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The air in Gatō's study was stale and oppressive, heavy with the cloying scent of expensive, imported incense that failed to mask an underlying rot.
The room was a monument to ill-gotten wealth. The walls were lined with shelves of silk-bound scrolls, the floor was covered by a priceless rug, and the desk, a massive slab of polished mahogany, was a testament to the power of a man who dealt in misery.
Gatō, a short, corpulent man wearing a fine black suit, was hunched over a thick, leather-bound ledger, a look of greedy satisfaction on his face as he traced a line of figures with a pudgy finger.
This was the heart of his empire. On the surface, the Gatō Company was a legitimate, if ruthlessly efficient, shipping enterprise. But the real profits, the ones that paid for this mansion and the small army of quasi-samurai who protected it, were detailed in this private ledger.
He smirked, reading a recent entry: a successful run smuggling illegal performance-enhancing drugs to shinobi in smaller, less-regulated villages. Another line detailed the profits from trafficking refugees displaced by minor border conflicts, selling them into indentured servitude. Weapons, information, people… everything had a price, and Gatō was a master of the transaction.
He looked up from the ledger, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as he heard a soft knock at the shoji screen door. "Come in."
A man dressed in the simple grey robes of a hired samurai slid the door open and entered, bowing low. "Gatō-sama," the samurai began, his voice hesitant, "It appears that Zabuza has failed his mission. Recent reports from our scouts show that the bridge builder, Tazuna, arrived in his home in one piece."
BANG!
Gatō's fist slammed down on the desk, the impact rattling the inkstone and sending a tremor through the delicate porcelain teacup beside it. The ledger jumped, its pages fluttering. "WHAT!?" he shrieked, his voice a high, reedy sound of pure fury. "That poor excuse of a shinobi can't even do his job!? I promised him a fortune!"
"..." The samurai remained silent, his head bowed, wisely choosing not to offer any comment that might draw his master's wrath.
"We'll go to his hideout now-" Gatō stopped mid-sentence, his anger momentarily overridden by his schedule. He remembered the meeting he had with a client, a wealthy but depraved merchant from a nearby town, concerning the smuggling of several children out of the Land of Wave for… unsavory purposes. "Tsk... we'll visit his hideout tomorrow evening."
The samurai bowed again, about to take his leave, but Gatō's next words stopped him cold. "I'll be getting ready to sleep," the businessman said, his tone shifting to one of casual, chilling cruelty. "Place a child in my room later... she should be there by the time I finish bathing."
A flicker of revulsion crossed the samurai's face, so quick it was almost imperceptible, but he bowed again, his voice flat. "...Yes, Gatō-sama." He turned and quickly exited the room, the paper door sliding shut behind him with a soft, final hiss.
"Haaaa... so fucking annoying," Gatō grumbled to the empty room, massaging his temples. The Zabuza situation was a loose end, a complication he didn't need. "Should I kill Zabuza tomorrow? No... I should make sure that he's injured. He's a high-ranking ninja for no reason..."
"So... you did plan on killing me."
The voice was a low, dangerous rasp, and it came from the window.
Gatō's blood ran cold. He whipped his head around, his eyes widening in terror. There, sitting casually on the windowsill as if he owned the place, was the massive, bandaged form of Zabuza Momochi. The moonlight behind him cast a demonic silhouette. And on a thick tree branch just outside, perched like a silent bird of prey, was Haku.
"I told you, didn't I?"
Gatō spun his head back towards the center of the room, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. His heart hammered against his ribs. In one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, a chair that had been empty a second ago, sat a man. A giant of a man, with platinum-blonde hair and a fine crimson coat, his long legs crossed, his arms folded, a confident, almost bored smirk on his impossibly handsome face.
"W-What in Kami's name is g-going on!?" Gatō stammered, scrambling back from his desk, his chair tipping over with a crash. His gaze darted frantically between the figures. "Zabuza, w-why are you here instead of killing that bastard Tazuna!?"
Alaric remained relaxed in his chair, a freshly lit cigar now held loosely between his fingers, the fragrant smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling. He simply watched, a silent, amused spectator to the unfolding drama.
Zabuza pushed himself off the windowsill, landing silently on the tatami mats. He hefted his Kubikiribōchō, the massive blade looking even more terrifying in the confines of the small office.
"You talk too much, Gatō," he growled, and with a speed that defied his size, he lunged.
The massive executioner's blade whistled through the air, a blur of sharpened steel aimed to cleave the businessman's head from his shoulders. Gatō screamed, a high, pathetic sound, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.
But the blow never landed.
The blade stopped, a single centimeter from his sweating temple, held fast by an unseen force. Zabuza's eyes widened, his muscles straining against the impossible resistance. He turned his head, his gaze snapping towards the man by the fireplace. He saw the crimson, three-tomoe pattern spinning hypnotically in the man's blue eyes.
"Sh-Sharingan!?" Zabuza breathed, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"You can't kill him yet, Zabuza," Alaric said, his voice was a calm, almost lazy drawl. He stood up from his chair, walking towards the terrified, trembling Gatō. He placed a hand on the businessman's shoulder, and their eyes met. 'Genjutsu: Sharingan.'
Gatō's terrified expression instantly went slack, his eyes dulling, his body becoming limp and compliant.
Zabuza watched, his own blade still frozen in mid-air by the invisible force of Alaric's Vulcan. This was a level of power, a type of jutsu, he had only heard of in legends. This wasn't just silent killing; this was the silent subjugation of the mind itself. He was profoundly perplexed.
"Where's the money at? How much?" Alaric commanded, his voice soft but absolute. Gatō, now his temporary puppet, answered without hesitation.
"Down, in the basement," he replied, his voice a flat, soulless monotone. "255,050,090 Ryo."
"W-Woah, what the hell," Zabuza's jaw dropped, the invisible force on his sword releasing as Alaric turned his attention away. The Kubikiribōchō felt impossibly heavy in his hand for a moment. 'This is some mind-control shit! How does he have that much money!? That's like a small country's national reserve!'
Even Haku, still perched on the tree branch outside, heard the number, and his eyes widened behind his mask. 'What is he?'
"Heh... guide me to the basement," Alaric smiled. Gatō turned stiffly and began to walk, a mindless puppet leading the way.
As they exited the study, the samurai guards in the corridor saw Zabuza and froze, their hands flying to their swords. But then they saw their master, Gatō, walking calmly, his eyes dull and unfocused, and they hesitated, confused. They knew of the plan to betray Zabuza, but this… this was not part of it. They simply stood aside, too afraid to question the bizarre, silent procession.
The four of them descended into the mansion's cold, damp basement, the air thick with the smell of earth and secrets. They came to a massive, reinforced steel vault door, where Gatō stopped.
"What are you waiting for? Open it!" Zabuza growled, his patience worn thin by the night's impossible events. But Gatō remained motionless, his dull eyes staring blankly at the door.
"Don't bother, he won't listen to anyone other than me," Alaric smiled, stepping forward. He looked at the vault door, then at Gatō. "Open the vault."
Like a machine switched on, Gatō placed his hand on a smooth, unmarked panel beside the door. A faint light glowed, scanning his palm, and with a series of heavy, metallic clicks, the vault door swung open.
'Heh...' Alaric internally shook his head. 'It always surprises me how they have this kind of tech in this world despite not being that modern yet.'
Gatō pulled the heavy door fully open, revealing the contents within. Zabuza and Haku gasped. It was a sight that defied belief. Stacks of Ryo bills, bundled and bound, were piled to the ceiling. Chests overflowed with gold and silver coins, and shelves were lined with priceless artifacts and jewels. Zabuza had seen his share of treasure, but this… this was a king's ransom, the accumulated wealth of a man who profited from the suffering of an entire nation.
"DAMN!" Zabuza couldn't help but curse, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and avarice.
Alaric just smirked. He walked into the vault, and with a single, elegant hand sign, he summoned his power. Complex, glowing fuinjutsu symbols materialized in the air, swirling around the piles of money like a silent, hungry vortex. In seconds, every coin, every bill, every jewel, vanished without a sound, sealed away into Alaric's private, dimensional storage.
"...Damn," Zabuza muttered, staring at the now-empty vault. "What the hell's going on..."
'Now, I'm rich in the previous world and this world,' Alaric's smile remained as he walked back towards the still-vacant Gatō. He stopped in front of the businessman, and with a single, fluid, almost dismissive horizontal swipe of his hand, Gatō's head detached cleanly from his body, tumbling to the floor with a soft, wet thud.
Zabuza and Haku's eyes widened. The casual, absolute lethality of the act was more terrifying than any jutsu. They looked at Alaric, at the calm, almost bored expression on his face, and a new, profound sense of wariness settled over them. This man wasn't just strong; he was a force of nature, an entity operating on a level they couldn't even begin to comprehend.
Alaric started walking out of the basement, then paused at the doorway, turning to look back at them. "You guys coming or what?"
"..." Zabuza looked at Haku, who nodded silently. He then looked back at Alaric, and a slow, dangerous grin spread across his own bandaged face. He hefted his massive sword onto his shoulder. This was no longer just a contract. This was an opportunity, a chance to follow a man who could reshape the very world. He started walking, following the blonde out of the bloody, empty vault.
'Things are getting interesting.'
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