NoviceAuthor
patreon
[NNSS] Chapter : 34
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 21:15:31 +0000 UTCTanzai stood at the gangplank of the cargo ship about to set sail, a wide smile plastered across his face. Yet beneath the sunlight, small beads of sweat glistened on his brow.
He clasped Roshi’s hand tightly.
“Roshi-sama! Words cannot express my gratitude! If it weren’t for you this time…” His voice was loud, but his eyes flickered nervously toward the shadows near a warehouse on the dock. Several men in leather guard armor stood there, arms folded.
“The goods are finally on board, and now I can breathe again!” He wiped his sweat, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “But… are you truly not coming with the ship? I fear those people have taken a grudge against you. That incident at the city gate…”
Roshi smoothly withdrew his hand, his face composed as ever.
“Rest assured, Tanzai-san.” His gaze swept over the guards, who instinctively shrank back the instant his eyes met theirs.
“Ah! Your words put my mind at ease!” Tanzai’s worry instantly dissolved into an obsequious grin, as though his earlier anxiety had never existed.
Rubbing his hands, he said, “I’ve already paid for five days at Haifi Pavilion. Please stay there without concern! I had hoped to properly host you as thanks, but alas, the ship cannot wait… Please, accept this small token of appreciation!” He produced a bulging pouch of coins as if from nowhere, pressing it toward Roshi.
“It was my duty, Tanzai-san. There’s no need.” Roshi raised a hand and gently pushed the money back.
Tanzai accepted it again with a bow. “If I ever need another mission, I will surely seek Konoha’s shinobi once more. Then, I must take my leave.”
He ascended the gangplank, looking back three times with each step. Only when the ship’s dull horn echoed and the vessel pulled away into the busy lanes of the port, fading into the horizon, did his figure vanish from sight.
Almost at that same moment, the air in the Wasabi Family’s estate at the heart of Deai Port grew heavy.
Inside a dimly lit Japanese-style chamber, even the finest incense could not mask the tension.
Seven or eight well-dressed men sat formally on tatami mats. They were the power-brokers of Deai Port—heads of the fishing guild, the dockworkers’ union, and several of the largest trading houses. Only the Hejies family was absent.
Every gaze was fixed on Wasabi Jirochō, seated in the main position.
He wore a dark gray formal kimono, his back straight as a pine. The humility that usually softened his gaunt features was gone, replaced by grim resolve, as if he had already burned his bridges.
On the low table before him lay a thick scroll of documents and several rubbed portraits, their blurred lines still revealing cruel, unforgettable faces.
“Gentlemen,” Jirochō’s voice was quiet but cut through the silence like steel, “I invited you here today to expose a lie that threatens the very survival of Deai Port!”
He lifted one of the portraits—a man with a scarred eye and brutish expression.
“This is Shionzu, a ruthless bandit of the Chayama Gang in Nochapo. Three months ago, his men ambushed three merchant caravans from Nanshou Post, leaving seventeen dead or wounded.” He raised another. “And this one…”
One after another, he displayed the portraits. Under the dim yellow lamplight, each face looked more sinister than the last.
Jirochō’s voice tightened with restrained fury. “These men, and nearly three hundred desperate followers, were not annihilated as the Hejies Family claims. They are here—under our noses! They hold the gates, the docks, the streets! Cloaked in the guise of a ‘special transit tax,’ they are bleeding merchants dry and strangling this city!”
A ripple of shock swept through the room.
The elderly president of the fishing guild spoke, trembling, “Jirochō, this is no trivial accusation! Without undeniable proof…”
“The proof is here!” Jirochō slammed the thick bundle onto the table.
“From the tokens left at the Nochapo hideout, to the testimony of escaped laborers, and even the tattoos they failed to conceal!” He drew a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the startled, wavering faces. Then he struck the final blow:
“More importantly—all this evidence was collected and verified with the assistance of a Konoha shinobi squad, on an official guard mission. Roshi, Special Jōnin!”
“Konoha?!” The single word dropped like a boulder into a still pond, sending ripples through the men’s hearts.
Where there had been doubt, their expressions grew complicated.
“Precisely.” Jirochō’s voice deepened, seeing the shift in their eyes. “I have already dispatched envoys to the capital with the evidence and our letters. The Daimyō will know the truth.
And I ask that when you return to your homes, you ready your men and sharpen your blades. Together, we will purge these jackals from Deai Port!”
Silence fell over the room.
The prominent figures exchanged looks, sending quick, wordless messages. Some ignited with anger and nodded vigorously; others frowned, fingers tapping their knees in thought.
At last the old president of the fishing guild spoke slowly. “If a Konoha shinobi testifies and these… material proofs,” he nodded toward the documents, “are genuine, then we accept it. We’ll return and make preparations.”
He hesitated, changing tone. “That said—the Hejies Family currently holds authority here, and those people were appointed by them. It would be unwise to move without an order from the Daimyō. Once his order arrives, however, we will purge these parasites at once.”
“Exactly.”
“We should wait for the Daimyō’s command.”
The others echoed the sentiment: we believe Jirochō and the evidence, but not a single man will act until the official word comes down.
Jirochō had expected this. These old foxes wanted him to do the dirty work—then use his hand to strike the cancer the Hejies family had fostered—yet they refused to risk anything until the dust settled.
He showed no disappointment. Instead, he nodded solemnly. “What you say is true. Without a formal mandate, words fall flat; without words, nothing succeeds. I understand. We wait on the Daimyō’s judgment. Prepare thoroughly now, so when the moment comes, we may strike and finish it in one blow.”
“Of course.”
“Rest assured, Head of the Wasabi Family.”
They rose, bowed in ceremony, faces set with solemn calculation, and departed in a hurry. The tatami room emptied, and only the faint scent of incense lingered.
Almost as the dignitaries left the gate, secret messages—quick as insects trapped in a web—began to vibrate through different channels.
Outside the center of town, in a dim, ragged room facing a broken shipyard, daylight was mostly blocked by tarpaulins and the air tasted of cheap tobacco.
Jubei sat cross-legged in the deepest shadow, his katana across his knees. A lean man knelt before him, voice low and urgent.
“…Wasabi Jirochō gathered them, showed papers and portraits—said it’s irrefutable. Said a Konoha ninja helped obtain it… He’s sending it to the Daimyō. The order arrives tomorrow. He’ll move once the order is in hand…”
Jubei’s half-closed eyes snapped open. The scabbard on his lap seemed to hum.
So that’s it—the old man sought Konoha’s endorsement.
“Reporting to the Daimyō…” Jubei’s lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile. “The old fool moves fast.”
He didn’t know—and didn’t need to know—how the Daimyō would react. Deny the evidence? Send an Elder tied to the Hejies? Or, seeing Konoha’s involvement, quietly abandon the Chayama Gang?
None of that mattered. The messenger had to be silenced so the Daimyō never saw the proof.
Jubei rose, his tall shadow swallowing the room and pinning the kneeling subordinate in its pressure.
“Where are the Konoha ninja now?”
“At Haifi Pavilion. We’re watching them.”
“Arrange constant surveillance on the Wasabi Family.” His voice was a command.
“Yes!”
As the man left, Jubei spoke into the dark: “Have Shoshi eliminate the Wasabi messenger. Genshoku—shadow the Konoha ninjas.”
A figure detached from the gloom. Deep sockets framed iridescent green pupils; a snarling dog tattoo shaded beneath his eyes. Feathers and bone threaded through his unkempt hair; a copper coin clamped between his teeth; a patchwork kasaya hung on his frame, a bell marked “Food” jingling at his wrist.
“Something’s off,” Genshoku muttered, the coin muffling his words.
The samurai ordnance replied coldly, “It’s irrelevant now. We’ve invested too much. Dealing with Konoha was always part of the plan—only now it comes sooner than expected.”
