"Takigakure possesses the capability to forge this type of steel," Ruri stated, producing a piece of the Refined Steel and turning it over in his hands before Munetatsu. "Such perfect steel... it seems it can only truly reach its potential in the hands of the Sanjō clan."
"This... this is..." A craftsman's instinct immediately alerted Munetatsu to the exceptional quality of the material. His eyes darted instinctively to the Mikazuki Munechika lying near Ruri; he had only ever encountered metal of this caliber in the blade of that legendary sword itself.
From the samurai era to the present day, only three hereditary named swords existed. This wasn't due to a decline in technique; over countless generations, the Sanjō clan had not only preserved their ancestral methods but had also innovated and perfected their craft. Their inability to forge a new named sword stemmed partly from a critical lack of suitable raw materials.
Now, a material capable of birthing such a masterpiece lay before him. How could his heart not stir? Every true artisan dreams of surpassing their forebears. With this chance held literally in Ruri's hand, how could Munetatsu not grasp for it?
The Sanjō were samurai, yes, but they were craftsmen first and foremost. "If we could have five pieces... no, even four! Or fewer!" Munetatsu said urgently. "If this steel can be entrusted to the Sanjō clan for our unrestricted use, then I agree to your three conditions, Lord Takikage!"
"Naturally, there is more of this Refined Steel where that came from," Ruri replied offhandedly. "It's forged by the Kōmae clan, and they are the sole source. Production is steady, yielding roughly two or three such pieces per year." In truth, this was the only piece currently in existence, but he was confident in Kōmae Tadashi's rapidly improving skills.
"It can be produced... continuously?!" Munetatsu blurted out, stunned. He had assumed this was some rare find, a relic from a lost age. The concept of mass-producing such a pinnacle material was staggering.
"Indeed. For every day the Sanjō clan resides in Takigakure, you will have access to the Refined Steel. We can also supply you with lesser grades of steel without limit."
Ruri realized he had underestimated the powerful draw this material held for a master smith. If that upstart Seimei hadn't already wiped out the Hojo and Mike clans, he might have been able to lure all three great families to his village with this single offering.
"Then I implore you, Lord Takikage, eliminate Seimei with all haste, so that I may begin relocating my clan to your village at once!" Munetatsu rose and bowed deeply.
"Very well. Settle in the village. I will introduce you to the master of the Refined Steel forge. You may begin your studies with this sample." Ruri's decision was final. He needed to put his village affairs in order and depart quickly. The original timeline mentioned the Craftsmen's Hidden Village but not its great families, implying the Hojo, Mike, and Sanjō were all erased. If he delayed, the Sanjō clan might share their fate.
---
Three days later, Ruri stood at a port on the border of the Land of Fire. The Land of Craftsmen lay on a distant island, accessible only by sea.
To maintain secrecy and avoid provoking a diplomatic incident between the Land of Takī and the Land of Craftsmen, Ruri had taken extensive precautions. He used a Transformation Technique to alter his features, donned a voluminous, hooded robe, and concealed his face behind a mask. With the hood drawn up, he was little more than a walking set of clothes.
His disguised appearance drew little attention. In this era of burgeoning shinobi villages, rogue ninjas were common, and many preferred to keep their identities hidden.
Ruri entered the port's sole public restroom.
This unassuming facility served as the entrance to the underground exchange he had founded, a detail he had replicated from the original timeline's lore.
The exchange had thrived during the Warring States period. While the rise of official villages had siphoned off much of its business, it remained the premier venue for illicit dealings.
Moving with practiced ease, Ruri descended into the hidden complex below. A single receptionist manned the front desk.
"The mission ledger," Ruri demanded, his voice a low rumble distorted by the mask.
The receptionist, utterly unfazed, slid a worn, unassuming booklet across the counter. The exchange asked no questions of its clients, who were often missing-nin, rogues, criminals, or worse—individuals for whom exposure meant death.
Ruri began scanning the entries, searching for a suitable assignment.
His goal wasn't payment, but plausible cover. He needed a mission that would facilitate his entry into the Land of Craftsmen. The exchange dealt in more than just assassinations; it also handled tasks like escorting "acquired" valuables. While regular merchant caravans at the port also hired guards, they were too visible, too likely to leave a paper trail.
As he perused the log, another figure descended into the chamber—a formidable-looking middle-aged man with an eyepatch and a long sword strapped to his back. He exuded competence.
"This is the task. I need a full team assembled by dawn tomorrow," the one-eyed man stated flatly, tossing a scroll to the receptionist.
The receptionist unrolled it, and his face tightened with concern. "This is..."
"Consider this a down payment," the man said after a brief pause, producing a small cloth pouch and handing it over.
The receptionist peeked inside, swiftly closed the pouch, and stowed it away with careful movements. "Understood. We will have the personnel you require by morning."
Without another word, the one-eyed man turned and left.
Ruri's curiosity was piqued. The receptionist's reaction hinted at a mission far from ordinary.
"It's a high-stakes operation," the receptionist volunteered, his perception sharp enough to sense Ruri's interest even through the disguise. "Destination is the newly formed Craftsmen's Hidden Village. Requires a minimum skill level equivalent to a Chūnin."
Chūnin-level? And from the client's demeanor, it required a team. That suggested a B-rank mission, at least.
Ruri remained silent but gestured subtly to the sword at his hip.
"A samurai?" The receptionist sounded genuinely surprised. Rogue samurai were a rarity; most who held to the Bushido code scorned places like this. He saw maybe one a year.
"An upper-tier swordsman," Ruri's low voice carried an undeniable weight of authority. Samurai ranks loosely mirrored shinobi tiers—lower, middle, upper, with the supreme rank of Great General being analogous to a Kage, a title the Land of Iron had not legitimately bestowed in decades.
"My apologies, but the client for this particular mission requires verified credentials. Without a prior completion record in our books, I cannot assign it to you."
While the exchange typically operated on a caveat emptor basis, high-value clients could impose stricter requirements. Sending an unproven amateur on such a job risked catastrophic failure and immense reputational damage.
'Since when did they start imposing rules like this?' Ruri mused privately. He had created this network, and now its evolving bureaucracy was leaving him behind. Power truly did drift from its source.
Wordlessly, Ruri retrieved a small, well-worn booklet from his robes and placed it on the counter.
The receptionist opened it, his eyes scanning a few pages. A sharp, involuntary intake of breath escaped him. He closed the booklet carefully and handed it back with newfound deference. "My apologies for the inconvenience. Here are the client's contact details. You may proceed directly."
Taking back the booklet and the information, Ruri departed. His preemptive visit to Kakuzu had paid off; 'borrowing' his old associate's extensive mission record from the exchange's archives had provided the perfect cover. Some things never changed in the underworld—a proven track record was the ultimate currency.