"Hahaha—that's it. We actually managed to play the strongest, most powerful, and most terrifying man in the world.
And even so, he has to grit his teeth and accept our 'surrender,' because if he doesn't, no one will ever help him get things done again."
When Uchiha Yōrin finally decided he was going to crush the wandering-ninja group that murdered Ōwashi and tried to "set him up," those wandering ninjas were still dreaming about rocketing to the top overnight.
"Yeah! They keep calling him some transcendent, unbeatable monster—look at him now. We've got him wrapped around our finger!"
They egged each other on, their words getting more and more outrageous. Their leader—who sat at the head of the room—couldn't help frowning. He finally spoke up:
"That's enough. Show Yōrin-sama some respect.
Yes, we took advantage of him with a trick. But do you really think his 'advantage' is something you can take lightly?
We can only pull something like this once. From now on, keep your heads down. Don't give Yōrin-sama a reason to be unhappy."
"Yes, boss!"
He said it, but how many of them actually listened—and how much of it they took to heart—was another story.
People who succeed through shortcuts naturally want more shortcuts. If you got away with taking advantage of someone once, you'll itch to do it again.
And once you've "won" against someone, you start looking down on them.
Especially when the person you "won against" is someone vastly stronger than you. The sheer thrill of "I played a godlike figure" could make you feel drunk on your own power. Getting addicted was inevitable.
Watching all this, the boss started to worry. Had he made the right choice—or a fatal mistake?
They'd climbed onto the biggest ship of the era… but they'd also offended the captain of that ship. The road ahead would be brutal.
After a moment of hesitation, he clenched his teeth and made up his mind anyway:
"No matter how hard it gets, we keep going."
He thought, Once we're in the Shinobi Republic, I'll kneel, apologize, and admit fault. If my attitude is sincere, and I work hard afterward, Yōrin-sama should forgive me… right?
And I need to cut ties fast with these idiots who don't understand who the real boss is. If they keep standing next to me, and they provoke Yōrin-sama again later, I'll die with them.
Alright. That's the plan.
…
If you only looked at that inner monologue, you might even call this wandering-ninja leader a decent talent.
But unfortunately, he'd miscalculated completely. He had no future at all.
And even if he swore today that he'd never chase shortcuts again, the odds were still high that when things got tight, he'd "change his mind" and try to cut corners anyway.
Being able to see through your subordinates doesn't mean you can see through yourself.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—none of that mattered anymore.
When the Shinobi Republic's enforcement unit arrived at their base and began slaughtering without mercy, these wandering ninjas didn't do much beyond screaming:
"This isn't what we agreed on!"
These guys weren't just mediocre. They were spectacularly mediocre.
In fact, if they had any real skill, they wouldn't have needed a stunt like this to try joining the Shinobi Republic in the first place.
The Shinobi Republic was a rising industrial power, and what it lacked most was people.
Its national policy was basically: arms wide open, welcome immigrants.
Even if you weren't a shinobi—just an ordinary person—if you followed the rules and lived peacefully, you could do well there.
That's the confidence a rising power has—especially when it now had a "New World" colony that vast. If fully developed, you could move the entire ninja world there and still have room left over.
So anyone who still couldn't get in under those conditions—and instead tried to grab benefits through dirty tricks—pretty much advertised what they were: useless in ability and rotten in thinking.
Did they regret it when they died?
Who knows.
Either way, Bird Country was temporarily preserved. It was renamed an "Autonomous District," and no longer counted as a sovereign nation.
But Ōwashi's daughter became the district's nominal leader, and the family line survived.
For that family, it was the best possible outcome.
And Yōrin's final choice—backing off on principle while also crushing that wandering-ninja group—earned him a lot of diplomatic points.
Sure, there were still conspiracy theorists insisting it was all Yōrin's plot. But anyone with a working brain knew that didn't make sense.
It had no benefit to him.
You can't invent conspiracies just to satisfy conspiracy cravings, right?
…
With the Shinobi Republic's military strength proven, its diplomatic credibility strengthened, and its governance shown to be orderly rather than arbitrary, more and more people around the world became interested in it.
More and more people started believing Yōrin had the breadth and capability to lead everyone.
Even though his refusal to call himself "emperor," and his refusal to build a traditional empire, confused people—he still looked like the kind of ruler worth expecting great things from.
…
And so, the end of Konoha Year 55 arrived. The "Konoha Calendar" was officially discontinued.
As Konoha transformed from a political village-state into a directly administered metropolitan unit of the Shinobi Republic, the world's dating system became the Shinobi Republic calendar.
This year became Shinobi Republic Year One.
A new era had truly begun.
War had finally, completely ended.
The dawn of peace finally fell across the land.
People were stunned to realize that after Senju Hashirama's death, the world had finally produced another strong figure who could bring peace.
And so, amid shock, confusion, and joy, Shinobi Republic Year One passed safely.
Next came Year Two—the year of construction, development, and expansion.
Raw materials and precious metals shipped back from the New World made the market even more active.
Tempted by money and fame, more people threw themselves into industry, creation, and building.
Even though he grumbled the whole way, Orochimaru finally succeeded in producing two "miracle" chemical products: fertilizer and pesticides.
At the same time, the ninja world's greatest granary—the Land of Rice Fields—signed a diplomatic and trade agreement with the Shinobi Republic.
That land—richest soil, most farmland—became one of the Republic's major food baskets.
A massive man-made canal from the Land of Rain to the Land of Wind began construction.
Climate and rainfall engineering projects launched.
At the same time, the former Konoha Transport Company—now upgraded into the Ministry of Railways—began laying rail networks meant to link the entire ninja world.
Former Uzushiogakure was upgraded into the Republic's directly administered port city: Uzu Port.
More deep-water berths were built to handle larger ships. More warehouses. More shipyards. Larger-scale chakra-powered vessels.
The entire Republic looked vibrant and booming.
And meanwhile, with missions clearing at high speed, Uchiha Yōrin's own power kept climbing—rapidly, steadily, absurdly.
He even wondered: if he'd just become Hokage directly, would he have "leveled up" faster?
But whatever. This outcome wasn't bad.
What kind of transmigrator conquers an entire world in four or five years? That's an achievement. He could afford to be a little prouder instead of so harsh on himself.
…
And so time rolled into Shinobi Republic Year Three.
Food production, steel output, total industry and agriculture value—everything kept moving in a satisfying direction.
Of course, problems appeared too:
Widening wealth gaps. Official corruption. All the classic headaches.
Fortunately, in a world with ninjutsu—and with Yōrin already effectively at Six Paths-tier—he could handle those problems.
He could easily play an upgraded "hardline reformer": stare down the big capitalists and industrial bosses and say, in a calm voice:
"Alright. You've pushed it too far. And you know exactly what my methods look like."
And as the saying went: If you earned 100, hand over 95—because you know what happens if you don't.
Under a ruler like that, the capitalists could only grumble… and still pay up.
And where else would they run?
In the real world, if you get treated badly in one major power, you might relocate to another developed region.
But who would choose to flee from a functioning system into a chaotic, feudal, privilege-ridden mess?
Yōrin's Shinobi Republic was a comparatively strict, state-guided "progressive capitalist" country.
The old Five Great Nations, meanwhile, were feudal privilege plus the worst parts of early capitalism mixed together—a toxic stew.
So yes, the tax burden in the Republic might feel harsh. But at least after paying taxes, you could still live.
In the feudal kingdoms, if the nobles woke up in a bad mood, you could lose everything overnight.
To feudal aristocrats, rich merchants were just livestock.
If they didn't butcher you today, it was only because they weren't hungry.
That kind of environment doesn't produce real reinvestment and growth.
Merchants either spend their lives bribing officials to slow down the knife…
Or they buy land and force their children into elite paths to transform into landlords and bureaucrats.
So the world started showing a very funny pattern:
Republic capitalists cried nonstop about "too many regulations" and "taxes are killing us," while clinging to the Republic for dear life and refusing to leave.
Common people and capital alike flowed toward the more "civilized" system.
That was simply how people moved: toward stability, predictability, and the future.
~~~
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