One hundred million ryō.
Uchiha Shigure knew how absurd the number sounded, but he had his reasons.
In the shinobi world, prices never quite matched modern money, yet he had done the math carefully. One ryō was roughly equivalent to ten yen—about sixty cents back in his old life. An S‑rank mission, usually worth a million ryō, translated to around six hundred thousand yuan. A simple bowl of Ichiraku ramen cost sixty ryō, barely thirty-six yuan. Even Genin from poor teams could earn between three to thirty thousand yuan just through D‑rank errands.
Find a lost cat, drive off a wild boar threatening fields, keep a merchant free of bandits—small tasks with pooled civilian funds. That was the rhythm of the village economy.
It was no wonder Noguchi Hideo, the bearded craftsman, had lied about his mission rank when Shigure helped him; ordinary folk simply could not afford the true cost.
This was the world of ninja. Ninjas were the pivot around which society balanced. They were wealthier than commoners, more flexible than samurai from the Iron Country, and capable of completing missions beyond the means of any warrior class. To hire ninja was to hire survival.
So when Shigure demanded one hundred million ryō, it was not as ridiculous as it first sounded. For a civilian, impossible. But for the mightiest clan in Konoha?
Absolutely within reach.
The Uchiha name carried influence, wealth, and pride. They controlled missions of their own. Over generations, countless fortunes had flowed through their compound. To claim they could not muster the sum would have been laughable.
"You insolent brat! The Hyūga never extorted us this way!"
"One hundred million? Are you mad? Why not rob the Daimyō while you're at it?!"
Uchiha Fugaku's voice trembled with outrage. Beside him, Yoshitsugu scowled so deeply his pale face looked carved from stone.
Even Uchiha Masamune, the patriarch, narrowed his eyes. "Can the number… be lowered? One hundred million ryō truly stretches our budget."
Shigure shook his head. "You all want power—the kind only I can provide. If you split it among every participant, the price is nothing. What I offer is a monopoly, something no one else in this world can sell you. Whether you grasp it or not is up to you."
His words cut like a kunai. Too expensive, and the deal would shatter. Too cheap, and the lesson's bite would dull. One hundred million was precise—enough to wound Uchiha pride but not its coffers.
Masamune's lined face hardened. Fugaku and Yoshitsugu looked ready to protest again, but the patriarch lifted a hand and silenced them.
"It's decided," Masamune said at last. "One hundred million ryō. All who stand here, myself included, will accept your promotion."
Fugaku's jaw dropped. Yoshitsugu muttered under his breath. But Masamune had spoken, and with that, the matter was sealed.
"So you agreed so easily," Shigure thought, a flicker of surprise flitting across his mind. He had expected a fight, a stalemate to squeeze them further. But perhaps he had underestimated the depth of Uchiha wealth.
Impatience filled the room.
"You said there were three conditions in total," one elder snapped. "Out with the rest!"
Shigure raised his hand calmly. "Why rush? For my second demand—I want access to three Uchiha clan secret techniques. I will choose them myself and master them."
Masamune's eyes narrowed. He had considered refusing, claiming the techniques best fit only Uchiha blood. Yet Shigure stood before them with a Sharingan that burned differently than any other. Denying him would only fracture the gathering further.
"I will allow it," Masamune declared. "Name your third condition."
A smile curved Shigure's lips, sharp as a hawk's beak. "The last is simple. I want the truth about my father."
Instant silence.
Shigure might well have detonated an explosive tag in the middle of the hall. The gathered Uchiha froze. The clan elders shifted uneasily. Fugaku's smirk held venom. Yoshitsugu's grin was sharp and cruel.
Shigure's gaze sharpened. "What now? Suddenly you've lost your tongues? Or is this secret so ugly you dare not share it?"
Finally, Masamune spoke. "Your third condition… is beyond my authority to grant. If you wish to know of your father, you must see for yourself."
Fugaku exploded. "Clan leader! That is our forbidden ground! Outsiders must never enter—"
"Silence!" Masamune's bark cracked across the air.
Just as tension thickened, another voice rang out, steady and brave. "Uchiha Shigure is qualified to enter."
Heads turned.
From the crowd stepped Shisui of the Body Flicker—eyes calm, expression firm.
"Shisui?" Shigure blinked, surprised. Of all the Uchiha present, only Shisui had dared to speak in his defense.
"Why side with him, Shisui?" Yoshitsugu hissed.
But Masamune had already waved him down. "Enough. Shisui, you may take your leave. Fugaku, Yoshitsugu—the same for you. Do you still stand by my word?"
Reluctant and bitter, they both lowered their heads. "We… obey."
Masamune leaned forward, aging fire dancing in his gaze. "Good. Fugaku, prepare one hundred million ryō immediately. Yoshitsugu, escort Shigure to the archives and allow him to select three techniques. After both matters are finished, I will grant permission for Shigure to walk the path to our forbidden area. There, he will learn the truth of his blood."
The efficiency, the authority—Shigure could not help but admire it. Masamune bore the weight of clan head with grace.
"Then I'll accept your hospitality," Shigure replied smoothly. He turned to the captain with a faint, mocking smile. "Lead on, Yoshitsugu."
The storage chamber was ancient. Dust layered shelves, rot clung to wooden beams, and the air smelled of sleeping centuries. Scrolls rested on racks, their ink faded, sealed with careful knots.
"Three. No more," Yoshitsugu snapped.
Shigure's Sharingan spun lazily. He swept over the archive, ancient words pouring into his perception. To any other Uchiha, centuries of accumulated jutsu would have been overwhelming. To him, with eyes long awakened, the details were already clear.
He extended his hand. "These three."
Yoshitsugu glared. "So casually? You don't even glance properly? Do you truly think you can handle whatever is written here?"
Shigure ignored him. To choose was easy when you already knew what hid among the piles. The clan liked to boast its arsenal of fire-style techniques, but to Shigure, only a handful truly mattered.
Returning to the main hall, he found Masamune waiting with an enormous chest. When it opened, bundles of heavy Konoha currency gleamed inside, crisp and freshly pressed, stacked so precisely they seemed almost unreal.
Masamune smiled, eyes returning to Shigure. "You choose swiftly. Are you certain about these three?"
Yoshitsugu scowled but managed a grudging nod.
Masamune unrolled the scrolls—and the moment his eyes met the ink, his expression chilled to stone. His lips lost color. His hands trembled slightly, the weight of recognition dragging on him.
"No… these are—!"
The air grew taut.
"Great Fire Annihilation. Great Fire Destruction Arrow. Dragon Flame Song." Masamune's voice shook. "These are… the jutsu of Madara himself."
The hall rustled, disbelief rippling like sparks.
Yoshitsugu barked in confusion. "Impossible! I watched him choose—he picked at random!"
"Shut your mouth, Captain Yoshitsugu!" Masamune's snarl was sharp enough to crack stone. Gone was the calm patriarch. In his eyes flared the wrath of a man cornered, his dojutsu glittering dangerously.
Shigure only smiled.
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