The Naka River had been generous yesterday. Seiran dragged himself up the muddy bank, legs caked from thigh to toe in something that resembled sludge more than treasure.
Rusty kunai. Bent shuriken. Tangled wire. The mangled remains of cookware. And—he paused, staring—women's underwear, its metal underwire somehow fused to his backside like a stubborn leech.
Wonderful. An Uchiha gift.
The lower reaches belonged to him now, by right of salvage. The upper stretches ran through the Uchiha compound. Everything that drifted down was fair game, no matter how bizarre.
Despite the trash, he'd extracted decent ore. High-purity pieces, each glinting with faint lustre. He sorted them into piles on the bank—the valuable ore on one side, the junk on the other—and got to work cleaning the metal.
By afternoon, he had a solid bag of material. Time to test the market.
---
The shop stood near the village center, unremarkable except for one detail: a metal smelting furnace sat beside it, heavy smoke curling from its stack. A sign he'd learned to recognize.
The owner was burly, mid-forties, shoulders bare and thick with muscle. He looked up from his counter as Seiran entered.
"Excuse me," Seiran said, keeping his voice steady. "Do you buy metal ore?"
He placed the bag on the counter.
The shopkeeper's dismissal died before it formed. He peered into the bag, then carefully examined a piece, turning it under the light. His frown eased.
"High purity," he murmured. "Easy to refine." He looked up. "Where'd you get this?"
Seiran had rehearsed this. "The river. I collect stones there. It adds up over time."
The man nodded, accepting it. He saw the pale eyes—Byakugan. A Hyuga kid. Probably had shinobi parents somewhere, family money. He didn't know Seiran was alone.
"Three hundred ryo," the owner said. "Bring more if you find it."
Relief flooded through him. Three hundred ryo. His living expenses ran fifteen hundred monthly. At this rate, he could clear ten thousand a month.
For a six-year-old, that was a fortune.
---
Back at the river, Seiran rolled his pants up and returned to work.
The sorting pile grew methodically. The ore gleamed in the afternoon sun. He built a small fire, skewered fresh fish from the water, and watched them rotate slowly over the flames.
No more twelve-hour grinds for me, he thought, grinning.
After eating, he pulled a coin from his pocket.
He tossed it high and watched its arc. Time seemed to slow as electricity sparked at his fingertips. The coin fell—and an arc of current shot from his hand, ionizing the air with a sharp crack.
It struck a fish mid-swim. The water churned. The fish floated belly-up.
"Level One Railgun," Seiran muttered, more to himself. "Still pathetic."
He didn't know if his Electromagnetic Manipulation matched Misaka's from A Certain Scientific Railgun—that whole anime felt like another life now—but weak was weak. At this power level, a railgun was possible but far from devastating.
He flexed his fingers, thinking.
A ranged weapon. The Byakugan gave him one-kilometer sight range. Pair that with proper armament, and the game changed completely.
A sniper rifle crossed his mind first—precision iron tubes, electromagnetic bullets, the works. He dismissed it immediately. The craftsmanship required was beyond his reach, his funds too shallow, his Electromagnetic Manipulation still too weak.
A crossbow, though.
The idea crystallized. A narrow metal track for electromagnetic propulsion. A flat, elongated bolt to maximize acceleration through the magnetic field. Combine elastic potential energy with electromagnetic boost, and lethality multiplied.
For his current level, it was perfect. The sniper rifle could wait.
With ranged attacks planned, he needed close-range power.
He approached a thick tree, sank his weight into his stance, and assumed the Gentle Fist position. Deep breath. Eyes sharp and focused.
Blue light bloomed faintly across his right palm.
He struck.
The impact boomed. Bark exploded outward. Leaves cascaded from the upper branches, drifting down like snow.
Seiran examined his reddened, trembling palm with clinical interest.
"Just as I thought," he whispered. "Compressed magnetic flux. Electromagnetic pulse."
The principle was simple enough. Rapidly diffusing alternating magnetic fields ionized the air, creating high-voltage current through electromagnetic induction. Instant breakdown. The repulsive force around his palm was what sent the bark flying.
"Magnetic Storm Palm," he named it. "The power's decent."
But there was a problem. Every action had an equal and opposite reaction. The strain on his body was severe. His current stamina couldn't sustain even eighteen palms properly, let alone the clan's sixty-four-palm technique.
His hand trembled with fatigue.
"I need better conditioning," he muttered. "Physical fitness first."
He stretched slowly, thinking back to his past life—all those prisoner fitness books he'd bought but never read. Theory was all he had now, but theory was enough.
The plan crystallized: train money for the railgun. Prisoner fitness routines for conditioning. The Magnetic Storm Palm refined through repetition.
Seiran looked out over the river, satisfaction settling warm in his chest.
"The times are changing," he said quietly.
And he intended to change with them.