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Still it did make me think about the people who would one day become legends on that same battlefield.
The Sannin—Orochimaru, Tsunade, Jiraiya.
They were probably older than me or we were of the same age. Information on this wasn't explicitly made known in the anime so I wouldn't know for sure.
But I couldn't help but wonder...Were they already showing signs of the greatness that would one day define them?
Orochimaru and Tsunade sure, but Jiraiya..?
And then there was Hiruko, a name I recalled from vague future knowledge.
A man who would experiment with his own body in a bid for power.
I think he acquired…what was it again?
I can't remember and since it wasn't important enough to stick to my memory, it couldn't be powerful... I probably won't have a run-in with him.
Right now, though, he was just another shinobi of this generation.
I wondered—what paths were they walking right now?
Meh, there wasn't much to wonder about that. They were all definitely aiming to be shinobi.
I had no plans of following theirs.
I was not looking for war. That was too chaotic, I was looking for control.
And that control wouldn't come from just training. Strength alone wouldn't keep me safe. Power was multifaceted, and I had long since chosen my second weapon.
Wealth.
And that was why I was here, standing outside a small store on the eastern side of the village. This is where most civilians bought and sold their wares.
It wasn't the biggest shop in the area, and definitely not the most successful. If anything, it was struggling. That was precisely why I had chosen it.
I exhaled and pushed the door open.
The scent of parchment and ink greeted me as I walked in. Looking around the store's interior, I observed the stacks of scrolls that lined the walls and some placed haphazardly in baskets, and a counter with a single elderly man sitting behind it.
He looked up, eyes narrowed slightly.
"A bit young to be shopping alone, aren't you?" He remarked casually.
I stepped inside fully, letting the door shut behind me. "I was hoping to discuss a business proposition."
The old man blinked. Then he let out a short, dry laugh. "A business proposition? From a child?"
I walked forward, ignoring his skepticism. "You own this store, correct?"
He leaned back, still amused. "That's right."
"And your business isn't doing well."
The amusement vanished. "Watch your mouth, brat."
I didn't flinch. "I'm not insulting you. I'm stating a fact." I glanced at the shelves. "You sell general supplies from ink, ink sticks, stones and pot, brushes and quills, parchment and scrolls, but your prices are slightly higher than the market average."
I paused to allow him to understand that I quite understood what I was talking about.
"That would be fine if you had high-quality imports, but everything here is standard-grade. That means your customers are mostly civilians, not shinobi. And civilians can get their supplies cheaper elsewhere."
His jaw tightened. I could tell he wanted to throw me out, but I wasn't done.
"You have competition from the west market district, where there's a larger supply chain and more foot traffic. Your location means fewer people pass by, and your inventory isn't enough to attract a dedicated base."
"You're running at a loss, aren't you?"
The silence stretched.
Then, slowly, the old man sighed. "And what? You came to rub salt in my wounds?"
"No," I said simply and walked over to the counter. "I came with a solution."
He snorted. "A kid like you?"
I met his gaze evenly. "I have been observing for a while now and to a certain extent, I know how money moves in this village. I know what sells and what doesn't. You can keep trying to compete with other supply stores and lose, or you can change your business model."
He raised a brow. "And you're suggesting…?"
"Specialization." I gestured at the scrolls behind him. "You sell scrolls, but they're the same ones every other shop carries. Instead of competing with larger stores, why not offer something they don't? Custom-made scrolls."
His brow furrowed. "That's not as easy as you make it sound, boy."
I knew that. Fuinjutsu and scroll making wasn't something that just anyone could do. It required skill and knowledge. But it was also something I had already begun studying.
Only a handful of clans like the Uzumaki and certain sealing specialists truly understood Fūinjutsu theory.
Scroll papers used by shinobi which included summoning and storage scrolls required chakra-treated parchment, which was expensive and hard to mass-produce.
"I'm not asking you to do it alone," I said. "I want to invest."
He scoffed. "With what money?"
I pulled out a small pouch. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a start. "This is an initial offer," I said evenly. "I don't expect to own the store outright. I just want a stake."
Inside the pouch was exactly 10,000 ryō, the savings I'd gathered over two years from what I termed my share of the orphanage farm's harvest profits, the small cut I earned from selling extra vegetables and fruit to nearby stalls.
In modern terms, it was roughly 100,000 yen, or 600–700 U.S. dollars, but in this time, it was more than enough to buy a few good tools or even a small plot of farm land.
For a small stationery and scroll shop like this, though, it was a serious sum.
The old man's eyes flicked to the pouch, then back to me, narrowing slightly. "Ten thousand ryō?"
I nodded. "Enough to get things moving."
He raised an eyebrow, suspicion etched deep in his wrinkled face. "And in return?"
"I help you restructure."
He gave a faint, disbelieving snort. "Restructure? You think I haven't been running this shop for decades?"
"I don't doubt your experience," I said calmly, "but experience doesn't always keep a business alive. You sell general supplies — brushes, ink, parchment, standard sealing scrolls, and a few storage tags. Your pricing is fair for a merchant, but not competitive for civilians, and definitely not appealing to shinobi."
His eyes narrowed. "And you'd know this how?"
"Because I pay attention," I replied simply. "The same scrolls you sell here for five thousand ryō go for three in the West Market District. They can afford it because they move more product. You, on the other hand, rely on occasional buyers, which means your stock sits longer than it sells. You've probably got quality, but no specialization. And in a business like yours, generalists drown."
He rubbed his chin, not interrupting this time. That was a good sign.
I continued, "We'll focus on unique scrolls. Not just the standard storage or message ones. Small, functional seals civilians can actually use like security seals, minor reinforcement seals for furniture or walls, moisture-resistant tags for traders, even heat-retention seals for preserving food."
He grunted. "Those sounds expensive."
"Not if done right," I countered. "The materials for those are cheap, and if we can hire or partner with a small-time fūinjutsu practitioner, even a low-grade seal crafter, we can produce them locally. The profit margins are higher, and there's almost no competition in this district."
He leaned back slightly, still skeptical. "And what makes you believe you can do all that?"
"I don't just believe," I said simply, meeting his gaze. "I know it will."
There was a moment of silence, the kind that usually decided whether someone laughed at me or took me seriously.
The old man didn't laugh.
He just studied me, eyes sharp despite his age, as if trying to see what kind of madness drove a boy my age to talk business like a merchant lord.
He looked at the pouch again, then back at me, his expression softening into something halfway between amusement and resignation.
Another pause passed before he extended a hand.
"Fine," he said, voice low. "Let's see if you're as smart as you believe you are."
I took his hand, shaking it firmly. "Once again," I said with a small smirk, "I don't believe. I know."
He gave a small grunt that might've been a laugh. "Name's Ishida Genbei. Since we're partners now, might as well know who you're working with."
"Murakami Haruki," I replied, releasing his hand. "And for the record, I prefer equal terms. I may be younger, but I expect the same respect I give."
Ishida's brow arched slightly, not mockingly, but as though he was reassessing me. "Hah. Bold for a kid."
"Confidence," I corrected. "It's an investment, not a favor."
He chuckled under his breath. "Fair enough." He sat back on his stool, glancing again at the pouch as if weighing its worth against his years of toil.
"Ten thousand ryō, huh? The shop, stock included, is worth about fifty. Not a fortune, but enough to stay afloat. That puts your stake at twenty percent."
"That works," I said without hesitation.
"Don't you want to haggle?"
I shook my head. "If I'm right, the store's value will double before the year's end. My share will grow naturally."
He stared for a moment longer, then gave a slow, approving nod. "You really are strange, Murakami."
I smiled faintly. "I've been told that before."