On the periphery of the capital, far from the palace's quiet corridors, the mansion of the Shiba clan rose against the night sky. It was a sprawling estate—old stone, dark wood, gardens that had been cultivated for generations. Lanterns hung from the eaves, casting warm pools of light across the gravel paths.
Inside the main hall, a festive occasion was underway.
Nobles from across the Land of Grass had gathered—clan heads, wealthy merchants, minor lords with their eyes on advancement. They laughed and drank and exchanged pleasantries, their voices a low hum beneath the high ceiling. The food was exquisite. The sake flowed freely.
But on the balcony overlooking the hall, two figures stood apart from the celebration.
Elder Mura leaned against the railing, a cup of sake in his hand. His expression was pleasant—a slight smile, relaxed eyes—but those who knew him would have recognized the cold calculation beneath.
Beside him stood his oldest son, Raizen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the same dark hair and sharp features as his father. He had not touched his drink. His eyes moved constantly, scanning the crowd below.
"What do you see," Elder Mura asked quietly, "when you look upon them?"
Raizen did not hesitate. "Assets. Influences. Some useful… and some disposable."
Elder Mura raised the cup to his lips but did not drink. "Half-correct."
He let the words hang in the air, giving his son time to think. Below, a portly noble laughed too loudly at his own joke. A young woman in silk turned away from a persistent suitor and a merchant clan head exchanged a sealed envelope with a minor lord.
Raizen's brow furrowed. He was still thinking.
Elder Mura took a slow sip, then lowered the cup. "Assets can be lost," he said. "And disposable things invite waste. One does not treat a blade carelessly simply because it can be replaced. A dull blade still has weight and a broken one still leaves fragments."
He gestured with his cup toward the nobles below.
"But nobles… are neither assets nor disposable."
Raizen's frown deepened. "Then what are they?"
Elder Mura's smile widened—a rare expression, almost amused. "Instruments."
He let the word settle. Raizen's confusion flickered across his face, and Elder Mura chuckled—a soft, dry sound.
"Each one plays a note," he continued. "Pride. Greed. Fear. Even ambition—like yours, Raizen. They are not silent things. They resonate. They clash and they create discord."
He turned to face his son fully, his eyes turn sharp.
"Most men try to silence what displeases them and they cut the strings. They smash the instrument but the wise… compose with it."
Raizen's eyes widened slightly. Understanding began to dawn as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Then they are to be controlled," he said slowly. "To be directed."
Elder Mura shook his head.
"No."
The word was soft, but it carried weight.
"Control invites resistance. Direction reveals intent. The moment a man knows he is being led, he begins to look for the leash." He set his cup down on the railing and folded his hands behind his back. "You will not control them, Raizen nor will you lead them."
He stepped closer to his son, close enough that his voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"You will arrange them."
Raizen's breath caught.
"Let the proud believe they stand above you. Let the greedy believe they profit from you. Let the fearful believe they need you." Elder Mura's eyes glowed with a quiet, terrible wisdom. "And when they have convinced themselves of their own importance—when they have built their little castles of self-deception—they will move exactly as you require. Even if they never realize it."
He turned back to the railing, gazing down at the oblivious nobles.
"A throne is not seized by the hand, Raizen. It is built… from those who believe they chose to support it. These people—" he gestured broadly, "—are not your allies. They are your path."
Raizen stood in silence for a long moment. Then he bowed his head.
"I understand, Father."
"Good." Elder Mura picked up his cup again. "Now go. Mingle. Laugh at their jokes. Let them remember you as charming and harmless. That is the first note in the composition."
Raizen straightened his robes and walked back into the main hall, his footsteps steady.
Elder Mura remained on the balcony, alone with his sake and his thoughts.
Neither man noticed the shadow clinging to the underside of the railing—still, silent, watching. Listening and recording every word.
Back in the palace, Arata sat on his futon, a stack of documents spread before him.
The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Munchkin was curled in her basket, twitching in her sleep. The tiny snail rested on Arata's shoulder, its shell cool against his neck.
He had just finished reading the latest reports from the shadow spies—the conversation between Elder Mura and his son, transcribed word for word by the shadow that had lingered on the balcony.
He set the papers down.
And he's right. Not through brute force but through arrangement.
He felt a grudging respect for Elder Mura. The old man was dangerous—ruthless, patient and intelligent. He had built a network of spies and informants. He had turned the head maid, his personal maid and even plant two younger servants. He had tried to kill me and nearly succeeded, who knows what kind of follow up scheme would emerge if Arata was successfully killed.
And now he was planning a coup, planting and orchestrating the composition.
It's a shame we're destined to stand against each other Elder Mura, Arata thought. If things were different, I might have learned from him.
But things were different and Arata had no intention of letting Elder Mura take the throne.
He pushed the documents aside.
Shadows beneath his bed rippled as Yamiko surged out, rising like water from a dark pool. She knelt before him, her golden eyes calm.
"Master, the space has been verified. It is safe to be our headquarters."
Arata smiled—a genuine smile, tired but satisfied.
"Good to hear that."
He lifted his arm, turning it so the candlelight caught the markings on his skin. The jutsu formula was complete—a complex spiral of lines and dots, shimmering faintly with chakra. It had finished transforming earlier that day, the last of the shadow traits settling into place.
The teleportation network was ready.
Every shadow spy now carried a sub-matching seal, fused into their essence by Arata's power. They could enter and exit the headquarters space at will—a pocket dimension linked to Arata's infinite storage, a place where no one else could follow.
He had tested it himself. The space was empty, silent, infinite in its darkness but it was safe. And it was his.
"The travel time will be shortened significantly," Yamiko continued. "Any shadow spy in a distant location can enter the headquarters space and exit at any other marked location. The marking automatically records their original position, so they can return if needed."
Arata nodded. "And the shadows outside the mansion? Have they all received the marking?"
"Yes, Master. I coordinated the rotations myself. Each shadow spy returned to the headquarters space, received the fusion, and was redeployed. The network is complete."
"Good."
Arata leaned back, staring at the ceiling cranes. The headquarters was solved. The travel network was solved. But one of his plan remained.
The snail.
He looked at the palm size creature on his shoulder. It had not grown. It had not spoken. It simply existed, silent, watching him with eyes too small to see. Earlier he let the snail eat some grapes that he have for snacks.
He thought about the summoning contract—the three names on the scroll, the faded ink of the first signer, the worn and yellowed paper. This was not a famous contract. There were no legends of mighty snail summons battling alongside great shinobi. No tales of giant armored snails crushing armies.
This contract is obscure, Arata realized. Unknown. No one in the great villages has ever heard of it even if they did – no one cares. The snails are not warriors. They have no reputation.
And that was perfect.
Because Arata did not need warriors. He needed something else entirely.
He remembered another world. In One Piece, snails were used as telephones. Video calls. Broadcast systems. An entire network of information.
Here, in the Naruto world, communication is primitive. Messenger birds that can be intercepted. Runners who take days. Summoning beasts that deliver messages but cannot relay conversations in real time.
He reached up and gently touched the snail's shell.
But if I can create snails that transmit voice—snails that can connect to each other across any distance, that can record conversations, that can broadcast to multiple receivers at once—
His smile widened.
I won't just be a prince. I'll be the first information broker in the shinobi world.
He thought about the implications. Every message sent through his network would pass through his hands—or rather, through his snails. He could listen. He could record. He could control what information reached whom.
The Five Great Villages spend fortunes on spy networks. On intelligence. On messengers. And here I am, with a summoning contract that no one wants, a power that lets me copy and fuse traits, and a vision that no one else has even imagined.
He chuckled.
Yamiko tilted her head, her golden eyes flickering with confusion.
Arata's chuckle became a low laugh and seeing Yamiko's look, he asked "Yamiko, do you know what the most valuable commodity in any war is?"
She considered. "Gold? Weapons?"
"Information," Arata said. "Knowing what your enemy is planning before they do it. Sending orders faster than the other side. Controlling what people hear and what they believe."
He gestured to the snail on his shoulder.
"This little creature belongs to a summoning contract that no one respects. Three signers in its entire history. No great battles. No famous deeds. The snails are not warriors—they're messengers. Or at least, I'll make them be one."
He leaned forward, his eyes bright.
"I'm going to change that. I'm going to create a communication network that spans the nations. Snails that act like telephones—instant voice transmission across any distance. Snails that can broadcast to hundreds of receivers at once. Snails that record conversations and play them back."
He paused, letting the vision take shape.
"And every single one of those snails will be connected to me. Every message, every call, every piece of information—it will flow through my network first. I have control who can talk to whom. I will know what is being said before the words even reach their destination."
He looked at Yamiko.
"The great villages think they understand power. They think it's just about armies, jutsu and bloodlines. But information is a form of power too and soon, I will be the only one who controls it."
Yamiko was silent for a moment. Then she bowed her head.
"Master. This is… an ambitious plan."
Arata smiled. "It is."
He reached into his storage and pulled out the copied summoning contract—the pale gold sphere that contained the essence of the snail summoning. He held it in his palm, feeling its weight.
"I'll need to experiment. To understand how the snails communicate, how they connect to each other, how their chakra works. I'll need to copy their traits, fuse them with other things, maybe even create new breeds of snails."
He stored the sphere again.
"But that's a problem for tomorrow. For tonight…" He looked out the window at the moon. "For tonight, I really want to sleep so many documents."
Yamiko rose.
Arata thought for a moment.
"Continue monitoring Elder Mura."
He paused.
"And find me a quiet place. Somewhere outside the capital. I'll need a lab for the snail experiments. Somewhere no one will notice if strange things happen."
Yamiko bowed. "It will be done."
She dissolved into the shadows and was gone.
Arata leaned back on his futon. Munchkin snored softly in her basket. The tiny snail on his shoulder shifted, its shell warm against his skin.