The Scroll Merchant

The frigid midnight air of the clock tower clung to Hikari as she walked back, but it was the icy truth Hanzo had delivered that truly numbed her.

Her parents. Assassinated.

By the very man she had just sworn fealty to.

An insidious, burning ache pulsed in her chest—a phantom limb of grief she hadn't earned. This body, she thought, the cynical core of her reincarnated soul fighting for dominance, it betrays me.

These weren't her memories, not truly. They were echoes—fragments of feeling from a life she didn't live, pushing through. The pain was real, a raw, inherited wound, but her mind clamped down on it, refusing to surrender to weakness.

Sentiment was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She had survived far worse in her past life—as an underground doctor navigating the shadows of society, where morality was a commodity and scruples only got you buried. As long as the payment was right, the job got done.

This was no different. Hanzo was simply the most dangerous—and most powerful—client she'd ever acquired.

He offered a ladder, even if its rungs were slick with blood.

---

She reached the quiet shop, slipping in without a sound, the Rain Village's perpetual drizzle a soft murmur against the windowpanes.

Sleep was impossible. She spent the rest of the night meticulously cleaning her brushes, sharpening her ink stones, and reviewing the Mito notebook—each task a rhythmic anchor against the storm inside her.

Her father had been a good-for-nothing fool for letting sentiment guide his hand. She wouldn't make the same mistake.

Power. Influence. The secure future of the Kawahara name.

These were her new currencies.

And if a puppet show was what it took, she'd learn to pull her own strings in the long run.

---

The very next morning, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred.

A shinobi, cloaked and masked, appeared at her door—not as a threat, but as a courier. He left a heavy, leather-bound pouch on her counter and vanished into the mist as silently as he'd arrived.

Hikari untied the pouch. Inside, glittering under the dim light, were stacks of ryo.

She counted them carefully, her eyes widening slightly despite her carefully maintained composure.

Fifty thousand ryo.

A truly substantial sum. It was more capital than her family had possessed in years—a stark testament to Hanzo's serious intent.

And with it, a sealed scroll containing Hanzo's first directives: stabilize supply chains, increase productivity in the western districts, report on new merchant opportunities.

No explicit threats—just expectations.

The message was clear: use the resources, produce results.

She immediately plunged into the task.

The ryo wasn't just cash.

It was leverage.

It was the fertile soil for her ambitions.

---

Her first priority was to solidify her existing connections and prove the efficacy of her seals.

She returned to Kazuo, the butcher, a few days after delivering the initial batch of seals for Konan. She found him at his stall, his expression notably less harried than before.

"Kawahara girl," he grunted, a flicker of something akin to respect in his eyes. "Those seals of yours… they work. My brother, Kenji, he brought down a fresh boar yesterday. Usually, I'd have half of it rot by now, but the prime cuts are still good. Even this cursed humidity hasn't touched them."

He gestured to a large, sealed piece of pork hanging from a hook.

"Excellent," Hikari replied, a hint of genuine satisfaction in her voice. "As I said—it's about reducing waste, ensuring your hard work isn't for nothing."

She then laid out her proposal.

"I can offer you preservation seals, custom-sized for various cuts. For regular supplies, I can give you a batch of fifty for seven thousand five hundred ryo. It's a small investment for guaranteed freshness."

Kazuo scratched his chin, doing quick calculations in his head.

"Seven thousand five hundred, eh? That's… steep for paper."

He'd been losing far more than that to spoilage, but the number still made him balk.

"It's not just paper, Mr. Kazuo," Hikari countered, her voice firm. "It's fuinjutsu. Specialized chakra-infused paper from a secured source, imbued with a stasis effect. It saves you thousands in spoiled meat and allows you to access better cuts from your brother without fear of loss. It means more profit for you and consistent supply for your customers."

"Consider what you lose to spoilage each week, and then tell me if that price isn't a bargain for eliminating that loss."

Kazuo's eyes narrowed as he weighed her words, looking from the preserved meat to the confident child before him.

He was tired of throwing away good product.

"Alright, girl. You've got a deal. I'll take fifty. This could change things for me."

---

She then sought out Sato, the vegetable farmer.

His isolated stall was now frequented by more villagers, drawn by the visibly fresher produce. Sato, usually taciturn, even offered her a small, withered smile.

"The gourds lasted," he said simply, holding up a plump, firm squash that should have been softening days ago. "And the cabbage. It's like magic."

"It's fuinjutsu, Mr. Sato," Hikari corrected gently. "Allowing your hard work to reach more people."

She proposed a similar bulk deal for his harvest.

"For your main produce—cabbage, turnips, daikon, gourds—I can provide one hundred preservation seals for eight thousand ryo. Enough to cover your weekly harvest and allow you to hold some back for better prices in the main market."

Sato thought for a moment, then nodded decisively.

"Done. It's a fair price for honest work. My sister in the village—she wants to sell dried mushrooms. Would your seals work for keeping them crisp too?"

"They would," Hikari confirmed, already planning her next move.

Dried goods. Another market segment.

Her network was expanding.

---

Over the next few weeks, Hikari was a whirlwind of activity.

She hired two older, reliable village women, paying them 150 ryo a day each to help manage simple logistics—delivering seals, collecting payments, and bringing back valuable market information.

Her initial 50,000 ryo capital from Hanzo was being strategically deployed.

She invested 5,000 ryo in a small cart for her new hires, and another 10,000 ryo in establishing credit lines with new suppliers for small bulk purchases she could then sell with added value from her seals.

Her personal daily profit, after paying Yumiko's living costs and her new hires, quickly climbed from a few hundred ryo to consistently over two thousand ryo a day.

She was cutting deals with traders of dried grains, preserving them from the damp.

She even approached a small local collective of crafters who made paper products—rain ruined their stock quickly. She offered them specialized preservation seals for their finished goods, preventing mold and warping, taking a percentage of their increased sales.

The western district, once dwindling, began to show faint signs of life.

More vendors set up stalls.

More people came to buy.

The general mood lightened—if only marginally.

---

Amidst this bustling growth, Hikari didn't forget her grandfather's vision.

One damp afternoon, she visited the half-collapsed warehouse with Yumiko, who seemed confused by her fascination with the dilapidated structure.

It stood on a large plot of land on the edge of the western district, its massive timber beams rotting, its roof largely caved in—but its stone foundation surprisingly sturdy.

This was it.

The planned hub.

She spent two thousand ryo to hire a few day laborers to clear out debris and assess the structural integrity, meticulously sketching plans in her mind.

It would take time—and a fortune—but this was where the Kawahara legacy would truly be rebuilt.

---

A month into this demanding routine, a familiar, meticulously folded paper crane arrived with her morning tea.

It was Konan's paper.

"Meeting. Usual place. Tonight."

Hikari felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach.

This wasn't a business inquiry.

This was a summons.

About Hanzo.

She knew it.

---

She arrived at the abandoned warehouse, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Konan stood by the far wall, a stark silhouette against a sliver of moonlight. Yahiko leaned against a stack of crates, arms crossed, a serious look on his face. Nagato was a barely visible shadow in the deepest corner—his presence a heavy, watchful weight.

"Hikari," Konan began, her voice devoid of pleasantries. "Your presence has been… noted by certain parties."

Her blue eyes, usually calm, held a frigid intensity.

"The surge of commerce in the western district. The sudden influx of resources. We know Hanzo operates with a tight fist. And now, you are his favored merchant. Explain yourself."

Hikari kept her face blank, though a defensive spark ignited within her. This was the interrogation. She had prepared for it.

"Explain what?" she asked, her voice even. "I am a merchant. The Kawahara line is being rebuilt. I found a powerful patron who recognized my capabilities and provided resources. Any smart merchant takes advantage of opportunities."

"Opportunities that come from the man who holds this village in a stranglehold?" Yahiko interjected, voice tight with barely suppressed anger. "The man who crushes dreams and lives without a second thought?"

"Our dream, Hikari, is of a Rain Village free from that oppression! We speak of peace, of self-determination, of a future where people aren't starved into obedience!"

He stepped forward, his passion evident.

"How can you align yourself with him?"

"Dreams are luxuries, Yahiko," Hikari retorted, her voice hardening, reflecting her own bitter pragmatism. "Survival is a necessity."

"And in this village, the only way to truly survive, to grow, to even begin to build anything substantial, is to understand the true dynamics of power. Hanzo holds all the strings. You can fight him openly and die, or you can find a way to work within his system, extract what you need, and build your own power in the shadows. I chose the latter."

She didn't explicitly say puppet, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

"My business is about practical solutions—about rebuilding lives that have been shattered by this very 'oppression' you speak of. If Hanzo provides the means to do that, even with his strings attached, then for now, that is the path I will walk."

Konan watched her, expression unreadable.

Yahiko's face was a mask of conflicted emotions.

The air in the warehouse grew heavy—charged with unspoken truths and dangerous undercurrents.

Then, from the deep shadows, Nagato moved.

He stepped forward, eyes—usually distant—now fixed on Hikari with an intensity that made her gut clench.

There was no emotion in his gaze, only a chilling, absolute resolve.

His right hand slowly, deliberately, reached behind his back.

Hikari's eyes widened, a cold dread washing over her.

He was reaching for something.

Her mind, honed by years of quick assessments, screamed danger.

This wasn't a warning—it was a prelude.

Nagato's hand emerged, not with a clumsy, crude object, but with a gleaming, razor-sharp knife, its polished blade glinting menacingly in the faint lantern light.

He held it casually, but the air around it crackled with latent, terrifying power.

He took another slow step towards her, his voice, when it came, a low, rumbling whisper that somehow cut through the silence of the warehouse.

"Your pragmatism, Hikari," Nagato said, voice laced with an unnerving calm, "is understandable."

"But if you ever forget that there are lines you cannot cross… if you ever become more of Hanzo's asset than a true ally for the people…"

"Then I will be the one to ensure you are permanently pruned."

His eyes—cold and unwavering—bore into hers.

"And trust me… my discipline is far more absolute than Hanzo's."

The knife's tip hovered mere inches from her throat, its cold, metallic scent filling her nostrils.

Hikari stood frozen, caught between the terrifying promise of Hanzo's protection and the absolute, lethal threat of Nagato's burgeoning power.

Her heart hammered against her ribs—a frantic drum against the silent, deadly will of a future god.