Timeline: Late Part I (Approximately 4 months before Sasuke Uchiha's defection)
Location: The Land of Grass – Kusagakure Outskirts, Route 7
The rain in the Land of Grass was not like the rain in the Hidden Rain Village. It lacked the oppressive, industrial weight of Amegakure's storms. Here, the rain was thin, cold, and smelled faintly of wet bamboo and iron.
Kurobane Sōma sat at the corner table of a roadside tea house that had seen better decades. The wood was warping, the paper screens were yellowed with smoke, and the only other patrons were three men huddled around a pot of sake near the entrance.
Sōma did not look like an S-rank threat. He did not look like a man who appeared in the terrifying whispers of the Bingo Book. He looked like a traveler—pale, sharp-featured, with dark hair tied back loosely at the nape of his neck. He wore a simple gray traveling cloak over a standard mesh shirt and dark trousers. No forehead protector. No visible clan crest.
He lifted his ceramic cup, blowing the steam away gently.
Chakra levels: Low. Conditions: Wet, high friction. Acoustics: Poor.
He took a sip.
The script is boring today.
"Hey! Pretty boy!"
The shout came from the sake table. One of the men stood up. He was large, wearing a ragged flak jacket that had the Kusagakure symbol scratched out. A missing-nin. Low B-rank, judging by the poor chakra control leaking from his tenketsu.
Sōma didn't turn. He placed the cup down with a soft clink.
"I wouldn't," Sōma said softly.
"You wouldn't what?" The man swaggered over, his boots heavy on the wooden floorboards. His two companions followed, grinning like wolves who had cornered a rabbit. "You think you're too good to drink with the Iron Fang Brothers?"
Sōma sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single silver ryo coin. He began to roll it across his knuckles—back and forth, a hypnotic, fluid motion.
"I think," Sōma said, watching the coin flip, "that your blocking is terrible, your chakra distribution is uneven, and you rely on intimidation because your ninjutsu is mediocre."
The room went silent. The tea house owner, an old woman behind the counter, ducked out of sight. She knew the script, too.
The leader's face turned a mottled red. "You have a loose tongue."
"And you have a loose stance," Sōma critiqued, finally turning to face them. His eyes were dark, bored, and terrifyingly steady. "You've already made three mistakes since you stood up. You kicked your chair back—obstacle. You signaled your intent with your breathing—tell. And you walked into my range without checking for traps."
"Traps?" The leader scoffed, looking at the empty floorboards. "There's nothing here."
"There is," Sōma corrected. "Because I'm here."
The leader roared, drawing a heavy broadsword from his back. "Die!"
He swung. It was a vertical cleave, meant to split Sōma from shoulder to hip.
Sōma didn't dodge. He flicked the silver coin.
The coin spun through the air, flashing in the dim lantern light. It didn't aim for the man's eyes or throat. It hit the flat of the descending blade with a tiny, metallic ping.
[Technique Activation: Loaded Wealth]
Condition: Metal-on-metal impact via the marked coin.
Effect: Vector redistribution.
The kinetic energy of the heavy sword didn't vanish. It simply took a sharp left turn.
The sword jerked violently sideways in the leader's grip. The momentum dragged the man off balance, spinning him around. The blade carved a deep gash into the support pillar next to Sōma's table, missing Sōma by inches.
The leader stumbled, confused, his wrist jarring from the sudden shift.
"What the...?"
"You overcommitted," Sōma noted, picking up his tea cup again. "And you treat your weapon like a club. A sword is a lever, my friend. I just adjusted the fulcrum."
The two companions lunged now, abandoning honor for a group beatdown. One threw a volley of shuriken; the other wove hand signs for a Wind Release technique.
Sōma stood up. He moved with a lazy fluidity, stepping to the left. The shuriken embedded themselves in the wall where his head had been.
He reached out and tapped the rim of his tea cup, which was still vibrating from when he set it down.
[Technique Activation: Loaded Ripple]
Condition: Liquid surface agitation.
Effect: Hydro-pressure expansion.
The tea inside the cup exploded. It wasn't a splash; it was a high-pressure needle of liquid that shot outward, slamming into the Wind Release user's throat.
The man gagged, his jutsu failing halfway through the signs. He fell to his knees, clutching his bruised windpipe.
The shuriken thrower froze, reaching for a kunai.
Sōma was already there. He didn't teleport; he just moved while the man was blinking. Sōma placed a hand on the man's shoulder. A gentle, almost friendly gesture.
"Don't," Sōma whispered.
[Technique Primed: Loaded Burden]
Condition: If the target molds chakra.
Effect: Muscle paralysis.
"If you try to use chakra," Sōma explained calmly, looking deep into the man's terrified eyes, "your nervous system will interpret the energy as a signal to lock every muscle in your body. You will suffocate in your own skin. Do you understand?"
The rogue ninja trembled. He could feel the cold, dormant chakra Sōma had pushed into his shoulder. It felt like a parasite.
He dropped his kunai.
Sōma stepped back, dusting off his cloak. The leader was pulling his sword out of the pillar, panting. The wind user was wheezing on the floor. The third man was a statue of fear.
"Disappointing," Sōma muttered.
He walked over to the leader, who raised his sword shakily.
"I... I am Juzo of the Iron Fang! I won't be mocked by a—"
Sōma lashed out—a simple, open-palm slap to the man's cheek. It wasn't hard enough to kill, but it was fast.
Slap.
"Cut," Sōma said.
He turned and walked toward the exit.
"Wait!" Juzo screamed, humiliated. He charged at Sōma's back.
Sōma didn't turn around. He snapped his fingers.
The coin he had flicked earlier—the one lying on the floorboards where the sword had deflected it—activated its secondary clause.
[Technique Activation: Loaded Wealth - Bankruptcy Clause]
Condition: User signal (snap).
Effect: Chakra detonation (Small scale).
Boom.
The floorboards beneath Juzo exploded. Not with fire, but with a concussive blast of pure Yin force. Splinters flew. Juzo fell through the sudden hole in the floor, crashing into the muddy crawlspace beneath the tea house with a wet thud and a snap of bone.
Silence returned to the room.
Sōma stopped at the counter. The old woman peered up, terrifyingly pale.
Sōma placed two more silver coins on the wood.
"One for the tea," he said politely. "One for the floor."
He opened the door, letting the cold wind blow in.
"And tell the Kusagakure patrols that the Iron Fang Brothers have been cancelled. Their performance was derivative."
One Hour Later
The Forest of Whispers
Sōma walked along the muddy road, the adrenaline of the brief skirmish already fading into the dull ache of boredom.
He pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from his vest. He uncapped a pen and began to write while he walked.
Entry 412:
Subjects: Iron Fang Rogues.
Assessment: F-Tier.
Notes: The 'Loaded Wealth' mechanic is effective for redirection, but the coin requires high-grade silver to hold the charge for more than ten minutes. Copper is too conductive; it leaks the chakra before activation. Need to source better currency.
He closed the book.
He wasn't fighting for justice. He wasn't fighting for money, really, though the bounties kept him fed. He was fighting to refine the system. To perfect the art of the conditional victory.
Every fight was a draft. Every opponent was an editor.
He stopped.
Ahead of him, the road forked. To the west lay the Land of Rain—depressing, sealed off. To the east, the Fire Country border.
Sōma sensed it before he saw it. A faint, disciplined chakra signature patrolling the canopy about two kilometers east. It wasn't the sloppy, leaking chakra of the Grass ninjas. This was tight. Controlled.
Konoha, he identified.
Most rogue ninjas would turn and run. Konoha Hunter-nin were relentless.
Sōma checked his pouch. He had four prepared tags, half a vial of ink, and his chakra reserves were at ninety-five percent.
He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Konoha shinobi are trained by the book," he mused aloud. "Which means they know their lines perfectly."
He turned east.
He didn't want a fight to the death. Not yet. But he wanted to see if he could make a Konoha patrol forget their lines. He wanted to see if he could make them improvise.
Sōma adjusted his cloak and stepped into the shadows of the tree line. The draft was done. It was time to start the rehearsals for the real show.