The Scroll Merchant

The seal hissed, fizzled, then burned at the edge—singeing the already wrinkled paper into a curling mess of ash.

Hikari flinched, snatching her hand back before the flicker of chakra backfired. Smoke coiled upward from the wooden desk, barely noticeable in the haze of the oil lamp's golden light. Her brow twitched as she stared down at the blackened corner of the seal she'd been copying. The ink had bled into the edges. The formation had been shaky. The formula hadn't taken.

Again.

She let out a long sigh, pulling the half-burned paper toward her with two fingers. Another waste. That was the last of the decent sheets. All she had now were scraps, barely good enough for practice.

It wasn't the failure that bothered her—it was the waste. She couldn't afford to keep wasting paper like this. Not when their food was stretched thin and her chakra was recovering slowly.

Her gaze lingered on the burnt spot for a moment longer before she reached down and slid open the drawer of the desk, the wood creaking with protest. From beneath a folded linen cloth, she pulled out the old sealing notebook—worn brown leather and cloth-bound edges. Mito Uzumaki's work. Her mother must've tucked it away years ago, never knowing it would end up in Hikari's hands.

She flipped to the inside cover. Neat, dense handwriting lined the page.

Seals are not tools. They are language. When drawn properly, they listen.

Her father's voice echoed faintly in her mind, trailing after the words.

"They listen," he'd said once, crouched beside her when she was barely taller than the table, "but only when you speak clearly. Sloppy lines, mixed ink, unclear intent—it's like shouting nonsense into a storm."

He'd said it while adjusting her fingers around a brush. He hadn't been a powerful man, or even well-liked. But sealing was the one thing he did with purpose. It had earned him respect. A small shop. A family.

Even if it had all eventually crumbled.

She stared at the book a moment longer, then closed it slowly and slipped it behind the loose plaster near the bedframe. She pressed the board back in place and dusted her hands off. Not now. Not yet.

She had bigger problems than failed seals.

---

She sat back down at the rickety desk and let her chakra flow slowly through her limbs—not focusing it into her hands, but just sensing it. Feeling it. It was there—more than before. Deeper.

Even with the poor meals, it was growing.

Her mother had always been careful. Limited. Her massages were short, and she'd rest afterward for hours. But Hikari had already been doing multiple in a row. Her stamina stretched further. Every time she used chakra, her reserves seemed to tug outward, building just slightly.

Uzumaki blood.

A quiet grin tugged at her lips.

She wasn't strong, but she didn't need to be—not in the traditional sense. Strength wasn't her goal. Stability was.

She pressed her fingers together, channeling chakra slowly. Her mother's healing touch had been her weapon. Hikari would build something even better—something lasting.

But she needed versatility.

She needed options.

Her fingers curled thoughtfully. She remembered something basic. Elementary. One of the first jutsu taught in the academy: Transformation Jutsu.

It wasn't for battle. Not directly. But it was powerful.

If she could master it, she could look older. Blend in. Reach places she couldn't as a small child. She could find work. Trade without suspicion. Enter spaces like the black market without being dismissed. Or worse—targeted.

"Alright," she whispered, rubbing her hands together. "One week. I can do this."

---

A week later, she stood in the cramped washroom, staring at her reflection in the rust-spotted mirror. Her arms trembled slightly from the effort, but the jutsu held.

Gone was the scrawny six-year-old frame. Instead, a lean, sharp-eyed teenager stood in the mirror—dark hair longer, tied back, clothes fitting just loosely enough to not look suspicious.

She grinned. The older version of herself looked almost like her mother had at sixteen.

The transformation shimmered, then broke. Her reflection snapped back to her real face. She sighed and wiped the sweat from her brow.

Still not perfect. Still draining. But she was getting there.

"Hikari!" Yumiko's voice called from the kitchen. "Go see Granny Mizu—she's got extra vegetables. Take the empty basket!"

"Coming!" she called back, pulling her coat over her shoulders. She grabbed the basket and stepped out into the rain-slick street.

---

The path to Granny Mizu's shack wound through two broken fences and a stretch of muddy stone. Weeds climbed over old planters. The once-polished stone walls of nearby shops were dull and cracked. This neighborhood used to thrive. Now it just survived.

She was nearing the turn when movement caught her eye.

That same orphan boy.

He was crouched behind a half-collapsed cart, rifling through a garbage pile. His arms were thinner than hers. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his ribs. When he glanced up and noticed her, he froze.

Then bolted.

Hikari hesitated—then made a decision.

She ducked behind the building, focused her chakra, and formed the seal.

Transformation Jutsu! A rush of energy rippled over her skin.

In the next instant, she was someone else. Older. Taller. A common street girl with tired eyes and a heavy shawl. She stepped into the alley and followed.

---

He led her through winding side roads, past shuttered stalls and empty carts. The deeper they went, the muddier the ground became. The stone roads gave way to soaked dirt and rotting planks laid haphazardly to avoid sinkholes. A rusted streetlamp flickered in the distance.

Eventually, he reached a narrow alley wedged between two boarded-up buildings. A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, leaned against a crate—arms crossed, expression sour.

"You're late," the older boy snapped.

"I got it! I got it, see?" The orphan pulled a small coin pouch from inside his shirt.

The older kid snatched it and shoved him aside. "Next time you're late, I'm docking you."

He turned and walked past a tattered curtain hanging off the end of a stall. There was no door. No sign. Just broken crates and mud.

But then—he disappeared.

Hikari crept closer. Behind the curtain, she spotted it. A false wall. Faint seal lines along the frame. Cleverly hidden.

Her heart raced.

The black market.

She turned and walked the other way, her expression neutral. As soon as she reached the edge of the alley, she dropped the transformation.

Raindrops fell steadily onto her bare shoulders. Her coat was soaked.

But she didn't care.

She smiled wide, clutching the basket close to her chest.

---

Hikari hadn't forgotten about the black market—the memory of the hidden seal-lined entrance was etched firmly into her mind. But there was no point in going now. She had nothing to offer. Walking in blind with empty pockets and zero credibility would only mark her as an easy target.

No, she had to build up first. Get stronger. Smarter. Richer.

The massage business was small, but it was starting to gain traction. A few locals had whispered about the little girl with fire chakra and warm hands who could ease the stiffness in your back better than any herbal poultice. Yumiko kept things organized, scheduling the clients so they wouldn't overwhelm the household. Two massages a day max.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the walls orange, Hikari pushed her bowl of barley porridge away and cleared her throat.

"Yumiko," she began carefully, "how much does it cost for us to live here? I mean… food, utilities, repairs?"

Yumiko raised a brow but didn't immediately shut her down. She set her chopsticks aside, patting her mouth with a faded cloth napkin.

"You planning on running the house now too, little miss?"

Hikari chuckled, scratching the back of her head. "No. Just… I want to understand."

The older woman nodded slowly. "Alright then. We spend about 1,200 ryo a week on food, mostly because we eat simple. Rent, technically we don't pay since your family owns the home, but the property tax and maintenance come to another 400 every few months. Firewood and oil… maybe 150 ryo a month. Then there's unexpected stuff. Like if the roof leaks or if a rat chews through something."

Hikari mentally cataloged the numbers. If she charged 300 ryo per massage—a fair price for chakra-based therapy, Yumiko had assured her—then two massages a day could net her 600. That's over 4,000 ryo a week. More than enough to cover basic expenses and save.

Still not enough to rebuild the shop. Not yet.

---

A few days later, Hikari found herself massaging a middle-aged woman who wore fine silk robes and gold-threaded hair pins. Her sitting room was lined with polished shelves and porcelain knick-knacks. Even the floor mats were spotless.

The woman, Madam Ren, sighed contently as Hikari worked the fire-infused chakra into her lower back.

"You're surprisingly good at this for someone your age," she remarked.

Hikari smiled politely. "Thank you. My mother used to do this. I… picked it up."

"I remember your mother. She was graceful. Dignified. You look just like her."

The words caught Hikari off guard. Her fingers paused for a second before continuing.

"You knew her?"

"Of course. My husband's family used to transport goods for the Kawahara merchant line before the flood wiped out the pass. Your grandfather and mine had quite the partnership."

Hikari's eyes widened slightly. "I didn't know that."

"Most wouldn't. It's been years."

There was a pause before Hikari spoke again. "I want to reopen the shop someday. Bring it back to what it was. Maybe more."

Madam Ren opened one eye, studying her. "Ambitious. You'll need suppliers. And a distributor."

"I… inherited my father's sealing talent. Still studying, but I think I could find ways to store and transport goods efficiently."

"Mmm," Ren mused. "I'd have to speak with my husband, but if you can prove your skill, perhaps we could revisit our old agreement."

Hikari's heart fluttered.

This… this could be the first real step.

Not just toward survival.

But toward rebuilding an empire.

---

As Hikari packed up her things and bowed politely, Madam Ren handed her not just the usual payment but a bonus: an additional 100 ryo. "You're doing real work, child. Keep your back straight and your head higher."

Hikari thanked her deeply and left, clutching the coin pouch tight. 700 ryo in one day. Her best yet.

Rain drizzled over the rooftops as she walked home. The streets were quiet, and her shoes squelched in the mud. As she neared the stretch where the black market alley was hidden, her steps slowed.

She bit her lip.

She knew it was reckless.

She checked the nearby alleyway—secluded. Empty.

With a deep breath, she formed the hand sign.

Transformation Jutsu.

Her body shimmered, reshaped into the older teen form. She adjusted her cloak and slipped inside.

The black market was buzzing.

Stalls lined the narrow space, shaded by tarps and cloth banners. The smell of metal, ink, dried herbs, and damp stone filled the air. She moved quietly, glancing at weapons, scrolls, dried food packs.

Then her breath caught.

Konan.

Standing at a stall with paper seals spread out neatly before her. Not just storage seals—but waterproof wraps, blood seals, instant-smoke tags. Advanced work.

Hikari lingered at another stall nearby, pretending to examine ink bottles.

She turned slightly and noticed something else.

A teen boy, maybe fifteen, with red hair. Lean build. Pale face.

Nagato.

Watching Konan from the shadows.

Hikari's stomach twisted with nerves.

She drifted closer, eyes darting over the tags, watching Konan carefully as she set prices.

She was seeing more than a merchant.

She was seeing a future blueprint.

And for the first time, she saw just how far she still had to climb.

Hikari took a steady breath and stepped closer to the stall, her eyes fixed on the neatly bundled stacks of sealing paper. They were well-made—chakra-reactive, not handmade, but still higher quality than anything she could find in the civilian markets.

"Do you sell these?" she asked, keeping her tone casual, motioning toward one of the wrapped bundles.

Konan looked up with her usual unreadable expression. "Ten sheets. 500 ryo."

Much better. Still pricey, but manageable—especially considering what she'd just made off her last massage. Hikari gave a small nod and pulled out the coins, counting them into Konan's gloved palm.

"I'll take one."

Konan wrapped the paper stack in a thin waxed cloth, tying it with plain twine. "Keep it sealed and flat. Dampness ruins the binding fibers."

"Thanks," Hikari replied, tucking the paper into her coat like it was treasure.

She turned to walk away, heart thudding. But then—she felt it again.

A gaze.

She glanced to the side, just briefly.

Red hair under a tattered hood. Lean frame. Hollow cheeks.

Nagato.

He wasn't looking at her directly, but she caught it—the twitch of his fingers when he noticed her near Konan. Watching.

So she left. Quick but calm, ducking into the alley where she'd transformed earlier. Her feet splashed quietly through the puddles as she made her way home.

The sealing paper pressed against her side like a promise.