Shikaku reacted first. His composure, usually so unshakeable, cracked just slightly—a tightening of his jaw, a sharpness in his gaze that had not been there moments before.
"Kaede-sama," he said, "could you please repeat that?"
Kaede did not flinch. Her dark eyes, steady and unapologetic, met his without wavering.
"The rights to the seal must belong to the village. Not to an individual. To Konoha." She paused, letting the words settle. "This is not a suggestion. It is a condition."
Shikaku opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a sound stopped him.
Renjiro smirked.
It was small, barely a curve of his lips, but it changed the entire dynamic of the room. Where Shikaku had been tense, Renjiro was almost… amused.
'So this is how it is,' he thought. 'Not a negotiation. A demand. She wants me to hand over everything.'
His mind, already racing, began to dissect the implications with the cold precision of a battlefield assessment.
The seal economy in Konoha was a complex web of rights, licenses, and traditions. Selling seals was a legitimate business—one that had been his primary source of income for years. This was why he only went on missions when he had to, not because they supported his way of life.
Every seal created, every variation developed, carried with it a set of ownership rights. Most seals were taxed, licensed, and regulated. The village took its cut, and the creator took the rest.
But the system was not new. It had been built over generations, shaped by the rise and fall of fuinjutsu masters, by the absorption of traditions from fallen nations.
The fall of Uzushiogakure, in particular, had shifted the landscape dramatically. When the Whirlpool had burned, many of its seal rights had been absorbed by Konoha—simply appropriated in the chaos that followed. The village now owned a significant portion of the fuinjutsu rights that existed in the Elemental Nations.
Most grandmasters, however, owned their own variations. Even Kushina, despite her integration into Konoha, retained rights to the seals she had developed. The system allowed for innovation, for individual ownership, for the creation of new techniques without surrendering all claim to them.
Renjiro had always navigated this carefully. He did not mass-produce seals, did not flood the market with his creations. Instead, he produced on commission, sold to trusted clients, and kept his work relatively private. It had allowed him to avoid the kind of scrutiny that came with large-scale production.
But the stabilisation seal was different. It was not a custom job for a single client. It was a tool that could be used by every shinobi in the village, every medic in the field, every evacuation team that pulled wounded soldiers from the brink of death. The demand for it would be enormous.
The profit, correspondingly, immense.
'Millions,' he calculated. 'Maybe billions of ryo, over time. Decades of warfare, constant demand, constant need. She's asking me to give that up. All of it. I could become the first Shinobi Billionaire.'
He thought of the analogy from another life—patents, copyrights, the ownership of ideas. What Kaede was demanding was not a licensing fee or a shared rights agreement. It was a full forfeiture. Complete surrender of ownership.
'If I agree, I walk away with nothing. The village takes everything, and I become just another supplier, paid for my time but not for my creation.'
His smirk did not fade.
Shikaku argued, "Kaede-sama, that condition is excessive. It goes beyond standard practice. Even the Hokage's office does not typically demand full rights to a shinobi's creations."
Kaede's expression did not soften.
"The standard practice," she said, "is part of the problem."
She leaned forward, her hands folding on the desk before her.
"After the fall of Uzushio, the ownership of seal rights became fragmented. Grandmasters created variations, controlled supply, and set prices. During the war, when the village needed certain seals most, we found ourselves at the mercy of those who had the rights to produce them."
Her voice hardened. "Some fuinjutsu masters profited enormously from the village's suffering. They charged what they wanted, when they wanted, because they knew we had no choice but to pay."
She met Renjiro's eyes directly.
"The system allows people to profit off the village's desperation. I intend to break that cycle. Your seal—this stabilisation seal—is too important to become another bargaining chip. It must belong to Konoha. Freely. Without reservation."
Renjiro let the silence stretch. Then, his voice calm, probing:
"And why am I being included in that group? I am not one of the grandmasters who was exploited the war?? I fought in it. I bled in it, even lost my eyes for it. I did not profit from the village's suffering—I was too busy trying to keep people alive."
Kaede's expression flickered—the first crack in her composure.
"I am not accusing you of exploitation, Renjiro-san. But the system itself is flawed. If I make an exception for you, then every future creator will demand the same. The reform must be absolute, or it will fail."
Shikaku stepped in again, his voice sharper now.
"That logic is preposterous. Ownership incentivises innovation. If you remove the profit, you remove the motivation. Why would anyone spend years developing new seals if they cannot benefit from their work?"
Kaede's eyes narrowed.
"They would do it for the village. For the good of their comrades. For the same reasons shinobi have always done what they do—not for personal gain, but for the protection of those they serve."
"That's idealism," Shikaku countered. "And idealism does not feed families or fund research. Even the Hokage is paid for his service. Are you suggesting that creators should work for nothing?"
The tension in the room was rising, the debate spiralling toward an ideological clash that neither side seemed willing to avoid.
Renjiro raised a hand, cutting through the exchange.
"Let me ask you something else, Kaede-sama." His voice was calm, almost casual. "Is this because I'm Uchiha?"
The question landed like a stone in still water.
Kaede's instinctive response was immediate.
"Of course not. This has nothing to do with—"
She stopped. The hesitation was small, barely a heartbeat, but Renjiro caught it. Shikaku caught it. The room held its breath.
Renjiro pressed the advantage, "You don't want an Uchiha owning the rights to a seal that could save thousands of lives. Because that would give the clan leverage. Political leverage. The kind of leverage that the village leadership has spent decades making sure the Uchiha do not have."
He let the words settle.
"Even when I try to help, the resistance remains."
He gestured in frustration—a sharp, controlled motion that spoke of emotions held in check.
Shikaku watched, and in his eyes, Renjiro saw something like understanding. Not pity, but recognition. The particular acknowledgement of someone who had watched the Uchiha's isolation from the outside and had begun to understand its cost.
'Welcome to my life,' Renjiro thought. 'Welcome to the constant calculus of suspicion. Welcome to a world where your contributions are measured against your bloodline, where every gift is examined for hidden strings, where even your desire to help becomes evidence of conspiracy.'
He did not say this aloud. He did not need to.
Internally, his thoughts were colder, more calculating.
He disliked the victim mentality. Had always disliked it. He had spent years building his reputation, his strength, his independence—had refused to let the clan's isolation define him. But there were moments when the reality of his position could not be ignored. Moments when the suspicion was so ingrained, so automatic, that even genuine offers of aid were met with demands for surrender.
They were currently thirteen or fifteen years before where the Anime began, and another five years before the conclusion of the fourth shinobi war, so this was potentially two decades' worth of profits that Kaede was trying to keep from Renjiro's pockets, as fights were as common as breathing in the shinobi world.
'The seal could generate billions over the next twenty years. Decades of conflict, constant warfare, endless demand. And she wants me to hand it over for nothing?'
He took a slow breath, centring himself. His external composure remained intact, but beneath it, something was building—a controlled, contained fury that he had learned to wield like a weapon.
Kaede attempted to recover, her voice softer now.
"Renjiro-san, this is not about your clan. It is about the principle—"
"The principle," he interrupted, "is that you don't trust me. Or anyone like me. And no amount of contribution will ever change that."
He straightened, "I reject your condition."
The words were calm, decisive. No negotiation. No room for interpretation.
Kaede's eyes widened slightly. She had expected resistance, perhaps even some sort of negotiation, but not this—not an outright refusal delivered with such finality.
"Renjiro-san—"
"Your approval," he continued, "was a formality. A useful one, but not essential. I can wait for the next Hokage. I can present the seal to him directly, once he takes office. And I suspect he will be more… open to reasonable terms."
He let the implication hang.
"The question you need to ask yourself, Kaede-sama, is not whether I will agree to your terms. It is whether you want to be remembered as the one who stood in the way of progress."
He invoked Tsunade—not by name, but by implication.
"Tsunade-sama is remembered as a reformer. She transformed medical ninjutsu, saved countless lives, and pushed the boundaries of what was possible. She built systems that encouraged innovation, that rewarded contribution, that made the village stronger without breaking the spirits of those who built it."
He met Kaede's eyes.
"What will you be remembered for? The woman who demanded surrender? The woman who refused to trust, even when trust was offered? Or the woman who found a way to say yes—to build something new, something that would save lives without destroying the people who made it possible?"
The room was silent. The weight of his words pressed down on all of them.
Shikaku watched, his expression unreadable. He had seen many negotiations, had watched his father navigate the treacherous waters of village politics for decades. But this—this was something different. This was a man who had been pushed to the edge and had chosen to push back.
Kaede sat motionless, her hands folded on the desk, her eyes fixed on Renjiro's face. She did not speak. Could not speak. The choice was hers now—to stand firm, or to bend.
=====
Bless me with your powerful Power Stones.
Your Reviews and Comments about my work are welcome
If you can, then please support me on Patreon.
Link - www.patreon.com/SideCharacter
You Can read more chapters ahead on Patreon
Latest Chapter: 810-Save Her