The days blurred together.
Arata sat at a low desk in the study hall, a brush in his hand, a scroll of endless characters in front of him. His tutor—a thin, bespectacled man named Kenji—droned on about tax codes and trade agreements and the proper way to address a visiting daimyo from the Land of Rivers.
This is torture, Arata thought. Actual torture.
He had survived an office job for fifteen years. He had sat through quarterly reports and budget meetings and one particularly awful team-building retreat where he had to hold hands with accounting. But this? This was a new level of boring.
"And so," Master Kenji continued, oblivious, "the prince must understand that the allocation of rice surplus during a harvest deficit requires the approval of at least three regional governors, unless a state of emergency has been declared by—"
Arata's brush slipped, leaving a black smear across his careful calligraphy.
"Waka-tono, please focus."
I'm trying to focus on not falling asleep, he didn't say.
He had been at this for three hours. His back hurt. His hand cramped. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a part of him that remembered being thirty-two was screaming that he had already lived through school once and did not need to do it again.
Then, like an angel descending from heaven, a voice came from the doorway.
"Arata! There you are!"
Arata looked up. A boy about his age stood in the doorway, round-faced and grinning, with chubby cheeks and messy brown hair. He was slightly out of breath, as if he had run all the way here.
His name was Ren. Childhood friend. Son of a minor noble family that had served the Grass royal household for generations. In Arata's original memories, Ren was the closest thing his predecessor had to a real friend—the one person who treated him like a person instead of a title.
"Ren," Arata said, and he meant the relief in his voice. "What are you doing here?"
"Rescuing you, obviously." Ren mouthed to him as he strode into the room and bowed quickly to Master Kenji—not deep enough to be formal, but enough to be polite. "Master Kenji, forgive me, but the waka-tono is needed elsewhere. Urgently."
Master Kenji adjusted his spectacles. "Urgently? By whom?"
"By…" Ren's eyes darted around the room, searching for an excuse. "By his father. The Daimyo. Yes! A matter of state!"
The lie was so transparent that even Arata had to suppress a smile. Master Kenji looked unimpressed but also seemed to understand that fighting a ten-year-old's excuse was beneath his dignity.
"Very well. Waka-tono, we will resume tomorrow. Please review the sections on grain taxation before then."
Arata was already standing. "Of course, Master Kenji. Thank you."
He followed Ren out of the study hall and down the corridor, and the moment they turned the corner, Ren burst out laughing.
"Grain taxation," Ren wheezed. "I thought I was going to die just listening from the doorway. How do you survive that every day?"
"Barely," Arata admitted. "Where are we actually going?"
Ren's grin widened. "The usual place. Everyone's there. Kaito brought dice, and Miho's servants prepared good food for us. You've been locked up in this palace for weeks, Arata. You're coming with me."
The usual place. Arata searched the original boy's memories. A garden pavilion on the eastern edge of the noble district, owned by Ren's family. A spot where the children of Grass's noble houses gathered to escape their tutors and their duties.
He hesitated. Going out in public meant being seen. Being seen meant maintaining the act of being the original Arata—quiet, shy, a little awkward. But staying here meant more grain taxation.
"Fine," he said. "Let me change first. I can't go out looking like this."
He was wearing his formal study kimono, stiff and uncomfortable. Ren nodded and waited by the entrance while Arata hurried to his room.
On the way to the pavilion, Arata felt something prick at the back of his mind.
Chakra.
He had been so focused on surviving his studies that he had almost forgotten. His chakra was still there, roaring inside him—doubled now, after the fusion experiment. If anyone in the noble district had even a basic ability to sense chakra, they would notice him immediately.
Wait, he thought. Does anyone here even have that ability?
He thought about it. The palace had no shinobi. The guards were regular soldiers, trained with swords but not with chakra. The nobles—his father, the council, the visiting diplomats—none of them were ninja. The Land of Grass's shinobi forces, such as they were, were controlled by the council. Deployed to the borders. Kept far from the capital.
He had been walking around with his chakra blazing like a bonfire, and no one had noticed because no one could notice.
But that didn't mean it was safe. There were always spies. Always informants. If someone from outside the capital—someone with actual sensory abilities—happened to be passing through…
I need to hide this.
He stopped walking. Ren was a few steps ahead, chattering about something, and didn't notice at first.
"Ren," Arata called. "Give me a moment. I think I forgot something."
Ren turned, confused. "What? We just left."
"Just—one moment. I'll catch up."
Ren shrugged. "Don't take too long. Miho's servants made mochi, and Kaito will eat it all if we're late."
He continued walking. Arata ducked behind a large ornamental bush, making sure no one was watching. The street was quiet—mostly empty, with only a few servants going about their business in the distance.
He pressed his palm against his lower abdomen.
Extract.
This was the first time he would use this power. He had copied before. He had fused before. But extraction was different. Extraction was taking—pulling something out of himself and separating it completely.
He braced for pain.
And nothing happened.
No tearing. No painful feeling. Just a strange, hollow sensation, like the moment after a deep breath when your lungs are empty. He opened his eyes.
Floating in his palm was a sphere. Blue-white. Pulsing gently. His chakra—all of it—extracted and contained in a perfect, silent orb.
He felt… weak.
Not in a painful way. More like being slightly sick. His limbs were heavy. His mind felt foggy. He had never realized how much chakra contributed to basic energy, basic alertness. Without it, he was just a normal ten-year-old boy. Tired. Slow.
This is inconvenient, he thought. But better than being discovered.
He stored the sphere quickly. It vanished into that infinite space inside him, joining the plant copy and the original chakra copy he had made earlier. And just like that, his chakra was gone. Hidden. Safe.
He stepped out from behind the bush and jogged to catch up with Ren. His breath came a little faster than it should have. His legs felt heavier.
"You look pale," Ren said when he caught up. "Are you sick?"
"Just tired," Arata said. "Let's keep going."
The pavilion was beautiful.
It sat at the edge of a small pond, surrounded by cherry trees that had already lost their blossoms for the season. Colorful cushions were scattered across the wooden floor. A low table held plates of sweets, cups of tea, and a few bottles of rice wine that the servants had probably been told not to bring but had brought anyway.
About a dozen noble children were already there, ranging from eight to twelve years old. They laughed and talked and threw dice on a felt mat. Servants stood at the edges, silent and watchful.
Arata recognized most of the faces from the original boy's memories. Kaito, the loud one with the dice. Miho, the quiet girl who always brought the best food. Sora, the tallest, who acted like he was already an adult. And others—children of minor nobles, all of them dressed in silks and fine cottons, all of them surrounded by their own guards posted at a respectful distance.
Look at this, Arata thought. Kids with bodyguards. Private chefs. Enough money to feed a village for a year.
It was strange. In the anime, he had always seen the ninja villages—the cramped apartments, the cheap ramen, the orphans scraping by. The nobility had always been a distant concept, mentioned but never shown. Now he was standing in the middle of it.
Rich kids. Just like on Earth. Just with more swords and no smartphones.
Ren pulled him to a cushion and shoved a cup of tea into his hands. "Drink, you look like a ghost."
Arata drank. The tea was good. Expensive. He tried to relax, tried to be present, but his mind kept drifting back to his hidden chakra and the experiments waiting in his room.
Then Ren leaned in close, lowering his voice.
"Hey. Guess who's here today."
Arata raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Ren nodded subtly toward the far end of the pavilion. A small stage had been set up—a wooden platform with a silk screen behind it. And sitting on that stage, tuning a zither, was a girl about their age.
She was pretty. There was no denying it. Dark hair pinned up with silver clips. A pale blue kimono with white flowers embroidered along the sleeves. Her movements were graceful, practiced, like someone who had been performing since she could walk.
Yuki, Arata's memories supplied. Daughter of Elder Hana.
And, according to those same memories, the object of the original Arata's desperate and hopeless admiration.
"She's going to play for everyone," Ren whispered, grinning. "I heard she's been practicing for weeks. This is your chance, Arata. Go sit closer."
Arata didn't move.
He remembered now—the way his predecessor had followed Yuki around like a lost puppy. The way she had smiled at him politely while her eyes slid away, uninterested. The way she had laughed with her friends about "that weird prince who can't even use chakra."
The original boy had been too blind to see it but Arata saw it clearly now.
She didn't like him. She tolerated him because he was the Daimyo's son and if he ever lost that title, she would kick him so fast he wouldn't even feel the fall.
"No thanks," Arata said quietly.
Ren blinked. "What? You've been talking about her for years. You wrote her a poem last month. A terrible poem, but still—"
"I said no." Arata took another sip of tea. "I've accepted that she's out of my league. Let's just enjoy the music from here."
Ren stared at him like he had grown a second head but before he could argue, Yuki began to play.
The zither's notes floated across the pavilion, soft and clear. The other children quieted down. Even Kaito stopped rolling his dice. It was beautiful music—genuinely beautiful—and for a moment, Arata let himself appreciate it.
Then he noticed something else.
A guard. Walking near the back of the pavilion, near the kitchen area. He was holding something by the scruff of its neck—a small gray cat, limp and unconscious.
The guard was walking toward the outer gate, probably to toss the animal out. Strays were common around noble estates, sneaking in to steal food from the kitchens. This one had probably eaten something it shouldn't have and passed out.
Arata watched the guard for a long moment.
Unconscious, he thought.
His cheat ability— Forge power —could not copy anything with consciousness. A living being that was awake, aware, able to resist—that was off limits. But what about a living being that was unconscious? Asleep? Knocked out?
The cat had no awareness right now. No resistance. No consciousness to block the copy power.
That might work.
He stood up.
Ren looked at him, confused. "Where are you going? The music isn't over."
"I'll be right back," Arata said.
He walked toward the guard, carefully weaving through the cushions and the servants. A few of the noble boys shot him annoyed looks—he was blocking their view of Yuki—but he didn't care.
He reached the guard just as the man was about to step through the gate.
"Excuse me" Arata weakly said.
The guard turned. He was a middle-aged man in the livery of the council's security forces, plain-faced and practical. When he saw who was speaking, his eyes widened slightly, and he slowly bowed.
"Waka-tono. Forgive me, I was just removing a nuisance—"
"Uhm, the cat," Arata said. "What are you going to do with it?"
The guard glanced at the limp animal in his hand. "Just putting it outside, my lord. It's not hurt. Probably ate too much and passed out. The kitchens are lax with their scraps."
Arata stepped closer. He looked at the cat. Its chest rose and fell steadily. Asleep, not dead. Its fur was matted in places, and one ear had a small notch, but otherwise it seemed healthy.
"Give it to me," Arata said.
The guard hesitated. "My lord?"
"I'll take it, I've been thinking about getting a pet." It was a lie, but a harmless one. "I think my father won't mind."
The guard clearly doubted that—the Daimyo was not known for his love of animals—but he wasn't about to argue with the prince. He gently transferred the unconscious cat into Arata's arms.
"Of course, waka-tono. Shall I inform the kitchens to prepare a bed for it?"
"No. I'll handle it." Arata cradled the cat carefully. It was warm and soft and completely unaware. "Thank you, you're dismissed."
The guard bowed again and walked away.
Arata returned to his cushion, cat in his arms. Ren stared at him.
"You stole a cat?"
"I didn't steal it, I rescued it."
"From what?"
"From being thrown out?" Arata settled back down, arranging the cat on his lap. It didn't stir. "Now shut up and listen to the music."
Ren opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head and turned back toward the stage.
On the platform, Yuki continued to play. But her eyes flickered toward Arata for just a moment—a quick, curious glance. She had seen him walk away during her performance. She had seen him return with a stray cat in his arms.
Is he ignoring me on purpose? she wondered. Is this some kind of act to get my attention?
She dismissed the thought. Boys were stupid. She turned her gaze back to her zither and played the final notes of her piece.
When the applause came, Arata clapped politely with everyone else. But his mind was already back in his room, already planning the experiment waiting for him.
It was late afternoon by the time Arata returned to the palace.
He had made his excuses to Ren—"next time, I promise"—and carried the still-unconscious cat through the corridors to his room. The guards nodded at him. The servants bowed, no one questioned why the prince was holding a stray animal.
His maid was tidying up when he entered. She turned and saw the cat, raising an eyebrow.
"Waka-tono? Is that a cat?"
"It is," Arata said. "I'm keeping it."
The maid looked like she wanted to ask questions—about where it came from, about whether the Daimyo would approve—but she was well-trained. She simply nodded. "Shall I prepare a basket and some blankets?"
"That would be great. Thank you."
She left. Arata locked the door behind her.
He set the cat down gently on his futon. It was still unconscious, still breathing softly. Whatever it had eaten in the kitchens had really knocked it out.
First things first, he thought. Get my chakra back.
He reached inside himself—into that infinite storage—and pulled out the sphere containing his extracted chakra. He pressed it against his abdomen and fused it back.
The chakra flowed back into him smoothly, without resistance. No pain. No drama. It was like putting on a coat he had taken off earlier. His energy returned. The fog in his mind cleared, he felt whole again.
Good, he thought. So extraction and fusion work like a switch. I can turn my chakra on and off whenever I want.
Better than any concealment technique. As far as anyone could tell, he was a normal boy with no chakra at all. And when he needed to be a ninja, he would simply… turn it back on.
He turned his attention to the cat.
It was still out cold. He reached out a hand and placed it gently on the cat's side. He could feel its heartbeat—slow, steady, peaceful.
No consciousness, he thought. No awareness. No resistance.
Copy.
He focused. The power stirred inside him, reaching out, touching the cat. Not just its body—everything. Its fur, bones, organs and memories, if it had any. life force. unconscious spirit.
The cat did not resist, it could not.
For a long minute, nothing seemed to happen. Then a warmth spread through Arata's palm. Light bloomed between his fingers—not blue this time, but white. Pure white. A sphere the size of a plum, hovering just above the cat's fur.
He had done it.
He had copied a living creature.
He stared at the white sphere, heart pounding. It pulsed gently, filled with everything the cat was—its body, its instincts, its little cat soul. Stored inside that tiny orb was a complete, perfect copy of a living being.
What have I created?
He didn't know. But he stored the sphere anyway, feeling it join the others in that infinite space inside him. The plant. His chakra copies. And now, a cat.
The original cat on his futon continued to sleep, unaware that a copy of itself now existed in the soul of a ten-year-old prince.
Arata sat back on his heels and let out a long, slow breath.
He had found his first loophole.
And he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last.
The maid returned with a basket and blankets. Arata helped her arrange a soft bed in the corner of his room, and together they placed the cat inside. It curled up instinctively, still sleeping.
"If it wakes up hungry," the maid said, "I can bring milk and fish."
"Thank you, that would be good."
She left. Arata sat on his futon, watching the cat breathe.
Outside his window, the sun was setting over the capital of Grass. Somewhere in the council chambers, seven elders plotted the survival of their nation. Somewhere in a castle far away, a man named Mui watched over prisoners who would never leave.
And in a small room in the palace, a ten-year-old boy with an office worker's soul held the power to copy life itself.
One step at a time, he reminded himself.
He lay down and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would figure out what to do with a copied cat.
Tonight, he would sleep.