Rick led Gojo through the quiet, sunlit streets until they reached a large house that immediately stood out from the rest of the village. The walls were polished, the roof freshly painted, and the garden neatly trimmed—clear signs of wealth and care. Compared to the modest, time-worn homes around it, this residence almost looked like a manor. It was easy to see that the village head of Cloverbook Village was far better off than most of his people.
Rick stopped near the entrance and turned toward Gojo. "You wait for me here. I'll first go and speak with the village head—tell him everything about you."
Gojo gave a silent nod, folding his hands behind his back. Rick was then guided by a servant of the house, who seemed well acquainted with him. This didn't surprise Gojo; after all, Rick had likely been living in this village since childhood—or so Gojo guessed, as he hadn't actually confirmed it with him.
Gojo stood quietly in the courtyard, the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of servants filling the air. The faint smell of tea drifted from somewhere within the house. Seems like the man knows how to live well, Gojo thought, half amused.
Fifteen minutes passed before Rick returned, his expression relaxed. "Let's go. The village head wants to meet you."
Gojo followed him into the house, his blindfold concealing the faint movement of his eyes as he traced the environment through his heightened senses. The corridor smelled faintly of old wood and paper, lined with shelves and scrolls. They soon entered a spacious room that appeared to be a study. Bookshelves filled with documents lined the walls, and a large wooden desk occupied the centre. This was clearly where the village head managed his work.
Behind the desk sat a man with an air of calm authority. Gojo couldn't see him directly, but his perception allowed him to form a clear mental outline—broad shoulders, short hair, slightly hunched posture from years of sitting at a desk. Around fifty, Gojo estimated. He was close; the man, Jack, was forty-eight—still relatively young for a village head.
Jack looked up from his papers, his steady gaze fixed on Gojo. "Rick has told me everything about you," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I have no problem with you living here in this village. But let me be clear—if you ever create any kind of nuisance or trouble, I'll have no choice but to remove you from this place. Understood?"
Gojo inclined his head slightly. "You don't have to worry about that," he replied in a calm, steady tone. "Most of my time will be spent training or hunting. This village will simply serve as a place for me to rest. So I doubt you'll have any complaints from my side."
His words were blunt, devoid of hesitation. It was clear that Gojo had little interest in forming close ties or becoming involved in village affairs.
Jack studied him for a moment longer, then gave a faint nod. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "Here," he said, handing it over. "Keep this paper safe. It will serve as your identification in this region. Since you said you'll be hunting, this will help you sell your spoils in the legitimate markets. Without it, you might be forced to go through shady routes—and those won't give you good prices. So keep it carefully."
Gojo reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against the paper before taking it. "Understood," he said, tucking it into his pants pocket.
With the formalities done, Rick and Gojo bowed slightly and left the study. The sound of the heavy wooden door closing behind them echoed faintly in the corridor.
Outside, the morning light had grown stronger, and the village had come fully alive—farmers heading toward the fields, children running along the dirt road, and the distant smell of baked bread drifting from homes.
As they walked along the road, Gojo said, "Yesterday, it was already late when we arrived, and since it wasn't certain whether I'd be staying here or not, I didn't get the chance to ask you about the rent for the house. Now that it's confirmed I'll be staying, you can tell me what the rent will be."
Rick thought for a moment before replying, "Generally, a house of that size and condition would rent for about six to eight thousand berries per month in town. But since you're a friend—and the house is old—how about we set it at five thousand a month?"
Gojo nodded slowly beneath his blindfold, sensing the sincerity in Rick's tone. "That sounds fair," he said. He reached into his pouch, pulled out a few folded notes, and handed them over. "Here's the rent for the first month—five thousand berries."
Rick accepted the money with a small smile. "You're quick to settle things. I like that."
Gojo returned a faint grin. "I prefer not to leave debts behind."
As they continued walking, Gojo spoke again. "Now, can you guide me to the sword dojo?"
Rick's eyes brightened. "Ah, yes! I was planning to take you there next anyway. It's not far—on the eastern side of the village."
With that, the two began making their way down the winding path that led toward the dojo. The sounds of practice filled the air—rhythmic thuds of wooden swords striking and distant shouts of trainees. The sun climbed higher above Cloverbook, casting long shadows.
Soon, they arrived at the sword dojo—a long, rectangular building with wooden walls polished from years of practice and the faint, steady rhythm of blades clashing echoing from inside. As Rick and Gojo stepped through the sliding doors, the air was filled with the scent of oiled wood and sweat. Young students were practicing in pairs, their wooden swords striking with a sharp thwack that reverberated through the hall.
Rick looked around and called out to one of the boys. "Hey, can you tell Master that I'd like to meet him?"
The boy, about twelve or thirteen, nodded quickly before rushing toward the back room. Rick watched him go with an easy familiarity. Being from the same village, he knew most of the faces here—it wasn't surprising he recognized the boy.
A few moments later, footsteps echoed from the corridor, slow and heavy. Soon, a man stepped into the dojo's main hall. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried the calm aura of someone long accustomed to battle. Gojo, though his eyes remained covered by the blindfold, instantly perceived something unusual—this man had only one arm. His right arm was missing from the shoulder down.
Through his heightened perception, Gojo could sense the faint imbalance in the man's stance and the subtle strength that lingered in his left arm. He must've been a right-handed swordsman, Gojo thought. Losing that arm probably forced him to retreat from the Grand Line. No wonder he's here teaching instead of fighting.
He quietly analyzed the man's movements. Still, he's adapted well. For someone missing their dominant hand, the precision in his posture is remarkable. He must've trained his left hand endlessly just to recover even half his old strength.
Rick immediately stepped forward and greeted him respectfully. "Master Kishimoto."
At that name, Gojo froze for a moment. His mind flickered with surprise. Kishimoto? Wait… like the author of Naruto? The thought made him blink under the blindfold, but he quickly shook it off. What am I even thinking? Focus, Gojo.
Kishimoto gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. His expression was calm but stern. "Rick, what brings you here today?" he asked. "Are you here to enroll this boy? Is he your relative?"
Rick shook his head. "No, he's not a relative. He'll be staying here in Cloverbook for quite some time. He's interested in learning swordsmanship, so I brought him here to meet you."
Kishimoto regarded Gojo silently for a few seconds. "I see," he said at last. "Very well. I can register him as a student of this dojo. But you know my fees—six thousand berries per month. It's not cheap. Can he afford it?"
Gojo stepped forward, his tone calm and assured. "Yes. I can afford that much."
Rick exhaled softly in relief, glad that Gojo had spoken for himself.
Kishimoto nodded. "Good. Then I'll register you immediately. You can pay now."
Without hesitation, Gojo reached into his pocket and took out a bundle of neatly folded berries. He counted out six thousand and handed the money to Kishimoto with a steady hand.
Kishimoto accepted it and gestured toward one of his older students, a teenager who seemed to serve as both assistant and record keeper. The boy hurried over, bowing slightly to his master as Kishimoto said, "Prepare the registration for our new student."
As the assistant rushed off to fetch the register, the soft rhythm of training resumed around them—wood meeting wood, breath and focus filling the dojo once more. Gojo stood quietly beside Rick, feeling the calm yet disciplined energy of the place settle around him like a steady heartbeat.
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