For the next three days, Sosuke was essentially a cripple.
The toll of transforming into a Fuma Shuriken and violently embedding himself into a tree trunk was far worse than he had anticipated.
It wasn't just soft tissue contusions.
Far more severe was the trauma to his inner ear vestibular system.
Even lying perfectly still in bed, the ceiling spun relentlessly.
The moment he closed his eyes, his body felt as though it were still caught in that damn high-speed mid-air rotation.
Nausea.
The urge to vomit.
Even sipping water triggered violent dry heaving.
Sosuke lay in bed.
The cramped room reeked of medicinal liquor and the sour stench of vomit.
He hadn't opened the shop.
Even the simple act of sitting up required ten minutes of mental preparation.
Transforming into a Fuma Shuriken, spinning at terminal speeds, and crashing into a solid object—this suicidal training method was entirely too advanced for his current physical limits.
That lunatic Genzo was training him like a real shinobi.
And his body's hardware simply couldn't keep up.
Sosuke took out a piece of the Fūri's liver.
It was the last half-piece remaining.
With trembling hands, he shoved it into his mouth. He didn't even have the energy to pour medicinal liquor to neutralize the toxins.
He swallowed it raw.
That familiar, agonizing pain—like a blade carving out his insides—struck again.
His stomach spasmed violently.
Yet, the sheer intensity of the pain managed to suppress the severe vertigo in his head.
Using pain to kill the dizziness.
As the wind-natured chakra dispersed through his system, he could feel his damaged capillaries slowly repairing themselves.
By the evening of the third day.
The world finally stopped spinning.
Although his footing was still a bit floaty, like walking on cotton, he could at least walk in a straight line.
Sosuke pushed himself out of bed.
He took a bath, scrubbing away the sour stench clinging to his skin.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Thinner.
Three days of torture, compounded by ingesting toxic ninja beast organs, had left his already frail frame looking even more emaciated.
His cheekbones protruded; his eye sockets were sunken.
But his eyes—they gleamed with a terrifying brightness.
The eyes of a starved beast.
He applied a thick layer of foundation to mask his deathly pale complexion.
Then, he opened the front door to his shop.
To his surprise, a carriage was parked outside.
It looked familiar.
It belonged to the Takaya Merchant Guild.
A man stepped down from the carriage. It wasn't Takaya Jiro. It was Dr. Doi.
"Sosuke." Dr. Doi's face broke into a wide, fawning smile upon seeing him.
"The boss is requesting your presence."
"Now?"
"Yes, right now. At Zuiyetsurou."
Sosuke raised an eyebrow.
Zuiyetsurou.
It was a money-burning den of vice, and the premier location for discussing major business deals.
It seemed the fat man was recovering quite well, and he had come up with some new ideas.
Sosuke followed Dr. Doi into the carriage.
The interior was plush and comfortable, fully stocked with tea and pastries.
Half an hour later.
Inside a private parlor at Zuiyetsurou.
Takaya Jiro was seated on the tatami mats, one arm draped around a geisha, a sake cup in his other hand.
The bandages on his neck had been removed, leaving behind a thick, pink scar.
He looked even fatter now, his face flush with health and alcohol.
"My good nephew!"
Seeing Sosuke enter, Takaya Jiro pushed the geisha aside and waved him over with a booming laugh.
"Come, sit! Try this sake. It's the best in the Land of Fire, three thousand Ryo a bottle."
Sosuke sat down. But he didn't drink.
"Did you need me for something, Uncle?"
Takaya Jiro waved his hand dismissively. The geisha and Dr. Doi bowed and exited the room.
Only the 'uncle' and 'nephew' remained.
The fat man's smile dialed back slightly, revealing the shrewd, calculating glint of a veteran merchant.
"Your shop has been doing pretty well lately."
Takaya Jiro poured himself another cup of sake.
"The reputation of that 'Purified Water' of yours has even reached the inner city districts."
"It's a small business," Sosuke replied mildly. "Just making a little hard-earned cash."
"Hard-earned cash?"
Takaya Jiro fished a small vial from his robes.
It was a bottle of the very same Purified Water Sosuke sold for fifty Ryo a pop.
"I had it tested."
Takaya Jiro shook the vial.
"It contains trace amounts of silver. Even though it's a minute quantity, the craftsmanship is extraordinary. The fineness of that silver powder... even the best artisans in Konohagakure couldn't grind it down that perfectly."
Sosuke's eyes cooled.
This fat bastard was investigating him.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Relax," Takaya Jiro chuckled. "Everyone has their secrets. I don't care how you make it. I only care about its value."
He set the vial down on the low table.
"Fifty Ryo. It's far too cheap."
"A liquid capable of preventing infections? If you put this on the battlefield, people would slaughter each other to buy it for five hundred Ryo."
"I want to partner with you."
Takaya Jiro leaned forward, his beady eyes—squeezed tight by the fat of his cheeks—gleaming with raw avarice.
"You handle the production of the raw concentrate. I handle the dilution, packaging, logistics, and sales."
"We won't just stop at Konohagakure. I'm going to sell this in every single town in the Land of Fire. I'll even sell it to the Daimyo's army."
Sosuke rapidly ran the calculations in his head.
It was a massive temptation.
And an equally massive risk.
Once they scaled up, the demand for silver would skyrocket.
Though he could use [Precious Metal Generation] infinitely, if hundreds of pounds of pure silver suddenly materialized out of thin air every day, even an idiot would realize something was wrong.
But he couldn't refuse.
Rejecting Takaya Jiro meant losing his protective umbrella.
Furthermore, he needed this distribution channel to amass serious wealth.
Only with a legitimate massive income stream could he openly launder his generated gold and silver into the local economy without drawing suspicion.
"Production is limited," Sosuke lied smoothly. "It's an ancestral process. Highly taxing on the mind and body."
"I can provide you with assistants."
"No. The secret formula doesn't leave the family."
Sosuke rejected the offer firmly and without hesitation.
"Then we strictly limit the supply," Takaya Jiro conceded, stepping back. "How much can you provide each month?"
Sosuke calculated the chemical yield.
If it were a highly concentrated silver-ion solution, a single bottle could be diluted into a hundred bottles of standard Purified Water.
He only needed a stray thought to generate enough silver for the reaction.
The real issue was controlling the supply to keep it believable.
"One hundred bottles of concentrate," Sosuke said, holding up a single finger. "For each bottle of concentrate, I require two thousand Ryo to cover my costs."
Takaya Jiro paused.
He rapidly crunched the numbers in his head.
A hundred bottles of concentrate... that was two hundred thousand Ryo in overhead.
Diluted down, that became ten thousand bottles of Purified Water.
Selling them at two hundred Ryo apiece—the new, marked-up price—equaled two million Ryo in gross revenue.
Subtracting the cost of the glass vials, manual labor, and logistics, the net profit would be at least one million Ryo.
And that was a conservative estimate.
If he secured military contracts, the price could easily double.
"Deal."
Takaya Jiro slapped his massive thigh.
"But I want exclusive distribution rights."
"Fine."
"I already have the contract drafted."
Takaya Jiro pulled out a scroll.
Sosuke read through the fine print.
The terms were fair. A seventy-thirty split. Sosuke took thirty percent.
He signed his name.
"Excellent!"
Takaya Jiro laughed heartily.
"Since we're partners now, I'll let you in on something."
The fat man lowered his voice, his expression sobering.
"The world is getting restless."
"Sunagakure... It seems they're massing troops on the border."
"The price of iron and grain is already spiking. If you have any spare cash, start hoarding supplies."
Sosuke felt a chill.
The Third Great Ninja War... was it starting?
It felt years earlier than the timeline in his memories.
Or was it the butterfly effect?
"Thanks for the heads-up."
"Also," Takaya Jiro pointed out the window. "Your shop is too small. I own a warehouse over on West Street. You can handle your 'production' there from now on. It's quiet. No one will bother you."
He was offering Sosuke a more secure, isolated location.
It was also a subtle nod: 'I know you need to keep your methods a secret.'
Sosuke nodded.
This fat bastard might be incredibly greedy, but he was undeniably a useful ally.
As long as their financial interests aligned, he was more reliable than anyone.
Emerging from Zuiyetsurou, Sosuke held a thick stack of banknotes in his hand.
Five hundred thousand Ryo.
An upfront advance for the first batch of concentrate.
With this cash injection, Sosuke's financial backbone instantly stiffened.
He didn't return to his shop.
Instead, he headed straight back to the black market.