Renjiro sat cross-legged on a cushion, his back straight, his expression focused. The barrier project had consumed almost all his time over the past few weeks—endless fuinjutsu coordination meetings, negotiations with supply teams and barrier masters, and the constant pressure of managing stabilisation seal production simultaneously. He had barely slept, had eaten at irregular hours, and had existed in a state of controlled chaos that had left no room for anything except the work.
Because of that, he had delegated his financial management temporarily.
Shikaku Nara sat across from him, surrounded by his own pile of accounting scrolls. His posture was relaxed—the particular slouch of someone who had spent years learning to conserve energy—but his eyes, dark and sharp, moved constantly, cross-referencing numbers, checking calculations, and sorting through the absurd complexity of Renjiro's income streams.
He looked mildly exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that came not from physical labour but from the mental strain of untangling a financial web that had grown far more complicated than either of them had anticipated.
"So," Renjiro said, his voice casual, almost offhand. "How much is it now?"
Shikaku did not answer immediately. He checked a parchment, cross-referenced another scroll, and made a small notation with his brush. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft scratch of bristle on paper and the distant sound of birdsong from the garden.
"Including all outstanding payments, commissions, and bonuses," Shikaku said finally, his voice calm, almost bored, "Seventeen million ryō."
Renjiro froze.
His breath hitched—just slightly, just enough to be noticeable. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, went still. For a long moment, he did not speak, did not move, did not even blink.
"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "What did you say?"
Shikaku looked up from his scrolls, his expression carrying the particular flatness of someone who had already repeated himself several times.
"Seventeen million ryō."
Renjiro leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked under his weight, and he let out a long, slow sigh—not of stress, not of exhaustion, but of something else entirely.
'Seventeen million.'
He repeated the number under his breath, almost reverently, tasting the weight of it.
'Seventeen million.'
"That's…" He paused, searching for the right word. "Insanity."
Shikaku raised an eyebrow.
"It's a lot of money," he acknowledged.
"It's more than a lot of money." Renjiro's voice carried a note of wonder. "I made that in a few months. A few months. That's—"
He stopped, his mind already racing through calculations. Mission payouts. S-rank missions, the highest-paying assignments available to shinobi. Even completing five of them wouldn't come close to this amount. S-rank missions were high prestige but irregular, and payment got divided between squad members, operational costs, and the village's cut. Most jōnin never saw this kind of liquid wealth in their entire careers.
"At this point," Shikaku said dryly, "you could stop going on missions entirely and never need money again."
Renjiro shook his head.
"Being a shinobi was never about the money."
He paused, then added, with a hint of dry humour:
"Maybe shinobi was the wrong career path."
He mused aloud, his thoughts drifting. If he could make this amount in under a year, then over a decade, he should become absurdly rich. The seals were not going to stop being needed. The wars might pause, but they would not end. And as long as shinobi fought and bled and died, they would need the tools he could provide.
"Seventeen million," he murmured again.
Shikaku set down his brush.
"Don't get too comfortable," he said, and his voice had shifted—still calm, but carrying the particular weight of someone about to deliver an uncomfortable truth. "Your current wealth only exists because of the relationships you built as a shinobi. Your reputation. Access to military contracts. Trust from Konoha's leadership. Connections to influential people."
Renjiro's expression did not change, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
"Without becoming a shinobi," Shikaku continued, "you would never have met my father. Never gained Hiruzen's trust. Never earned the reputation necessary for clans to trust your products. You could have been the greatest seal master in history, and no one would have known."
Renjiro almost glared at him. The words were true—annoyingly, undeniably true—and he hated that he had not seen it himself.
'Without the village, without the connections, without the credibility that came from being a shinobi of Konoha, I would be nothing. Just another craftsman selling seals to whoever would buy them.'
He sighed, the sound long and defeated.
"You're right," he admitted. "I hate it, but you're right."
"I usually am."
"Don't push it."
Renjiro studied Shikaku for a moment, his gaze curious.
"How are you so unfazed by seventeen million ryō?"
Shikaku shrugged.
"Because I've seen more."
Renjiro's eyes narrowed.
"Where?"
Shikaku hesitated. The pause was brief, but Renjiro caught it—the subtle reluctance of someone who had been asked a question he would rather not answer.
"The Nara clan," Shikaku said finally, "earns more annually."
Renjiro leaned forward, his interest sharpening.
"How much more?"
Shikaku shook his head.
"That's clan business."
"I'm not asking for details. Just a number."
Shikaku was silent for a long moment. Then, reluctantly:
"Early twenties. Annually."
Renjiro nodded slowly, processing. Twenty million ryō a year—more than his current total, but spread across an entire clan's operations. It made sense. The Nara had land, infrastructure, personnel, internal stipends, and the endless expenses that came with maintaining a shinobi family over generations.
"But," Renjiro said, and a slow smile spread across his face, "your expenses are enormous. Clan maintenance, infrastructure, personnel, land management—it all adds up. Your margins are nowhere near mine."
He gestured vaguely at the room around them.
"My seal business is almost entirely clone labour. Minimal overhead. Maximum margins."
Shikaku stared at him. The realisation dawned slowly, then all at once—the financial implications of Renjiro's operation, the sheer absurdity of a production system that required no wages, no benefits, no supply chain beyond ink and paper.
'His margins are insane,' Shikaku thought, a mild horror creeping into his consciousness. 'He's not just rich. He's exponentially richer than the numbers suggest.'
"You're a monster," Shikaku said flatly.
"I've been told."
Shikaku pivoted away from the financial discussion, his voice shifting to something almost curious.
"What are you even going to do with all this money?"
Renjiro considered the question. It was not one he had spent much time thinking about—he had been too focused on earning it, on building the business, on positioning himself for the future.
"I have no idea," he admitted.
Then, after a moment:
"First priority is paying you. For handling my finances."
Shikaku raised an eyebrow.
"How much do you want?"
"Nothing."
Renjiro blinked.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
'The moment I accept payment, this becomes permanent. He'll keep dragging me into increasingly complicated financial nonsense forever. I already regret helping.' Shikaku Thought.
"Stop pretending," Renjiro said, his voice carrying a note of exasperation. "You're one of the only people I trust with this kind of work. You and your father."
Shikaku was silent for a moment.
"Why?"
"Just because I trust you."
The words were simple, direct. Shikaku studied him, searching for the lie, the manipulation, the hidden agenda. He found none.
"And what happens," Shikaku asked, his voice quiet, "if that trust is broken?"
Renjiro smiled.
It was not a warm expression. It was calm, pleasant, almost gentle—and utterly terrifying.
"I would beat you half to death," he said, his tone conversational. "Then do the same to your father."
He said it while smiling. While maintaining eye contact. While radiating the absolute certainty of someone who had both the power and the will to follow through.
Shikaku's internal reaction was visceral. 'He's five years younger than me. And yet the threat feels completely genuine. I regret ever getting involved with this terrifying fuinjutsu gremlin.'
"Noted," Shikaku said, gathering his scrolls.
He stood, gave a dry farewell, and walked toward the door.
"I'll send you the final numbers tomorrow."
"I'll be here."
Shikaku left. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The house was silent. Renjiro leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
"So this is what being rich feels like," he muttered.
The words felt strange in his mouth—unfamiliar, almost foreign. He had never been poor, not really, but he had never been wealthy either. Comfortable, perhaps. Secure. But not rich.
His mood shifted. The amusement faded, replaced by something colder, more focused.
He rose from his chair and walked toward a nearby workbench.
He moved with purpose, his hands reaching for hidden compartments, for sealed containers, for the items he had been saving for exactly this moment.
He placed them on the table one by one.
A container, sealed with fuinjutsu, holding the remaining Hashirama Senju cells gifted by Hiruzen Sarutobi.
A jar, preserved and stabilised, containing the remains of a White Zetsu from his earlier encounter.
And finally, a larger container—a jar filled with Sharingan eyes. They floated in preserving fluid, their crimson irises catching the light, their tomoe patterns frozen in eternal vigilance.
He looked down at the assembled materials and spoke quietly.
"It's about time I started making use of these."
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