The city stretched itself lazily in the morning sunlight. Narrow streets twisted between low, wooden buildings; the air smelled of smoke, wet earth, and the faint tang of fish from the river. The Land of Tea's capital was not wealthy, but it was functional. There was enough wealth to keep the streets from crumbling entirely, enough structure that a cautious man could move without constantly watching for bandits, and enough nobles to ensure that even minor merchants kept careful records of their transactions. That was the kind of environment I wanted. Stable enough to avoid chaos, unremarkable enough to hide in.
I walked without hurry, observing. Vendors arranged their wares on rickety tables, children darted past with shouts and laughter, and an older woman carried water in clay jars, balancing them on her hip. The streets were noisy, but the noise was predictable. I liked predictable noise. Chaos could be handled; surprise, less so.
I touched the sealed scroll at my side. Nothing was inside — not physically — but it held all I needed. My clothes, food, explosives, talismans, coins, and even precious metals and stones were all stored in my space. To anyone watching, I carried only a single scroll. Simple. Unremarkable. Perfect. It was easy to underestimate someone who looked unburdened.
First task of the morning: hire protection. Five men would be sufficient. Enough to guard me from petty thieves or curious nobles, but not so many as to draw attention. Five men would later form the core of my private force, the first thread of what I would need to survive quietly, invisibly.
I found the first by a riverside market. Broad shoulders, calm gaze, scars along forearms — a former caravan guard, judging by his movements. He had seen danger before, and his body remembered it. The second was younger, smaller, quick-eyed, a street fighter who had survived by wits. The third and fourth I found near a smithy's courtyard — one wiry, one quiet, both agile and alert, suitable for observation or message-carrying. The fifth was older, formerly a shinobi, lean, with eyes that never relaxed.
I paid them openly, as any traveler might. Coins in the hand, a promise of steady work, shelter, and food. The coins themselves were replicated using my Ability. To the men, they were real. To me, they were tools. None asked unnecessary questions. Curiosity is dangerous in hired men; I preferred utility.
"Five days," I said. "Dawn to dusk. You are paid each day. Work quietly. No questions. No gossip." Their faces betrayed nothing. They accepted, nodding, counting the coins, satisfied. That was the first step completed.
Next, the Golden House. I moved through the market, keeping the scroll visible but light, my guards trailing quietly. The reception was professional — eyes calculating, measuring, noting, but not prying. I asked for guidance on becoming a noble, specifically a Jitō, and the process required by the Daimyō's steward. The receptionist deferred to clerks, who brought me to the manager.
The manager was a man of middle age, thin, carefully dressed, exuding restrained authority. He listened as I explained my intentions. I wanted information, yes, but more than that — I wanted the path.
"Jitō are appointed by the Daimyō, through his steward," he explained. "It can be for service, merit, or payment. Service is time-consuming; merit is risky; payment is fastest. But the steward requires verification: wealth, influence, and reliability. Your assets must be demonstrated, your intentions credible. Introductions matter."
I nodded. I understood the language of money, influence, and bureaucracy perfectly. Verification would not challenge me — I had infinite resources and spatial storage. Coins, documents, charters, all could be replicated or fabricated as necessary.
"How does the steward prefer payment?" I asked.
He outlined the formal and informal channels: an official transfer, a ledger, an introduction fee, and discreet bribes if one wished the process to move quickly. I stored every detail. My plan would use both reality and perception: appearances mattered as much as truth.
With that, I moved to the next task: securing tangible wealth. Paper promises could be stolen, corrupted, or challenged. Metal and stone — gold, silver, jade — could not. I moved to the river market, found merchants of precious metals, and bought small quantities, carefully selecting items that would be valuable but not conspicuous. Each purchase I replicated multiple times using my Ability: infinite copies, hidden away in my spatial storage. Originals placed in a small but secure public location as a plausible cover; copies stored invisibly, safe from all prying eyes.
The process was precise. Gold sheets, coins, fist-sized pieces of jade — each duplicated, each inspected, until the copies were indistinguishable from the original. Then I arranged the hiding: some in a public chest under a generic merchant name, others deep in my spatial storage. A few pieces were deliberately visible, as props for any casual inspection. All others, the real wealth, would be my reserve, my insurance, my leverage.
Once the wealth was accounted for, I returned to the Golden House to inform them of my intent to pursue nobility. The manager received me with a neutral expression, noting my composure and quiet confidence. I explained that I intended to petition formally for a Jitō title, that I had assets to demonstrate, and that I wished to begin the verification process immediately.
He nodded. "Verification begins. The steward's men will inspect your holdings and intentions. Be patient. All must appear credible."
"Yes," I said. "I understand."
I left the Golden House, the sun climbing higher, and returned to the inn. There, I reviewed my plans, confirmed the guards' duties, and checked that my replicated wealth and supplies were secure. Everything was in place. Tomorrow, the first steps toward formal recognition would begin.
Dinner was simple: rice, vegetables, and a small portion of fish. I ate quickly, thinking of the days ahead. My personal army, my network, my invisible influence — all would start here, quietly, invisibly, without drawing attention.
As night fell, I lay in bed and reviewed every decision, every calculation. Five guards, properly trained and paid; wealth replicated and hidden; Golden House informed; steward's verification pending. The city was calm. My presence was unremarkable. The plan was in motion.
Tomorrow, I would begin moving pieces more openly: submission of documents, demonstrations of wealth, subtle recruitment, and initial positioning. The first day had been spent planting seeds in quiet soil. Now, they would begin to root.
The night passed without incident. The scroll sat at my side, empty and unassuming. Inside my spatial storage lay wealth enough to fund armies, bribe ministers, and secure my position. I slept not in comfort, but in calculation, knowing that when the morning came, every action would have consequences, and every move must be precise.