Later that night, when I was preparing to sleep, Haruto, Emiko, and Reina began gathering their things. They thought it was time to leave.
I stopped them. "You can stay in the hall," I said, pulling out the single sleeping bag I owned and handing it to Emiko. "You're too weak to go outside tonight."
They froze, surprised. Then gratitude flickered across their faces — quiet, hesitant, almost painful to watch. The sisters settled into the sleeping bag, huddled close together. Haruto stretched out on the bare floor beside them.
"It's better than before," he murmured, half-asleep.
When morning came, I cooked breakfast. We ate in silence, the only sound the soft clinking of wooden bowls. Afterward, I began my usual routine — workout, chakra refinement, and tag-making.
I didn't tell them to go. They didn't leave.
By noon, when I started preparing lunch, I noticed something strange. My house was spotless. Too spotless.
Outside, I found Reina sweeping the veranda with a broken broom, Emiko folding rags beside her. "We wanted to help," she said shyly.
I smiled despite myself. "Come on, lunch is ready."
They followed, cautious but proud. It wasn't much, but a clean house and quiet company were better than I'd ever had in this house.
As we ate, a thought began forming in my mind.
"Haruto," I said, setting down my chopsticks. "How would you feel if you could work for your meals?"
He blinked, caught off guard, then brightened. "Really? Are you hiring us, sir? We can clean, or cook— I'll learn, I promise!"
His earnestness almost made me laugh. "Something like that," I said. "If it works out, I might just have a lot of jobs for kids like you."
They exchanged confused looks, but I only smiled back.
Before we move forward, you need to understand something — explosive tags aren't simple tools. They're military supplies for shinobi units, the equivalent of rifles in the modern world.
An average handgun costs nine hundred dollars; a good meal, maybe ten. Yet shinobi burn through tags daily. It's why they say ninja earn a lot and spend a lot — their weapons consume their wealth.
But to me, that imbalance meant something else. Opportunity. As long as I didn't try to train them as shinobis in turn. I could actually sustain a lot of civilians.
That's how I found myself standing in front of the Department of Clan Affairs.
The receptionist, a kind-faced woman with dark hair tied in a bun, smiled at me. "Hello there, kid. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to learn how to register a new shinobi clan."
Her brows rose. "That's… quite the question." Amusement softened her tone. "It's simple enough — one thousand ryō for registration, proof that your members are citizens of Konoha, and a mission-profit contract stating the village's cut."
Without hesitation, I placed the money on the counter. "I'd like to register now. I'll be the clan head."
"Eh?" She blinked, clearly unsure if she'd heard right. But rules were rules, and ryō was ryō.
A few signatures and a surprising lack of oversight later, it was done. I guess my identity as a shinobi helped.
When she asked for the list of members, I paused. "It isn't required to declare every member immediately, is it?"
She frowned slightly. "Not required, but strongly advised."
"Then I'll opt out for now."
She gave a small shrug. Probably thought it was just a child's whim — another orphan playing shinobi lord.
And that's how I became the first head of the mighty Kurosawa Clan.
The next three days were relentless. I traded my morning workouts for tag production, and by the third night, I had twenty-five finished tags. Enough to sign a six-month contract with Murata — fifty tags a month, guaranteed. That resulted in a price increase to 750 ryo.
With that, the foundation was laid. I was ready for the next step.
"Haruto," I called that evening. "Go find your friends from the streets. Bring them here."
He looked confused but nodded, sensing something serious in my tone.
While he was gone, I went to the market. Bought large pots, cheap vegetables, sacks of rice, tent fabric, and sleeping bags. By dusk, my courtyard looked like a camp.
When the children arrived — thirty of them, ragged and hungry — their eyes darted between the food and me like I might snatch it away.
I cooked in silence. The air was thick with the scent of broth and smoke.
When the first bowl was filled, Reina stepped forward and stopped a boy from digging in. "After the prayer," she said firmly.
The boy hesitated, then bowed his head. One by one, the others followed. I didn't plan it that way, but I didn't stop it either. Praying couldn't hurt right?
We spoke together, voices uneven but sincere:
"To the powers that be, we thank you for this day and this meal. May your grace stay with us forever."
Then they ate — fast, loud, alive. The food disappeared faster than the Anbu.
I watched the chaos, the laughter, the quiet joy of a full stomach. For the first time in weeks, I felt something like peace and purpose. I wanted to be stronger, but honestly, It was never a good enough driving force. I was not actually obsessed with power, nor did I have a grinder's mentality.
When they finished, I stood. "Listen carefully," I said, and the courtyard quieted.
"If I offered you a living, proper food every day, and later, clothes and shelter — what would you say?"
Suspicion flickered in some eyes, hope in others.
"Of course, it won't be free. You'll work for it. Cleaning, cooking, odd jobs. Whatever you can manage."
The tension eased a little. Work for food — they understood that language.
"But there's one more thing," I continued. "I'll need your names. Who you were doesn't matter anymore. From today onward, those who accept will bear the name Kurosawa."
Silence followed. I expected resistance — questions, maybe laughter. But what I got were blank stares and weary acceptance as if they were still waiting for the actual demand.
To them, names were cheap. A warm meal was priceless. And so, I bought all their names with a single meal and the promise of another.
I crouched in front of the smallest girl. "So, little Emiko," I asked gently, "would you like to be Kurosawa Emiko?"
Her eyes widened. Then she nodded, hesitant but determined.
And just like that, the Kurosawa Clan was born — not from blood, but from hunger, choice, and a quiet promise at the edge of the slums.