The night had been heavy, yet surprisingly still. I slept deeply, exhausted from the chaos of the ruins, the desperate flight from fire and death, and the weight of knowledge that my clan was gone. Somewhere in that deep, dreamless sleep, my mind shifted. The world dissolved into a white void, infinite and silent, where time had no meaning. I could not tell whether moments or hours passed. Then, with a jolt of awareness, I realized something had changed inside me.
A presence emerged in my mind, unfamiliar yet precise. My body felt lighter, my senses sharper, my thoughts faster and clearer than ever before. I understood, fully, instantly: this was not a dream, nor hallucination. Something in me had awakened.
Ability.
The word came to me naturally, carrying its meaning with absolute certainty. I comprehended the rules instinctively: infinite copy, infinite space, infinite lifespan. Anything I touched physically could now be duplicated endlessly. Storage no longer mattered—I could hold anything, as much as I wished, without limitation. Time could not touch me. Age would not claim me. I could still die, but only if attacked or neglected. Otherwise, I was effectively immortal.
The realization was overwhelming, yet surprisingly calm. I didn't need to test it immediately. Observation, patience, and careful assessment were far more important than reckless experimentation. Survival first. Planning second. Execution could wait.
When I finally woke the next morning, the memory of the awakening was vivid, crisp, and undeniable. Ability existed. Absolute. Untested, yet certain. My mind already ran through endless possibilities—objects, tools, weapons, coins, provisions—but testing would wait. For now, observation and careful calculation were key.
Sunlight filtered through the thin paper screens, spilling across the tatami mats in soft, golden stripes. Outside, the streets were quiet and dusty, barely distinguishable from a large village. Life carried on indifferently. The fire, the ruins, the deaths—none of it mattered to this slow-moving world. That indifference was a comfort. Survival demanded calm, awareness, and comprehension of life's rhythms before rash action.
I dressed slowly, letting the morning's stillness sink in. When I descended to the hall, I immediately sensed the tension in the air. The jōnin leaned casually against the counter, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, calculating. Subtle glances flicked toward the coins we had recovered from the ruins. The genin shifted nervously, glancing at me, at each other, at the treasure waiting on the table. The 1.5 million ryō weighed on the air, pressing silently, even though it had not yet changed hands.
"Morning," I said, keeping my voice steady.
The jōnin's gaze was careful, measured, evaluating. "Morning. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," I replied. "The inn is subtle, efficient. Well-protected. It is enough for now."
He gave a slight nod. "Quiet. That suffices."
The genin remained hesitant. They were aware of the treasure and the destruction behind it, aware of the potential for tension and even violence. None dared speak first. The weight of the coins, of yesterday's events, hung in the room like a shadow.
Then the jōnin spoke again, in a tone casual, almost offhand, but with subtle weight. "About the money… it's a lot to carry, isn't it?"
It was a hint. A suggestion. Not direct, but unmistakable to anyone paying attention. My mind raced. Holding all of it would make me a target. Greed could erupt, suspicion could fester, even among allies. Observation alone was insufficient—I had to act. Patience would not save me if I remained too obvious a threat.
I exhaled slowly, keeping my expression neutral. "You're right," I said aloud, almost as if thinking to myself. "Holding all of it is dangerous. We should divide it."
The jōnin's lips curved slightly, and his eyes reflected calculation. A large portion for him, transparent, visible, enough to satisfy his subtle expectation. He nodded slightly, unspoken agreement. I noted it silently. Observation, calculation, patience—these were just as vital as money itself.
The genin shifted. Those who wanted to curry favor with the jōnin quickly agreed. Alignment was advantageous; their greed and desire for protection was obvious. Others hesitated, reluctant to part with any portion, unsure of whether this division was necessary. But they had no choice. I was calm, deliberate, and firm. The coins would be divided, and that decision could not be challenged. Slowly, all accepted.
The coins were placed on the low table, carefully counted and separated into five parts. One portion for the jōnin, generous enough to satisfy his expectations. Two portions for the genin seeking favor, eager to align themselves. The remaining two for the others, accepted hesitantly but out of necessity. Tension eased as each person touched their share, relief mingling with lingering wariness.
I observed them quietly. Hesitation, greed, relief, curiosity—all evident in subtle expressions, movements, and glances. Observation and understanding human behavior were as vital as survival itself. Ability pulsed quietly in the back of my mind. Infinite copy. Infinite space. Infinite lifespan. I could duplicate the coins endlessly, store them safely, survive indefinitely. But now was not the time to test it. Patience first. Observation first. Strategy first. Survival above all.
I moved toward the window, looking down at the village. Dusty streets, slow-moving life, ordinary people, mundane routines. The world carried on, indifferent to the ruins behind us. That calm brought me a sense of reassurance, however fragile. Survival required awareness, planning, and patience. Acting rashly would only invite danger.
A soft voice called from the corridor. "Breakfast is ready, sir."
I exhaled slowly, allowing the routine to anchor me. Food, clarity, and the comfort of predictable action were necessary. Ability waited silently in my mind, absolute, untapped. I cataloged scenarios, imagined contingencies, restrained the desire to act recklessly. Observation, patience, caution. Survival first.
I approached the innkeeper and paid for another night—1,000 ryō—and breakfast, 100 ryō. Each transaction was deliberate, grounding, a small act of normalcy amid chaos.
Returning to my room, I closed the door softly behind me. Sitting on the tatami, I let the morning settle around me. Division complete. Coins secured. Tension reduced. Ability untapped, absolute. Infinite copy. Infinite space. Infinite lifespan. Patience, observation, caution.
The morning passed quietly, but my mind cataloged every detail. The jōnin's subtle interest. The genin's hesitation. Every flicker of expression. Every slight movement. All potential threats and opportunities noted and stored. Survival demanded nothing less.
Even now, I reflected on the precariousness of life in this world. Even allies, even those I trusted, could turn if greed or fear flared. Coins, power, life itself—they were all dangerous. And yet, I held the key to endurance. Ability waited, silent, absolute. Infinite copy, infinite space, infinite lifespan. Patience, observation, caution.
The day had begun. I was ready to endure.