The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still gray. Mist hung over the rooftops, like fog that didn't want to leave. The streets were quiet—people were drying their clothes, and water still dripped from roof tiles.
Ryouhei sat behind the counter. A chipped cup of tea sat beside him, cold. He hadn't taken a sip.
His ledger was open again. The writing was neater this time—more focused. He had written some numbers and notes. He was starting to form a plan. But the main problem was still clear:
Money.
He wasn't earning enough. Most of what he made from trading herbs went into keeping the shop from falling apart—fixing leaks, replacing ruined jars, paying off desperate couriers. And the trade routes? They were unreliable. Messengers went missing. Supplies didn't show up. Every delivery was a gamble.
He scribbled two words: "Unstable routes."
He needed something better. Something he could make here. Something people would pay for—even if it was just a few coins. Something useful.
He looked around the shop. Half-empty jars. Old tools. Bits of cloth and bottles. Broken things waiting to be fixed.
Then he looked at his hands. Rough skin. Stained fingers. Always cleaning something. Always dealing with mess.
He stood up and walked to the back room.
In the corner, behind a sack of old rags and the water basin, were a few leftover items: lye powder, dried animal fat, and ash from the wood stove.
He stared.
Soap.
Nobody talked about it much, but he had noticed. People were always dirty. Their clothes smelled. Water ran dark through the alleys. People washed because they had to—but they didn't really clean themselves.
Ryouhei muttered, "No one's selling it. Not the good kind."
He started pacing.
Soap didn't need chakra. It didn't need rare herbs. Just fat, lye, ash. Maybe some herbs for scent. He could make it in batches. Store it. Trade it. Sell it.
And everyone needed it. It wasn't a luxury—it was something people needed. He could sell the basic kind to the poor. And if he made a nicer version? Maybe even rich clients or ninja would want it.
He turned to a blank page in the ledger.
"Hygiene Plan — Step One"
Under it, he wrote:
- Basic soap for trade
- Herb version for upper-class buyers
- Wrap in waterproof cloth
First test: slums, ninja barracks, medical tents
He let out a slow breath. This could actually work.
No chakra. No fighting. No blood. Just simple, useful work.
He smiled a little.
"Let's see how dirty this village really is."
He stared at the page, then leaned back in his old chair.
Soap.
It wasn't exciting. But if he could make this work—if people started coming to him—then maybe he wouldn't be just some outsider.
He looked out the window.
What if I don't need chakra at all?What if I don't need to fight? What if I just get... rich?
A grin tugged at his mouth.
So rich the ninja come to me.
He imagined a ninja walking into his shop, bowing nervously, saying, "Sir Ryouhei, we're out of citrus-lavender. The Hokage's office is asking for more."
He saw himself in a giant chair, sipping tea, flipping through a massive ledger.
"Oh? What's your budget this time?"
He laughed quietly.
"No chakra. No bloodline. But full control of the market," he whispered.
He leaned back, steepled his fingers, and gave a mock-evil smile.
"Yes... yes..." he said in a deep, joking voice.
"Let the ninja fight. I will rule... the world of soap!"
His laughter echoed through the empty shop.
Then the pot in the corner gave a loud plip. The roof still leaked.
He sighed and dropped the daydream.
But still... the idea stayed.
Maybe he wasn't a ninja. But power came in many forms.
He looked back down at the ledger and underlined:
Hygiene Plan — Step One.
Time to cook.
Not food.
Soap.
His new weapon.