Hiroyama Makoto stood by the boarding ramp of the departing cargo ship, his face alight with relief even as sweat glinted at his temples in the morning sun. He clasped Shuji's hand tightly.
"Special Jōnin Shuji! I cannot thank you enough! If not for you…." His voice rang out, but his eyes flicked nervously toward the warehouse shadows where a few leather-armored henchmen stood with arms crossed. "At last, my goods are on board, and my heart can rest at ease!" He wiped his brow and lowered his tone. "But…won't you and your companions sail with us? I fear those men still hold a grudge from the incident at the gate…"
Shuji withdrew his hand calmly, expression serene. His gaze swept the henchmen, and two of them instinctively recoiled from his stare.
"Oh, you reassure me!" Hiroyama's worry melted into another obsequious grin. "I've prepaid five days at the Seafoam Inn! Please stay as long as you like! I wish I could properly treat you, but the ship waits—please accept this token of my gratitude!" He produced a bulging pouch of coins and thrust it forward.
"My duty precludes it, Mr. Hiroyama." Shuji gently waved away the offering.
Hiroyama hastily retrieved the pouch, bowing deeply. "Should you require further commissions, please call upon Konoha's ninja again. Farewell."
He trotted up the gangway, glancing back three times until the ship's horn bellowed and it eased away, merging with busy shipping lanes beyond the harbor.
Almost as the ship vanished from view, in the heart of Degarashi Port, the Wasabi estate grew tense.
In a dim reception room, fragrant incense failed to dispel tight anxiety. On the tatami knelt seven or eight well-dressed men of varied ages—the heads of the fishermen's guild, the dockworkers' union, and several leading merchant houses outside the Waisuke family. All eyes were fixed on Wasabi Jirōchō at the head of the room.
Jirōchō wore formal dark gray robes, back straight as a pine. His once-gentle face carried solemn resolve. Before him on a low table lay a thick dossier and several blurred but identifiable sketch-prints.
"Gentlemen," his quiet voice cut through the silence. "I have convened you to expose a lie that threatens Degarashi Port's very existence!"
He lifted a print of a scarred, brutal face. "This man is Kumosuke, a vicious bandit from Yacha Slope Chasan Group—three months ago his gang ambushed three merchant caravans at Nanshu Station, killing and wounding seventeen!" He produced another print. "And this…"
One by one he displayed the prints, each face savage in the yellow lamplight. Jirōchō's voice trembled with restrained fury: "These men—and their nearly three-hundred desperados—were never truly eradicated, contrary to the Waisuke family's claims! They lurk under our noses, at our very gates, on our docks, in our streets! Under the guise of 'special tolls,' they've bled our merchants dry, destroying this city from within!"
A wave of horrified gasps and shifting murmurs rose. The fishing-guild elder spoke: "Jirōchō, this is serious—and unsubstantiated…"
"Here is the proof!" Jirōchō slammed the dossier onto the table. "From personal items abandoned at the Yacha camp site, to coerced confessions from captured laborers who escaped, to the matching tattoos found on the gang members themselves!" He inhaled sharply, sweeping his gaze over the stunned assembly. He leveled his tone: "Most crucially, these findings were uncovered with the assistance of Konoha's ninja escort squad—led by Special Jōnin Shuji!"
"Konoha?!" The name struck the room like lightning. Doubtful glances turned sharp and urgent.
"Indeed." Jirōchō's deep voice continued. "I have dispatched the evidence and letters to the capital to present to the daimyō. I ask you to prepare a force to purge these vermin from Degarashi Port!"
Silence fell again. The guild elders exchanged knowing looks. Some eyes flickered with righteous anger, nods of resolve; others furrowed their brows, fingers tapping knees in anxious thought.
At last, the fishing-guild elder spoke: "With Konoha's ninja as witnesses and this… tangible evidence," he nodded to the dossier, "we must act. But since the Waisuke family currently holds authority here, we cannot move rashly without the daimyō's orders. Once the daimyō commands, we will strike at once to cleanse this plague."
"Precisely."
"We await the daimyō's directive."
"Agreed."
"Rest assured, Jirōchō." All voiced firm support: They trusted the evidence but would hold fire until the daimyō's formal command.
Jirōchō concealed his relief behind composed solemnity. These seasoned operators wanted to enlist his aid to remove the Waisuke-installed cancer, yet none would risk blame before the verdict. He nodded gravely: "I understand. Proper procedure ensures proper results. I will await the daimyō's decision. Meanwhile, please prepare thoroughly so that when the command arrives, this city may be saved with one decisive blow."
"Of course."
"Count on us, Lord Wasabi."
The leaders rose and bowed, leaving with weighty expressions, each lost in private strategy. The reception room stood empty once more, incense smoke curling in the lamplight.
Almost concurrently, in a shabby coastal room near an abandoned shipyard at the harbor's edge, Komainu sat cross-legged in deep shadow. His ever-present sword lay sheathed before him. At his feet knelt a lean man reporting urgently:
"…Wasabi Jirōchō gathered people… produced papers and depictions… said it was irrefutable proof… and claimed Konoha ninja helped gather it… aims to present it to the daimyō… and strike once they have the daimyō's reply…"
Komainu's narrow eyes snapped open, and his sword's scabbard buzzed ever so slightly.
I see—so Wasabi called in Konoha's ninja to legitimize his claims…
"A report to the daimyō…" Komainu bit back a sardonic laugh, revealing white teeth. "That old fool's quick on the draw!"
He did not know—and need not know—how the daimyō would respond: reject the evidence? Dispatch some Waisuke retainer to investigate? Or, seeing Konoha's stance, abandon the Chasan Group? None mattered. He would simply eliminate the messenger so the daimyō would never see this proof.
Komainu rose abruptly, his tall shadow crowding the cramped room, suffocating his kneeling underling.
"Where are the Konoha ninja now?"
"They remain at the Seafoam Inn, sir. We've been watching them."
"Good. Then have your people shadow the Wasabi estate."
"Yes, sir!"
As the man backed away to relay orders, Komainu commanded softly into the gloom: "Send the Black Erosion Group to kill Wasabi's messenger. Genkai, you observe the Konoha ninja."
A figure detached from the shadows—Genkai—tall with luminescent green eyes set deep in hollow sockets, tattoos of hungry wolves under one eye, bird feathers and bone hairpins in his mop of dark hair, bells carved with "hunger" on his wrists, wearing a patched monk's robe.
"Something's off," Genkai mumbled through a coin clenched in his teeth.
Komainu's tone chilled: "Irrelevant now. We've invested too much, and from the start we planned for Konoha ninja. We're merely accelerating the schedule."
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild