That evening turned out to be unexpectedly hectic. Like a madman, I rushed all over the village — first to the butcher, then to the vegetable seller, then to the market for spices, and finally to the bakery, where, after long persuasion, they sold me a couple of round buns. From the outside, it must have looked like chaos, but for me, it was the first step toward something new.
When I finally returned home, it was already dark. The kitchen was in mild disorder — food, spices, knives, pans. The air was filled with the smell of fried meat and warm bread.
— "Well, now this… sort of… looks like food," I muttered, staring at the plate before me.
In front of me lay a burger. A real one — with a beef patty, lettuce leaves, slices of tomato, a bit of ketchup and mustard, a slice of cheese, a pickled cucumber, and the top bun, neatly assembled just like in the instructions. At first glance — nothing special. But in this world, where the pinnacle of street food was made up of countless variations of rice and noodles, it looked like something new, almost revolutionary.
— "On one hand, it's ordinary," I mumbled, "but who, knowing about this food, wouldn't want to at least try to make it?"
Time for the taste test. I took the burger in both hands, feeling the soft bun give slightly under my fingers.
— "Alright," I told myself, "moment of truth."
Crunch.
The first bite. The bread was slightly sweet, the meat juicy, though a little too salty. The sauce turned out surprisingly good — tangy, with a faint hint of spice. I chewed and couldn't help smiling.
— "Not bad at all," I said, shaking my head in mild surprise. "Not quite the real deal yet, but with the right equipment… it'll be better."
I took another bite. Warmth spread through my body.
— "Though right now, I only have the beef version…" I said, jotting it down on a sheet. "But maybe later, I can expand the menu."
I leaned back thoughtfully in my chair.
— "Actually, I should make a proper menu," I said to myself, "'cause one burger definitely isn't enough."
The drink problem surfaced instantly.
— "There's no soda here," I continued musing, "and making it myself… I have no idea how."
Maybe replace it with juices? Apple, orange… or lemonade, if I can manage it. Yes, lemonade — that sounds nice.
Night had completely fallen over the village. The moon softly illuminated the room, and I sat at the table — tired but satisfied. On the sheet before me appeared the first lines of my future menu:
Menu (draft):
• Burger (beef)
• French fries
• Juice — apple, orange, lemonade
I sat there for a long time, staring at those words. They looked simple, even primitive, but to me, they held deep meaning. This was the beginning of something greater than just food. It was a chance.
Thoughts flickered in my head: What should I call it? Where should I open it? How do I attract my first customers?
Maybe near the training grounds? Or closer to the market square? There's always a crowd there.
I began jotting down notes — "rent," "equipment," "suppliers." All of it required money and time, but for the first time in a long while, I felt I was doing something not out of orders, not for a report, not just to survive. I was doing it for myself.
— "Honestly," I muttered, staring wearily out the window, "I never thought war would lead me… to cooking."
I smiled, feeling fatigue press heavier on my eyelids.
The pen slipped from my fingers, the sheet fell to the floor, and just as I managed to think "I'm so tired," I collapsed face-first onto the table.
The room sank into silence. Outside, the wind rustled softly; somewhere, a late passerby walked down the street.
And on the table, next to the half-eaten burger and the sheet titled "Menu," a light was still burning…
The next morning didn't start with sunlight but with a dull clatter coming from above.
Someone clearly decided to rearrange furniture or start a morning workout — the thumping, stomping, and metallic clanging echoed distinctly through the ceiling.
— "What time is it…?" I muttered, groping for my watch.
The numbers showed 7:02.
For the first few seconds, my consciousness drifted somewhere between dream and reality. My body moved by reflex — reaching for the "tent" zipper, trying to get outside, as I had gotten used to over the past months. But instead of rough fabric, my fingers felt a cool floor.
I froze, opened my eyes, and stared at the kitchen for several seconds.
— "I… I'm home," I whispered.
The realization came slowly, as if my brain refused to believe it. The silence, the smell of wood, the soft morning light through the window — it all felt foreign, almost forgotten.
I took a deep breath.
— "Yeah, I'm definitely back," I said aloud, a faint smile touching my lips.
After quickly taking care of basic hygiene — washing up, brushing my teeth — I returned to the kitchen. On the table, as a faithful witness of last night, lay the unfinished burger.
I looked at it with a small smirk.
— "Well, can't let good food go to waste," I said, picking it up with two fingers.
Cold, a bit soggy, but still tasty. Even in the morning, it was far better than the army rations I'd eaten for half a year.
After eating, I wiped my hands, looked out the window, and felt a faint surge of energy.
— "Alright then," I said decisively, "time to do what I planned."
The next two hours passed as I wandered through the village. I walked slowly, watching the streets, the shops, the flow of people. One question circled in my head — where exactly should I open my place?
Logic suggested finding a busy spot — somewhere people often passed by. At the foot of the mountain, below the Hokage faces — a constant stream of villagers, tourists, shinobi. It seemed like the perfect place for business.
— "But on the other hand…" I murmured, glancing at the bustling street, "that's what everyone else thinks."
Which meant — the price would bite.
I sighed. I did have some savings, but wasting them recklessly would be stupid. I needed to plan carefully.
— "For now, I should at least find out," I decided, "what options are available."
I headed to the Hokage's administration office, to the department that handled land and property. The building stood not far from the main square, and the first floor buzzed with life — people walking back and forth with papers, arguing, asking questions.
Behind the counter sat a woman of about thirty, her hair tied in a bun, her expression tired but polite.
— "Good morning," I said, stepping up to her. "I'm interested in renting a small space for a food stall."
— "Please specify the area and the district you're interested in," she replied in a businesslike tone, opening a thick folder with property plans.
I scratched my head a little.
— "Well… maybe twenty, thirty square meters. The main thing is good foot traffic, but not right in the center."
— "I understand," she nodded, flipping through documents. "Land in the village center starts at twenty million for a plot, if you're considering a purchase."
— "Twenty million?!" I almost blurted out loud.
The woman seemed to read my expression and added:
— "But there are several spaces for rent. For example, one building a block from here — 83,000 ryō per month."
— "Hmm…" I thought aloud. "Sounds reasonable. What's the catch?"
— "Well…" the woman smiled faintly, "it needs cleaning. No one's rented it for a while, but otherwise it's in good condition — roof intact, walls sturdy, running water and sewage available."
— "Show me on the map," I asked.
She unfolded a scroll with the village plan and pointed out the location — not too far from the center, near a busy road but away from the noise. I knew the spot — and the price seemed fair.
— "I'll take it," I said after a moment's thought.
— "How long would you like to rent for?"
— "Let's start with three months. I want to test the idea."
— "Alright. Payment for the full term upfront," she said, pulling out the contract.
I took out my card, signed the papers, and handed it over. A few minutes later, she gave me a key and a stamped document.
— "All set. The space is yours. Address and description inside. You can start cleaning today if you wish."
I thanked her and stepped outside, feeling a flutter of excitement.
The key felt pleasantly cool in my palm.
— "Well then," I said, looking at it, "the first step is done."
The wind gently ruffled my hair, and in my chest, that familiar feeling grew — fear and anticipation twisted together in one knot.
Three months, I thought. Three months to prove I can build something of my own.
Cleaning, setup, and finding the necessary equipment took me almost two full days, even using techniques to speed up the process. Even with acceleration jutsu, time barely sufficed — I had to do everything myself: from scrubbing walls covered in dust and cobwebs to repairing broken furniture.
When the place finally looked halfway decent, I started on the interior. A simple wooden counter, a few tables by the wall, sand-colored curtains, a couple of lamps — nothing fancy, but cozy. I even painted a sign with the logo "Hagane Burger" — neat kanji letters. It turned out a bit crooked, but it had soul.
The next day was spent testing and buying ingredients.
I ran around the market, hunting for fresh meat, greens, spices.
By the evening of the third day, everything was ready — fridge scroll with a stock of ingredients, grill, knives, bowls, even wooden trays custom-made. Only one thing remained — to begin.
And so — the fourth day.
I stood before my shop, staring at the sign, my heart beating loud in my chest.
— "Alright, Kotetsu," I said to myself, "there's no turning back now."
Before opening, I decided to slightly alter my appearance. I looked too young, and customers' trust in a kid behind the counter wouldn't be high. Focusing chakra, I activated the Henge no Jutsu.
A moment later, a young man of about twenty looked back at me from the mirror — still me, just older, taller, and with a more confident gaze.
— "Much better," I chuckled.
Opening
The morning was lively: traders, children, shinobi — everyone was hurrying somewhere. I opened the shutters, set up a wooden sign saying "Grand Opening! Everything for 1 ryō!" and stood behind the counter.
Yes, I knew it was a ridiculous price. But I needed one thing — attention. If someone tried my burger and liked it, they'd tell others.
The theory was simple. The practice… not so much.
The first hour passed quietly.
I stood, wiping an already clean counter, then moved the sign again, checked the grill's fire — all in vain. People passed by, glancing curiously, but didn't stop.
— "Come on, someone…" I muttered, starting to doubt myself.
A woman walking by even stopped, looked at the sign, and said to her friend:
— "'Hagane Burger'? What a strange place…"
And kept walking.
I sighed heavily, resting my chin on my hand.
The start of any business is always hard, I thought, watching the passersby. Every great merchant must have once stood like this — empty-handed, just hoping someone would come.
The sun had risen higher when suddenly, a boy of about ten appeared at the entrance. Dressed simply, but his eyes sparkled with curiosity.
— "Hey, is it true everything's one ryō?" he asked, glancing shyly at the menu.
I brightened up.
— "It's true. Want to try?"
— "What even is a burger?" he frowned, trying to read the unfamiliar word.
I smiled.
— "It's bread with meat and vegetables. Very tasty."
— "Bread with meat?.. Hmm… alright!" he decided, pulling out a coin.
I quickly grilled the patty, placed it neatly between the buns, and quickly added all the necessary ingredients.
As soon as I handed it to him, the smell of freshly fried beef filled the kitchen.
The boy took a bite, and his eyes instantly widened.
— "Delicious!" he exclaimed, swallowing too quickly. "Really delicious!"
Before I could say anything, he dashed off, clutching the burger to his chest.
I smirked.
— "Well, one satisfied customer — that's already something."