Profit and Consequence
Once you get used to it, you can't stop.
In this world strength mattered, yes — but supplies and money mattered just as much. Information was life. A whispered warning, a secret route, a piece of fertilizer for your luck could mean the difference between surviving and becoming a name on a memorial tablet.
Uchiha Jin didn't lecture anyone about morality. There's no hiding a piece of inner armor; people will piece things together. Let them think what they want.
Of the three teammates, Nara Kazama surprised him most. The Nara had no bottom line — pragmatic, cold, efficient. It was a different face than the idealized "Will of Fire" people talked about in stories. In reality, families were like old capitalist houses: polish on the outside, ruthless calculus inside. That wasn't a scandal, that was simply how power worked.
Uchiha clansmen? Maybe they were born arrogant for a reason — the blood of Indra didn't breed greed for petty schemes. But clans that survived did not rely on honor alone. Konoha's founding changed the order: families had to scheme or die. The Uchiha hadn't quite adapted politically, which was why the clan's internal fractures were so dangerous.
Jin smiled to himself. "My lord, times have changed."
He took a breath and laid out the plan. "Split the detonating tags evenly. You keep the herbs. Your Nara seal can handle moving the carts quietly. If we share cash later, we'll do it when the war is over."
Kazama's smile was approving. He took a fresh scroll, rolled half the detonating tags inside, and tossed it to Jin. Jin didn't bother to check — he trusted Kazama. A Nara who moves like this isn't going to cheat an Uchiha over petty cash.
A few minutes later Kudo Nobuyuki woke. Jin and Kazama stepped back into the wagon as if nothing had happened.
"Captain, we're sorry," Kazama began, measured and composed. "We repelled the Kirigakure at the border, but our chakra was low. Between the three of us we managed to kill only three enemies. As for the supplies — we saved one wagon. The others were taken."
He unfolded the story like a practiced performer: civilians dead, Kirigakure bodies sealed in a scroll, Ishikawa Itsuki's rashness to blame for the debacle. He painted himself and Jin as having acted to save the team after Itsuki went mad. It was short, plausible, and simple — everything a commander wanted to hear in wartime.
People nodded. Praise swelled for the two who'd "saved the convoy," and the blame fell squarely onto Itsuki's head.
Kudo exploded. "That Ishikawa — what a loser! Our mission was to escort supplies, not go looking for glory. I'll report this to Lord Miyamoto when we reach the front camp."
Kudo believed it: Itsuki wasn't dead, and once he woke up Kudo intended to hand him over for interrogation. In the commander's mind, the narrative was sealed — someone had to be punished, and there were few who would stick their necks out for a commoner.
Jin and Kazama shared a look. The village cared about outcomes, not motivations. Someone had to take responsibility for the lost wagons. With a scapegoat in the infirmary and plausible wounds to point at, their own hides were safe. The dark truth — that Nara Kazama had quietly lifted two carts' worth of goods — would be hidden under an official version that looked tidy and patriotic.
Jin was not ashamed. The value of what Kazama had pocketed staggered him — a cart of medicinal herbs and a cart of detonating talismans, worth perhaps thirty million ryō. War redistributed wealth with brutal speed. People did not often speak of the profit motive with honor, but it drove more battles than ideology.
He let himself smile. "Good work," he said.
Kazama's grin was thin and efficient. "Take care of the scrolls. I'll handle the logistics. We'll split the rest later."
They moved fast. Jin sealed the Kirigakure bodies into the scrolls while Kazama prepared the wagons. Everything was done with the quiet professionalism of people who had already made peace with moral compromise.
When they rejoined Kudo, he was already rehearsing the tale he would tell his superiors, and the story stuck: Itsuki's arrogance, a desperate rescue, one wagon saved. The village would sleep easier with a tidy enemy to blame and a heroic line to repeat at camp.
It was the way of war. Results mattered more than reasons. People would die; others would profit. The survivors told the tales and kept the spoils.
Jin felt the truth of it settle into his bones. Wars were terrible theaters, and men like Kazama were the best kind of survivors — cold, clever, and utterly practical.