The journey to Uzushio Island would take seven days under optimal conditions. Kenjaku intended to use every single one of them productively.
They departed the Shimoda temple at noon as planned, leaving behind the bodies of Hana's former comrades without ceremony or burial. The corpses would serve as a message to whoever had contracted the assassination—a declaration that the "curse technique user" they had feared was far more dangerous than their worst nightmares had imagined. Let them send more assassins. Let them spread rumors and whispered warnings. Fear was a currency Kenjaku intended to accumulate in vast quantities.
The first day of travel was largely uneventful, a steady march through forested territory that belonged to no particular clan. Hana proved to be a competent guide, her Yamanaka training having included extensive geographical knowledge of the region. She led them along hidden paths and game trails, avoiding the main roads where bandits and enemy shinobi might lurk.
Kenjaku used the walking time to catalog his abilities.
His primary technique—Cursed Spirit Manipulation—was functioning exactly as his merged memories indicated. He could absorb cursed spirits through a process that felt disturbingly like eating, incorporating their essence into a reserve that existed somewhere between his soul and his cursed energy. Currently, that reserve contained seven spirits of varying grades: three Grade 4 weaklings barely worth mentioning, two Grade 3 entities with modest combat potential, and two Grade 2 threats that could challenge most shinobi without difficulty.
It was a pathetic collection by the standards of his Heian era peak, but serviceable for his current needs.
Beyond Cursed Spirit Manipulation, Kenjaku possessed several other techniques that his centuries of existence had developed. Barrier techniques. Binding vows. The brain transfer ability that had allowed him to survive for so long, hopping from body to body like a parasite seeking new hosts. His cursed energy reserves were substantial, bolstered by the natural talent of the body he'd stolen and the accumulated experience of his ancient consciousness.
But it was on the second day, during a rest stop beside a clear mountain stream, that Kenjaku discovered something that made him genuinely pause.
He had been experimenting with his cursed energy output, pushing his limits to understand exactly what this body could handle, when he felt something... unfamiliar. A technique lurking in the depths of his consciousness that didn't match any of his established abilities. Something that had been added during the merger with Marcus Chen's soul, a gift from whatever cosmic force had arranged this impossible transmigration.
Kenjaku sat cross-legged on a flat rock, closed his eyes, and reached for that unfamiliar power.
It came to him like a memory of something he'd never experienced—a complete understanding of a technique he'd never learned, written into his very being as if it had always been there.
Idle Transfiguration.
Mahito's technique. The ability to perceive and reshape the soul, transforming bodies like clay in a sculptor's hands. One of the most broken abilities in all of Jujutsu Kaisen, capable of instant kills against anyone who couldn't protect their soul with cursed energy, capable of modifications and mutations that defied the laws of biology.
Kenjaku's eyes snapped open, his borrowed heart racing with an excitement he hadn't felt since waking up in this world.
He had Mahito's ability.
Not a copy. Not an imitation. The genuine technique, integrated into his being as thoroughly as if he'd been born with it.
The implications were staggering.
In the original Jujutsu Kaisen timeline, Kenjaku had eventually absorbed Mahito after the sorcerer's defeat, gaining access to Idle Transfiguration as part of his cursed spirit collection. But that was supposed to happen over a thousand years from now, in a modern era that might not even exist in this merged timeline.
Here, now, at the very beginning of his journey, Kenjaku had been gifted one of the most powerful abilities in existence.
Whatever force had brought him to this world clearly wanted him to succeed.
Or perhaps it simply wanted to see what chaos he could create with such tools at his disposal.
Either way, Kenjaku was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Hana," he called, his voice carrying that distinctive blend of politeness and menace that had become his default register. "Come here. I need to test something."
His subordinate approached warily, her body language radiating the tension of someone who had learned—painfully and thoroughly—that her new master was not to be underestimated. The past two days had been an education for her, watching Kenjaku dispatch the occasional bandit or hostile wildlife with casual efficiency, observing his complete lack of normal human reactions to violence or death.
She was terrified of him.
Good. Terror was useful.
But as she stood before him, awaiting whatever fresh horror he intended to demonstrate, Kenjaku noticed something else in her expression. Something beneath the fear, subtle but unmistakable to someone who had spent centuries reading human emotions.
Fascination.
"Hold out your hand," Kenjaku instructed.
Hana obeyed without hesitation, extending her left arm with the palm facing upward. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she didn't flinch or pull away.
Kenjaku reached out and took her hand in his, noting the calluses from years of weapons training, the small scars that marked a life of violence. Then he closed his eyes and activated Idle Transfiguration at the lowest possible intensity.
The sensation was indescribable—like seeing a color that didn't exist, like hearing a sound below the threshold of human perception. He could feel Hana's soul, a complex web of experiences and emotions and identity, pulsing beneath her physical form. It was beautiful in a way that transcended aesthetics, a direct perception of what made a person them.
And he could shape it.
With the gentlest possible touch, Kenjaku made a modification. Nothing dramatic. Nothing harmful. Just a small adjustment to the physical parameters encoded in Hana's soul, changing the texture of her palm from rough to smooth.
Hana gasped as the transformation occurred, watching with wide eyes as decades of calluses simply... vanished. Her skin became soft and unmarked, as if she'd never held a weapon in her life.
"What—what did you do?" she breathed.
Kenjaku released her hand, studying his own fingers with renewed appreciation for the power they now contained. "I reshaped your soul. Or rather, the portion of your soul that defines your physical form. The calluses you'd built up over years of training no longer exist because I convinced your being that they had never formed in the first place."
Hana stared at her transformed hand, flexing her fingers experimentally. The motion was the same as always, but the sensation was completely different—a lifetime of warrior's conditioning, erased in an instant.
"Can you... put it back?"
"Of course." Kenjaku took her hand again, and with another whisper of Idle Transfiguration, restored the calluses to their original state. The texture returned, the familiar roughness reappearing as if it had never left. "The technique allows for virtually unlimited modification. I could make you taller, shorter, stronger, weaker. I could give you additional limbs or remove existing ones. I could reshape your face until your own mother wouldn't recognize you."
He paused, considering how much to reveal.
"I could, theoretically, transform you into a cursed spirit. Or transform a cursed spirit into something resembling a human. The possibilities are limited only by my understanding of soul mechanics and my precision in applying changes."
Hana's expression cycled through several emotions in rapid succession: horror, awe, greed, fear. She was a shinobi, trained to assess threats and opportunities with equal cold pragmatism. She understood immediately what such an ability meant in the context of warfare.
"That's..." she started, then stopped, seemingly unable to find adequate words.
"Broken?" Kenjaku suggested. "Unfair? Reality-defying? Yes to all of the above. It's the kind of ability that shouldn't exist, and yet here I am, wielding it as easily as breathing."
He stood up from his rock, stretching muscles that still didn't quite feel like his own. The body was young—mid-twenties at most—but centuries of consciousness made every physical form feel like a temporary costume.
"This is why I'm going to win," he continued, more to himself than to Hana. "Not because I'm the strongest, or the smartest, or the most ruthless. But because I have access to powers that the people of this era can't even conceptualize. Shinobi think in terms of chakra and jutsu, elements and bloodlines. They have no framework for understanding what I can do."
He turned to face Hana directly, that unsettling smile playing across his borrowed features.
"Neither do you, really. But you're learning. And that makes you more valuable than you know."
They resumed their journey, but the dynamic between them had shifted subtly. Hana no longer looked at Kenjaku with pure terror—there was something else now, something more complex. Respect, perhaps. Or the beginning of something that could become respect, if nurtured properly.
Kenjaku noticed, catalogued the observation, and filed it away for future consideration.
The third day brought their first significant combat encounter.
They had entered territory contested by three minor clans, a region where skirmishes were constant and travelers were fair game for any passing patrol. Kenjaku had been aware of the approaching enemies for nearly an hour before they struck, his sensory abilities tracking the shinobi as they paralleled his path and slowly closed into ambush formation.
There were twelve of them. A full squad, probably a mix of combatants from different clans who had temporarily allied against a common opportunity. Their chakra signatures were unremarkable—chunin-level at best, the rank and file soldiers who made up the bulk of any clan's military strength.
Kenjaku could have avoided them easily. Could have used barrier techniques to mask his presence, or simply outrun them with cursed energy enhancement.
Instead, he stopped in the middle of a forest clearing and waited for them to attack.
"Master," Hana said urgently, her hand drifting toward her weapons pouch. "There are—"
"I know. Twelve hostiles, approaching from the north, east, and west. They'll reach us in approximately two minutes." Kenjaku's smile widened. "I need to practice."
Hana's mouth opened, then closed. She had learned, over the past few days, that arguing with her new master was pointless. When Kenjaku decided to do something, he did it, regardless of any objections she might raise.
The ambush came precisely on schedule.
Twelve shinobi burst from the treeline, moving in a coordinated assault pattern that spoke of extensive training. They wielded a variety of weapons—swords, kunai, chains, staffs—and several were already forming hand seals for jutsu attacks.
Kenjaku raised one hand, almost lazily, and activated Idle Transfiguration.
The first shinobi—a burly man with a massive cleaver—stumbled and collapsed as his legs suddenly became three feet longer than his body could support. He crashed to the ground, his newly elongated limbs tangling beneath him in a configuration that human joints were never meant to assume.
The second and third shinobi fared worse. Kenjaku reshaped their souls simultaneously, switching their physical positions. Not teleportation—something far more unsettling. Their bodies exchanged locations by virtue of their souls being convinced they had always occupied different spaces. The disorientation alone was enough to take them out of the fight, their minds reeling from the impossible experience.
The fourth shinobi simply ceased to exist as a human. Kenjaku transformed her into a small, harmless creature—something between a frog and a rabbit, with none of the intelligence or combat ability she'd possessed moments before. The transformation was instantaneous and irreversible, at least without his intervention.
The remaining eight shinobi faltered, their training warring with their survival instincts. They had never seen anything like this. Had never even heard of abilities that could reshape reality so casually.
"Continue your attack," Kenjaku encouraged them, his tone almost friendly. "I need more practice with this technique. Your deaths will contribute to my education."
One of them—braver or stupider than the rest—charged forward with a battle cry, his sword aimed at Kenjaku's throat.
Kenjaku sidestepped the attack with minimal movement, reached out, and touched the man's face.
Idle Transfiguration activated.
The shinobi's head inverted, his face now occupying the back of his skull while the rear of his head faced forward. He screamed—or tried to, but his throat was now oriented incorrectly for sound production. He collapsed, twitching, and died within seconds as his brain failed to cope with its new configuration.
The remaining seven fled.
Kenjaku let them go. They would spread stories of what they'd witnessed, adding to the legend he was carefully constructing. Fear was a weapon, and he intended to wield it as skillfully as any blade.
"That was..." Hana's voice trailed off. She had watched the entire encounter without moving, frozen by the casual horror of what she'd witnessed.
"Informative," Kenjaku finished for her. "The technique requires direct contact for significant modifications, but minor changes can be achieved at range if I can perceive the target's soul clearly enough. The precision increases with practice, as does the speed of transformation."
He looked down at his hands, still marveling at the power they now contained.
"I'll need to experiment more extensively. Human subjects are useful for understanding the limits of biological modification, but I'm more interested in the technique's application to cursed spirits. If I can reshape their souls, I might be able to enhance their abilities or combine multiple spirits into more powerful entities."
He turned to Hana, who was still staring at the transformed remains of the fallen shinobi.
"Are you alright?"
The question startled her out of her shock. "I—yes, Master. I'm fine."
"Good. We have a schedule to keep." Kenjaku stepped over the body of the inverted shinobi and continued along the path. "Though I have to admit, that was quite satisfying. I haven't had the opportunity to test a new technique so thoroughly in... well, longer than this body has been alive."
Hana followed, her mind churning with thoughts she couldn't quite articulate.
She had known, intellectually, that her new master was dangerous. The cursed spirit she'd witnessed on the first night had made that abundantly clear. But watching Kenjaku reshape human beings like they were made of wet clay... that was something else entirely.
And yet, she realized with a start, she wasn't as horrified as she should have been.
Hana had grown up in the Warring States Period. She had killed her first enemy at age eleven, had lost count of her victims by fifteen. Death and violence were the constants of her existence, the only reliable features of a world defined by endless conflict.
What Kenjaku did was monstrous, yes. But was it really more monstrous than what she'd seen her entire life? Was reshaping a body any worse than cutting it apart with blades? Was transforming someone into a harmless creature crueler than burning them alive with fire jutsu?
The answer, she was beginning to suspect, was no.
Kenjaku wasn't a monster. He was simply honest about the nature of power in a world where power was everything. He didn't pretend to be righteous or justified. He didn't wrap his violence in noble causes or clan loyalty.
He was what he was, and he made no apologies for it.
There was something almost... refreshing about that.
Hana shook her head, disturbed by her own thoughts. Stockholm syndrome, she told herself firmly. She was rationalizing her situation to cope with the trauma of her capture. Any positive feelings toward Kenjaku were symptoms of psychological manipulation, not genuine appreciation.
But even as she repeated these reassurances, she couldn't help noticing how gracefully he moved through the forest. How his presence seemed to warp the very air around him, making everything else feel slightly less real by comparison.
He was beautiful, in the way that a perfectly balanced weapon was beautiful.
And she was starting to forget why that should terrify her.
The fourth and fifth days blurred together in a haze of travel and training.
Kenjaku continued to experiment with Idle Transfiguration, refining his control over the technique through dozens of small applications. He modified his own body to increase his speed and endurance, then restored the changes before any side effects could accumulate. He practiced perceiving souls at greater distances, developing the sensory aspect of the ability that would be crucial for combat applications.
He also began teaching Hana.
Not jujutsu—she lacked the innate cursed energy that would make such techniques accessible. But there were other skills he could impart. Mental resistance techniques that would protect her from genjutsu and similar attacks. Physical training regimens that would push her body beyond its normal limits. Strategic thinking patterns that would make her a more effective operative.
Hana absorbed the lessons with desperate eagerness, recognizing them for what they were: investments in her usefulness. As long as she remained valuable to Kenjaku, she would remain alive. The moment she became obsolete, she would be discarded.
It should have been a terrifying thought. Instead, she found herself working harder than she ever had in her life, determined to exceed every expectation her master might have.
"You're progressing faster than I anticipated," Kenjaku observed on the evening of the fifth day, as they made camp beside a river that marked the boundary of neutral territory. "Your mental barriers have improved significantly."
"Thank you, Master." Hana bowed her head, hiding the flush of pleasure that warmed her cheeks. "I've been practicing the meditation exercises you taught me."
"Indeed." Kenjaku studied her with those dark, knowing eyes. "You've also been monitoring your own psychological state, attempting to identify and resist the influence of Stockholm syndrome."
Hana froze.
"It's admirable," Kenjaku continued, as if commenting on the weather. "Most people in your situation would succumb to the effect without ever recognizing it. The fact that you're actively fighting it demonstrates significant mental strength."
"I... how did you know?"
"Your body language. The micro-expressions when you look at me. The careful distance you maintain, despite opportunities to position yourself closer. You're attracted to me, and you're simultaneously terrified of that attraction."
Hana couldn't respond. Every word he spoke was precisely accurate, cutting through her defenses like a blade through paper.
"Let me save you some psychological anguish," Kenjaku said, his tone almost kind. "What you're experiencing is entirely natural. I've worn many bodies over the centuries, and this one—" he gestured at his handsome, stitched features "—is quite appealing by conventional standards. Your attraction is partially physical, partially based on my demonstrated power, and partially a survival response to your captivity."
He leaned forward, meeting her eyes directly.
"But that doesn't make it less real. Emotions don't become invalid simply because we understand their origins. And I'm not particularly interested in having a subordinate who constantly fights against her own feelings."
Hana's breath caught in her throat. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that you should stop torturing yourself with guilt about your attraction." Kenjaku's smile softened slightly, becoming something almost human. "I have no intention of exploiting it, if that's your concern. Physical intimacy doesn't interest me in this body—or any body, really. Centuries of existence tend to drain the appeal of temporary pleasures."
He stood up, stretching in the firelight.
"But loyalty, genuine loyalty, is valuable. If your feelings evolve in that direction—if you come to serve me not just out of fear but out of genuine dedication—I will treasure that loyalty appropriately. I take care of what's mine, Hana. That's not a threat or a promise. It's simply a statement of fact."
He walked to the edge of the camp, his back to her, looking out over the moonlit river.
"Get some sleep. We'll reach the coast tomorrow, and there will be arrangements to make before we can cross to Uzushio Island."
Hana lay down on her bedroll, but sleep was a long time coming.
She stared at Kenjaku's silhouette, outlined against the stars, and tried to sort through the chaos of her emotions. Fear was still there, would probably always be there. But it was no longer the dominant feeling.
Respect had taken root alongside the terror. And beneath that, something warmer that she refused to name.
He had given her a choice. Stay and serve, or die meaninglessly. She had chosen survival, which was rational, sensible, what any shinobi would do in her position.
But somewhere along the way, the choice had stopped feeling like a choice at all.
She wanted to be here. Wanted to follow him, to learn from him, to be part of whatever grand design he was constructing.
She wanted to matter to him, even if she never mattered more than a useful tool.
It was pathetic, she knew. Embarrassing. The kind of weakness that her former clan would have mocked mercilessly.
But her former clan had sent her to die, and Kenjaku had given her purpose.
In the mathematics of loyalty, that equation was simple enough.
Hana closed her eyes, and when she finally slept, she dreamed of stitched smiles and the sound of souls being reshaped.
The sixth day brought them to the coast.
The eastern sea stretched out before them, vast and grey-blue under an overcast sky. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Uzushio Island, home of the Uzumaki clan and their legendary sealing techniques.
Kenjaku stood on a cliff overlooking the water, his hair whipping in the salt wind, and allowed himself a moment of genuine appreciation for the view. Whatever else could be said about this merged world, it was certainly beautiful.
"There's a fishing village about two hours south," Hana reported, returning from her scouting mission. "They have boats capable of making the crossing, but they're unlikely to take passengers to Uzushio without proper authorization."
"The Uzumaki control access to their island that thoroughly?"
"According to what I've heard, yes. They're paranoid about security, with good reason. Their sealing techniques make them targets for anyone who wants to force-recruit their services or steal their knowledge."
Kenjaku nodded, unsurprised. The Uzumaki clan's eventual destruction had been motivated precisely by this combination of valuable abilities and insufficient military power to protect them.
"Then we'll need to present ourselves as legitimate visitors," he mused. "Scholars seeking knowledge, as I mentioned before. The Shimoda clan had some correspondence with the Uzumaki in the past—academic exchanges regarding theoretical aspects of spiritual manipulation. I should be able to leverage that connection."
He turned away from the sea, his mind already working through the details of his cover story.
"In the meantime, I want you to infiltrate the fishing village. Learn their patterns, identify the most corruptible boat captain, and establish potential extraction routes in case our visit to Uzushio goes poorly."
Hana bowed. "Understood, Master."
She departed without further questions, moving with the silent efficiency of a trained infiltrator. Kenjaku watched her go, noting with satisfaction the improvements in her movement patterns. The training was paying off.
Alone on the cliff, Kenjaku allowed his thoughts to drift toward the future.
The Uzumaki clan was his immediate target, but they were only the first step in a much larger plan. He needed to establish himself in this era, to build the foundation for operations that would span centuries. That meant gathering resources: knowledge, subordinates, cursed spirits, political influence.
It also meant making certain decisions about how he wanted to interact with the major players of this era.
Hashirama and Madara were still children, but they wouldn't remain children forever. Within a decade, they would begin the friendship that would eventually reshape the shinobi world. Within two decades, they would found Konoha. Within three, their relationship would shatter, culminating in the battle at the Valley of the End.
Kenjaku could insert himself into that narrative in countless ways. He could befriend the young Hashirama, positioning himself as a mentor figure who would influence the First Hokage's thinking. He could approach Madara, feeding the darkness that would eventually consume him. He could manipulate events from the shadows, ensuring that the Uchiha-Senju conflict continued indefinitely.
But all of those approaches felt... small.
Kenjaku wasn't interested in being a puppet master, pulling strings from behind a curtain. That was too passive, too indirect. He wanted to be a presence in this world, a force that heroes and villains alike would have to reckon with directly.
He wanted to be remembered.
Not as a footnote or a conspiracy theory. Not as "the mysterious figure behind events" who historians would debate for centuries. But as himself—Kenjaku, the Accursed Sage, the being who had worn a hundred bodies and challenged the very nature of existence.
That meant he needed to be visible. Public. Infamous.
It meant he needed to do something so dramatic, so unprecedented, that his name would echo through history.
The Uzumaki were a means to that end.
Their sealing techniques, combined with his jujutsu abilities and Idle Transfiguration, could create effects that this world had never seen. He could seal cursed spirits into humans, creating jinchuriki-style vessels for entities that had never been contained before. He could develop new barriers and bindings that combined the best of both traditions. He could—
An idea struck him, so audacious that it made him laugh out loud.
The Tailed Beasts.
In the original Naruto timeline, the Tailed Beasts were eventually distributed among the hidden villages as living weapons, sealed into human hosts who became both the most powerful and most persecuted members of their communities. The sealing techniques used for these vessels were complex, dangerous, and largely developed by the Uzumaki.
But what if he got there first?
What if, instead of waiting for the villages to form and the Tailed Beasts to be distributed, he began collecting them now? Using Uzumaki sealing knowledge combined with his own abilities, he could potentially capture and contain these massive chakra entities.
Not to use as weapons—that would be too straightforward.
But as research subjects. As sources of power. As pieces on a board that wouldn't even exist for another generation.
The Tailed Beasts were, ultimately, just very large and very powerful spirits. His Cursed Spirit Manipulation might not work on them directly—chakra and cursed energy had different properties—but with the right sealing techniques as a bridge, anything was possible.
It was the kind of long-term project that appealed to Kenjaku's ancient sensibilities. Something to work toward over decades, with countless smaller goals along the way.
And it would certainly make him memorable.
A monster who collected other monsters, who wore stolen bodies and reshaped souls at will, who sought to accumulate power not for any political end but simply because power was interesting.
That was the villain he wanted to be.
That was the story he wanted to write.
The sun was setting by the time Hana returned from her scouting mission, the sky painted in shades of orange and purple that reflected off the calm sea. Kenjaku had spent the afternoon in meditation, refining his control over Idle Transfiguration and cataloguing the various techniques he might need in the coming weeks.
"Report," he said, without opening his eyes.
"The village is called Shioichi. Approximately two hundred residents, mostly fishermen and their families. They have three boats large enough for the open-sea crossing to Uzushio, all owned by a single family—the Mizukawa. The family patriarch, Mizukawa Gorou, is the person with authority to grant passage."
"And his corruptibility?"
"Moderate. He's protective of his clan and his village, but he has gambling debts that he's been hiding from his family. The right pressure in the right places could secure his cooperation."
Kenjaku nodded, pleased with the thoroughness of her report. "Excellent. However, I've decided to take a different approach."
Hana waited silently for elaboration.
"Corruption leaves traces," Kenjaku explained. "Debts and threats and secrets—they create relationships that others can discover and exploit. For a minor operation, that would be acceptable. But I intend my visit to the Uzumaki to be the foundation of a long-term relationship. I can't afford to start with deception that might be uncovered."
He opened his eyes and stood, facing the direction of the village.
"Instead, I'm going to present myself honestly. Or rather, as honestly as a body-stealing ancient sorcerer can present himself. I'll introduce myself as a practitioner of curse techniques seeking academic exchange with the Uzumaki sealmasters. The Shimoda clan connections will provide initial legitimacy, and my demonstrated abilities will establish my value as a potential ally."
"And if they refuse?"
Kenjaku's smile carried an edge of danger. "Then I'll become more persuasive. But I don't anticipate refusal. The Uzumaki are scholars at heart, despite their warrior capabilities. The opportunity to study a tradition of spiritual manipulation outside their own expertise should appeal to their academic instincts."
He began walking toward the village, his gait unhurried and confident.
"Come, Hana. Let's go introduce ourselves to the gatekeepers of our destination."
The village of Shioichi was exactly as Hana had described: a modest fishing community, its wooden buildings clustered around a harbor where three substantial boats rocked gently in the evening tide. The residents were wary of strangers, as any sensible people would be in the Warring States Period, but they were not immediately hostile.
Kenjaku approached the largest building—the Mizukawa family home, identifiable by its size and the quality of its construction—and knocked politely on the door.
The man who answered was in his fifties, weathered by years of ocean work, with the calculating eyes of someone who had survived through cunning as much as strength. Mizukawa Gorou, patriarch of the local ship-owning family, regarded his unexpected visitors with undisguised suspicion.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
"My name is Shimoda Kenichi," Kenjaku lied smoothly, using a cover identity that his memories confirmed would hold up to basic scrutiny. "I'm a practitioner of curse techniques from the mainland, seeking passage to Uzushio Island. I have legitimate business with the Uzumaki clan—academic exchange regarding theoretical matters—and I'm willing to compensate you appropriately for the crossing."
Gorou's eyes narrowed. "Curse techniques? You're one of those sorcerers?"
"In a manner of speaking. My tradition differs from the Uzumaki's art, but there are enough similarities that scholarly exchange benefits both parties. The Uzumaki have corresponded with my clan in the past; they should be expecting visitors in the near future."
It was a calculated gamble. Kenjaku didn't know if the Uzumaki were actually expecting visitors from the Shimoda, but the claim was plausible enough to create uncertainty in Gorou's mind.
The fisherman hesitated, weighing risk against potential profit. "Passage to Uzushio isn't cheap. Or easy. The currents around the island are dangerous, and the Uzumaki don't welcome uninvited guests."
"I'm aware. Name your price, and I'll determine if I can meet it."
They negotiated for nearly an hour, eventually settling on a sum that was substantial but not unreasonable. Kenjaku produced the payment from a storage seal—one of the few shinobi techniques he'd bothered to learn from this body's previous life—and Gorou's suspicion softened into something approaching respect.
"We leave at dawn," the fisherman said, pocketing the coins. "The crossing takes most of a day in good weather. I'll take you to the outer harbor, where the Uzumaki inspectors will decide whether to let you through to the island proper."
"That's acceptable. Thank you for your cooperation."
Kenjaku and Hana spent the night in a small inn, resting for the journey ahead. Or rather, Hana rested while Kenjaku sat in meditation, his mind racing through contingency plans and alternative approaches.
Tomorrow, he would meet the Uzumaki.
Tomorrow, the first phase of his grand plan would truly begin.
Tomorrow, the greatest villain of this merged world would take his first steps toward legendary status.
And somewhere in the back of his ancient mind, the part that had once been Marcus Chen—the accountant, the anime fan, the nobody who had dreamed of being someone—smiled with fierce satisfaction.
This was the story he'd always wanted to live.
And he was going to make it magnificent.
Dawn came grey and misty, the sun hidden behind clouds that promised rain later in the day. Kenjaku and Hana boarded Gorou's boat along with a small crew of experienced sailors, and by mid-morning, the coast had disappeared behind them.
The crossing was uneventful, if uncomfortable. The sea was rougher than it had appeared from shore, and Hana spent most of the journey looking vaguely green. Kenjaku, protected by cursed energy reinforcement, remained unaffected by the motion of the vessel.
He spent the time studying the horizon, watching for his first glimpse of Uzushio Island.
It appeared around midday, rising from the mist like a vision from legend. The island was larger than he'd expected, mountainous and green, surrounded by whirlpools that churned the water into treacherous currents. The Uzumaki's famous defenses were immediately apparent: anyone attempting to approach without knowledge of the safe passages would be torn apart by the sea itself.
Gorou navigated with careful expertise, following a route that seemed to make no sense until suddenly the whirlpools parted and a clear channel appeared. Natural or artificial, Kenjaku couldn't tell, but the effect was impressive either way.
The outer harbor was a modest facility, clearly designed more for inspection than for trade. A single dock extended into the calmer waters behind the whirlpools, with a guardhouse at its base and several Uzumaki shinobi standing watch.
As the boat approached, one of the guards stepped forward—a woman with the distinctive red hair that marked the Uzumaki bloodline, her posture radiating competent authority.
"State your business," she called across the water.
Kenjaku stood at the bow of the boat, projecting calm confidence. "My name is Shimoda Kenichi, practitioner of curse techniques. I've come to request an audience with your clan's scholars regarding academic exchange. The Shimoda and Uzumaki have corresponded in the past; I believe your leadership will be interested in what I have to offer."
The guard's expression didn't change, but Kenjaku detected a flicker of interest in her chakra signature. "Wait here. I'll send word to the mainland."
They waited for nearly two hours, the boat rocking gently in the protected harbor, while messages were presumably exchanged between the outer guard post and the clan's central leadership. Kenjaku used the time productively, extending his senses to study the defenses he could detect.
The whirlpools were definitely artificial, he determined. Or rather, naturally occurring phenomena that had been enhanced and weaponized through sealing techniques. The barriers around the island were layered and complex, combining multiple traditions of protection in ways that would take weeks to fully analyze.
Impressive, but not impenetrable. Given time and resources, Kenjaku could develop counters to most of what he was sensing.
But that wasn't why he was here. At least, not the immediate reason.
Finally, a second boat emerged from the inner harbor, cutting through the water with surprising speed. It carried a delegation of three Uzumaki—the red-haired guard from before, an older man with scholarly robes and ink-stained fingers, and a young woman whose chakra signature blazed with enough intensity to mark her as a genuine combatant.
The scholarly man stepped forward as the boats drew alongside each other. "Shimoda Kenichi? I am Uzumaki Hiroshi, senior researcher in the clan's theoretical division. Your clan's correspondence mentioned the possibility of a visit, but we weren't expecting anyone for several more months."
"Circumstances required an accelerated timeline," Kenjaku said smoothly. "I apologize for the unexpected arrival, but I believe the knowledge I bring will justify the inconvenience."
Hiroshi studied him with sharp, evaluating eyes. "Your message mentioned curse techniques. We've studied the Shimoda documents on the subject—theoretical interesting, but practically limited from our perspective. What makes you believe we'd benefit from direct exchange?"
In response, Kenjaku allowed a trickle of cursed energy to manifest around his hand, shaping it into a visible aura of dark power. The effect was subtle but unmistakable to anyone with spiritual sensitivity.
The three Uzumaki reacted immediately. The guard and the young combatant tensed, hands moving toward weapons. But Hiroshi—the scholar—leaned forward with naked fascination.
"That's... different from what the documents described. More refined. More... present."
"The Shimoda documents are outdated," Kenjaku admitted. "My personal research has advanced significantly beyond my clan's official records. I've developed techniques that I believe could synergize remarkably with Uzumaki sealing methods."
He let the cursed energy fade, returning his appearance to normal.
"I'm not here to steal secrets or recruit allies. I'm here because both our traditions could benefit from genuine academic collaboration. The knowledge I offer is valuable, and the knowledge you possess is... intriguing."
Hiroshi was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing the risks and benefits of allowing a stranger onto their carefully protected island. Finally, he nodded slowly.
"You'll be monitored constantly. Your movements will be restricted. Any sign of hostile intent, and you'll be killed immediately."
"I would expect nothing less."
"Then welcome to Uzushio Island, Shimoda Kenichi." Hiroshi gestured toward the inner harbor. "Let's see what you have to offer."
Kenjaku smiled his distinctive smile and stepped from Gorou's boat onto the Uzumaki vessel.
Phase one was complete.
The infiltration had begun.