As one of the men shouted for help, the others quickly joined in, their voices rising in panic.
"GUARDS! GUARDS!"
"Someone get in here!"
"NOW!"
They were loud and desperate, convinced that within seconds the door would burst open and their personal guards—trained warriors and elite ninjas—would come charging in to protect them.
But nothing happened.
No footsteps. No pounding on the door. No rush of reinforcements.
Only silence.
The men exchanged uneasy glances. The room, once loud with calls for help, now felt heavier than ever.
Shanks stepped forward, sword still in hand, and spoke with a cool, unshaken calm.
"Are you finished with your little tantrum?" he asked, his voice sharp but quiet, like the edge of a blade. "No one's coming. You could scream until your lungs give out, and it won't change a thing."
They stared at him, stunned into silence.
"I used a ninjutsu technique that knocked them unconscious. If you want to wake them up, they'll need a strong external stimulus—something intense enough to shock their system back awake. A harsh beating, extreme heat, or freezing cold might do it. Just shouting at them won't work—they won't even flinch."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"So don't waste your breath. The only reason you're awake right now isn't because of the water—it's because I allowed it. I want answers. Nothing more."
His gaze hardened.
"So sit down, shut up, and listen."
What Shanks had said was absolutely true. The moment they regained consciousness wasn't because of the cold water—it was because he allowed it. He had withdrawn the overwhelming pressure of his Conqueror's Haki, the same force that had brought the entire town to its knees.
The receptionist, the restaurant manager, his staff—even these four men—had all fallen under its influence. None could wake unless Shanks willed it, releasing them from its grasp.
One of the men, gathering what little courage he had left, finally spoke.
"Who are you?" he asked cautiously. "And what do you want from us? It's obvious you're not a bandit… or a killer. If you were, we'd already be dead."
Shanks looked at him, his gaze steady, unreadable.
"You don't need to know who I am," he said flatly. "What you do need to tell me is this—does anyone here lead the caravan, or at least have the authority to speak for it?"
There was a pause as the men looked at one another. Then, the same man who had spoken before took a breath and stepped forward slightly.
"I'm the leader," he said. "If there's something you need—ask. I'll do what I can to help."
Shanks lowered his sword slightly, his tone shifting—cool, yet surprisingly polite.
"I don't need your help," he said. "I came here for one reason only—to purchase three of your carriages. I'm offering 10,000 ryō for each, including the horses."
The caravan leader blinked in surprise.
"That's... more than double the market price," Shanks continued. "A carriage and a horse usually go for around 4,000 ryō. But I'm willing to pay ten—so there's no reason for you to claim a loss."
The room fell silent for a moment as the weight of the offer settled in.
The caravan leader exhaled slowly, visibly relieved. So this wasn't a robbery. He just wants to buy something—at a generous price, no less.
"I—I appreciate the offer," the man said, choosing his words carefully. "But you must understand, I run a caravan. We travel constantly, and carriages are essential. Parting with three of them would be... difficult."
The air shifted.
Shanks's expression darkened, the politeness draining from his face in an instant. His next words were low, but laced with menace.
"I gave you one sentence of courtesy. Don't let it go to your head."
He took a slow step forward, his presence pressing down like a storm cloud.
"Don't grow wings and think you can fly. I'm not asking you," he said. "I'm telling you. I will buy the carriages—and you will sell them."
The leader's face drained of colour. His posture shrank under the weight of Shanks's glare.
"Y-Yes. Of course," he stammered. "Yes... I understand."
The other men in the room stirred uneasily, clearly dissatisfied with the caravan leader's submission. A few even opened their mouths to protest—but they never got the chance to speak.
Without a word, Shanks unleashed a pulse of Conqueror's Haki. The force hit like a wave, invisible but overwhelming. One by one, the men collapsed again, their protests silenced before they began. In an instant, only the caravan leader remained standing—pale, wide-eyed, and now very aware of just how little power he had in this situation.
Shanks turned to him calmly.
"Follow me."
The leader obeyed without hesitation, and the three of them—Shanks, the caravan leader, and the still-nervous receptionist—left the hotel together.
They made their way to the stables behind the hotel. Just as Shanks had sensed earlier with his Observation Haki, there were several carriages lined up in neat rows, each with their own horses kept nearby. He took his time inspecting them, choosing three well-built carriages and three healthy, strong horses to pull them.
With the caravan leader's assistance, Shanks began preparing them. He tied each horse to its respective carriage, securing harnesses and reins with practiced hands. Then, thinking ahead, he roped the carriages together—front to back—forming a small convoy. It would be easier to guide them this way.
He worked with quiet efficiency, but his mind was already on the next challenge.
None of the others from my family know how to drive a carriage, he thought. Which means I'll have to take the lead.
He tightened a final knot and looked back at the setup.
I'll teach them the basics—how to stop the horses, how to hold the reins steady. That should be enough for now. All they'll need to do is follow my lead. When I stop, they stop. If they can manage that, we won't have any accidents. No injuries. No broken horses.
With the carriages secured and tied together, Shanks climbed onto the first one and took hold of the reins. His movements were calm but deliberate—he knew he had to be careful. It wasn't just about driving; it was about guiding. The two carriages behind him needed to follow his lead precisely, or they risked veering off course and injuring the horses.
He gave a soft command, and the horses began to move. Slowly, steadily, the small caravan rolled forward.
"Keep up," he said over his shoulder to the caravan leader.
Reluctantly, the man climbed onto the second carriage, taking the driver's seat. Though he followed Shanks's instructions, a bitter expression settled on his face. This wasn't how he had imagined his day. Forced to sell off his carriages—and now reduced to acting as a coachman for the very man who had pressured him into the deal. It stung.
He bit down the resentment. At least he was still alive.
They made their way through the quiet streets.
Finally, they arrived outside the restaurant. Just as the carriages came to a halt, the doors of the neighbouring bathhouse opened—and out came the women and children of the Uzumaki clan, their skin still flushed from the heat of the baths.
They stopped, blinking in surprise at the sight before them.
Three carriages stood in front of the building, the horses steaming gently in the evening air. And at the front of it all, Shanks dismounted with practiced ease, landing lightly on the ground.
He looked over and spotted Miki.
He pointed toward the caravan leader.
"Aunt Miki," he said, his voice clear and firm. "Give him thirty thousand ryō. Ten thousand per carriage."
----
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