Hot broth.
A bowl of miso laced with scraps of dried meat. It was aggressively salty. But right now, to Sosuke, it was the greatest thing in the world.
He sat on a wooden crate beside the carriage, hands cupped around the bowl. The surrounding guards eyed him with complex expressions. A mix of awe, suspicion, and the distinct alienation reserved for freaks.
The caravan doctor approached. Dr. Doi. He was a gaunt, middle-aged man, clutching a clean white cloth in his hands.
"That tube..." Dr. Doi gestured toward the carriage. "It's still lodged in the boss's throat."
Sosuke drained the last mouthful of broth. Warmth seeped back into his bones. Blood flow returned to his brain, clearing the metabolic fog.
"Don't pull it." Sosuke wiped his mouth. "Leave it for at least three days."
"Why?"
"His throat is swollen. If you pull it, the airway will collapse, and he'll still suffocate to death."
Dr. Doi frowned. This theory was completely foreign to him. Still, he didn't dare argue. The boss was alive, and his complexion had already regained some color.
"That tube..." Dr. Doi honed in on the crux of the matter. "Is it silver?"
Sosuke nodded.
"Silver detects poison and wards off rot." Sosuke lied, though it was anchored in scientific reality. "A silver tube keeps the wound from festering."
In this world, bacterial infection was primitive superstition—an 'Evil Wind' entering the body. The antimicrobial properties of silver ions were just another trump card in his hand.
"Such precise silversmithing..." Dr. Doi appraised Sosuke. "You just carry that around with you?"
"Family heirloom," Sosuke answered flatly. "I used it to save his life."
Dr. Doi fell silent. It wasn't uncommon to find hidden talents masquerading among the refugees. What was unsettling was this young man's absolute composure. He didn't carry himself like a vagrant.
Just then, a tapping sound came from inside the carriage.
"The boss is awake," the captain of the guards muttered. "He wants to see you."
Sosuke stood. He brushed off his new clothes—an ill-fitting, coarse gray robe that was nonetheless a hundred times better than his previous rags.
He parted the curtain and ducked into the carriage.
The interior was surprisingly spacious, lined with thick fur rugs. A faint incense burned, barely masking the metallic tang of blood.
Takaya Jiro lay propped on soft cushions. His neck was heavily bandaged in gauze. The protruding end of the silver tube vibrated slightly with every shallow breath.
He couldn't speak. But his shrewd eyes—squeezed into slits by the fat of his face—gleamed with a calculating, cold light.
He weakly pointed to a small wooden lap desk beside him. On it rested a pen and parchment.
Sosuke sat down. He offered no subservient bows.
Takaya Jiro took the pen. His hand trembled, but the strokes were violent and deliberate.
[Who are you?]
Sosuke stared at the three words. This was a negotiation. One wrong answer, and this paranoid merchant would have him quietly disposed of. Slitting a throat was a medical procedure, yes, but it was just as easily a silent murder.
Sosuke took the pen and wrote his name.
[Sosuke.] He paused a beat, then added a second line.
[A man trying to make a living in Konohagakure.]
Takaya Jiro read the note. He held Sosuke's gaze for a long time. Then, he scrawled another sentence.
[How much do you want?]
Blunt and transactional. The merchant's creed: everything had a price tag.
Sosuke shook his head.
"I don't want money," he said. "I want an identity."
Takaya Jiro's pen halted against the paper.
In this chaotic post-war era, Ryo was easy enough to come by; a clean identity was near impossible. Refugees entering Konohagakure were quarantined to the slums, subjected to grueling labor, and could be deported at a moment's notice. But with a merchant guild's sponsorship, he could secure a temporary residency permit and walk the village freely.
"I saved your life." Sosuke pointed to the makeshift airway. "If you waited for a blacksmith to forge that silver tube, it would take half a day. You'd be cold and stiff by then."
Takaya Jiro gingerly touched the foreign object protruding from his throat. Cold silver. A literal lifeline.
He knew quality when he saw it. The craftsmanship of that silver tube was extremely high—the walls were impossibly thin and smooth as a mirror. This was absolutely no ordinary 'family heirloom.'
The young man in front of him was highly questionable. But he was useful. Very useful.
Takaya Jiro wrote a third line.
[Once we reach Konohagakure, you are my Distant Nephew.]
A deal struck in ink and blood.
Sosuke gave a shallow bow. "Thank you, Uncle."
The lie slipped off his tongue effortlessly.
Takaya Jiro's lips twitched. He tried to smirk, but the movement pulled at his surgical wound, twisting his face into a pained grimace.
Sosuke reached for a nearby water skin. "Open your mouth."
The transactional negotiation was over. He was a doctor giving an order.
He dipped the tip of a wooden chopstick into the water, carefully letting drops fall around the rim of the silver tube to maintain moisture. Then, right in front of the merchant, he made a subtle move.
He reached into his robe and produced a jagged fragment of silver. Holding it up to the candlelight, he pinched the silver between his thumb and forefinger and crushed it.
[Precious Metal Generation].
Disguised as a parlor trick, the solid fragment rapidly broke down into an ultra-fine, shimmering silver dust. He dusted the powder evenly over the bloody gauze.
"What are you doing?" Dr. Doi, who had been watching closely from the carriage entrance, couldn't help but ask.
"A warding seal," Sosuke fed him a line of superstitious bullshit. "The silver blocks the foul aura of necrotic flesh."
'Broad-spectrum topical antibacterial application,' he noted internally.
Takaya Jiro stared at the silver dust coating his throat. His merchant brain was already crunching numbers. That pinch of pure silver dust was worth a few hundred Ryo, minimum. This 'poor nephew' tossed away wealth more casually than he did.
But he kept his mouth shut. In this business, everyone had secrets. As long as Sosuke's secrets kept him breathing, Takaya Jiro was perfectly willing to play the blind and deaf fool.
Late night. The caravan settled back into a tense silence.
Sosuke didn't return to the muddy refugee camp. He had been assigned a small corner in the second wagon. It was just a supply cart, forcing him to squeeze between two heavy crates, but compared to the elements, it was paradise.
No freezing rain. No worrying about getting his throat slit in his sleep for his boots.
Sosuke leaned back against a burlap sack of rock salt. He closed his eyes, but he wasn't sleeping.
He was refining chakra.
Ever since he had felt that first spark of energy on the riverbank, he had become obsessed with this power. The sensation of his cells cheering, the sharpening of his senses—it was addictive.
He could hear the boots of the patrol guards sinking into the mud outside. Heavy, dragging steps. Severe muscular fatigue. He could hear the high-frequency stridulation of insects in the distant tall grass. He could even faintly detect the weak, flickering bio-rhythm coming from Takaya Jiro's carriage.
'So this is chakra,' he mused.
Not just energy, but life itself.
Sosuke tried to control that thread of chakra, forcing it to flow through his meridians. It was incredibly difficult. The meridians were like a blocked riverbed, choked with sludge. Pushing it forward even a single step consumed massive amounts of mental energy.
But he never tired of it.
He fished out a piece of dried meat from his pocket—smuggled away from his dinner bowl. He chewed methodically as he cultivated. Energy conversion. The law of conservation of mass.
He burned heavy caloric intake to synthesize chakra, expending that chakra to map the environment. This equivalent exchange made him feel grounded.
Suddenly.
A short, wet gasp from outside the wagon. Muffled. Like a hand clamped over a mouth.
Sosuke's eyes snapped open.
His chakra perception was still low-tier, but his ears were perfectly fine. He recognized the distinct acoustic signature of steel shearing through muscle tissue.
'Ambush.'
But he didn't shout. Because he didn't know who the enemy was, nor did he know their numbers. Calling out rashly usually meant the one who sounded the alarm died first.
He shrank back into the deep shadows between the salt crates. A scalpel-like 'dagger' materialized in his palm. It was a freshly constructed shard of solid silver, its molecular edge sharpened down to a razor finish.
If they were common bandits, the mercenary guards could handle it.
If they were shinobi...
Sosuke held his breath, burying his presence beneath the salt. For once, he prayed for bandits.