Shanks closed his eyes and let the warmth of the hot spring soothe his weary body. For five quiet minutes, he allowed himself the luxury of stillness—a rare moment of peace. But soon, the weight of responsibility returned. He opened his eyes and slowly stood up.
Antares, watching from the side, immediately straightened, his body tense. "Onii-san, is there an enemy nearby?" he asked, voice sharp and ready.
Shanks turned his head toward him. Antares wasn't the only one on edge—the other children had also snapped to attention, eyes scanning the area, their young faces etched with fear and readiness.
He let out a slow sigh. These children, who should've been playing in their villages, laughing, training gently, and learning the basics of chakra control, were instead forced to live like fugitives—always alert, always afraid.
"No, Antares," Shanks said, his tone calm and reassuring. "There's no enemy. I just have something to take care of. You all stay here and relax a bit longer."
He offered a faint smile, hoping it would ease their worry.
"I'm going to arrange carriages for our journey," he continued. "We can't keep running and walking everywhere. We'll need something better for the road ahead."
The children nodded, still quiet, but slightly more at ease.
With that, Shanks stepped out of the hot spring and began drying off, already preparing for the next task on his shoulders.
Benimaru looked over and said, "Onii-san, your clothes are on the table. Should I bring them to you?"
Shanks shook his head gently. "No need. I'll get them myself."
He walked over to the table and picked up the neatly folded clothes—his usual white shirt, a pair of black pants, and an overcoat bearing the proud Uzumaki clan emblem on its back. The sight of the coat stirred something in him—a quiet reminder of the weight he now carried.
Dressing was harder than expected. With only one arm, every button and fold became a small battle. But Shanks was determined. It took him time, but he managed to put on the shirt and pants. When it came to the overcoat, he slid it on with practiced effort, adjusting it to cover his missing arm and letting the long fabric fall over his shoulder like a cloak.
Finally, as he sat down to put on his boots, he stared at the laces and sighed. This, he couldn't do alone.
"Benimaru," he called, his voice calm, "help me tie my shoelaces."
Benimaru nodded quickly and came over without hesitation, kneeling to help. His hands worked deftly, silent but focused.
As he finished, Shanks placed a hand gently on his head. "Thank you."
Benimaru looked up, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Anytime, Onii-san."
As Shanks gently ruffled Benimaru's hair, he spoke in a steady, reassuring voice loud enough for everyone to hear—both the boys around him and the girls and women on the other side of the bathhouse.
"Well, as long as I'm here and alive, nothing will happen to any of you. You don't need to live in fear anymore."
The words hung in the steamy air like a warm blanket, wrapping around the hearts of the children and easing the silent tension that had gripped them for days.
With that, Shanks stood, his sword sheathed at his left waist, and left the bathhouse. The night air was cool against his skin, but he felt refreshed—renewed.
He made his way back to the restaurant.
As soon as he stepped through the door, the manager rushed toward him. The man's eyes widened in surprise. The last time he had seen Shanks, the warrior looked like a charred ghost of a soldier—burnt, bloodied, and terrifying. But now, with clean clothes, a confident posture, and the Uzumaki coat billowing slightly behind him, Shanks looked every bit the noble heir of a great clan. Handsome, composed, and dangerous.
"W-Welcome back, sir," the manager stammered, standing straighter in respect.
The manager quickly bowed his head and said respectfully, "My Lord, your food is being prepared and should be ready in just a few more minutes."
Shanks gave a small nod. "Good. I came to ask—do you know any merchants or traders in this town from whom I can purchase three carriages?"
The manager furrowed his brows in thought for a moment before replying, "If you're looking to buy three or more carriages at once, the only option I can think of is a merchant caravan that arrived yesterday. They brought in a shipment of goods and plan to ship out from the port soon. They likely don't need the carriages immediately… though I doubt they'll be willing to sell them."
Shanks narrowed his eyes slightly. "Where are they staying? Just tell me where the caravan is. Whether they're willing to sell their carriages or not—that's not your concern. You're cooking for me even though you're not sure you'll get paid, aren't you?" He paused, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority. "In the same way, they'll sell their carriages. They won't have a choice."
The manager swallowed hard, trembling slightly under Shanks's gaze. He lowered his head in submission.
Shanks turned and began walking toward the restaurant's exit. "Come. Show me where they are."
The manager nodded quickly and followed Shanks out of the restaurant. Once outside, he pointed toward a large, three-story building about ten to fifteen houses down the street.
"You see that building?" the manager said. "It's a hotel. The caravan is staying there. All their carriages should be nearby."
Shanks gave a curt nod. A moment later, he vanished in a blur, leaving behind only the sound of his voice drifting through the air.
"Good."
The manager stood frozen for a second, staring at the spot where Shanks had stood. Then, without daring to delay, he hurried back inside the restaurant to check on the progress of the food preparations.
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