The hallway connecting the inn to the restaurant smelled like two different worlds colliding. Behind them lay the chemical sting of the lobby—floor wax and ozone. Ahead of them, drifting through the open archway, was the rich, fatty scent of searing meat and pine charcoal.
Chōji froze. His nose twitched, expanding to take in the data.
"Charcoal," Chōji whispered, his voice trembling with reverence. "Real wood charcoal. Not gas. Not chakra heat. Wood!"
He didn't wait. He grabbed Asuma by the wrist with one hand and Shikamaru by the collar with the other.
"We go- now!" Chōji declared.
He dragged the jōnin and the genius down the hall like tugboats caught in a typhoon. Ino, knowing better than to get between an Akimichi and dinner, sprinted after them.
Naruto started to run, his stomach growling in anticipation, but something caught the corner of his eye.
The hallway was lined with glass display cases set into the concrete walls. They were lit from within by flickering orange bulbs that buzzed like trapped hornets. The vibration hummed against the glass, making the metal shelf inside rattle in a nervous, high-speed rhythm.
Naruto skidded to a stop, his sandals squeaking on the linoleum.
"Whoa," he breathed.
Mounted on the back wall of the case was a shuriken. But not a normal one. It was massive—curved, collapsible, and serrated like a shark's jaw. It looked heavy enough to take off a head. The metal was pitted with age, but the edge still gleamed with a predatory, oil-slick sheen that looked perpetually wet.
"That's a Fūma Shuriken," Sylvie said, appearing at his shoulder. She adjusted her glasses, peering through the smudge-streaked glass. "The Fūma clan—the people who built this town—invented them. They're designed for severing limbs, not just distraction."
Naruto blinked. A memory flashed in his brain—mist, a bridge, and a demon without eyebrows.
"Zabuza used one of those!" Naruto shouted, pointing a finger at the glass. "In the Land of Waves! He threw it and I had to transform into one to trick him! Remember?"
He mimed the throw, his sleeve snapping with a sharp thwip that echoed too loudly in the narrow corridor.
Sylvie sighed, rubbing her temple. "I was there, Naruto. But yes. Zabuza used a tool invented by these people."
"So cool," Naruto whispered, pressing his nose against the glass until his breath fogged it up. "I wonder if I can buy one."
"You have wind chakra," Sylvie reminded him. "You are a Fūma shuriken if you think about it."
Naruto ignored the logic. His eyes drifted to the next case.
This one didn't hold a ninja tool. It held a sword.
It sat on a velvet stand that had faded to a dusty gray. The blade was long, single-edged, and curved in a graceful arc. The steel rippled like water frozen in time. Light caught the temper line—the hamon—creating a misty, white wave pattern that seemed to drift along the steel edge.
"Whoa! Look at that sword!"
Naruto leaned in, squinting. He tilted his head to the side.
He frowned.
"Hey, Sylvie... why is it bent?"
"It's curved, Naruto," Sylvie corrected. "It's a Katana. Samurai from the Land of Iron use them."
"Is it busted?" Naruto poked the glass. Clink. "It looks like someone sat on it. Ninja swords are straight! That's how you stab guys!"
He mimed a thrusting motion with an invisible ninjatō.
"It's for slashing, not stabbing," Sylvie explained, tracing the curve of the blade in the air with her finger. "The curve minimizes the surface area on impact. It cuts deeper. It's designed to slice through armor."
Naruto crossed his arms, looking unimpressed. "Sounds inefficient. You have to swing it all big like that? I'll stick to Kunai. At least they fly straight."
Sylvie chuckled. She turned to walk toward the restaurant, throwing a look over her shoulder.
"Did you learn the Rasengan the efficient way?"
Naruto's jaw dropped. His arms fell to his sides.
He looked back at the sword. He looked at the curve. He thought about the spiraling chakra in his hand—how rotation created power.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Still looks busted though," he muttered, and ran to catch up.
The restaurant, Matsu Mokuten, was an assault on the senses in the best way possible.
It was loud. Not the mechanical grinding of the factories outside, but the roar of human life. Clattering plates, sizzling grease, and the hum of conversation filled the air. The smoke from the charcoal grills hung in a thick, blue haze near the ceiling, smelling of pine resin and burnt soy sauce. It was humid in there, a layer of airborne grease settling instantly on my glasses, blurring the room into a warm, savory smear.
We squeezed into a booth in the back. The upholstery was red vinyl, cracked and taped over with silver duct tape. My thigh stuck to the seat with a wet shhh-luck sound as I slid in, the adhesive warm and gummy against my pants.
"I want everything," Chōji announced to the waitress, looking at the menu with the intensity of a scholar reading a scroll. "Start with the skewers. All of them."
Asuma lit a cigarette, blending his smoke with the room's haze. "Put it on the mission tab," he sighed.
The lighter clicked, the flare of flame briefly illuminating the exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes before the smoke obscured them.
While they ordered, I leaned back against the cool wall. My sensory range was dampened by the white noise of the city, but my ears still worked fine.
At the table next to us, two men were slumped over bowls of ramen. They wore gray factory jumpsuits stained with oil and soot. Their faces were gaunt, shadows carved deep under their eyes.
One of them tapped his chopsticks against the bowl—clack-clack-clack—a nervous tic that was out of sync with the cheerful restaurant music.
One of them pulled out a cigarette. It wasn't tobacco. It smelled green, medicinal—like crushed eucalyptus and mint. A desperate attempt to clear lungs coated in smog. The smoke burned my nose, sharper than tobacco, stinging like Vicks VapoRub thrown into a campfire.
"I'm telling you, I'm done," the first man grumbled, his voice rough as sandpaper. He stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. "I'm heading West."
The second man scoffed, slurping noodles loudly. "To Iron? It's freezing there. The snow never stops. And the Samurai? They're strict. They'll cut your hand off if you steal a loaf of bread."
"Samurai pay in steel, not rice vouchers," the first man shot back, keeping his voice low. He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on a group of Shiin clan guards near the door.
"General Mifune is expanding his foundries," he whispered. "He needs smiths, not ninja. Real work. Honest pay. No chakra. No snakes."
He spat the word snakes like it was a curse.
He looked over his shoulder, the tendons in his neck pulling tight as wire, checking the shadows for listening ears.
"Just metal," he finished. "Cold, clean metal."
I took a sip of my water. It tasted faintly of iodine.
I swirled the cup, watching a tiny, undissolved purification tablet fragment spin at the bottom like a white grain of sand.
The Land of Iron, I thought, picturing the map in my head. It sat to the west, a neutral power protected by samurai.
I looked at the factory worker's trembling hands.
This wasn't just a disgruntled employee. This was a refugee in the making. Orochimaru wasn't just building a village; he was building an economy of exploitation. And to the West, the Samurai were offering the only thing stronger than a curse mark: a paycheck.
"Hey, Sylvie," Naruto nudged me, holding up a skewer of grilled chicken. "You gonna eat, or are you gonna stare at the wall all night?"
I blinked, snapping back to the present. I smiled, taking the skewer.
"I'm eating," I said. "Just... listening to the local news."