[Days later: The D-Rank Grind]
Being a ninja wasn't all glamorous jutsu battles and saving princesses. For Team 7, it was glorified manual labor.
"GAAAH! Stupid cat!" Naruto screamed, his face covered in scratches as he wrestled Tora, the Daimyo's wife's demon-cat.
Sasuke was brooding while picking weeds at a farm.
Sakura was trying to impress Sasuke by picking weeds faster.
And me?
I was "supervising" the weeding mission at the local Onsen.
"Ara, Kenji-kun, you're working so hard," the proprietress cooed. She was a woman in her early forties, wearing a loose kimono that offered a spectacular view when she bent down to check the plants.
"It is my duty, Madam," I said solemnly, leaning on my hoe.
[Passive Skill: Anatomy Scan - Active] [Target: Onsen Proprietress] [Status: Hot & Bothered.] [Action Recommendation: Cool her down.]
"It's so hot today," she sighed, fanning herself.
"Allow me," I whispered.
I channeled a minuscule amount of chakra. [Wind Style: Gentle Breeze].
A perfectly directed gust of wind shot up from the ground. It didn't just cool her face; it lifted the hem of her kimono in a classic "Marilyn Monroe" moment.
"Oh my!" she squealed, blushing but not looking entirely displeased.
[Shameless Points: +15]
"Accidents happen," I smirked, adjusting my headband.
Yes, the D-Ranks were boring, but a creative man could always find entertainment.
*****
[That Afternoon: The Business District]
After dismissing the team (Naruto went to train, Sasuke went to brood, Sakura went to stalk Sasuke), I changed out of my mission gear into a crisp black shirt and pants.
"I am a Genin," I muttered, walking down the busy street. "In the eyes of the law, I am an adult. I can kill people, drink sake (if I hide it), and sign contracts."
I patted the heavy scroll case on my back. Inside were the manuscripts.
The Kunoichi's Forbidden Heat
Chronicles of the Nightblade (Vol 1-5)
It was time to monetize my degeneracy. I needed Ryo. Gacha spins weren't free, and I wanted to buy better gear.
I stood before a massive, imposing building. "Gama Publishing."
This was the titan. The exclusive publisher of the Legendary Sannin, Jiraiya. They controlled 90% of the literary market in the Land of Fire.
I walked in. The lobby smelled of money and arrogance.
"Name?" the receptionist asked without looking up. She was filing her nails.
"Kenji Sato. I'm an author. I have a manuscript."
She glanced at my forehead protector, then at my face. "A kid? Listen, the fan-fiction contest is next month. We don't take walk-ins."
"I'm a ninja," I said, putting a bit of killing intent into my voice. "And I have a potential best-seller. Get me an editor."
She flinched, pale, and dialed a number. "Uh... sir? There's a... ninja here."
[Two Hours Later]
I sat in a plush office, my leg bouncing with irritation. I had been waiting for two hours.
Finally, a fat man in a suit waddled in. He didn't apologize. He sat down, lit a cigar, and looked at me like I was a bug.
"So," he puffed smoke in my face. "You think you can write? Kid, we publish Jiraiya-sama. Unless you have S-Rank smut, you're wasting my time."
"Read it," I said, sliding Chronicles of the Nightblade across the desk.
He rolled his eyes and opened the first page.
He read a line. He paused. He read another. His eyebrows went up. He flipped the page eagerly. Sweat started to bead on his forehead.
Ten minutes later, he slammed the book shut. He was breathing heavily.
"It's... decent," he lied, trying to hide his excitement. "A bit rough. Amateurish."
"Cut the crap," I said coldly. "I saw your pupil dilate. You liked it."
"Fine," he grunted. "We'll take it. Here's the standard contract."
He slid a paper over.
I read it. My eyes narrowed.
Publisher Rights: 100% Ownership of IP.
Royalties: 5% to Author, 95% to Publisher.
Creative Control: Zero.
Clause 8: Author cannot write for anyone else for 50 years.
I looked up. "Is this a joke?"
"It's standard for rookies," the fat man sneered. "Take it or leave it. We are Gama Publishing. Without us, you are nothing. Jiraiya-sama signed a similar deal when he started."
"Jiraiya is an idiot who cares more about research than money," I spat.
I stood up, grabbed the contract, and [Dress Break]-ed it. The paper shattered into confetti.
"You're not publishers," I said, grabbing my manuscript. "You're parasites. I'd rather use my manuscript as toilet paper than sign with you."
"You'll regret this!" the man shouted as I walked out. "No one else will publish you! We control the distribution!"
"Watch me," I said, flipping him the bird.
*****
[The Slums: An Hour Later]
I walked through the run-down part of the commercial district. The air smelled of rust and broken dreams. The shops here were closed, boarded up, or fronts for illegal gambling dens.
I stopped in front of a dusty, faded sign that hung crookedly from a rusted chain.
"Golden Quill Publishing."
The window was cracked, held together by tape. A bright red "Foreclosure Notice" was pasted on the door like a seal of death.
"Perfect," I grinned, adjusting the scroll on my back. "Desperation is the best negotiator. A starving dog doesn't check the hand that feeds it."
I pushed the door open. A bell jingled sadly, announcing my arrival to the dust motes.
The inside was a mess. Stacks of unsold books formed precarious towers. The air was stale, filled with the vibe of imminent bankruptcy.
There was only one desk at the back. Behind it sat a woman.
I paused. My eyes narrowed.
[Passive Skill: Anatomy Scan - Active] [Target: Akane (Publisher)] [Measurements: B102 (H-Cup) - W60 - H92.] [Status: Stressed / Depressed / Hormonally Repressed.]
Jackpot.
She was a masterpiece buried in rubble. She looked to be in her late twenties—the prime age. She wore a tight business suit that was fighting a losing war against her massive chest; a single button was holding on for dear life, praying to the Sage of Six Paths. Her glasses were slightly askew, and she had messy brown hair tied up in a loose bun that screamed "overworked."
She was burying her face in her hands, muttering about loan sharks.
"Ahem," I coughed, letting a bit of chakra amplify the sound.
The woman jumped, knocking over a pen holder. She looked up, her eyes wide behind her thick frames.
She saw the headband. She saw the kunai pouch strapped to my leg.
Her face paled. In this world, a ninja walking into your shop usually meant you were being extorted, interrogated, or silenced.
"N-Ninja-sama!" she squeaked, shooting up from her chair and bowing deeply.
Gravity did its work. Her assets bounced dangerously, threatening to cause a structural collapse of her blouse.
"I... I don't have protection money! Please! I... I only have these unsold cookbooks! Take the vegan recipes, just don't hurt me!"
"Relax," I raised a hand, suppressing a smirk. "I'm not here to kill you. Or rob you. Though, looking at this place, there isn't much to rob."
She peeked up, trembling like a leaf. "You... you aren't?"
"No," I stepped forward, putting on my most charming, innocent-yet-dangerous smile. "I am here as an author."
"An... author?" She blinked, confused.