The afternoon sun hung low over Konoha, casting long, golden shadows across the streets as the small group made its way toward Renjiro's new home.
Kakashi walked at the rear of the group, his visible eye fixed on the ground, his hands in his pockets. He had not spoken much since he arrived. Miwa led the way, her posture relaxed, her expression carrying the particular smugness of someone who had finally gotten her way.
Aiko and Sama walked side by side, their voices low, their laughter soft. Kushina brought up the middle, her eyes scanning the house with the critical gaze of someone who understood seals and would judge the quality of the work.
"So you finally decided to invite people over," Kushina said, glancing back at Renjiro, who walked at the front, his hands in his pockets, his expression carefully neutral. "I was starting to think you'd turned into a hermit."
"I'm not a hermit," Renjiro replied, his voice dry. "I'm selective."
"Selective," Miwa repeated, grinning. "That's what hermits say."
Miwa snorted. "He's had me over before. I guess that counts."
Renjiro sighed, but there was no real irritation in it.
Aiko stepped up beside him, her dark eyes curious.
"It's a nice house," she said. "How long have you been here?"
"A week. Still settling in."
"And the workshop?" Sama asked, her voice carrying the particular interest of someone who had heard rumours. "Is it as impressive as they say?"
Renjiro's lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile.
"See for yourself."
He led them through the front door into a modest entryway, the floors polished wood, the walls bare except for a few scrolls hanging in alcoves. The space was clean, minimalist, deliberately uncluttered. It was a house designed for function, not for show.
But the function was not on the ground floor.
"This way," Renjiro said, moving toward a staircase that descended into the basement. The steps were solid, the walls reinforced with sealing lines that glowed faintly as they passed.
The basement opened before them like a cavern.
It was vast—far larger than the footprint of the house above. Rows of workbenches stretched across the space, each one covered in scrolls, brushes, pots of ink, and stacks of finished seals. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their light bright and steady, illuminating the organised chaos below.
And everywhere, there were shadow clones.
Hundreds of Renjiro.
They moved in synchronised efficiency, each one focused on a specific task. Some inscribed seals on fresh paper, their brushes moving with mechanical precision. Others stamped completed seals with verification marks, their hands blurring with speed.
Still others stacked, sorted, and stored the finished products on shelves that lined the walls. The sound was a continuous whisper of writing, of paper sliding against paper, of the soft shush of brushes and the occasional tap of stamps.
Kakashi stopped at the edge of the stairs, his visible eye widening slightly. "This is…"
"Absurd," Miwa finished, but there was no judgment in her voice—only surprise, and perhaps a hint of pride.
"Efficient," Renjiro corrected.
Kushina didn't wait for an invitation. She walked into the workshop, her eyes darting from workbench to workbench, her fingers twitching with the urge to inspect. She picked up a finished seal, turned it over, and studied the lines.
"The chakra flow is clean," she said. "But you could adjust the third node. Shift it two millimetres to the left. It would improve stability by—"
"Fifteen per cent," Renjiro finished. "I know. But the adjustment requires a different brush. I haven't had time to retool."
Kushina raised an eyebrow. "You're outsourcing your thinking to clones, but you won't let them touch your brushes?"
"My clones are me. They use what I use."
"Then give them better instructions."
Renjiro's lips twitched. It was a conversation they had had before, a technical argument that was also a form of camaraderie.
Aiko and Sama moved through the workshop, their expressions shifting from curiosity to amazement.
"How many seals do you produce in a week?" Aiko asked.
"Depends on demand. The stabilisation seals are the priority right now. I'm averaging about five hundred a week."
"Five hundred?" Sama's voice rose. "That's—that's more than some villages produce in a year."
"Hence the clones."
Kakashi had been quiet, but his gaze was fixed on the clones, on the way they moved, on the precision of their work. He was not a fuinjutsu specialist, but he understood chakra, understood the strain of maintaining even a single shadow clone for extended periods. Hundreds of clones, working simultaneously, for hours on end…
'His got monstrous reserves,' Kakashi thought. 'And he's not even winded.'
Miwa sidled up to him, her voice low.
"Impressed?"
"Concerned," Kakashi admitted. "No one should be able to do this."
"No one else can."
The tour continued. Renjiro led them through the rest of the basement—the training area, reinforced with seals that could absorb impact and prevent structural damage; the seal storage, rows of shelves organised by type and priority; the living spaces, sparse but comfortable, with a kitchenette and a small seating area. Everywhere, the clones worked, their presence a constant reminder of the scale of Renjiro's operation.
Kushina lingered in the workshop, her technical mind already cataloguing improvements.
"The Multi-Shadow Clone Jutsu," she said, not a question. "You requested it specifically."
"I did."
"It's forbidden for a reason. The chakra cost—"
"Is manageable."
"For you," she said. "For anyone else, it would be suicide."
Renjiro shrugged. "I'm not anyone else."
Sama frowned. "But if you're using all your chakra here, what happens when you have to go on a mission? Wouldn't maintaining so many clones weaken you?"
"That's why I'm planning on avoiding long-distance assignments now." He paused. "If I leave the village, production halts."
"So you've made yourself indispensable," Aiko said, and there was something like admiration in her voice.
"I've made myself useful."
Kushina shook her head. "And if you're called out anyway?"
"Then I'll deal with it. Until then, I work the clones to the bone."
As if on cue, a series of soft poofs echoed through the workshop. Several shadow clones suddenly dispersed—exhaustion, chakra depletion, the inevitable limit of the technique. Their paper and brushes clattered onto the workbenches, abandoned mid-task.
Renjiro sighed. He raised his hand, formed a single seal, and a new wave of clones materialised, taking the places of the fallen, resuming their work without pause.
"I have to work them to the bone," he said dryly. "They're clones. They don't have feelings."
From across the workshop, one of the clones looked up, its expression carrying a glare that was unmistakably annoyed.
"We have feelings," it muttered.
Renjiro's eyes narrowed.
"Back to work."
The clone grumbled—actually grumbled—but lowered its head and resumed inscribing. The other clones, who had paused to watch, quickly returned to their tasks, their movements a little faster, a little more urgent.
Miwa burst out laughing.
"Even your clones hate you!"
"They don't hate me," Renjiro said. "They are me. If they hate me, I hate me."
"Do you?" Kakashi asked quietly.
The room went still.
"Why would I?" Renjiro shot back.
The moment passed. Kushina clapped her hands together, breaking the tension.
"Alright, enough of the clone factory. We came here for a housewarming, not a lecture."
They moved upstairs, to the main living area. A low table had been set with food. Sake bottles lined the centre, their contents already half-depleted.
The atmosphere shifted.
Miwa poured herself a cup of sake, her cheeks already flushed.
"You know," she said, "I had to threaten Renjiro to get him to agree to this. He said he didn't need a housewarming. Said it was a waste of time."
"It is," Renjiro said, but he was smiling—just slightly, just enough.
"Nonsense," Kushina said, raising her cup. "You can't live in a new house without a party. It's tradition."
"It's invented."
"All traditions are invented."
They ate. They drank. The conversation flowed—about the village, about the future, about the small, mundane details of daily life that shinobi work had made seem precious.
A board game appeared—a strategy game popular among shinobi, involving tiles and territory and careful calculation. Renjiro agreed to play, and the competition was fierce.
He was analytical, ruthless, every move calculated. Miwa was competitive, aggressive, unwilling to yield. Kushina was loud, reactive, her emotions written on her face. Aiko and Sama were playful, their strategies less about winning and more about enjoying the game. Kakashi played quietly, competently, but his heart was not in it.
Renjiro noticed. He saw the way Kakashi's eye lingered on the board without really seeing it, the way his responses were delayed, the way he nodded at comments he hadn't fully heard.
'He's still carrying it,' Renjiro thought.
But he did not push. Not here, not now.
The evening wore on. The sake bottles emptied.
Kakashi stood.
"I should go."
His voice was quiet, almost apologetic. The others looked up, their expressions understanding. No one pressed him to stay.
"Are you sure?" Aiko asked.
"I'm tired. Long day."
It was a lie, and they all knew it. But they nodded, accepting.
Renjiro rose as well.
"I'll walk you out."
The night air was cool, the sky clear, the stars scattered across the darkness like scattered seeds. The house's garden was still raw, the earth freshly turned, the young trees still supported by stakes. Lanterns hung at the gate, their light soft and welcoming.
They walked in silence, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. At the gate, they stopped.
Renjiro turned to face him.
"How are you feeling?"
=====
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