Shanks said firmly, "Alright, let's move."
Everyone nodded in silent agreement and followed closely behind him. The town ahead was surrounded by wooden walls—not particularly high, but enough to give the impression of basic security. Being a port town, it had a modest presence of guards, though nothing that posed a real threat.
After the encounter with the masked ninjas, Shanks had sharpened his awareness even further. His Observation Haki stretched out to its full range of a thousand meters, sweeping through the area. From what he could sense, there were no high-level shinobi stationed nearby. A handful of Genin-level chakra signatures flickered faintly on the edge of his awareness, along with a few more mundane presences—likely regular guards, not trained ninja.
Then, without a word of hesitation, Shanks released his Conqueror's Haki.
It rippled outward like an unseen storm, crashing across the area in a massive wave of spiritual pressure. Everyone within a thousand-meter radius—guards, Genin, townsfolk—began to collapse one by one, their bodies crumpling to the ground as unconsciousness claimed them. The Genin didn't even have time to register the attack, falling before they could form a single hand seal.
The path into the town was now wide open.
Shanks continued walking forward, calm and composed. Without even lifting a finger, he had rendered an entire town unconscious—a feat so effortless and overwhelming that it left his clan members in silent awe.
Behind him, whispers of amazement rippled through the group. The sheer pressure they had felt moments ago was still lingering in the air like a storm that had just passed.
One of the women, Mina, finally broke the silence. Her voice was quiet but filled with wonder. "Is this... a Kekkei Genkai you awakened after witnessing your father's death?"
Shanks didn't turn to look at her. His gaze remained fixed ahead, cold and steady. He simply nodded once.
Mina gave a small breath of understanding. "I thought so," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
Earlier, when Shanks had shouted in fury at the masked ninjas, it wasn't just rage over his father's death—it was a calculated move. He had deliberately put on a show of grief and fury, one that would make it seem like his sudden surge of power came from awakening a powerful Kekkei Genkai in response to his loss. That was the effect he wanted. And judging by the expressions of his clan members, he had succeeded.
It was the perfect cover.
Now, no one would question how he had become so strong so quickly. No one would suspect the truth—that he had gained access to a mysterious system and inherited the character template of the legendary "Red-Haired Emperor Shanks" from another world entirely. That secret was his alone to keep.
As Shanks led the group forward, the invisible wave of Conqueror's Haki moved with him like an unseen tide. More and more people within its radius dropped to the ground, unconscious, never even realizing what had hit them. His clan followed in his wake, eyes wide with awe, feet silent against the dirt road.
Without resistance, without a single clash or cry, they passed through the gates of the port town—ghosts among the fallen.
It wasn't very late—just past 7 PM—and the town had still been lively only moments ago. People had been walking the streets, talking, shopping, or heading home. But now, an eerie silence blanketed the area. Every single person within range had collapsed to the ground, unconscious, victims of the overwhelming force of Shanks's Conqueror's Haki.
As the Uzumaki clan walked through the town, they moved carefully, stepping around the fallen civilians sprawled across the cobbled streets. If someone lay in their path, they gently dragged them to the side, ensuring no one was trampled. Their eyes darted around, equal parts nervous and awestruck at the display of power that had cleared their way.
After several minutes, they stopped in front of a large, well-maintained restaurant. Its adjoining bathhouse stood just next to it, the wooden sign above the entrance swaying slightly in the breeze.
Shanks turned to the group and spoke firmly, "All right, everyone head to the bathhouse and start preparing for a bath. Also, bring out a fresh set of clothes for me—my current ones are nearly burned to a crisp. And take out Father's long coat. I'll wear it over a white shirt like an overcoat."
As he said this, his gaze dropped momentarily to his left sleeve—the fabric hung limp and empty, a stark reminder of the price he'd paid in battle. His arm had been lost, and he had no intention of displaying that loss openly. He wasn't ashamed, but he knew the world. In times like these, people equated wounds with weakness, and he couldn't afford to be seen as anything less than strong.
"I'll use the coat to cover this," he added quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
Everyone in the group understood exactly why Shanks had asked for his father's coat. It wasn't just to cover the stump of his missing arm—it was a symbol. A mantle of strength passed down from father to son. And yet, even in that moment, seeing the tattered state of Shanks's clothes and the empty sleeve that hung at his side, a wave of sadness passed over them. He had lost so much—his hand, his father, and part of his youth—all in the span of days.
Shanks noticed their expressions and spoke in a calm, steady voice, "There's no need to look at me like that. Yes, I lost a hand, but I'm stronger now than I was before. That's what matters. Maybe this was fate's way of guiding me forward. So don't linger on it. Get cleaned up quickly—after that, we eat and leave this place as soon as we can."
Everyone nodded in quiet understanding and went about their tasks with new urgency. Shanks then turned and entered the restaurant.
Inside, the scene was surreal. Patrons had collapsed mid-meal—some slumped over their tables, others sprawled out on the floor. Waiters lay unconscious across the polished wooden floors. It was as though the entire establishment had fallen under a sudden and invisible spell.
Shanks reined in his Conqueror's Haki, pulling back the pressure and letting the oppressive aura around him vanish like a receding tide. The air in the room instantly felt lighter.
He walked to the counter, where a man—clearly the manager—was unconscious behind it. Without hesitation, Shanks picked up a nearby jug of water and tossed it onto the man's face.
The man jolted awake, coughing and gasping. "Wh-What happened?! Who's there?!"
Still half-drenched and thoroughly confused, he looked up—only to meet the piercing gaze of a man with a sword at his hip, a missing arm, and a shirt charred by recent battle. The charred remnants of Shanks's clothes and the quiet power radiating off him were enough to kill the anger swelling in the manager's throat. He swallowed hard.
"Wh-Who are you?" he asked, voice trembling. "What do you want?"
Shanks's voice was firm, steady. "You don't need to know who I am. Just wake up whoever you need and clear out enough tables to seat nineteen people. Then, prepare every dish on your menu. We need food for nineteen, and we need it fast."
He paused, glancing toward the connected building next door. "That bathhouse next door—the one with the same name—is it owned by you?"
"N-No, sir," the manager stammered. "I just manage both places. The owner lives out of town."
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