.
"Morning, Marcus! You're up early today. We should be reaching a new island soon, there's a place called Syrup Village. Should we stop there to resupply?"
Although they hadn't bought many supplies at Orange Town, with Marcus' abilities providing unlimited food and fresh water, the three of them were never in danger of going hungry or thirsty.
Syrup Village? That's where Luffy meets Usopp, Marcus thought to himself. Luffy's crew is about two days ahead of us... I wonder if the Kuro incident is already over. If nothing unexpected happens, this might be our only chance to meet the Straw Hat Pirates before Loguetown.
He tried to recall the timeline and seemed to remember something about other islands in this area too.
There was also that Island of Rare Animals...
Whatever, we'll figure it out when we get there.
"Since we're already heading that way, might as well stop and look around."
---
By midday, they had reached the shoreline and could see the island clearly.
Looking at the familiar scenery, Marcus felt his excitement building. After spending so many days in the One Piece world, he was finally about to encounter Monkey D. Luffy himself.
He wondered what would happen when they actually met face to face.
All three of them disembarked from their ship.
Alvida was surprised that Marcus had decided to come along.
"You're not going mining today?"
"Not for a while. Besides, our ship can't hold much more cargo anyway," Marcus said honestly.
Alvida felt slightly disappointed by this news. Even though they'd already obtained a massive fortune in gold, who ever complained about having too much money?
If they could acquire huge amounts of gold at every single island they visited, she felt she could wake up smiling just thinking about the possibilities.
"You're coming too?" she asked Kira, since the girl was known for being shy and preferring to stay with the ship.
But perhaps after spending so many days together, the girl had gradually become more comfortable and outgoing. At least she no longer seemed as timid and withdrawn as when they'd first met.
And whether it was because of better nutrition or the special properties of Minecraft food, her previously gaunt and malnourished appearance had improved.
"Marcus said we might meet someone who knows where Koby went," Kira explained hopefully.
Alvida looked at Marcus with surprise but didn't ask for more details.
The three of them walked up the slope from the beach and could see a small town nestled in the distance.
"Let's go take a look around."
Marcus led the way. Seeing his enthusiasm, Alvida smiled and followed along willingly.
The island was filled with birdsong and blooming flowers.
Occasionally they passed farmers working in their fields, tending crops and livestock.
The overall setting wasn't much different from what you might find in a peaceful rural area back on Earth, everything you'd expect was there.
Marcus suddenly recalled an important detail: the place where they'd landed might be one of only two routes that provided access to the island's interior.
In the original story, Usopp had mistaken the direction and set up a bunch of oil slick traps along this path. But now there was nothing?
Thinking this over, he led his companions into the town.
It seemed like fate was intervening, the three of them ran directly into Luffy, Zoro, Nami, and Usopp, who were walking together down the main street.
From the looks of things, the Kuro incident either hadn't broken out yet, or it was already completely resolved.
When Marcus first spotted them, all four Straw Hat Pirates appeared completely unharmed and in good spirits.
Before he could decide how to approach them, Alvida couldn't contain herself any longer.
"Marcus."
"Got it." Reminded of their plan, Marcus didn't hesitate, he switched to the inventory slot containing Alvida's iron mace and tossed the weapon to her.
Alvida caught it smoothly and immediately assumed a threatening stance.
"Straw Hat brat! I can't believe you actually showed up here!"
Her words, dripping with killing intent and rage, shocked all five people present, the four Straw Hats and Kira.
The girl couldn't understand why Alvida had suddenly become so aggressive and hostile.
After all, in her experience over the past few days, Alvida had been gentle and caring, even helping her scrub her back during baths.
"Who... are you?!" Luffy frowned in confusion at Alvida, clearly not recognizing her at all.
Usopp glanced at Alvida with a strange expression, then gave Luffy a curious look.
Nami's gaze immediately focused on the spiked mace in Alvida's hands, and her expression grew serious. Having spent years surviving at sea, she'd developed good instincts for judging people, this woman was definitely strong and dangerous. Still, she couldn't resist teasing Luffy.
"Could she be your girlfriend?"
Zoro watched the developing confrontation with interest, though his attention was primarily focused on Marcus.
After all, Marcus had just produced a weapon out of thin air, clearly the ability of some kind of Devil Fruit user.
Alvida's smile broadened. "It's not surprising you don't recognize me. I just slimmed down a bit. Ever since you sent me flying with that punch, I've been thinking about finding you, day and night."
Hearing her explosive and somewhat suggestive declaration, Nami's expression turned uncomfortable.
Luffy looked even more puzzled and confused.
"Kira! Tell me, who is the most beautiful woman in the world?"
The familiar question...
Luffy seemed to catch a hint of recognition.
Kira, suddenly called upon, flinched at first, but thinking of Alvida's stunning appearance, she answered honestly, "It should be... you, Alvida."
The familiar wording, the familiar name... everything clicked into place for Luffy.
After all, it hadn't been that long since their last encounter.
"Ah! You're that fat lady!"
Luffy had stepped directly onto the biggest landmine possible.
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As I said before, I need your help with some suggestions for a story I'm currently writing. My problem is, I don't know if the players' world should be a normal advanced Earth or something fictional, like Marvel. Below are Chapter 1 and 2, it's still in the early phase. I'll delete the chapter below after getting some ideas.
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Some warnings first:
This idea has been plaguing me for a while, though I don't know how long I'll have the motivation to work on it. Suggestions are welcome, I've only planned a few chapters so far.
Premise: A Nara ninja "summons" players, similar to MoP, but set in the Naruto world. It takes place in Rōran.
The MC is quite flawed and will grow stronger by using the players.
The novel is called Shadow Leveling.
No system.
AU.
##########
##########
Chapter 01 - Still Breathing (Unfortunately)
Shit.
That was Shikaki's first coherent thought in what felt like days, though time had become a bit negotiable since that explosive tag turned his left side into ground meat. The shit smell was probably from when his bowels gave up sometime during the first night. The copper was definitely blood... his, his teammates', the Iwa ninjas', all mixing into a horrible cocktail that had attracted flies.
If there were a cocktail named after this, it'd be the Bloddy Shinobi, two parts blood, one part shit, served warm with flies.
So many fucking flies.
He tried to move his head and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his neck like someone was hammering senbon into his spine. His left eye wouldn't open at all, crusted shut with blood and god knows what else. The right eye managed a crack, just enough to see the dim cave entrance about ten meters away.
Ten meters.
Might as well be ten kilometers.
"Still breathing, huh?" he croaked to nobody, his voice sounding like he'd been gargling gravel. "That's... unfortunate."
A bitter laugh tried to escape but turned into a wet cough that brought up something chunky. Blood, probably. Or maybe a piece of lung. Did lungs come up in pieces? He should've paid more attention during the field medic course instead of sleeping through it.
Twenty years.
Twenty fucking years in this world of child soldiers and war, and this was how it ended. In a cave, covered in shit and blood, forgotten before he was even dead.
The memories of his life, this life, started flooding back. Maybe that's what happened when you died. Your brain desperately trying to find meaning in the meaninglessness.
----------
He'd been five when he first realized something was wrong with this picture. Sitting in the Nara compound, watching his cousins play ninja, and thinking "children shouldn't be learning how to kill." The thought had come from nowhere and everywhere, like an echo of something he couldn't quite remember.
By six, he was in the Academy, learning to throw kunai at human-shaped targets. The instructor praised his accuracy. His mother was proud. His father said he had the Nara gift for strategy. Nobody seemed to notice or care that they were training children to be weapons.
"Why do we have to fight?" he'd asked his father once.
"It's troublesome," his father had replied. "But it's our duty to the village."
Duty. That word had followed him through the Academy, through genin team assignments, through one of the missions where he had taken a life, a missing-nin who'd been stealing food from civilians. The man had begged at the end, Shikaki's shadow holding him still while his teammate slit the throat.
Clean.
Efficient.
Troublesome.
He'd tried, for a while, to be what they wanted. Trained his body until he threw up, attempting to match the taijutsu specialists. Lasted exactly three weeks before his muscles gave out and he spent a month in the hospital with severe chakra exhaustion and torn ligaments. The medic-nin had been blunt: "Your body isn't built for that kind of training. You're trying to be the Third Raikage without his physiology."
So he'd pivoted. If he couldn't be strong, he'd be smart. Started collecting jutsu scrolls like other kids collected trading cards. Earth, water, fire, wind, lightning, learned the basics of everything. C-rank techniques mostly, nothing flashy.
Jack of all trades, master of none.
Except shadows. Shadows, he understood.
The Nara techniques came naturally, but he'd pushed further. Spent hours experimenting with shadow manipulation, finding new applications. Could make his shadow three-dimensional for a few seconds. Could use it to "feel" textures and temperatures. Small improvements that nobody noticed because why would they? He was just another Nara, doing Nara things.
The real revelation had been fūinjutsu. Started learning at fifteen, after watching his captain demonstrate a storage seal. The complexity had appealed to him, all puzzle and no brute force. His shadow clone, he could only maintain one, would study while he practiced shadow techniques.
Slow progress, but progress.
Three years of seal work. Three years of headaches and chakra exhaustion and tiny incremental improvements. He'd gotten good enough to modify storage seals, create basic barrier seals, even developed a personal seal that could display his chakra levels like a gauge. Nothing revolutionary. Just another special jonin with average skills and above-average intelligence.
The promotion had been a joke. They'd needed someone who could hold a position and use shadow techniques for battlefield control. Not strong enough to be a real jonin, but too useful to waste as a regular chunin. Special jonin, the participation trophy of ninja ranks.
----------
The memories kept coming as he lay dying, his brain's last desperate attempt to find meaning.
----------
Three days earlier.
Captain Inoka, a normal Yamanaka ninja by Konoha standard, stood at the front of their forty-three man platoon, his scarred face grim as he outlined what everyone already knew was a suicide mission.
"Intel says Iwa's moving a thousand-man force through the valley. Our job is to make them think we're the vanguard of a larger force. Hold for three days while the real army repositions." He didn't say what everyone was thinking: we're bait.
Shikaki stood in the back, studying the terrain map. The valley was a killbox. Steep walls on both sides, one way in, one way out. Perfect for an ambush. Also perfect for getting slaughtered.
"Nara," the captain called out. "You're our forward scout. Shadow possession for captures if they send scouts ahead."
"Hai," Shikaki responded automatically, though his brain was already calculating survival odds. Forty-three versus a thousand. Maybe 0.3% chance if they played it perfect. More likely 0%.
The problem with being a Nara was everyone expected miracles from your brain. Like somehow being smart could make up for shit odds and no chakra reserves. He could make one shadow clone that'd last two hours if he didn't fight. Special jonin, his ass... he was just a chunin who'd survived long enough to get a field promotion.
Chozen, all three hundred pounds of him, clapped Shikaki on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Don't look so gloomy. We might get lucky."
"Our luck ran out at birth," Shikaki replied.
The genin, three kids fresh from the academy who shouldn't even be here, were trying to look brave. The one with the glasses kept adjusting them, likely a nervous tic. Another was writing what looked like a last letter home. The third just stared at nothing, already in shock and they hadn't even started fighting yet.
They reached the valley at dawn. Shikaki created a single shadow clone and sent it ahead to scout. The drain was immediate, like someone had opened a valve in his chakra network. He'd have maybe forty minutes before it dispersed.
"I need a vantage point," he told Inoka. "High ground where I can actually see them coming."
"Take position on the east ridge. Hyūga's got the west."
Shikaki climbed. When he reached the ridge, he lay flat and pulled out the stolen binoculars, regular ones, not chakra-enhanced. Those were for real jonin.
Then he waited.
His clone made it thirty-eight minutes before popping. The memories rushed back: Iwa forces, three columns, at least two hundred in the vanguard alone.
"Contact!" he shouted down. "Lead elements entering the valley. Two hundred, maybe two fifty."
"Just the vanguard then," Inoka called back. "All right, first wave positions. Make them think we've got an army up here."
The first exchange was textbook. Kunai and shuriken raining down from prepared positions. Explosive tags in a cascading pattern that made it seem like they had three times their actual numbers. The Iwa ninjas fell back, regrouped, came again.
By noon, the illusion was failing. The enemy was probing, testing, realizing the defensive fire was coming from the same positions. Shikaki watched through his binoculars as the Iwa commander, a scarred woman with acid burns across half her face, drew diagrams in the dirt.
"They've figured us out," he told Inoka after sliding down from his perch. "She's planning a pincer movement. Send climbers up the cliff faces while the main force pushes through."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's what I'd do. We've been firing from the same eight positions for hours. She's not stupid."
"Shit." The captain wiped blood from a graze on his cheek. "How long?"
"Twenty minutes, maybe thirty."
---
It was eighteen minutes.
The climbers came up the sides like spiders, earth jutsu making handholds where none existed. The defending Konoha ninjas had to split their attention, and that's when the main force surged forward.
Shikaki caught one climber with his shadow imitation. Made the man jump backward off the cliff. The second one he tried to catch broke free after two seconds; Shikaki didn't have enough chakra left to hold him. A kunai opened a line across his ribs as he dove behind cover.
That's when Inoka's head exploded.
No warning, no dramatic last words. One second he was shouting orders, the next his skull came apart like overripe fruit. Some kind of compression jutsu, air or maybe sound-based. The genin with glasses was standing right next to him, got painted red and brown and gray. Kid just stood there, touching his face, trying to understand why it was wet.
An earth spear took him through the stomach before he figured it out.
"FORMATION'S BROKEN!" Chozen roared, his body expanding with his clan's technique. "FALL BACK TO—"
The sentence never finished. Earth spears erupted from the ground like a forest of death, turning him into a massive pincushion. His expansion jutsu made him a bigger target, more places to hurt. He deflated slowly, like a punctured balloon, blood pouring from fifty wounds.
The second genin, the letter writer, tried to run. Caught a kunai in the spine, fell forward, tried crawling with just his arms. An Iwa ninja stepped on his back, pushed the kunai deeper until it came out through his chest. The kid spent thirty seconds dying, calling for his mother in increasingly wet gasps.
Shikaki's position was overrun. He was down to taijutsu and kunai, his chakra nearly spent. An Iwa ninja came at him with a tantō. Shikaki deflected with a kunai, but the force drove him backward. The second strike opened his shoulder to the bone. The third would have taken his head if he hadn't done something that would haunt him forever.
He grabbed the dying genin, the letter writer, still gasping, and pulled him up as a shield.
The tantō went through the kid's chest, got stuck in bone. The Iwa ninja's eyes widened in surprise, giving Shikaki just enough time to drive a kunai up under his jaw into his brain. Both bodies fell together, the genin's last breath a wet rattle against Shikaki's ear.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the corpse, but sorry didn't mean shit to the dead.
Another Iwa ninja came at him. Shikaki had just enough chakra left for one technique. He used it on himself, forcing his own shadow to pull him down flat just as a sword swept where his neck had been.
The momentum made it look like he'd been hit. He went limp, fell into the growing pile of corpses, suppressed his chakra to civilian levels. The Iwa ninja stabbed down once to make sure, the blade went through his already-injured shoulder, grinding against bone. It was painful, but he kept himself limp, let his eyes go vacant, released his bladder for authenticity.
Playing dead while your comrades died around you wasn't exactly Konoha standard, but then again, neither was surviving.
The third genin lasted longer than expected. Kid went absolutely feral when he realized he was going to die, biting an enemy's throat out before they cut him apart. Took six of them to bring him down. Shikaki watched through slitted eyes as they literally pulled the kid into pieces, his screams going on way too long.
By nightfall of the first day, he was the only one left alive, buried under two corpses and pretending to be a third. The Iwa forces set up camp in the valley, using the Konoha corpses as latrine markers. Someone pissed on the pile Shikaki was under. Warm liquid soaked through his vest, and he had to bite through his own tongue to keep from moving.
Three days. He played dead for three fucking days.
The Iwa ninjas looted the bodies on day two. Someone pulled the corpse off him, rifled through his pockets. Took his kunai, his ration bars, missed the things in his inner pocket. When they rolled him over to check for hidden pouches, shit and piss soaked and covered in other people's blood. The looter muttered something about "fucking tree huggers" and moved on.
By day three, the flies had found them. They crawled across his face, into his nose, his ears. Laid eggs in the wounds. He felt maggots starting to move in the shoulder wound and had to not react.
The main Iwa force moved through on the evening of day three. A thousand ninjas marching through the valley, stepping on corpses, laughing about how easy it had been. Shikaki counted them through the sound of their footsteps. Nine hundred eighty-six. The intelligence had been close.
He waited another six hours after the last one passed before moving. Even then, it was almost too late. His muscles had locked up, wounds had started to fester. The shoulder wound was definitely infected, probably gangrenous. When he tried to stand, his legs gave out immediately.
So he crawled.
Away from the killing field...
Away from the dead kids who'd called for their mothers...
Away from Chozen's deflated corpse and Inoka's headless body....
Away from the genin he'd used as a human shield, whose letter home would never be sent.
Found an animal trail leading to a cave. Dragged himself inside to die properly, alone, where nobody would piss on his corpse or use it as a territorial marker.
Except he'd been dying for three days now and his body apparently hadn't gotten the memo.
----------
"Troublesome," Shikaki muttered, the Nara clan's favorite. "Can't even die properly."
His hand, the right one, the left was definitely broken in at least four places, fumbled at his vest pocket. Two ration bars that had been soaked in someone else's blood.
The smart move would be saving them, trying to heal enough to make it back to the border. Report the mission's failure. Watch them carve forty-three names into the memorial stone. Get another suicide mission because that's what special jonin were for, cannon fodder with slightly better jutsu.
"Special jonin," he said, laughing until it hurt too much to continue. "Congratulations, Shikaki, you're now qualified to die for your village with a fancier title."
The laughter turned into crying, which was even more pathetic than dying in a cave. But fuck it, nobody was here to see. His parents were already dead, letter had arrived the day before deployment. Training accident, they said. His father trying to save civilians from a misaimed jutsu during a public demonstration. His mother attempting to help and catching the backlash.
Dead heroes. Just like their son would be, eventually.
If he could actually manage to die.
Something glinted deeper in the cave. Not sunlight, it was already dark outside, had been for hours.
He stared at it with his one good eye.
Could be a trap.
Could be some kind of poisonous gas that would finally finish the job.
Could be his brain shutting down and showing him pretty lights before the end.
"Fuck it," he decided.
Moving was agony. Every inch forward required dragging himself with his one functional arm, legs refusing to cooperate beyond weak pushes. The blood trail he was leaving would've made him easy to track if anyone gave a shit about one more dead Konoha ninja.
The light grew stronger as he went deeper. The cave expanded into a proper chamber, and that's when he saw it, seal work covering the walls. The symbols hurt to look at, like they were written in dimensions his brain couldn't quite process.
"Uzumaki?" he guessed, recognizing maybe one character in twenty. The Uzumaki clan had been seal masters before they got wiped out. This looked like their work had a baby with something older and meaner.
The light source was in the center, a pool of something that definitely wasn't water. It glowed with that blueish. The seals all pointed toward it like it was something important.
Or dangerous.
Probably both.
Shikaki dragged himself to the edge and looked down. His reflection stared back, and Jesus Christ he looked bad. The left side of his face was hamburger. His vest was more red than green. Something white was poking through a tear in his shoulder that was probably bone.
"Well," he said to his fucked-up reflection, "I wanted to die anyway."
He tried to form hand seals for a diagnostic jutsu, maybe figure out what this thing was. His broken fingers didn't cooperate, resulting in something between Bird and Dog. But somehow, the malformed seal activated something in the array.
The pool erupted.
The blue light became solid, wrapping around him like liquid chakra. It burned and froze simultaneously, flooding into every wound. He screamed, or tried to, but the energy was already forcing its way down his throat.
And this was his first deepthroat. He hoped it would be his last.
Too much too much too much...
His chakra pathway, already damaged from overuse during the battle, couldn't handle the influx. They burst like overfilled water balloons, the foreign energy immediately rebuilding them wider. The pain transcended physical sensation into something almost philosophical.
It was damn painful!
This is what dying should feel like, some part of his brain noted. The rest of him was too busy being unmade and remade to care.
The cave disappeared. Reality became a tunnel of light and sensation, pulling him down, down, down... Then nothing.
Then...
"—ound him here, Sāra-sama. Still breathing but barely."
"Bring him to the medical chambers. Carefully, look at these injuries."
Shikaki tried to open his eyes. Both of them worked this time, which was probably not how anatomy worked but whatever. He was lying on something soft. An actual bed with actual sheets that didn't smell like blood and shit.
A woman leaned over him. Young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with red hair and concerned eyes. She wore elaborate robes that marked her as someone important, and the way the other person deferred to her confirmed it.
"You're awake," she said. "That's... that's good. We weren't sure you would survive. What's your name?"
His throat felt like sandpaper that had been set on fire. The girl gestured and someone brought water. Cool, clean water that tasted better than anything he'd remembered.
"Shika," he managed, cutting off his clan name. "I'm... a merchant. Traveling merchant."
"A merchant," the girl repeated, and he could hear the doubt. "The healers said you had terrible burns, like you'd been too close to an explosion. And your wounds..."
She trailed off, clearly disturbed by what she'd seen. Probably wasn't used to seeing what ninjas did to each other. Civilian ruler of a civilian city.
"Bandits," he croaked. "They had explosives. Mining equipment they'd stolen, maybe. Got lucky. They were amateurs with it."
"Bandits with explosives?" She looked to her guard, who shrugged. It wasn't impossible, the war had scattered enough dangerous shit across the countryside that anyone could get their hands on something nasty.
"You were found near the Ryūmyaku," she said carefully. "That's... unusual. The passages to that chamber have been sealed for generations. How did you get there?"
Ryūmyaku.
Shikaki's brain, even half-fried from whatever the fuck had happened, started putting pieces together. The Ryūmyaku was in Rōran, a city-state in the Land of Wind. Isolationist to the extreme, protected by some kind of power that made the desert around it bloom.
"I don't know," he said, which was technically true. "I was dying. Crawled into a cave to get away from the sandstorm. There was this blue light, and I followed it. Thought I was hallucinating. Then I woke up here."
Sāra bit her lip, looking far too young to be ruling anything. "The Ryūmyaku is supposed to be dormant. My mother sealed them before she died."
"Maybe they're not as sealed as you thought," Shikaki suggested weakly.
She looked troubled by that but didn't pursue it. "What about your family? Is there someone we should send word to?"
"No one," he said flatly. "They're dead. Plague hit our village two months ago." The dead was dead, whether from plague or a training accident.
"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. This girl wore her heart on her face like an open book. No ninja training. Just a teenager trying to rule a city.
"I'm Sāra," she said finally. "Queen of Rōran, though that probably doesn't mean much to an outsider. You're under my protection while you heal. The healers say you'll need some days before you can walk properly."
"I can't pay—"
"I'm not asking for payment," she interrupted, looking almost offended. "You appeared in our most sacred place, half-dead. Either the Ryūmyaku brought you here for a reason, or it's the strangest coincidence I've ever heard. Either way, I'm not throwing an injured man into the desert."
She stood, robes trailing like water. "Rest. Heal. When you're better, perhaps you can tell me about the world outside. We don't get many visitors here."
The guard gave him one last look before following her out. That one had some training. Not ninja level, but something. He'd have to be careful around that one.
Shikaki stared at the ceiling, carved stone depicting dragons or serpents or something in between. He was alive, somehow. In a place ruled by a girl who didn't know enough about chakra to realize a "merchant" shouldn't have chakra burns. Where nobody knew him, nobody expected anything from him, and most importantly, nobody would come looking for him.
The Konoha records would list him as MIA, presumed dead. Another name on the stone.
His shoulder throbbed where the sword had gone through. The Ryūmyaku had kept him alive but hadn't fixed everything. He'd have scars. Reminders of the day he'd used a dying kid as a shield and played dead while his comrades were butchered.
Some ninja he'd turned out to be.
"Troublesome."
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Chapter 02 - Bullshitting
Sunlight hurt like a motherfucker.
That was Shikaki's first thought as consciousness dragged him back to the land of the living. The second was that someone had apparently replaced his tongue with sandpaper soaked in ass. The third was calculating exits, because old habits died harder than Konoha ninjas in a suicide mission.
Door: guarded, footsteps every forty seconds meaning amateur on duty.
Window: height unknown, doable if desperate but his left leg was maybe 40% functional.
Ceiling vent: might fit his arm. Maybe.
Survival odds if he ran now? 15% on a good day.
Survival odds if he stayed? Unknown, but probably better than 15%.
"Simple math," he muttered, then immediately regretted it when his throat reminded him that talking was now a premium service his body couldn't afford.
The door opened and a servant entered with a tray. Young woman, maybe sixteen, hands shaking like leaves in a thunderstorm. She took one look at him and went pale.
"Food," she squeaked, setting the tray down so fast some soup sloshed over the edge.
Shikaki looked at the tray, then at her, then back at the tray. "Don't worry," he said. "I only eat people on Tuesdays."
The tray hit the floor. The girl hit the door running. The soup hit everything in between.
"Should've said Thursdays," he told the empty room. "More believable."
Twenty minutes later, the door opened again. This time it was Sāra, and she looked annoyed. Good. Annoyed was better than suspicious.
"You scared my staff," she said, trying for stern but landing somewhere around pouty.
"Your staff scares easily."
"She said you threatened to eat her."
"I specifically said I don't eat people on... what day is it?"
"Wednesday."
"See? She's perfectly safe."
Sāra stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if he was joking or insane. Finally, she sat in the chair beside his bed, robes pooling around her. "The healers say you're recovering remarkably well."
"I'm remarkably hard to kill. It's my only talent."
"Besides being a merchant."
"Right. That too."
She leaned forward, and there it was, the curiosity that would either save or damn him. "Tell me about your routes. We get so few traders here."
Fuck. Should've prepared a better lie. But then, he'd been too busy dying to plan for interrogation by teenage royalty.
"The northern routes," he said, buying time while his brain spun up a story. "Through the Shadow Valley."
"Shadow Valley?" Her eyes lit up. "I've never heard of it."
Of course she hadn't. He was stealing it from a movie he'd half-remembered from... before. From the other life that felt more like dream than memory now.
"Past the Land of Snow," he continued, warming to the lie. "Where the mountains get so tall they cut the sky in half. Caravans have to pay tribute to the Sand Walkers or risk getting lost in the storms."
"Sand Walkers?"
"Desert nomads. They control the passes." He was mixing Star Wars with Dune now, but she wouldn't know. "Crazy bastards ride these huge lizards, paint themselves blue for their god."
"Blue?"
"Something about the sky spirits. I don't ask questions when the people holding swords are also holding my profit margins."
She was fascinated, leaning so far forward she might fall off the chair. "What goods do you trade?"
"Whatever people aren't selling." Safe answer, vague enough to be meaningless.
"That's not very specific."
"Specificity is bad for business. Soon as you specialize, someone undercuts you."
"But surely you have main products?"
"Sure. I mainly sell things to people who want to buy them."
She laughed. "You're impossible."
"I'm a merchant. It's basically the same thing."
The door opened and a man entered who screamed 'guard captain' from his posture alone. Mid-thirties, scarred hands, eyes that catalogued everything twice.
"Sāra-sama," he said with a bow that managed to be respectful and dismissive simultaneously. "I heard our... guest was awake."
"He is," Shikaki said. "He can also hear you."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "A merchant, Sāra-sama says."
"That's what the business cards say."
"We found no business cards."
"That's because I'm bad at business."
"What company do you work for?"
"Independent contractor. Company of one. Very exclusive."
"That's convenient."
"It's actually pretty inconvenient. Meetings are boring when it's just me."
The guard wasn't amused. His hand drifted to his belt, not quite reaching for a weapon but making sure Shikaki noticed the possibility. Then, with the casual air of someone who'd done this before, he let his dagger slip from his belt.
The metal hit stone with a sharp ring.
Normal merchant would've flinched. Jumped. Something.
Shikaki watched it fall, counted the rotations, and didn't move.
"Your reflexes," the guard said slowly, "are interesting for a merchant."
"Your dagger dropping is interesting for a guard captain."
"Most people react to falling weapons."
"Most people haven't spent three years on the northern routes where reacting to every little sound gets you eaten by snow leopards."
"Snow leopards."
"Big ones. White as fresh coca… eh, I mean, white as snow, and twice as dangerous."
Sāra intervened before the guard could respond. "Masaru, perhaps we could—"
"Silk," Masaru interrupted, eyes still on Shikaki. "Current market price?"
Ah. The knowledge test. The Nara clan did have merchant contacts, part of their information network. He knew some prices, but showing too much knowledge would be as suspicious as too little.
"Fifty ryō per bolt," he said.
"It's thirty-five."
"For the shit they sell in the capital, maybe. I deal in northern silk. Moth-woven, not worm. Completely different texture."
"Moth-woven silk isn't real."
"Tell that to the nobles paying me triple for the novelty."
Masaru tried another angle. "Iron ore, per ton?"
"Depends on purity. Raw? About six hundred. Refined? Two thousand if you know who's buying."
That was actually accurate, or had been six months ago. Masaru couldn't argue without revealing his own information was outdated.
"Chakra metal?" The captain's voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp.
Trap question. Chakra metal wasn't publicly traded.
"Not for sale," Shikaki said. "Not unless you want ninjas up your ass asking uncomfortable questions about supply chains."
"But you know the price."
"I know enough to know I don't want to know more."
Sāra cleared her throat. "Speaking of chakra metal, the healers mentioned unusual burns. Chakra burns, they said."
Shit. The Ryūmyaku exposure left marks.
"Mining accident," Shikaki said, the lie coming smooth as water. "Five years back. Some idiots thought they'd found a chakra metal deposit. Turns out it was just iron with trace amounts, but they used explosive tags to crack it open. Chakra-infused metal plus explosives equals..." He gestured at himself.
"You survived that?" Masaru's skepticism was thick enough to spread on bread.
"Barely. Still get the shakes during thunderstorms." He held up his left hand, let it tremor. The tremor was fake, but the inspiration was real, copied from a teammate who'd taken nerve damage from a lightning jutsu. Poor bastard shook like that until the day he died.
Which was three days, no, four days ago.
Fuck.
"Chakra metal explosion," Sāra mused. "That must have been terrifying."
"Terrifying. Painful. Expensive. Mostly expensive. Lost my entire investment and spent two years paying off medical debts."
"Is that why you were traveling alone?" she asked. "No money for guards?"
"Guards are an advertisement that you have something worth stealing. I prefer looking too poor to rob."
"That clearly worked well," Masaru said dry as the desert outside.
"I'm alive, aren't I?"
"Barely."
"Still counts."
Masaru looked like he wanted to continue the interrogation, but Sāra stood. "I think our guest needs rest."
"Sāra-sama—"
"That wasn't a suggestion."
The captain bowed, stiff and formal. "Of course." He picked up his dagger with deliberate slowness, making sure Shikaki saw him secure it properly. "I'll post a guard. For your protection, merchant."
"Thoughtful of you."
"I'm a thoughtful man."
After he left, Sāra lingered. "You don't like him."
"I don't like anyone. It's simpler that way."
"That's sad."
She studied him with those too-young eyes that held too much responsibility. "What are the festivals like, where you're from?"
The question caught him off-guard. "Festivals?"
"We have harvest celebrations here, but I've always wondered what they do in other places. My mother used to tell me stories, but..." She trailed off.
Shikaki thought of Konoha's festivals. The memorial services disguised as celebrations. The way they honored the dead while making more of them.
"Loud," he said finally. "Lots of drinking. Fireworks that sound like explosive tags so all the veterans dive under tables. Dancing that looks more like controlled falling. Food that's trying to kill you with grease."
"That sounds wonderful."
"It sounds like chaos."
"Same thing." She smiled, sad and wistful. "I've never left the city."
"Good policy. Outside world's full of assholes."
She laughed, surprised. "My mother never let me curse."
"Your mother's dead. Curse all you want."
Sāra's face went through about six emotions in two seconds before landing on something between shocked and amused.
"That's horrible."
"Yeah, but I'm honest about it."
"You're honestly horrible?"
"Better than being dishonestly nice."
She laughed again, fuller this time. "You're nothing like our usual traders."
"Your usual traders probably aren't half-dead smart-asses with questionable humor."
"No, they're fully alive boring people with no humor at all."
"See? I'm an improvement."
Her eyes landed on something in the corner, his salvaged belongings. "Is that a shogi board?"
Fuck. He'd forgotten about that. "Travel set. Good for killing time between trying not to die."
"You play?"
"Badly."
"Play me."
"Sāra-sama—"
"That's an order."
Well shit. Refusing would be suspicious. But beating royalty at strategy games was historically bad for your health.
She set up the board. Not expert, but not amateur either. Shikaki deliberately fumbled his opening, made moves that were good but not great.
She took his bait, pushed her advantage. He let her, making just enough mistakes to seem believable. When she trapped his king, he made sure to look surprised.
"You're not bad for a queen," he said.
"You're terrible for a merchant."
"Merchants are supposed to be good at shogi?"
"Merchants are supposed to be good at strategy."
"I am. My strategy was letting you win."
Her eyes sharpened. "You didn't."
"Didn't I?"
"Play properly."
"Sāra-sama—"
"Stop calling me that and play properly."
So he did.
Eight moves later, her king was trapped with no escape.
"That's cruel," she said, staring at the board.
"That's shogi. Want to learn why you lost?"
"You'll teach me?"
"I'll try. Can't promise you'll get better. Natural talent is a thing."
"Once a week."
"What?"
"Once a week, you'll teach me." It wasn't a question.
From the doorway, Masaru watched with calculating eyes. Shikaki gave him a little wave, which earned a scowl.
"Your captain doesn't trust me," Shikaki noted.
"He doesn't trust anyone."
She reset the board. "Show me what I did wrong."
So he did, walking through each mistake with the patience of someone who had nothing better to do. Which he didn't. Being half-dead limited your options.
When she finally left, hours later, Shikaki was alone with his calculations.
Survival odds if he stayed: 78%. They clearly needed something, even if they didn't know what.
Odds if he ran: 45% and dropping. Desert, wounds, no supplies.
Odds they discovered he was a ninja: 100%, eventually.
Odds they'd care: Unknown variable.
Sāra was desperate for connection, that much was obvious. Girl was lonely as fuck in her tower, surrounded by people who saw her as symbol rather than person. He could use that.
The thought should've bothered him more than it did.
Masaru was a problem but not immediate threat. Man was suspicious but bound by hierarchy. As long as Sāra wanted Shikaki around, the captain could only watch and wait.
The city itself was perfect for disappearing. Isolated, insular, forgotten by the world. If he could maintain the merchant cover long enough to heal fully, maybe he could actually build something like a life here.
"Life," he said to the empty room. "What a troublesome concept."
He tried to sleep but the dreams came like they always did.
He woke at 3 AM, sheets soaked with sweat.
The window showed a city sleeping peaceful under stars.
No burning buildings.
No screaming.
No dying children calling for their mothers.
"Still not Tuesday," he told his reflection in the glass. "Can't eat anyone yet."
The reflection didn't laugh.