The skies beyond Amegakure were dry but cloudy. It didn't rain anymore, but the air still felt heavy, like it remembered the storms.
Under a worn-out canopy, three people stood near a muddy wagon covered with a tarp. One of them leaned on a broken tree, smoking a bitter-smelling root.
Soma spat on the ground and watched the smoke drift.
"He threw a damn festival. Called it 'Rain Market Day,'" he said. "Got Hina, Koji, even the butcher smiling like he's building a new Amegakure with games and soap."
A tall woman next to him, her face mostly hidden by a scarf, shook her head.
"He's too bold. Should've been taken out weeks ago. You said he didn't have anyone behind him."
"He didn't," Soma said, voice low. "Just a shop rat at first."
He took another drag, let the smoke out slow.
"Then she noticed him."
Everything went quiet.
The woman's eyes narrowed. The third person—a big man with scarred hands—shifted his weight.
"She?" he asked. "You mean…"
Soma didn't answer. He just gave a small nod.
The woman looked away. The man gave a low whistle. "Not our problem."
The mood changed. Tense now.
"Stay away from him," the woman said. "He's not just a shopkeeper anymore. Not if she's watching."
She didn't finish.
The big man crossed his arms.
"You know what they say. Her paper flies without wind."
Soma looked out toward the foggy hills, jaw tight.
"He's not one of them," he said quietly. "No chakra. No past. Just smooth talk and soft hands."
"But he's still alive," the woman said. "And you're out here."
Soma shot her a look but didn't say anything.
"Forget him," the man said. "We deal with scraps, not... You really wanna end up shredded by paper?"
The wind changed, carrying smoke back toward them. Soma crushed the root under his heel and turned toward the wagon.
"Let him play merchant," he muttered. "But if that protection ever slips... I'll be ready."
---
The rain had finally let up, but the sky above Amegakure was still coated in dull, gray clouds. At the edge of the village, near a patch of trees and muddy trail, Ryouhei stood with Kaede, the cold damp air clinging to their clothes.
Kaede leaned against a tree, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as always.
"Why are we out here?" she asked.
Ryouhei glanced around, then down at his hands. "I wanted to test something," he said. "Just to see if there's anything… chakra, I mean."
Kaede didn't say anything right away. She just watched him. After a few seconds, she gave a small nod. "Alright. Show me."
He sat down on a flat stone, legs crossed, and closed his eyes. He tried everything he could remember—breathing deeply, clearing his mind, focusing inward. Nothing happened. No warmth. No energy. Just the sound of distant water and the occasional rustle of leaves.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes. Kaede was still there, watching silently.
"Try this," she said, tossing him a small slip of chakra paper. "If you have chakra, it'll react. One way or another."
Ryouhei held the paper carefully. It was dry, thin, and light. He focused again, harder this time—his breath slow, his grip steady.
The paper didn't move. Didn't fold. Didn't tear.
Nothing.
After a long pause, Kaede stepped forward and took the slip back. It was unchanged. She didn't say anything, just looked down at him.
"So that's it," Ryouhei muttered. "No chakra."
Kaede nodded once. "Looks that way."
There was no mockery in her voice—just quiet certainty. She turned away and looked toward the village, mist still rolling over the rooftops.
"Some people aren't born to fight," she said.
Ryouhei stood slowly, brushing dirt off his cloak. His expression was blank, but his hands were clenched.
"Guess I'll stick to soap, then."
Kaede gave him a look—half amused, half approving. "Could be worse. You're still alive."
Without another word, she turned and started walking back toward the village.
Ryouhei followed.
He wasn't a shinobi. He never would be. But he still had a shop, a plan, and a chance to matter in a world that didn't care about people like him.
That would have to be enough.
By the time Ryouhei reached his shop, the sky had darkened slightly, and the familiar scent of wet metal and steam drifted through the narrow streets. His boots squelched against the muddy road as he turned the final corner—
And stopped cold.
The shop was packed.
A crowd had gathered outside, cloaks soaked, some people pressed under his awning to stay dry. More spilled into the shop itself, voices low but persistent, hands gesturing toward the shelves.
Children weaved between adults, a few pointing at the wrapped soap bars displayed in old crates. A couple of ninja stood near the door, their weapons sheathed but eyes sharp.
Ryouhei blinked...
He hadn't expected this.
He pushed through gently. "Excuse me. Coming through…"
A familiar voice called from the back. "You're late," Tetsu said, standing behind the counter with both hands full—one balancing a crate of wrapped bars, the other holding up fingers as he counted off trades.
Ryouhei stepped in, stunned. The inside of the shop smelled like mint, fennel, and citrus—his latest mix.
The shelves were nearly bare. Only a few misshapen bars remained, stacked haphazardly next to scrolls of hand-wrapped order slips.