--Momosuke's pov----
The Street of Seals never stopped moving. Nobles swept through in waves, smug and wrapped in their gaudy robes, commissioning everything from heated bedding to barrier formations for their sprawling estates. Shinobi haggled loudly, ordering bulk supplies of exploding tags for their clans.
"No way! No less than one million ryō for an order of that size."
Of course, I never understood their insane prices. That kind of negotiation only ever made sense to Kirito-nii or Hiro.
Three months. Three miserable months since we arrived in this so-called 'safe' place.
Three months since I started sweeping the streets, pushing leaves and dust out of the way, only for the wind—or worse—someone like Taro to undo my work. Three months since Karui ended up serving tea and scrubbing scrolls for Hima-sama, a sealmaster too busy to even remember Karui's name half the time. Three months since little Hiro, a 7 year old got stuck cleaning sewers, coming back each night caked in filth.
Three months since...
I let my thoughts fester until they boiled over. My fists clenching in a way similar to big brother Kirito. That's when I saw him—Uzumaki Taro, strutting down the street like he owned the place. He didn't even try to be subtle this time. With deliberate steps, he stomped straight through the leaves I'd just piled, scattering them back across the street.
"Oops," one of his friends muttered with a mock gasp.
"Don't worry," Taro drawled, not even turning around. "We have hired hands to clean it up."
He glanced at me, smirking like he'd just told the funniest joke in the world.
It was pathetic. Childish. At first, his nonsense got to me—the taunts, the messes, the smugness. But even Karui, who usually snapped back like a firecracker, had learned to ignore him. When he yanked her hair one morning, she'd barely flinched.
"He's just a brat," she'd muttered later. "He doesn't know better."
Maybe that was true. Maybe these Uzumaki had lived such safe, sheltered lives that they never learned the difference between playing stupid games and real consequences. None of them had seen their home burn. None of them knew what it was like to hear your family screaming—and know you couldn't stop it.
I understood Taro better when I found out about his sister—a Senju wife, just like Mito Uzumaki. And of course, the whole Street of Seals knew what the Senju, Kaguya, and Hagoromo clans had done to our people. How they'd slaughtered us under orders from the Grass Daimyō.
At first, I didn't understand why Kirito-nii dragged us here—why we had to train, fight, and bleed under Jizen's brutal routines. I still remember that first week, when Kirito-nii knocked me flat for the fifth time in a row, snarling about my stance. Jizen had been worse, giving me a skin deep cut on my arm just to teach me proper reflexes. Never leaving a mark but he definitely ensured that they were painful.
I couldn't do anything in response to that old man, Jizen.
But that's when I realized: I was too weak to do anything. That we were weak. Too weak to avenge our families, too weak to survive without bending our heads. Kirito-nii knew that—and that's why we needed this place. For now.
Each of us had a jutsu now. Something that matched our chakra nature. Kirito-nii had traded those techniques with some of the shinobi that visited the street of seals while using the Water-style jutsu from our clan's archives—the last scraps of knowledge we'd carried from our ruined clan.
I spotted him then, in his usual place—kneeling in front of that decrepit old shop in the corner of the street. The rotting wood barely held the building upright, and the faint flicker of a dying lantern above the door made the place look haunted. That was where Kirito-nii waited every day.
I knew what he wanted. The Sealmaster specialized in something rare—pure sealing. A discipline that made Kirito-nii resort to this. Though, I didn't understand the specifics, I knew that it was rare and had no money to earn from practicing it.
Really, In my time here, I didn't see a single visitor to the old shop.
The biggest thing it boasted was some noble from Toka, land of Hot water, coming there for a commission.
But still, Kirito-nii knelt there. Morning to dusk, rain or shine, never speaking a word. Just waiting.
The others didn't understand why he endured it. But I did.
The first few days, people stared when Kirito-nii knelt there. Whispering, pointing, laughing. They couldn't believe it.
Taro, ever the brat, took it further. He tossed colors at him, smeared eggs across his back, and once even lobbed a tomato so perfectly it splattered across Kirito-nii's hair like blood. But Kirito-nii never flinched, never broke his stance. No—he did something worse. He bought the colours off Taro while still stained like a walking rainbow, paying ten times what they were worth.
Taro never tried it again. None of them did. For all their talk of pride and strength, Uzumaki weren't prepared to deal with someone who smiled through humiliation.
I was sure that this freaked out Taro and his buddies. Their naïve outlook that did not understand the thing that differentiated true shinobi from mere chakra users. Hardened resolve.
It was something only those who entered the battlefield and survived could have. Kirito-nii didn't just survive, he blossomed like a flower in sunshine. Shining brightly with his strength. With it came a resolve that allowed him to persist in this humiliating task.
Kirito-nii just kept kneeling there, playing with water balloons like a child. Each day, he used those dyes—the very ones Taro had thrown on him and ended up selling—to paint beautiful images across thin paper fans. Faces, landscapes, seals woven in elaborate designs. Each day, he sold those paintings to passing merchants and travelers. And each day, he gave his earnings to the beggars on the streets.
The beggars came in droves. Ragged, dirty faces filled the corners of the street, hands outstretched for whatever Kirito-nii had earned that day. It got so bad that Uzumaki enforcers were called in.
They didn't stop him. They didn't even try. Because by then, the truth was out.
Kirito-nii wasn't just a painter. He was a medic-nin—a rare one. And a good one. His loud, proud proclamations that he could heal anyone had proven true. He patched up beggars, treated nobles with their sickly children, and even helped the shinobi wrapped head-to-toe in bandages. Especially after the accidental explosion in which the true extent of his skill became known.
He earned a fortune for his medic skills, but he never kept much for himself. The money from paintings went for the beggars. But, the money from healing went to foster us.
Half of that money went to Karui, who passed it to Hima-sama, her Seal Master teacher, for lessons. Lessons that she repeated at home each night, scribbling ink across paper. The only useful thing I found was the exercise in which she needed to mix chakra with ink in certain proportions. I guess it helped in Chakra control. According to her, it will continue for 2 years.
Kirito-nii called it vital training. I called it pointless. But Kirito-nii ordered Karui to display them to others while she practiced. It was easy to guess that he wanted the rest of us to take up the 'training' too.
I gave up because I couldn't understand the exercise. While Hiro, despite his interest, gave up when he recognised his lack of talent. Though, I found that rest of the kids like Ichi, Kyu, Jin, Ren persisted.
I would have done the same if it wasn't for the Medic ninjutsu that Kirito-nii tasked me with each day. As of this moment, he believed that I was completely proficient in basic first aid and theoretical knowledge. He planned to start me up on practical side of things and be the end of out stay here, he expected me to become a competent Medic nin.
I couldn't wait see that day. The day where I would leave this place and also skilled enough to be considered a competent shinobi.
"Please give me some ryo. Please fill this old man's stomach."
I tossed the few coins I had into the beggar's bowl. But that made the rest of beggars scramble towards me for the alms. As if they were animals smelling blood. As if they were-
A slap to my face reminded me that these were just beggars. Not the animals that destroyed my home.
The other half of the money was handed that to Hiro. And Hiro, for some Kami-forsaken reason, had taken up trading like some merchant fresh off the docks. He bargained, he haggled, and he spent everything with no sign of profit. Kirito-nii didn't even seem mad about it.
Today was different, though.
Not because of the usual noise or the beggars, but because that cursed door finally opened.
Out stepped an old man. His hair was stark white—not from age alone, but the rare kind. The kind that marked either incredible power or ridiculous luck in this cruel world where most died before their hair even turned gray.
He was dressed in simple robes, distinctly Uzumaki. Yet there was something different about him—a presence that seemed to draw attention without effort.
"So," the old man spoke, voice thin yet sharp. "You want to learn my discipline?"
Kirito-nii, still kneeling, lifted his head from the painting he was drawing. "Yes."
The old man's gaze swept over the street. At some point, I realized everyone had gone quiet—even the Uzumaki themselves. The nobles in front of Kirito-nii parted to allow his vsion to land on Kirito-nii.
It was at this moment that I understood why he commanded attention. He felt like Jizen. A true shinobi who experienced the cruel world.
"You know the rules," the old man continued. "You must pay the price for my teaching."
Kirito-nii's eyes didn't waver. "Name it."
I knew that the Uzumaki will rip him off. The same way they always did, due to their 'monopoly' of Fuinjutsu. A concept that I understood from the sheer number of grievances I held due to their monopoly.
The old man shrugged. "Three ninjutsu. Ones not found in the Uzumaki archives. Your medical techniques. And... a new, advanced fūinjutsu of my discipline—one built from the knowledge I'll teach you."
My breath hitched.
This... this wasn't normal. The Uzumaki Seal Masters were notorious for squeezing everything they could from desperate foreigners. But never anything like this. Asking for an improved seal? Sure. Demanding three entire jutsu and a new sealing technique? It was practically robbery. Things like that were considered the heritage of a shinobi clan.
I turned to Kirito-nii, expecting him to refuse. His face had gone dark—colder than I'd seen since he woke up from his coma. But, I recognised the look. The same look I saw in the eyes of every survivor of our clan. That bitter, crushing helplessness.
His fists clenched. Blood dripped from his fingers where his nails dug too deep into his palms. And yet, when he spoke, his voice was steady.
"I accept."
-------Kirito's pov---------
I entered the old shop, its dim lighting casting shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of ink and stale parchment. There was no furniture, no decorations—only a writing desk, ink pots, and brushes neatly laid out. The old man sat in the corner, as indifferent as ever.
For three months, I'd tried everything to learn his name—bribes, favors, even healing nobles for information. Nothing. He remained a mystery, and yet here I was, chasing after the knowledge he guarded.
Without a word, the old man reached for a brush and drew a character. The symbol for "fire," its elegant strokes weaving together to form a familiar fuinjutsu pattern. An exploding tag.
"Each stroke must be precise," the old man muttered. "The right amount of ink, the right pressure." He leaned back. "Practice until you can draw it exactly."
I stared blankly at the desk. After everything I'd endured, this was what he wanted?
"You may as well write your medical jutsu as practice for calligraphy," the old man added casually.
I snorted. "There's no need for that."
Grabbing the brush, I started. The pattern came easily—every curve, every stroke mimicked the one he'd drawn. The old man didn't react; he had seen my paintings in the streets for months. He expected this much. What he didn't expect was what came next.
[Increase ink output by 3%. Push chakra at 0.45% capacity.]
My AI chimed in, and I adjusted the brush to ensure that more ink was soaked.
[Widen brush angle by 5 degrees.]
I obeyed without hesitation.
[Pressure increased on downward stroke by 2%. Balance chakra infusion across pattern. Reduce flare by 7%.]
The ink darkened slightly as I channelled chakra through the brush. Each stroke shifted, merging better with the next. Lines that once stood apart now intertwined seamlessly, flowing as if drawn by a master artisan.
[Increase curve radius by 1.3%. Tighten final seal formation. Reduce excess ink bleed.]
Stroke after stroke, I refined the pattern until I knew it was perfect. Lifting the parchment, I pushed chakra into it and tossed the tag into the corner.
BOOM.
The explosion rocked the room, yet not a single wisp of smoke escaped the corner. The walls absorbed everything, sealing the blast away as if it had never happened.
[Pattern recognition 32% complete.
Difficulty: Extreme.]
I exhaled slowly, then turned to the old man.
"My calligraphy is flawless," I said. "My chakra control is as close to perfect as I can make it. I don't need these basics." I placed the brush down with purpose. "What I need is to understand why each stroke matters. Why this pattern, this formation, functions like a chakra pathway in ninjutsu signs. How does each mark add properties to chakra? How much chakra-infused ink do I need in each stroke? Most importantly, why does it all work that way? That's what I'm here for."
The old man didn't move. Forget about moving—he didn't even blink. He simply began explaining, his voice flat and steady, as if he were reciting a lesson that had been etched into his bones.
"The fuinjutsu patterns mimic chakra pathways," he said. "The reason they can do so lies in the ink—an ink discovered by my ancestor, the first fuinjutsu master. He experimented for years before finding the right composition, one that could mimic the chakra pathways inside the human body. With that ink, seals can act as extensions of your own chakra flow."
While I was taken aback by the sheer suddenness of the lesson, I had different things running in my mind.
I frowned as a doubt nagging at me. "Doesn't that mean each fuinjutsu could technically have a ninjutsu version? Or vice versa?"
The old man gave a rare nod. "Yes."
That answer rattled me more than I expected. The implications were huge.
"Then why hasn't anyone created more ninjutsu based on fuinjutsu concepts? Imagine a ninjutsu that can store objects like a storage scroll or one that can suppress chakra like a sealing tag."
The old man scoffed. "Are you willing to experiment to create such jutsu?"
I turned pale. Images of bodies twisted beyond recognition, explosions swallowing entire buildings, and chakra systems fried like burnt circuits flashed through my mind. The number of ways I could die in those experiments seemed endless.
Almost enough to make me feel like the rookie shinobi I had been on my first battlefield. Almost.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. The truth was clear as long as one put some time to think this through.
The base materials of ninjutsu and fuinjutsu were fundamentally different. One relied on the complex and unpredictable chakra pathways of a living body; the other depended on lifeless ink and paper. Sure, fuinjutsu allowed more room for experimentation—you could create effects far beyond the limits of the human body. But that also meant every step up the ladder required countless resources, time, and manpower.
As much as I could try for the rest of my life, even with my AI assisting me, discovering the true depths of fuinjutsu would take generations.
The world I came from had one powerful advantage: the sheer number of people pushing civilization forward. Thousands of minds constantly striving to improve, even if everyone only contributed a fraction to progress. It was that collective effort that let humans jump from written letters to video calls in a single lifetime.
This world lacked that. Shinobi clung to their secrets like lifelines, each clan hoarding their techniques, innovations stagnating behind walls of secrecy. Studying the sheer depth of fuinjutsu demanded something more—a united effort surpassing even the modern society.
That was why I was here. The Uzumaki was the closest to modern society in utilizing large amount of human efforts to advance their knowledge. Well, not all it. They focused the effort solely on Fuinjutsu. Hence, I had no choice but to get this knowledge from the Uzumaki. No matter how basic it may be, It was generations worth of effort.
Besides, my calligraphy and chakra control had been honed for this very art. Every brushstroke I practiced, every water balloon I played with on my palm, every moment spent controlling the ebb and flow of chakra—all of it had been in preparation for this journey to the Land of Whirlpools. Of course, In my initial plans, I had believed I would have the backing of my clan, the support of the Kyudo clan to carry me through this.
But fate had other plans.
I clenched my fists beneath the table, feeling my nails dig into my palms. This was the only path forward—for me, for the kids, for the memory of those who died. The same people whose graves and homes I pillaged for the wealth. Despite how steadyfast I might be, I felt even more guilty when I imagined the kids of these dead people who raised me, were being trained to be my subordinates. All for my ambition.
Sure, I gave a chance for them to return to civilian life, but the offer felt hollow, even to me. I knew when I was making the offer that they wouldn't accept, and I would have a dozen blank slates to mold into fine shinobi. All of whom with the will to get strong.
"Good," the old man said, his gaze sharp enough to cut stone and it helped to break my line of thoughts. "Then let me teach you what no scroll will ever tell you."
I forced my breath to steady. At last, the old man was willing to teach me the good stuff.
It seems my decision to come here was right.
I internally chanted my mantra one more time. Learn Fuinjutsu, become Jinchuriki and then exploit the AI to it's limits.
While my lifetime plan was currently crude, I planned to completely form the elaborate steps by the time my stay in the land of whirlpools ended.
For now, Step 1 of my life plan: Learn as much Fuinjutsu as possible.