Breakfast had been simple: a small bowl of rice, dried fish, and a cup of tea brought quietly to my room. The inn staff moved efficiently, their eyes flicking toward me briefly, perhaps measuring my importance, perhaps nothing at all. I paid without hesitation, counting out the coins carefully—one hundred ryō. Small, seemingly insignificant, yet it was a reminder that even minor transactions carried weight in this world. Every coin was a potential target, a potential liability, and I had to keep that in mind.
Sitting on the low wooden chair, I ate slowly, savoring each bite but letting my mind drift. The streets outside were already alive with movement. Merchants were wheeling carts, shouting prices for vegetables, grains, and cloth. Children darted between legs, a blur of energy, narrowly missing carts. Dogs barked, cows lowed, and the distant clatter of hooves added to the chorus. Observation was effortless; every movement, every subtle shift, added pieces to the larger picture of this town.
I reflected briefly on my Ability. Infinite copies, infinite storage, infinite lifespan. It was still untested, but the realization of its existence changed everything. Any object, any tool, any resource I needed could be replicated, stored, or retrieved at will. I didn't need to prove it today. The mere knowledge that it existed allowed me to plan differently, to move differently, to approach this world with calculated caution. The day's focus was preparation, not testing.
Once I had finished, I returned to my room. The early morning sunlight filtered through the thin paper windows, casting warm, uneven patterns across the floor. I unpacked and laid out my supplies: clothes neatly folded, rations counted and organized, ninja tools stowed in concealed compartments, talismans within easy reach, and scrolls sealed and disguised to appear as ordinary luggage. Each item had a purpose. Each placement was deliberate. Even a minor oversight could cost time or safety, and I refused to leave anything to chance.
The streets outside were noisy, a chaotic ballet of activity. I paused at the window to watch the ebb and flow of movement: merchants shifting positions, carts intersecting with pedestrians, minor scuffles over space and goods. Every pattern, every predictable behavior, was noted. If I could move within it unnoticed, I could gather information, identify threats, and act without drawing attention. Observation was preparation, and today required meticulous planning.
After finalizing my pack, I made my way to the Golden House, the mission hub I had learned about during previous travels. Though not a village in the formal sense, it handled legal missions, contracts, and information requests in this era. Merchants, nobles, and traveling shinobi relied on it to distribute work and maintain order. If I wanted to gather intelligence without attracting attention, this was the place to start.
The reception hall was busy, though not crowded. A few minor nobles argued quietly with clerks over contracts, merchants shuffled papers and coins, and travelers moved about, adjusting their packs or consulting maps. I waited patiently, observing. Each staff member had a pattern: which way they walked, how they reacted to interruptions, which documents they prioritized. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but knowledge was in the details.
A receptionist finally approached, scanning me briefly before asking, "Yes?"
"I need information on local territories, routes, and minor clans," I said, voice calm and measured. "Maps, leadership records—anything that will help me plan travel."
He scrutinized me, then signaled a subordinate to escort me to the archives. Along the way, I took in the layout of the building, noting exits, security measures, and the flow of people. Nothing extravagant, nothing unnecessary—just observation for understanding.
Inside the archive, I requested a basic map of the surrounding regions. A fee was required: 100,000 ryō. I paid immediately, examining the scroll carefully. It detailed roads, villages, trading posts, caravan paths, and the locations of minor clans. Each mark was another piece of the landscape, another potential opportunity or hazard. I cataloged everything mentally.
Curiosity prompted me to inquire about clan leadership. The clerk hesitated slightly, then provided details: Senju Itama led the Senju clan, with Senju Butsima as heir. Uchiha Torima led the Uchiha, with Uchiha Tajima as heir. Their successors were not yet born, confirming the timeline I had calculated. The great figures—Hasirama and Madara—would not appear for decades. That gave me both opportunity and a buffer; I could move without interference from legendary figures or the chaos their arrival would bring.
Satisfied, I left the Golden House and returned to the inn. The streets were lively. Merchants hawked wares, carts clattered over uneven dirt roads, and animals added their own rhythms to the morning bustle. I noted patterns again: where foot traffic slowed, which vendors were alert to coin purses, and which passersby paid attention to nothing at all. Observation remained as critical as supplies.
Back in my room, I spread out the maps and cross-referenced them with the notes I had taken. Routes to the Land of Tea were highlighted, minor villages marked as potential stops, hazards cataloged, and alternative paths plotted. The Land of Tea was stable, free from large clans or significant conflict—a perfect choice for a base of operations and a quiet place to grow influence without drawing attention.
With the maps complete, I turned my attention to supplies. Clothes folded neatly, rations checked and portioned for weeks, ninja tools and talismans arranged for accessibility, explosives accounted for, and scrolls sealed and disguised to appear as ordinary belongings. I mentally rehearsed scenarios: theft, ambush, illness, misnavigation. Contingency planning became automatic, instinctive. My Ability remained untested today, but its presence was reassuring. Any supply shortage or hidden obstacle could be mitigated instantly if necessary.
By mid-afternoon, I set out to inquire about a caravan for travel. Caravans were the safest way to transport goods and people across long distances, especially with ninja protection. The streets were noisy, alive with movement. I paused briefly to gauge merchants and travelers, noting how they navigated around carts and animals, how guards and escorts positioned themselves, and how minor disturbances rippled through the flow of activity. Every detail mattered for safe movement tomorrow.
At the caravan office, I negotiated a place for myself and my supplies. The fee was high—1 million ryō—but I had resources. I offered half upfront, securing the reservation, and arranged to pay the remainder before departure. The terms were accepted without issue. I noted the composition of the caravan: wagons, escort positions, and likely stops along the way. Nothing extravagant, nothing ostentatious—everything functional and practical.
The transaction complete, I returned to the inn. Evening had begun to settle over the town, casting long shadows across the streets. Lanterns were lit, merchants closed their stalls, and travelers adjusted their packs. The normal rhythm of life continued, oblivious to the careful planning and preparation I had undertaken.
Dinner was simple, like breakfast: rice, vegetables, a small portion of preserved fish. I ate quietly, reviewing the day in my mind. Maps cross-referenced, supplies organized, caravan secured. The Land of Tea awaited, stable and distant, perfect for avoiding unwanted attention. The journey would begin tomorrow, and everything I could control had been arranged.
Finally, I settled onto my futon, exhausted not from exertion but from careful thought and preparation. The streets outside were quieter, but still alive with minor sounds of life: the occasional shout, the lowing of a cow, the clatter of a cart. I let my mind wander briefly, considering contingencies, observing patterns, and imagining the first steps of the journey. My Ability was ready, my plans were secure, and the world was mapped in my mind.
Tomorrow, the journey would begin. Today had been about preparation, observation, and laying the groundwork for everything to come. Supplies checked, maps studied, caravan secured, and personal safety assured. I allowed myself a small, private moment of satisfaction. Everything was as it should be. The Land of Tea awaited, and I would move into it carefully, deliberately, and without drawing unnecessary attention.
As darkness fell, I finally let my eyes close, letting the quiet settle over me. The day had been long in thought and careful planning. The next day would be long in movement and execution. But I was ready. Every calculation, every observation, every detail had been accounted for. The journey was set to begin, and I would meet it fully prepared.