Uchiha’s grimoire guide to winning: Chapter 12: tutorial in how to become Switzerland in magical ninja land

"There are no chances I'm going in that thing."

Shusei turned to look at me, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and genuine offense, like I'd just insulted his cooking or questioned his taste in music.

"Common, it doesn't look that bad, right?"

He turned in the direction of the others, his gaze sweeping across Toga, Akira, Shirogane, and Yoru, clearly searching for support, for backup, for someone to tell me I was being ridiculous and that his creation was perfectly safe and functional and not at all a death trap waiting to happen.

He found none.

Toga looked away, suddenly very interested in something happening down the street, his dark form a silhouette of deliberate avoidance.

Akira's pale eyes flicked upward, tracking a bird that probably didn't exist.

Shirogane examined his fingernails with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing explosive tags.

Yoru turned her head entirely, her braids swaying, her posture screaming "I have no opinion and you cannot make me have one."

The silence stretched, heavy and damning.

Shusei's shoulders sagged, genuine hurt crossing his features, theatrical and exaggerated but also, I suspected, a little bit real.

"It is true then," he said, voice mournful, tragic, like he'd just discovered a fundamental truth about the universe and it had disappointed him. "Worst betrayal comes from blood at the most crucial of moments when one should be able to rely on it."

Toga, still not looking at him, raised one hand in a gesture that was half apology, half dismissal.

"Being bound by blood and contract doesn't equal accepting death's grasp," he said, his voice deep and steady and utterly unapologetic. "I am not ready yet to go back to the wheel of Samsara."

I pointed at Toga, emphatic, vindicated.

"See? I am not the only one to think like that. We all think like that." I looked at Shusei, trying to inject reason into this conversation. "You're sure you don't want us to find a carriage or for you to backpack one of us?"

The suggestion was practical, logical, sensible.

Shinobi could move fast, absurdly fast, the kind of fast that defied physics and common sense and made humans without chakra look like they were moving the snails amongst the snails.

I'd seen it in the show, in the manga. When they weren't fighting, when they weren't using jutsu or reinforcing themselves with chakra or really pushing themselves the way they sometimes did in battles, shinobi could cross countries at speeds that would make cars jealous.

Tree travel, when done right, when done by exceptional genins, competent chunin or jonin, was terrifyingly efficient.

I remembered Naruto and the others reaching Suna when Gaara was kidnapped during the early parts of Shippuden. They'd crossed from Konoha to Suna in what, a day? Maybe two? The distance should have been hundreds of kilometers, and they'd done it on foot, leaping between trees, moving at speeds that made Olympic sprinters look like toddlers learning to walk.

Or when Naruto left Turtle Island during the Fourth Great Ninja War, racing across the ocean and then across land to reach the battlefield. He'd crossed what should have been days of travel in hours, maybe less, moving so fast he'd arrived in time to make a difference.

If Shusei rode on the back of one of his bodyguards, if we moved at even a moderate pace, not pushing, not sprinting, just maintaining a steady travel speed, we should be able to reach Ame from Konoha in, what, three days? Four at most?

I ran through the geography in my head, pulling from what I knew of the Naruto world's layout, the map I'd memorized because knowing my geography was the least if I wanted to survive, to live long into this world.

Konoha sat in the Land of Fire, roughly central, surrounded by forests and rivers and terrain that was, all things considered, pretty easy to traverse if you knew what you were doing.

To reach the Land of Rain from Konoha, you'd head northwest, cutting through Fire Country's northern territories, skirting the border regions where Fire met Grass and Rain. You'd pass through smaller settlements, minor villages, maybe a few trading posts if you were traveling the main roads, but shinobi didn't use main roads, they used trees, they used speed, they avoided civilization when they could because civilization meant witnesses and a lot of time for foreign shinobis, complications.

The Land of Grass sat between Fire and Rain, a buffer state, neutral territory that got stomped on every time the major villages decided to have a war. You'd cross through Grass quickly, efficiently, because lingering there was asking for trouble, asking to get caught in someone else's conflict.

And then you'd hit Rain.

The Land of Rain, perpetually soaked, perpetually grey, a country where the sun was a myth and the sky wept endlessly. It was smaller than Fire, more compact, more concentrated. Interestingly enough, it was not yet ruled by Hanzo the Salamander, a man whose reputation would make a lot of grown shinobi reconsider their life choices. Right now, from what information I was able to get when I learnt of this mission in Ame by my aunt was that while he was a lord, nobility, he was not yet like in canon the lord of the entirety of Ame.

Right now, the ninja world was in peacetime.

Or at least, that's what people called it, what they pretended it was.

But I knew better.

Peacetime in the shinobi world was just a polite word for Cold War, a fragile ceasefire held together by exhaustion and mutual distrust and the knowledge that nobody had recovered from the First Great Ninja War yet. Villages were rebuilding, licking their wounds, training their next generation of child soldiers, preparing for the next conflict because there was always a next conflict.

It was peacetime until something happened, until some spark ignited, until someone decided they wanted something another village had, and then, if I remembered my past life memories correctly, the Second Great Ninja War would erupt, and the world would burn again.

But for now, for this moment, the roads were relatively safe, the borders relatively open, and travel was—

"Ren."

My aunt's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and deliberate.

"Enter the death tra—" she paused, reconsidered, "—device."

I looked at her, my eyes half-lidded, unimpressed, the kind of look that said I see what you did there and I am judging you for it.

Then I said, flatly, seriously, with the kind of conviction that came from deep within my soul:

"This is why you'll never get a boyfriend."

The effect was immediate and devastating.

Fumiko sputtered, her eyes widening, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. She clutched at her chest like I'd physically stabbed her, like I'd reached into her ribcage and squeezed her heart, like I'd committed an act of violence so profound it transcended the physical.

"I—you—that's not—how dare—"

Akira's lips flickered, a tiny movement, barely there, but it was a smile, a genuine smile, quickly suppressed.

Shirogane coughed, a sound that was clearly covering a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly as he turned away.

Yoru hid her face behind one hand, but I could see her eyes crinkling, could see the smile she was trying to conceal.

Shusei didn't even try to hide it. He laughed, open and loud and delighted, the kind of laugh that made other people want to laugh too.

Toga, still facing away, reached over and patted Fumiko on the shoulder, the gesture almost comforting, almost sympathetic, like he was consoling her after a great loss.

I felt no remorse.

She'd asked for it.

The death tra—the device in question had come out of one of Shusei's sleeves, seals probably at work to store the thing in a pocket dimension or compressed space or whatever fuinjutsu bullshit made it possible to pull a vehicle out of your clothing like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

For me, it looked like the unholy child of a chariot, a hoverboard, and witchcraft that should have been aborted but had survived said abortion to make it everyone's problem.

It sat there on the ground, humming.

Not a pleasant hum, not the kind of sound that suggested competent engineering and quality craftsmanship. It was the kind of hum that suggested malfunction, that suggested something inside was vibrating at frequencies it shouldn't, that suggested components were one bad day away from giving up entirely.

The frame was black, but not clean black, not uniform. It was mottled, streaked with what looked like ink, like someone had painted it with seal arrays and then forgotten to stop, layers upon layers of symbols and formulas overlapping until the metal underneath was barely visible. Some of the ink shimmered, catching light in ways that made my eyes hurt, made my brain itch, made me think of things that existed in too many dimensions and didn't care about Euclidean geometry.

The wheels, if you could call them that, didn't quite touch the ground. They floated, suspended a few centimeters above the dirt, spinning slowly, lazily, like they were bored, like they were waiting for something interesting to happen. They glowed faintly, a sickly purple-blue that reminded me of bruises, of things that were alive but shouldn't be.

The body of the thing was angular, sharp, all hard edges and aggressive lines, like someone had designed it with the philosophy that if it looked dangerous, people would take it seriously. There were protrusions, bits sticking out that served no obvious purpose, maybe structural, maybe decorative, maybe the remnants of failed experiments that had been welded on and never removed.

And yet.

And yet, despite all of that, despite looking like it was on the verge of catastrophic failure, there was something about it that suggested genius, that even I who didn’t know much about seals suggested someone who understood fuinjutsu on a level most people couldn't even imagine. The seal arrays weren't random, weren't haphazard. They were deliberate, intentional, layered in ways that suggested redundancy, fail-safes, backup systems for the backup systems.

It was a marvel of engineering.

It was also a nightmare I had to step in.

It was the kind of thing that made you wonder if the creator was brilliant or insane, and then realize the answer was probably both.

"Well," I said, staring at it, feeling my resolve crumble under the weight of inevitability. "If I die, I die."

I stepped forward, reached for the door, pulled it open, and entered.

My eyes widened.

The inside looked bigger than the outside.

Not slightly bigger, not "oh, they used the space efficiently."

Bigger.

Much bigger.

The inside was a living room, a full, proper living room, with couches, big comfortable-looking couches that could seat half a dozen people, with space to move, space to breathe, space that should not exist given the size of the exterior.

The walls were paneled, dark wood, polished, expensive-looking. There were lights, soft ambient lights that gave the space a warm glow. There was a table, low and wide, positioned between the couches. There were shelves, built into the walls, holding scrolls and books and what looked like decorative objects.

It was bigger on the inside.

Like a TARDIS.

Like someone had looked at the laws of physics and said "no thank you" before doing their own thing.

Shusei entered behind me, closing the door with a soft click, and immediately launched himself onto one of the couches, sprawling across it like he owned the place, which, to be fair, he probably did.

He turned, grinning at me, his expression smug and delighted and entirely too pleased with himself.

"Impressive, no?"

I stared.

"Seals already make it possible to put things that have no right being able to fit into little scrolls and the like," he continued, gesturing expansively, "so I kinda went from there and tried to use this concept differently and boom, here we are."

He sat up slightly, still grinning.

"I keyed it before entering to Yoru's chakra, which means we should be able to travel without holding the other back due to a lack of speed. She'll pull us along, and we can sit here in comfort while she does the work."

I sat down on a chair opposite him, slowly, carefully, still processing.

Then I looked at him, really looked at him, and said:

"I was already suspicious of it before, but now, I am sure. You are more than an average Uzumaki civilian, aren't you?"

Shusei's grin widened, sharp and knowing.

"The same way I am sure that you are different from the average Uchiha."

I kept my face neutral, blank, giving him nothing.

"What makes you think that?"

He leaned back, casual, relaxed.

"Just a feeling. And I am pretty confident when it comes to feelings."

I lifted an eyebrow, letting skepticism drip into my expression.

"Really?" I said, my tone making it clear I didn't believe him, not even a little.

Shusei laughed, bright and unbothered.

"If you think this is special, you would find Uzushio either wonderful or horrifying. You should visit one day."

"Pass," I said immediately.

He blinked.

"Pass?"

"Yes," I said, nodding. "I don't want to see horrors beyond comprehension before twenty, and something tells me I would if I go to that island."

"Something?" he echoed, curious.

"Indeed," I said, allowing a small smile. "And this something is a feeling."

Shusei stared at me for a beat, then his eyes narrowed.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?"

My lips curved slightly, and I deployed the traditional inherited smug Uchiha response:

"Hmm."

His mouth fell open slightly, mock outrage filling his features.

"Stop messing with me!"

I looked him in the eye, completely serious, and answered with another:

"Hmm."

Shusei deflated dramatically, burying his head into the couch cushions and screaming into them, muffled and theatrical. After a moment, he pulled back, hair slightly disheveled, looking both annoyed and amused.

He sighed, then his expression shifted, becoming more serious.

"More seriously though, when I asked for protection through a C-rank, a part of me feared that the protection would be not interesting at best and inconvenient at worst."

I frowned.

"Inconvenient?"

He shrugged.

"I am Uzumaki, for the best and the worst. Let's just leave it at that."

I let that sit for a moment, then shifted gears.

"So, I know we're supposed to protect you until whatever you're doing in the Land of Rain is finished, but I wasn't told more than that."

Shusei took the change of conversation with a smile, visibly relaxing.

"It's mostly that. Tell me, Ren, did you know that most of the seals in the ninja world originate from us?"

I blinked.

"Originate from you?"

I frowned.

"Originating from the Uzumaki clan?"

"Yep," Shusei said, his smile bright, proud. "This is why we are filthy rich."

I processed that, then said slowly:

"I thought the Uzumaki clan was the sister clan to the Senju, the same way the Fuma is with the Uchiha clan. I thought Uzushio was allied with Konoha."

In other words, how would Konoha allow what could be seen as an outpost, an extension of itself, trade with its enemies?

Why would Konoha allow shinobi from Kumo, Iwa, Mizu, Suna to have access to what could be life-changing resources, what were essentially weapons of mass destruction?

It didn't make sense.

It was like handing nuclear codes to people who wanted to hurl nukes at you.

Shusei nodded, understanding the unspoken question.

"We're allied to Konoha. Let's just say that there was an agreement signed in place with Konoha, so you don't have to worry about being surrounded by traitors."

He leaned forward, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful, more serious.

"We sell to those Konoha considers its enemies for two main reasons. Can you guess why?"

I thought about it, running through the logic.

If the Uzumaki clan was the source of most seals used in the shinobi world, if they were the ones selling them, then the most obvious answer was—

"You do it for the money."

Shusei snapped his fingers, pointing at me.

"Bingo. For the money, because who does not like gold? I cannot say we all agree with the way our creations may have been used, but better weep on gold than as a beggar in the street."

He paused, his expression becoming more calculating.

"Still, it is not the second yet most important factor."

He leaned back again, watching me.

"Tell me, how many ninja do you think Iwa has on average?"

I pulled from my memories, from canon knowledge, from what I knew of the world post-First Great Ninja War.

"Probably around ten thousand active shinobi, maybe twelve thousand if you count reserves and trainees."

Shusei nodded.

"What about Kumo?"

"Similar numbers, maybe slightly higher. Twelve to fifteen thousand, depending on how you count."

"And Mizu?"

"Harder to estimate because they're more isolated, but probably eight to ten thousand combat-ready shinobi."

Shusei spread his hands.

"You see, my friend, ninja villages, great ninja villages, have something hard to win against. They have numbers."

His tone became more serious, more pointed.

"What's the point of having a shinobi able to destroy three cities at the same time when they have five shinobi each capable of destroying one city?"

He let that sink in.

"A mature Uzumaki with a basic mastery of seals, with our inherent chakra reserves, our strong bodies, our ability to summon chakra chains, heal others by giving them our yang by letting them bite us, it makes all of us grown monsters in our own right. And that may have been enough in the warring clan period. It may be enough to deal with minor villages like Takigakure or minor kingdoms."

His expression darkened slightly.

"But we still are one clan with a few vassals. We lack quantity. And quantity, when nurtured like it is in a great ninja village, can become quality."

He paused, letting me absorb that.

"There are hundreds of us. But there are dozens of thousands of them."

The weight of that statement hung in the air.

"Which gave us two choices."

He lifted one finger.

"One, we leave our ancestral ground, where we had buried our family since generations, our home, and join Konoha. Doing so would have meant sooner or later being absorbed into the Senju clan. And while we love them, there is a reason why our two clans split eons ago."

He lifted a second finger.

"Two, we could do the only thing that could ensure our survival, our independence. And that thing is make the world need us, for the best and the worst. And it is thus a good thing that we had something unique to us, that the world had always lusted for, that we could automate the production of the lesser among it so that it may not come back to bite us."

He looked at me, his eyes sharp, assessing.

"Can you guess?"

My eyes widened as the pieces clicked together, as the logic became clear, as the strategy revealed itself.

"Seals," I said slowly. "You're talking about Fūinjutsu.”

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Failed roll:  Sorcerer's Sutra Scroll [300 - Touhou

Project: Parasol Paradise] A limitless magical scroll that can accommodate as many spells as the user wishes to inscribe upon it. This scroll can automatically recite chants or undergo rituals in place of the user, and being a magical item, will not function for anybody except for its rightful owner.

200CP remaining