Morning came slowly, pulling Arata out of a dreamless sleep.
He blinked at the ceiling cranes. For a moment, he forgot where he was. Then the memories flooded back—the transmigration, the chakra, the cat, Yamiko.
Right, he thought. I'm a ten-year-old prince with a shadow cat and a war coming.
He sat up. Across the room, Munchkin was already awake, sitting by her empty food bowl and staring at him with expectant yellow eyes.
"You just ate last night," Arata muttered.
Munchkin meowed.
"Fine. I'll tell the maid."
He dressed quickly. His personal maid arrived moments later, as she always did, and helped him straighten his kimono. She didn't mention the cat. She didn't mention the strange energy she might have felt in the room. She simply worked, quiet and efficient.
"Waka-tono," she said, "your father requests your presence at breakfast."
"Of course."
They walked together through the corridors. The palace was waking up—servants sweeping, guards shifting shifts, the distant sound of a cook shouting orders. Arata kept his pace steady, his expression neutral.
But inside, he was testing something.
Yamiko, he thought. Can you hear me?
Her voice came from nowhere and everywhere, soft as a breath against his ear. Yes, Master. I am here.
Can anyone else hear you?
No, Master. Only you. The shadow conceals my voice.
Arata felt a small surge of satisfaction. That was useful. Very useful.
They passed through a hallway with no guards posted—a short stretch between two intersections, empty and quiet. Arata slowed his pace slightly.
Yamiko, he thought, I want you to try something. See that maid? The one leading me?
Yes, Master.
Go into her shadow. Stay there for one minute. Then come back to me.
There was no hesitation. As you command.
He felt a faint ripple in his own shadow—like a pebble dropped into still water—and then nothing. Yamiko was gone.
The maid continued walking, unaware. She didn't stumble. Didn't shiver. Didn't give any sign that something had just merged with her shadow.
Arata counted silently in his head. One. Two. Three.
The minute passed. He felt the ripple again, and Yamiko's voice returned.
I have returned, Master.
Could you hear me while you were in her shadow?
A pause. No, Master. I could not. The connection was severed.
Arata filed that information away. Disappointing, but not surprising. If Yamiko could communicate across any shadow, she would be too powerful. There had to be limits.
Still, the test confirmed something important: Yamiko could merge with any shadow. The maid hadn't felt a thing. But that was a civilian. What about a shinobi? Would a trained sensor notice something moving through their shadow?
He thought about White Zetsu.
The memory surfaced from his knowledge of the anime—the creature who could merge with trees, walls, and ground, traveling undetected. His chakra became natural, blending perfectly with the environment. That was why no one ever sensed him.
Yamiko is similar, Arata thought. But different. White Zetsu merged with the environment itself—trees, earth, stone. Yamiko merges with shadows.
Shadows were everywhere. Attached to people, to objects, to walls. And unlike trees, shadows moved. Shifted. Changed with the light.
If she can stay undetected in a shinobi's shadow, he realized, she's better than White Zetsu. Because no one watches their own shadow.
The thought made his eyes light up. A plan was forming—still rough, still incomplete, but growing.
Master? Yamiko's voice was curious. You are thinking loudly.
Just planning, he replied. Stay hidden for now.
They reached the dining hall. The maid slid the door open, and Arata stepped inside, letting his expression settle into the mask of a quiet, obedient prince.
The door closed behind him.
The rest of the morning was a blur.
Etiquette lessons. Posture. The proper way to pour tea for a guest. The correct angle for a bow when greeting a visiting dignitary. Master Kenji was relentless, and by the time the session ended, Arata's back ached from sitting still for so long.
But he endured. He nodded. He performed.
And the moment he was dismissed, he walked—calmly, carefully, not too fast—back to his room.
He locked the door behind him.
Munchkin was asleep on her blanket, a clean plate beside her. Empty again. The maid must have refilled it while he was gone.
"Living the life," Arata muttered.
He sat cross-legged on the futon. Yamiko emerged from his shadow, kneeling in front of him.
"Master. You have something in mind."
It wasn't a question. Arata smiled slightly.
"I need more of you."
Yamiko's golden eyes blinked. "More of me?"
"Not exactly." Arata held up a hand. "I need spies. Shadows that can move through the palace, listen to conversations, report back to me. One of you is useful. A network of you is unstoppable."
He explained his plan. Copies of Munchkin—for consciousness, for intelligence. Copies of his shadow—for the ability to merge, to hide. Fusion. Creation. A small army of shadow beings, each one loyal, each one invisible.
Yamiko listened without interrupting. When he finished, she bowed her head.
"It will be done, Master."
Arata turned his attention to Munchkin.
The cat was still asleep, her side rising and falling gently. He placed a hand on her fur.
Copy.
The white sphere appeared—another perfect copy of the cat, consciousness and all. He stored it.
Then he copied his own shadow. The dark sphere joined the cat copy in his infinite storage.
He did it again. And again. And again.
Each copy drained him. Not painfully, but noticeably—like running up a flight of stairs and realizing you were out of breath. His chakra reserves dipped with every successful copy.
By the time he had made twelve copies of each—twelve cat spheres, twelve shadow spheres—he was sweating. His hands trembled slightly. His vision felt thin at the edges.
That's the limit, he realized. For now.
He sat back, breathing hard. But he also learned something important. He could copy his own copies. The spheres in his storage weren't single-use—he could duplicate them without needing the original target again.
That means I don't need to keep bothering Munchkin, he thought. I have a template now. A master copy.
He set aside one cat sphere and one shadow sphere in a special corner of his storage—the "originals," preserved for future use. The rest were for creation.
He also tried something else. His chakra was nearly empty—a hollow feeling in his dantian, like a cup drained to the dregs. He reached into storage, pulled out a copy of his own chakra, and fused it back into himself.
It worked. His chakra refilled instantly, like fuel pouring into an empty tank.
Good to know, he thought. I can recharge myself whenever I need to.
He didn't make more copies. Twelve was enough for now. Too many, and he wouldn't be able to manage them. He needed to walk before he ran.
Now came the creation.
Arata held a cat sphere in one hand and a shadow sphere in the other. He had learned from making Yamiko—the fusion created a cat-person, loyal and intelligent. But did all his creations have to be cat-people?
He focused. As he brought the spheres together, he tried to control the fusion. To shape it. To tell the power what he wanted.
Not a cat-person, he thought. A human form. Male. Featureless. A shadow that walks like a man.
The spheres merged. Light bloomed.
When it faded, a figure stood before him.
It was human-shaped—roughly the size of a child, maybe eleven or twelve. But it had no face. No features. Its body was dark, almost liquid, like a silhouette given form. Two eyes glowed faintly gold where a face should have been.
It knelt.
"Master," it said. The voice was flat. Neutral. Male, but barely.
Arata stared at it. Then he looked at the two previous fusions he had made—the cat-person versions. He hadn't meant to make them. They had just… happened.
Yamiko was the first, he thought. I didn't know what I was doing. Now I do.
He raised a hand and willed the two cat-person spies to vanish. They dissolved into nothing—deleted, as if they had never existed. Absolute Owner.
Yamiko watched but said nothing.
Arata turned back to the featureless shadow figure. It was perfect for what he needed. No unnecessary features. No individuality to get in the way. Just a tool.
He created eight more. Each one identical—dark, faceless, kneeling in a semicircle around him.
Nine shadow spies. Nine sets of golden eyes.
He reached into his storage and pulled out nine copies of his chakra—smaller portions this time, not the full amount. Enough to give them strength. Enough to let them move, think, and report.
He fused a chakra sphere into each one.
The shadows shuddered slightly as the chakra settled into them. Their golden eyes brightened. Their forms became slightly more solid, more real.
"There," Arata said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You have chakra now. Not much, but enough."
He looked at them. Nine faceless figures. Nine silent servants.
"Names," he said. "You don't get real names yet. Not until you've proven yourselves. For now, you are numbers. Shadow One. Shadow Two. Shadow Three. Up to Shadow Nine."
They bowed in unison.
"Your first mission is simple. Spread through this mansion. Listen. Watch. Learn who comes and goes, what they say, what they do. You are not to be seen. You are not to interfere. You only gather information."
He paused.
"Report to me every two days. Yamiko will be your leader. You will obey her as you obey me."
Yamiko stepped forward. Her golden eyes swept over the nine shadows.
"You heard Master," she said softly. "Go."
The shadows dissolved—not into smoke, but into liquid darkness that flowed across the floor and seeped into the cracks between the wooden boards. Within seconds, they were gone.
Arata sat back. His room felt emptier now, but also fuller somehow. Nine invisible eyes were now scattered across the palace, watching.
He turned to Yamiko.
"I have a special task for you."
She knelt. "Command me, Master."
"The Daimyo," Arata said. "I want you to watch him. Follow him. Listen to his conversations. Learn what pressure he's under, who he meets with, what he's afraid of. Report everything to me."
Yamiko bowed. "As you command."
She dissolved into shadow and flowed out of the room, slipping under the door like water.
Arata was alone.
He walked to the window and looked up at the sky. The first stars were appearing, faint pinpricks of light against the deepening blue. The moon would rise soon—a pale crescent, just enough to cast shadows.
Now I have spies, he thought. Nine shadows in the mansion. Yamiko on the Daimyo. But spies are only useful if I can give them orders they understand. And for that, I need jutsu. Techniques. Things they can actually do besides watch and listen.
He thought about the Nara clan. Their shadow techniques were perfect for Yamiko—for all his shadows, really. But how would he get them? He was a ten-year-old prince in a minor nation. He couldn't just walk into Konoha and ask nicely.
One step at a time, he reminded himself. First, gather information. Then, figure out the next move.
The moon rose over the Land of Grass, silent and patient.
Somewhere in the palace, nine shadows began their work.
And a ten-year-old boy watched the night and waited.