Night fell.
The palace blazed with light.
One table wasn't enough for the dishes laid out before Uchiha Nan—so they brought out a second.
Extravagance, in its purest form.
Of course, there was also a practical reason. The Daimyō was just an ordinary man, not a shinobi. He only sampled one or two bites of each dish. Even if an enemy village had poisoned the food, the odds of him eating the exact poisoned dish were slim—unless his luck was truly abysmal.
"Music!"
A chubby attendant clapped his hands. The musicians around the hall immediately began playing—strings, flutes, drums blending together. Nan had no idea what the piece was called, but it sounded pleasant enough.
As the music rose, rows of young girls in revealing outfits entered the hall.
Songs. Dances. Laughter.
A scene of peace and prosperity, as if the world outside wasn't still licking its wounds from war.
Put this in any ancient dynasty, and this kind of indulgence meant one thing:
either a doomed ruler—or one not far from doom.
…Wait.
Why is the Daimyō dancing too?!
Having thoroughly enjoyed himself, the Daimyō finally returned to his seat, casually pulling two beauties into his arms as if it were second nature.
"Hokage has traveled far," he said lazily, half-lidded eyes full of indulgence. "You should relax a little. The palace nurtures the body well—especially the skin of young girls."
Seeing Nan remain unmoved, the Daimyō clapped again.
Two girls entered from outside.
About Nan's age. Slightly bluish hair. Delicate features.
Twins.
They obediently sat down on either side of him.
"Hokage," the Daimyō smiled, "this is my gift to you tonight."
"Feng, Ling—be sure to take good care of Hokage-sama."
Nan understood immediately.
Another pimping attempt.
Just like Hyūga Takuma.
His heart wavered.
Not because of the twins—
…well, okay, maybe a little.
But that wasn't the key.
Ten draws.
That was what really mattered.
With enough strength, what kind of woman couldn't he have if he wanted? People would line up to deliver them to his doorstep.
Still…
He came alone to demand funds.
Returned with a pair of twins?
What would the village think?
The Daimyō narrowed his eyes slightly. Seeing Nan still hesitate, he sighed inwardly.
Another one like the Senju brothers… what a waste.
Why did these ninja all insist on pretending to be paragons of virtue?
Annoying creatures.
A flicker of disgust passed through his expression—quickly hidden.
"Daimyō," Nan finally spoke,
"I like this gift very much."
The moment the words left his mouth, he felt something inside him tear.
Some invisible membrane.
So what if it was his integrity?
Strength mattered more.
A true powerhouse didn't cling to trivialities.
Hell—even Orochimaru could become Orochimaru-san.
"Good! Good! Hahaha!"
The Daimyō's delight was unmistakable.
As expected, he thought. The Uchiha are far easier to deal with than the Senju.
Everyone here was filthy anyway—why bother playing saints?
The atmosphere immediately grew more heated.
The Daimyō stood, walked over, and sat beside Nan, sharing the same table.
After several rounds of wine, Nan knew it was time.
Enough fooling around.
Time to talk money.
"Daimyō," Nan said, rubbing his fingers together, "Konoha's fijinces are… stretched thin."
From experience, this was the best moment to bring it up—right after drinking.
"Hahaha, rest assured," the Daimyō replied easily.
"The three hundred and ten billion ryō will be delivered to Konoha on schedule."
Nan glanced around the golden hall and slowly shook his head.
"Not three hundred and ten."
"Four hundred and ten billion."
"What?!"
The Daimyō froze.
That appetite was outrageous.
Three hundred and ten billion was already an enormous sum. If not for Konoha bleeding itself dry in the war, he'd planned to revert the budget to two hundred billion like in previous years.
Did this man think money fell from the sky?
It wasn't only Konoha that had suffered. The Land of Fire itself was in shambles—refugees everywhere, bandits rampant.
Local lords hoarded land and dodged taxes with increasing boldness.
Scraping together three hundred and ten billion just to keep these ninja fed had already pushed things to the brink.
And in the coming years—resettling refugees, reclaiming farmland—every step meant more money.
Was he supposed to dig into his private treasury?
"Hokage… you jest," the Daimyō said stiffly, waving his hand.
The music stopped instantly.
All attendants, dancers, and musicians withdrew without a word.
Now it was just the two of them.
"You should know," the Daimyō continued coldly,
"Konoha already receives the highest funding in the entire shinobi world. The Land of Fire has not had it easy these years—disasters and unrest, taxes harder to collect every year."
"Do you know why Sunagakure has behaved so quietly since being defeated by Konoha?"
Nan shook his head.
During the First Shinobi World War, Sunagakure was the first to withdraw—but he'd never cared about the reason. Back then, he'd only focused on getting stronger and killing enemies on the battlefield.
"The Wind Daimyō cut Sunagakure's funding by more than half."
Nan paused.
That was ruthless.
To dare slash a village's budget like that…
The shinobi world loved preaching about endurance and sacrifice, but ninja were still human.
Humans who killed for a living.
"Isn't that… courting death—"
Nan stopped himself.
Serving under the Wind Daimyō must have been pure misery. Even a ninja's blood money got docked.
Nan knew better than most how much it cost to raise a capable shinobi. He'd poured absurd amounts of money into himself.
His sword alone cost hundreds of thousands of ryō—not to mention secret medicines, ninja tools, training expenses.
For an ordinary ninja, every bit of funding translated directly into combat power.
"And yet," the Daimyō sneered, picking up Nan's unfinished thought,
"the Wind Country is so poor all it has left is sand."
"If they didn't cut Sunagakure's funding, even civilians would starve."
"Without civilians to produce wealth, who feeds you ninja?"
His meaning was crystal clear.
Sunagakure had been cut.
Konoha's budget had increased.
Be grateful.
Ask for more?
Not a single ryō.
"Three hundred and fifty billion."
Nan conceded.
Silence.
"Three hundred and forty."
Still nothing.
"Three hundred and thirty."
The Daimyō didn't blink.
"Three hundred and twenty."
Nan's expression darkened.
I give you face—you give me nothing?
Fine.
Then he'd stop negotiating.
And start doing what Uchiha did best.
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