Chapter 165: The Clown Is Me
The crisp autumn wind swept across golden fields, rustling the stalks like ocean waves. The soft sound was tranquil—like a song carried on the breeze—soothing and serene.
It was autumn again.
Watching the farmers toiling under the fading sun, Ryosuke saw contentment etched across their sun-warmed faces. Their joy was simple, unburdened, untainted by politics or chakra.
It had been a long time since he stopped training and simply… watched.
The scene before him made him forget, if only for a moment, that this was a dangerous ninja world. It felt more like the magic-less world he had once lived in—quiet, honest, and ordinary.
There were no chakra signatures flitting about. No masked ANBU in the shadows. Despite being so close to the central region of the country, there was an eerie absence of shinobi.
This was the Land of Iron, the world's one true neutral ground.
In a world marred by endless wars and clan rivalries, the Land of Iron stood apart. It held no ambitions of conquest, no need for power struggles. Every great war found them in the middle—mediators between nations, caretakers of refugees.
Unlike the smaller villages, often infested with rogue shinobi and mercenaries, the Land of Iron was governed by samurai—an order bound by discipline and honor. Their military wasn't hidden in shadows but walked the streets in plain sight. And that visibility kept trouble away.
Most ninja, especially those with allegiances, knew better than to test the Land of Iron's boundaries.
So over time, it became a sanctuary.
But its protection didn't extend to ninja.
The Land of Iron only took in civilians—never shinobi. That rule kept them "neutral," preserving a delicate balance in a volatile world.
After leaving the farmlands, Ryosuke reached the gates of a city.
Massive wooden doors stood open, guarded by two stern samurai in simple armor, blades at their sides. Their expressions were emotionless, but their posture made it clear—they missed nothing.
This was only the gate to the outer city, so the inspection was relaxed. Still, Ryosuke had taken precautions. With his forehead protector tucked away and a simple disguise covering his features, he passed for a traveling merchant from the Land of Fire.
He paid the entrance fee and slipped through with the crowd.
Possibly due to the recent alliance between their nations, the guards didn't seem particularly wary of Land of Fire citizens.
Inside, the city buzzed with life.
Vendors pushed carts through cobbled streets, hawking rice cakes, yakitori, and sweet red bean buns. Teahouses lined the corners, their signs swinging gently in the wind. Restaurants, pubs, and grocery shops packed the outer district. Buildings rose higher than those in the Land of Fire, with two or even three stories being common.
Compared to Konoha or even Land of Fire, this place resembled a historical drama set—a living memory of another time.
Standing before a street sign, Ryosuke scanned it for one name.
He murmured the street name under his breath, eyes narrowing as he located it on the city map. It was west of his current location.
Perfect.
He memorized a few major landmarks before heading off, blending back into the flow of people.
He didn't use chakra perception to locate his targets—not here. That kind of behavior might be seen as arrogant… or worse, disrespectful. In this place, order was kept not by shinobi but by sword.
As he walked, the air subtly changed.
A light fragrance drifted on the breeze—faint at first, but gradually stronger. Rouge, floral perfume, and a sharp undertone of incense mingled into something almost intoxicating.
Ryosuke held his breath out of instinct, but soon adjusted.
Before him stretched a long, elegant street—a riot of color and perfume.
Misty Rain Street.
Despite its poetic name, it was anything but proper.
It wasn't a place for nobles or high officials. No, this was a street for wealthy merchants, wandering scholars, and men with empty hearts and full wallets. A red-light district cloaked in elegance.
Even in daylight, seductive women and charming men strolled openly, calling out to passersby with practiced sweetness.
Drunken guests stumbled along the walkway, gently coaxed—or pushed—into one luxurious parlor or another.
And yet, it was strangely orderly. There were no fights. No thefts. No chaos.
The rules here were ironclad. Even the most intoxicated soul seemed to understand the boundaries. Misty Rain Street welcomed everyone—but never tolerated disrespect.
Ryosuke walked calmly, declining each flirtation with a polite smile.
His self-restraint, or perhaps his saintly demeanor, drew attention. He could feel eyes tracking him. He wasn't the first outsider to pass through here, but he might've been the first in a long while to act like a monk amid temptation.
Still, he wasn't here for pleasure.
Eventually, he arrived before a two-story building that stood out among the glamor—ordinary, quiet, and strangely clean.
A small wooden sign hung above the door:
"Yorozuya."
His lips curled into a rare, amused smile.
He took a step forward and reached for the door to knock.
Bang!
A small object shot through the door like a projectile. Ryosuke caught it reflexively, inspecting it with mild confusion.
A pair of bent, broken glasses.
He raised an eyebrow—just in time to see the door burst open.
A massive white creature bounded out, barreling straight toward him like a summoned beast gone rogue.
"Shinpachi-kun!"
A clear, feminine voice rang out from behind the now-ruined door.
"Oi, oi, oi! We've already traveled through time—how long are you gonna keep doing this!? And glasses aren't cheap, you know! Sadaharu, stop chewing on them! I bought you a bone for a reason!"
Snap!
The doorknob turned from within as more footsteps approached.
It seemed someone was finally using the door the right way, even though the thing now looked like it had lost a fight with a charging bull.
"Sadaharu just wanted to play with Shinpachi-kun..."
"Obviously, I am Shinpachi-kun! That 'the glasses are the real me' joke is so outdated, okay?!"
A young man with an unremarkable appearance—so plain his face was practically unrecognizable—stormed out the door, visibly annoyed. Behind him strolled a red-haired girl with a hair bun, hands folded behind her back and an air of indifference radiating from her carefree expression.
But both froze the moment they saw the scene outside.
Standing calmly in front of them was a tall young man. In one hand, he held up a large white dog by the scruff of its neck—none other than Sadaharu. In the other hand, he clutched a pair of neatly crafted eyeglasses.
"Excuse me... Is this the Yorozuya? The place that accepts any commission?" he asked politely.
---
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Ryosuke! Truly sorry for the trouble!"
The inside of the Yorozuya office didn't exactly scream "professional." A shabby couch and an old wooden table that looked like they'd been rescued from a second-hand shop filled the sparse space. The exterior might have suggested something more grand, but inside was painfully simple.
Ryosuke sat on the couch, facing Shimura Shinpachi across the table. Shinpachi, flustered and apologetic, had immediately bowed and served him tea.
"No need to apologize. It wasn't a big deal," Ryosuke said with a warm smile.
But even as he spoke, his gaze shifted—not toward Shinpachi, but to the girl playing with the dog nearby.
Kagura.
She and Shinpachi were the real reason Ryosuke had come here. Two of his targets. And between them, Kagura interested him far more—not for personality, but because of power. Her strength was real. Whether based on what he'd observed now or what he knew from the plot, Kagura's fighting ability far outclassed Shinpachi's.
"So, what sort of commission does Ryosuke-san want us to take?" Shinpachi asked, regaining his composure and diving into business. "Although we're called Yorozuya, we don't really take every job these days. The name has more symbolic meaning now. We still ask questions before accepting anything."
"No rush," Ryosuke said, turning his eyes back from Kagura to Shinpachi. "Are either of you really in charge here? I think we should wait for Gintoki to return before we talk about commissions."
"Eh?" Shinpachi blinked. "Mr. Ryosuke… You know Gin-san?"
"Not yet," Ryosuke answered coolly, "but I imagine we'll be acquainted soon."
As if on cue, a voice rang out from outside—frustrated and hoarse.
"You… What did you do this time?!"
Hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway. A silver-haired man wearing a wrinkled blue-and-white yukata stormed in, his whole body exuding weariness and irritation.
"After slaving away outside, a father expects his kids to at least not tear down the front door in a misguided show of filial piety! I haven't had sweets money for a month—could you not make my life harder?!"
But the second he stepped into the living room and saw Ryosuke, his face changed.
And not just "changed" as in softened—more like he had mastered the face-changing techniques of Beijing opera. Instantly, his furious scowl transformed into a calm, practiced smile.
"Oh! So we have a guest!"
Clearing his throat, Sakata Gintoki straightened his back and marched inside with an exaggerated grace. "Shinpachi-kun, how could you serve a guest with that kind of tea? Hurry and fetch the finest tea leaves from my secret stash—aged for decades!"
With mock dignity, he sat opposite Ryosuke, placing a wooden sword on the table like some kind of war general. His expression turned solemn.
"Right away, sir!" Shinpachi replied, playing along and rushing to the side.
"No need," Ryosuke cut in gently, eyes locked on Gintoki. "Tea leaves that've been stored for decades are probably stale by now anyway."
Then, his expression shifted slightly.
"Tell me—do you charge consultation fees here? Maybe something that includes water and tea costs?" His tone was casual, but his gaze sharp.
Gintoki froze. Shinpachi halted mid-step. Even Kagura, who had been blissfully unaware while playing with Sadaharu, stopped moving.
They were all perfectly still.
Ryosuke let out a quiet sigh. "Didn't think things would be this… bad. I expected a bit more from you guys."
Then he leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "Gintoki, you've seen 'Naruto,' right? You should know how to act when someone like me shows up."
And then it happened.
His eyes glowed faintly. A unique white light shimmered in them—Byakugan, awakened and active.
Ryosuke had locked onto every expression in the room, analyzing each twitch, glance, and breath.
But across from him, Gintoki just tilted his head, puzzled. "Uh… I think you've mistaken us for someone else. What's this about ninjas? Can you… explain it in plain terms?"
Both Shinpachi and Kagura mirrored his confusion. It was clear from their expressions—they didn't understand a thing.
Ryosuke didn't press.
"Never mind. Let's focus on the commission."
He leaned back. "Before I say more, I'll tell you this—if you accept and complete it, I'll pay you enough to live in luxury for the rest of your lives."
That got their attention.
But even as he spoke, Ryosuke was thinking—processing.
If they had watched Naruto, they would've noticed immediately that someone like him didn't belong in that world. He wasn't part of the original story.
But now, a strange realization crept in.
Maybe… Naruto doesn't exist here at all.
These three, like Blueno from earlier, were from a different world. Blueno had been from One Piece. These three were from Gintama.
But unlike One Piece, Gintama wasn't a straightforward battle series. It wore comedy as a mask, but beneath the jokes was a brutal honesty. Social issues, emotional weight—everything was real beneath the humor.
And yet, their world also had JUMP—the very manga magazine where Naruto, One Piece, Dragon Ball, and Yu-Gi-Oh! coexisted.
So why didn't they recognize Naruto? Why didn't they know him?
Could it be… that this world's JUMP never had those stories?
Or worse—had their memories been erased?
Still, Ryosuke smiled inwardly.
If they didn't know about Naruto, they wouldn't know that he wasn't part of its world. That worked in his favor.
But then another thought struck him like lightning.
What if the Land of Fire wasn't as untouched as he had assumed?
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