The palace buzzed with quiet urgency.
Servants hurried through corridors, arms loaded with decorations and linens. Cooks shouted orders in the kitchen. The head gardener had spent three days trimming every hedge and sweeping every stone path. Tomorrow, Arata would turn eleven, and the palace would host a celebration—modest by noble standards, but significant enough to draw every important family in the Land of Grass.
Arata had returned from his laboratory two days ago, reluctantly resuming his prince duties. He sat through meals with the Daimyo, endured lessons with Master Kenji, and smiled at servants who bowed as he passed. On the surface, he was the same quiet, unremarkable boy he had always been.
But beneath that surface, his mind was a storm of calculations.
Tomorrow, he thought. Elder Mura will make his move.
The coup would not be a violent seizure—not yet. Mura was too patient for that and tomorrow would be about positioning. Testing and he should start arranging the first notes of his composition.
Arata had spent the past year preparing for this moment. His shadow spies were everywhere. His converted nobles and merchants moved at his command. His five reborn maids—Akane, Miya, and the three others—went about their duties, their eyes clear, their loyalty is absolute.
I need to orchestrate my people to act as elder mura think they should, he thought. And I need to decide what path I take afterwards.
He shifted his thoughts to the snails.
The Chakra Resonance Network—CRN, as he had begun calling it in his own mind—was ready for expansion. Five hundred sub-snails now connected to the main server, each one tested, each one functional. The network covered the Land of Grass completely. No message traveled more than a few seconds from sender to receiver.
But Arata wanted more. He wanted the network to spread beyond Grass—into the neighboring lands, into the periphery of the great nations. He wanted the snails to become the standard for communication across the shinobi world.
And he wanted to control it all.
He had divided the expansion into two groups, each consisting of ten shadow spies. These were not ordinary shadows—they had been enhanced over the past year, their chakra reserves grown, their skills sharpened. Each team could go toe-to-toe with a five-man team from any of the five great villages. Arata was confident in their abilities.
The Eastern Group would cover the Land of Claws, the Land of Rain, and the periphery of the Land of Earth. The Western Group would cover the Land of Waterfalls and the periphery of the Land of Fire. Both groups had already been deployed.
Their first objective was not to sell snails. It was to subdue the black-market trade and bounty stations in each region. Every underground facility, every shadowy exchange, every place where information and goods changed hands without the great villages' knowledge—Arata wanted them under his control.
Control the black markets first and control the flow of contraband and then, introduce the snails.
He had also allocated the Land of Grass to the Western Group's coverage—not because Grass needed additional spies, but because it would be suspicious if the snails' origin could not be traced to his land. When the great villages inevitably tried to track the summons, they would find that the snails had appeared around the land of grass. That is a suspicious point that need to be covered.
He had also tampered with every snail scroll he had created. Reverse summoning was impossible. No one could enter the snail's home realm except him. The land of snails are belong to Arata alone.
Five hundred snails, he thought. Connected to my main summon. Ready to spread across the nations.
He smiled to himself.
The Second Shinobi War would be interesting.
________________________
Miya led him through the corridors toward the dining hall.
She moved with the same quiet efficiency she had always shown, but her eyes were different now—calm, alert and always scanning. She was no longer Elder Mura's pawn. She was Arata's pawn.
As they walked, a familiar voice whispered from his shadow.
Master. A report.
Arata did not break stride. Go ahead, Yamiko.
A five-man team from Konohagakure has been spotted near the eastern border. They are traveling in civilian clothes, but our spies have confirmed their identities. One of them is a member of the Nara clan.
Arata's step faltered—just for a moment, barely noticeable.
The Nara clan.
He had been searching for access to their shadow techniques for over a year. And now, one of them had walked into his territory.
Do we have any information on their mission?
Not yet. They have not made contact with any local authorities. They are moving quietly, staying off the main roads. I have ordered the intelligence network to prioritize this. Every noble and merchant under our control has been alerted. We will know more soon.
Good. Keep me informed. And Yamiko—
Yes, Master?
Do not engage. Not yet. I want information first. Strength assessment, mission objective, duration of stay. Everything.
Understood.
The voice faded. Arata resumed walking, his expression unchanged.
Nara, he thought. This could be the opportunity I've been waiting for.
But he needed to be patient. Rushing would only invite disaster.
Miya slid open the door to the dining hall. Arata stepped inside.
The Daimyo sat at the head of the table, his face as stern and unreadable as ever. Across from him, Elder Shida sat with a cup of tea, his wrinkled hands steady. They had been conversing about something—trade routes, perhaps, or the upcoming harvest—but they fell silent as Arata entered.
"Arata," the Daimyo said. "Sit. We have matters to discuss before tomorrow's celebration."
Arata bowed and took his seat.
Matters, he thought. Let's see what the council wants now.
__________________________________
The day of the celebration arrived.
The palace hall had been transformed—simple decorations, elegant but not extravagant. Lanterns hung from the rafters. Fresh flowers adorned every table. The long dining boards groaned under the weight of dishes prepared by the palace cooks.
Nobles arrived in a steady stream, their carriages filling the courtyard. Wealthy merchants followed, their gifts wrapped in silk and gold thread. The butler greeted each guest with practiced grace, directing servants to take their offerings to the gift table.
In a private chamber off the main hall, Elder Mura sat with his son Raizen. The old man sipped tea while Raizen conversed with a minor noble—Lord Haruki, a portly man with ambitions of climbing higher in Grass's political hierarchy.
Mura said nothing. He simply watched. His eyes moved from face to face, calculating.
He did not know that several of those instruments he is gathering had already been retuned—their loyalties shifted and their disposition replaced. He did not know that shadows lingered in the corners of the room, watching him as he watched others.
He did not know that the boy he had tried to kill was no longer a boy at all.
_____________________________________
Yuki arrived with her mother's blessing.
Elder Hana could not attend—she was meeting with a delegation from the Land of Rivers—but she had sent her daughter in her place. Yuki wore a pale blue kimono, her dark hair pinned with silver clips. She looked beautiful, composed, every inch the diplomat's daughter.
The butler greeted her warmly and directed a servant to escort her to the main hall.
She walked with her head high, her eyes scanning the room. She saw familiar faces—nobles she had known since childhood, merchants her mother had introduced her to.
But she did not see Arata.
The prince is not here, she thought. Strange.
She had assumed he would be at the center of his own celebration, greeting guests, accepting gifts. Instead, he was nowhere to be seen.
Probably hiding in his room, she decided. He was always shy.
She turned away and found her seat, dismissing the prince from her thoughts.
In his room, Arata sat at his desk, reviewing the latest intelligence reports.
The Western Group had successfully subdued two black-market stations and one bounty station in the Land of Grass. They were moving toward the periphery of the Land of Fire now. The Western Group was making similar progress in the periphery of the Land of Earth.
Everything is proceeding as planned, he thought.
The door burst open.
"Happy birthday!" Ren shouted, launching into a loud, off-key rendition of the birthday song. He danced across the room, waving a rectangular package wrapped in plain paper.
Arata looked up, a genuine smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
"Ren. You could have knocked."
"And miss the look on your face? Never." Ren thrust the package into Arata's hands. "Open it. Open it. Open it."
Arata raised an eyebrow but complied. He tore the paper carefully—Ren's taste in gifts was unpredictable at best—and revealed a scroll.
It was old. The paper was yellowed, the edges slightly frayed. A simple cord held it closed. No markings on the outside.
Arata unfurled it.
His eyes widened.
Sealing formulas. Uzumaki sealing formulas.
The characters were dense, intricate—a C-rank technique, nothing that would shake the foundations of the shinobi world. But it was genuine authentic Uzumaki craftsmanship, passed down through generations.
He looked up at Ren, his shock barely contained.
"Where did you get this?"
Ren puffed out his chest, lifting his chin in exaggerated pride. "Heh. My uncle is married to a member of the Uzumaki clan. I requested one of their sealing techniques." He grinned. "I know you've wanted something like this for a long time. So? What do you think?"
Arata stared at him.
The Uzumaki clan. Still strong and still considered as a major power in the shinobi world, known for their fuinjutsu and their life force. But I know what's coming the Second War will destroy them. Scatter them. By the time the Third War begins, they'll be a memory.
He pushed the thought aside. That was years away. For now, the Uzumaki were alive, and one of their techniques was now in his hands.
He had been planning to conquer the Hidden Grass Village in the coming months—to seize its resources, its shinobi, its jutsu libraries. But high-level techniques like this were protected by the great clans and villages. He had not yet found a way to access them.
And now Ren had handed him one on a silver platter.
"Ren," Arata said slowly, "this is… incredible. Thank you."
Ren's grin widened. "I knew you'd like it. Come on, everyone's waiting. Let's go eat."
He grabbed Arata's arm and dragged him toward the door.
Arata tucked the scroll into his sleeve. His heart was steady. His mind was clear.
As Ren pulled him into the corridor, toward the sounds of laughter and music and celebration, Arata allowed himself a small, quiet smile.
The game is now beginning to play.