Satoru left them where they were.
Ren was still sitting on the scorched ground, rubbing the side of his head with a sour expression, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and explosive tags being a perfectly reasonable solution.
Mariko stood a few steps away, arms crossed so tightly they looked welded to her chest, her glare sharp enough to carve grooves into stone. Neither of them spoke as Satoru turned his back; the air around them was thick with wounded pride and simmering irritation, the kind that needed time rather than words.
Satoru decided not to test it.
He walked away at an unhurried pace, hands tucked into his pockets, posture loose despite the lingering aches in his muscles. The training ground fell behind him, replaced by the familiar pathways of Konoha. The village hummed with midday life; shinobi on errands, civilians hauling crates, the occasional shout from a shopkeeper hawking wares.
It was around noon, the sun high and unkind, heat pressing down through the lingering haze left behind by the Nine-Tails' destruction weeks earlier.
Fatigue clung to him like a second skin.
It was the kind that settled deep into the bones, not the sharp exhaustion of a single battle but the cumulative weight of days without real rest. Escort missions upgraded mid-operation; bandit hideouts cleared in the dead of night; Sayuri's relentless pace that treated sleep like an optional luxury. Even now, with two days technically free, Satoru knew better than to assume that meant indulgence.
Sayuri's idea of a break usually involved preparation.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the street ahead as he adjusted his priorities. Rest would come later. For now, there were things that needed doing; things that could not be postponed just because his limbs felt heavy.
The pouch of ryo at his side thumped softly against his hip with each step, an almost comforting reminder of tangible progress.
Eighty thousand ryo.
The number still felt unreal.
Satoru did the mental math automatically, old habits from a life where every purchase had required calculation. Food; rent; supplies. How long it could last if stretched carefully. How quickly it would vanish if spent recklessly. The answer, he knew, lay uncomfortably closer to the latter.
Which was precisely why he did not go home.
Instead of turning toward the modest place he now technically lived as a Yamanaka, Satoru adjusted course toward the eastern side of the village. The streets grew quieter as he moved deeper into clan territory, the buildings subtly shifting in design. The Yamanaka business district announced itself not with walls or gates, but with an air of order; neatly trimmed hedges; buildings painted in muted, calming tones; the clan crest worked discreetly into doorframes and signboards.
He passed familiar landmarks without slowing, eyes scanning ahead.
Logistics first. Comfort later.
The weapon shop sat at the corner of a narrow street, its wooden sign creaking faintly in the breeze. The Yamanaka symbol was carved into the frame, worn smooth with age. Satoru pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming sharply.
"Clink!"
The interior smelled of oil and metal. Racks lined the walls, meticulously organized; kunai arranged by size and balance, shuriken displayed in neat rows, scrolls and wire coiled with precision that bordered on obsessive. Behind the counter sat an elderly man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, spectacles perched low on his nose as he examined a ledger.
He did not look up.
"Browse," the old man said gruffly, voice rough as gravel. "Don't touch anything you're not paying for."
Satoru blinked once, then shrugged. "Good afternoon to you, too."
The shopkeeper grunted, turning a page with deliberate slowness.
Satoru's attention shifted briefly to the other presence in the store; a man in his late twenties by the look of him, a chunin vest slung loosely over one shoulder. He was examining a rack of kunai with visible reluctance, brow furrowed as though each price tag personally offended him.
Satoru moved past him without comment and headed straight for the section he needed.
Weapons were expendable. That was one of the first truths he had learned as a shinobi. Kunai were lost; shuriken chipped; wire snapped; explosive tags burned through faster than they could be replaced. No matter how skilled one became, the field consumed equipment with ruthless efficiency.
He reached the kunai rack and began to count.
Ten; twenty; thirty.
He frowned slightly.
Prices stared back at him, merciless and precise.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
They were higher than he remembered. Not by a little; by a lot. His irritation flared, practical rather than emotional, the kind born of knowing exactly how far his money needed to stretch.
'Why did clan stores even have subsidies?'
He glanced around again, as if expecting a hidden sign announcing discounted rates for loyal shinobi. Nothing. If anything, the prices were worse than those in the general shops near the main Konoha street.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "This is robbery."
The chunin nearby snorted. "Tell me about it."
The shopkeeper finally looked up, eyes sharp beneath bushy brows. "If you don't like it," he said curtly, "you can leave."
"That bad, huh?" the chunin asked, grimacing as he lifted a kunai to inspect it. "Prices weren't like this four months ago."
The old man's gaze flicked between them, unimpressed. "Well, four months ago, the village wasn't half flattened by a bijuu," he said flatly. "Supply chains are strained. Prices went up everywhere. Uniform rates. Buy or don't."
The chunin clicked his tongue but returned to browsing, defeated.
Satoru absorbed the explanation in silence.
It made sense; infuriating, but logical. Reconstruction did not come cheap. Metal had to be sourced; craftsmen paid; infrastructure rebuilt. Shinobi bore the cost like everyone else.
A twinge of guilt surfaced uninvited.
Ren.
Civilian-born; no clan backing; no generational wealth or quiet support networks. Ren complained loudly, often theatrically, but Satoru knew better than to mistake that for ease. Eighty thousand ryo meant something different to each of them.
He considered it for a moment, then pushed the thought aside.
He would make it up to Ren later.
Mariko, on the other hand, would survive just fine. She was surrounded by safety nets, whether she acknowledged them or not. The mental image of her scowling earned a faint smirk.
He turned back to the rack and began selecting.
Kunai first; a reasonable number, balanced for throwing and close work. Wire next; thin, strong, versatile. Explosive tags last; fewer than he wanted, but enough to matter.
He carried the items to the counter, placing them down with a soft clatter.
The shopkeeper counted silently, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. He scribbled a few numbers, then looked up.
"One hundred thousand ryo."
The words landed like a physical blow.
Satoru stared at him. "…Excuse me?"
"One hundred thousand," the old man repeated, utterly unfazed.
"That's more than my entire budget," Satoru said, incredulous. "I'm a loyal customer."
"You've never even shopped here before," the shopkeeper replied.
"I'm a Yamanaka," Satoru countered quickly. "That's got to count for something."
The old man squinted at him. "You just joined weeks ago."
"…I have a very loyal spirit."
The shopkeeper slid the ledger aside. "One hundred thousand."
Satoru leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Look. I just came off multiple missions. I'm exhausted. I'm broke. I'm emotionally fragile."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "How is that my problem?"
"Come on," Satoru pressed, gesturing to the items. "I'm practically buying in bulk."
"You're buying necessities."
"Exactly."
Silence stretched between them.
The shopkeeper crossed his arms. "Adjust your purchase."
Satoru stared at the weapons, jaw tightening. He hated it; hated conceding; hated how quickly money evaporated once practicality entered the equation. But reality was unyielding.
He sighed, long and resigned, and began removing items.
Fewer explosive tags. Less wire. A handful of kunai returned to the rack.
The total dropped below eighty thousand.
He paid reluctantly, the pouch feeling significantly lighter as the ryo exchanged hands. The shopkeeper wrapped the items efficiently and slid them across the counter without ceremony.
"Pleasure doing business," the old man said, already turning back to his ledger.
Satoru gathered the bundle and headed for the door.
Outside, the sun felt harsher.
He adjusted the weight at his side and let out a quiet huff of laughter, equal parts amusement and despair. The cost of being a shinobi was unsustainable; if missions did not escalate in rank soon, he would bleed himself dry on upkeep alone.
He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
Either he needed a side hustle…
…or he might as well become a bandit and con Ren and Mariko again.
The thought carried him down the street, tired but intact, already planning his next move.
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