Inside the Hokage's office, smoke lingered thick in the air.
The Third Hokage, Sarutobi Hiruzen, sat behind his broad desk. The tobacco in his pipe glowed faintly on and off as he carefully reviewed a special mission request that had been submitted by the mission reception office.
Even for someone as experienced as the Third Hokage, the contents of the request made his brows lift slightly.
The client was a samurai named Isshin, from the Land of Iron.
That, in itself, was nothing unusual. As the foremost shinobi village in the world, Konoha had long accepted countless commissions from across the continent—and even indirectly or directly from other shinobi villages.
What was unusual was the nature of the request.
This samurai Isshin was not asking for an escort, nor for reconnaissance, nor for extermination.
His request was simple, direct—almost crude.
He wanted to hire someone to fight him.
More specifically, he was commissioning Konohagakure to find suitable opponents within the village for open, public sparring matches.
His requirements were clear: opponents aged thirty or below, strength unrestricted—but he explicitly hoped for someone strong, preferably a jōnin.
Even more peculiar, he demanded that the matches be held in a public setting with a large audience—the more spectators, the better.
The mission was provisionally rated A-rank, but the payment structure was… interesting.
The base deposit alone was as high as five hundred thousand ryō—already extremely generous within the typical A-rank range (usually between 150,000 and 1,000,000 ryō).
If Konoha could provide a satisfactory opponent and organize a sufficiently large audience, additional rewards—depending on the opponent's strength and the scale of spectators—could reach up to two million ryō.
A total of 2.5 million ryō.
That already stepped into S-rank territory, and even among S-rank missions, it was a respectable sum.
Faced with such a bluntly worded, oddly purposed, and highly lucrative request, the mission office staff had been unable to make a decision. Following procedure, they ultimately forwarded the somewhat troublesome scroll to the Hokage.
The Third Hokage set down his pipe and picked up the attached intelligence summary. It contained both the information Isshin himself had provided and the rapid verification and supplementary findings gathered by Konoha's intelligence division.
According to the report, this Ashina-style swordsman Isshin had indeed risen to prominence within the Land of Iron over the past year, particularly active in its southeastern regions.
He was known for his fierce and decisive swordsmanship, as well as his unconventional conduct—a complete battle maniac and challenger of the sword. His reputation for being combative was clearly no exaggeration.
Hiruzen's gaze returned to the commission. His fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
"Find a strong opponent for a public match… the more spectators, the better…"
He murmured the key points under his breath, a thoughtful glint in his eyes.
The motive wasn't hard to guess.
For a young samurai like Isshin, challenging strong opponents was the best way to temper his swordsmanship.
As for insisting on a public setting with a large audience—it was obviously about fame. By defeating a Konoha shinobi in full view of many, he could spread his name far and wide, both intimidating his peers and greatly elevating his personal and school's prestige.
A very typical warrior's mindset—direct, even somewhat aggressive.
And the risk?
Practically none.
The matches would stop short of lethal intent, and they would be held within Konoha under full control. There was no risk of intelligence leakage or danger to the client.
Still, the mission was undeniably strange—almost childish. No wonder the mission office couldn't decide.
But Hiruzen's eyes lingered on that astonishing reward figure. His brows first relaxed, then slowly furrowed again.
Money.
What Konoha lacked most right now—aside from time—was money.
Over half a year of intense war preparations had become a bottomless pit, devouring the village's financial reserves at an alarming rate.
Bulk procurement and maintenance of weapons and ninja tools. Stockpiling consumables like explosive tags. Construction and reinforcement of border defenses. Frequent troop mobilizations and additional stipends. Medical supplies.
Every single item came at a massive cost.
Although the Fire Daimyō had provided support, the broader economic contraction under the looming threat of war—and the resulting slowdown in tax revenue—were undeniable realities.
The village treasury was shrinking at a visible pace.
And recently, that report Shinichi had submitted—directly concluding that the Third Kazekage was dead—had struck him as somewhat abrupt, even if the reasoning was sound.
However, out of trust in the boy, Hiruzen had indeed intensified intelligence gathering on Sunagakure.
From what he had seen so far, something was clearly off.
While all major villages were mobilizing for war, Sunagakure had instead been frequently active within the Land of Wind and neighboring minor nations, as if urgently searching for something.
This made Hiruzen realize that Shinichi's judgment might very well be correct.
Even without explicit confirmation of death, prolonged disappearance essentially meant the same thing—unknown life or death.
And "unknown" often meant dead.
Thus, Hiruzen intended to further accelerate Konoha's war preparations, which would only widen the financial gap even more.
And this commission in front of him?
Its content was so simple it bordered on absurd.
No need to venture into dangerous territories. No need to risk life and death. Just organize a few matches on home ground, gather an audience—and earn anywhere from five hundred thousand to potentially 2.5 million ryō.
Compared to war expenditures, it was just a drop in the ocean—but it was still money delivered right to their doorstep.
Not taking it would be foolish.
The only thing worth considering… was face.
Not Konoha's face—but the client's.
After all, he was just a samurai.
Hiruzen evaluated calmly.
To have made a name for himself in the Land of Iron, this client must indeed have some skill with the sword.
But this was Konoha.
His thoughts hadn't even reached the question of winning or losing. Subconsciously, he was already considering:
Who should be sent?
Someone who could make the match exciting—allowing this generous visiting patron to fully enjoy himself—while also showcasing Konoha's grace, and at the critical moment, maintaining control so the opponent wouldn't lose too badly.
After all, he was a guest.
Letting a guest come in high spirits and leave satisfied was proper hospitality—and also reflected Konoha's demeanor.
What the man sought, having paid such a high price, was likely a stimulating battle that could ignite his fighting spirit and test his skills—not a one-sided crushing defeat that shattered his confidence in an instant.
With that in mind, Hiruzen made his decision.
He picked up his brush and, in the approval section of the commission, wrote swiftly:
[Approved for acceptance. Classified as an A-rank special cooperation mission. The mission department will coordinate and select suitable personnel. The match venue may be arranged at Training Ground Three. Spectators—including villagers and off-duty shinobi—are permitted and may be moderately organized under the name of a shinobi–samurai exchange seminar. The pace of the matches must be controlled, ensuring they stop short of lethal force and maintain a friendly atmosphere. Payment will be collected according to the agreed terms.]
After writing the final character, he gently blew on the ink to dry it and handed the scroll to the ANBU standing by.
"Inform the mission department. Proceed accordingly."
"Yes, sir!"
The ANBU accepted the scroll and vanished in an instant.
...
The next day, on Konoha's main street, warm afternoon sunlight bathed the bustling road.
A few villagers gathered outside a dango shop, chatting animatedly over snacks.
"Hey, have you heard? Some samurai from the Land of Iron paid a huge sum just to come to Konoha and find someone to spar with!" a middle-aged man said excitedly, clearly enjoying the gossip.
"Yeah, yeah! I saw the notice posted earlier," a housewife chimed in, curiosity in her voice. "They're calling it some kind of shinobi–samurai exchange. It's happening tomorrow at Training Ground Three—and they're inviting people to watch. Quite a spectacle. That samurai's got guts."
"Guts? That outsider just doesn't know his place!"
A well-dressed man—looking like a shop owner—snorted, lifting his chin with the characteristic arrogance of a Konoha local.
"The Land of Iron? No matter how hard samurai train, what tricks can they really pull off? Bumpkins, that's what they are. This is Konoha—the strongest of the Five Great Shinobi Villages! Shinobi are true power! Whatever strength he has, can it compare to our taijutsu, ninjutsu, or genjutsu? Even in swordsmanship, Konoha is the best in the world!"
"Well, that may be," a younger craftsman scratched his head, "but I heard that guy Isshin is pretty young and already made quite a name for himself over there. Maybe he's got some real skill. And hey, he's paying properly and making such a big event… probably wants to see what Konoha's capable of—or maybe, yeah… use Konoha's name to boost his own reputation?"
"Boost his reputation? That outsider thinks he can step on Konoha to make a name for himself?"
The shop owner raised his voice, drawing glances from passersby.
"Dream on! Our shinobi aren't pushovers! If you ask me, any decent chūnin would be enough to show him the gap. I'm definitely going tomorrow—I want to see how he embarrasses himself."
"Well, it'll be interesting at least."
"Honestly, anyone bold enough to challenge Konoha… win or lose, that takes guts."
"Either way, it's a show. No way I'm missing it."
The chatter spread in all directions—curiosity, doubt, disdain, anticipation all mixed together.
The news of a samurai from the Land of Iron coming to challenge Konoha spread like a spark, igniting a small flame in the village's otherwise routine life.
Most people, with the quiet superiority of the strong, watched with a certain condescending curiosity—waiting for what seemed like an already decided outcome.
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