Chapter 3: A Silent Business Deal
The thought of having subordinates do the grisly work of gathering "energy" for him sparked a flicker of grim satisfaction in Shuichi's chest. For the first time in a decade, this cursed existence offered a sliver of tangible hope, a twisted path forward. His years as a chef in this world, it seemed, would not be entirely wasted.
As he moved through the quiet backstreets, he reviewed the information on his target.
Taro Fukawa. Male. Thirty-three years old—practically middle-aged in this world where children fought wars. No wife, no children, living with an aging father he depended upon. Fukawa himself had no legitimate trade. In essence, he was a parasite, a street thug who leeched off his family and caused trouble for others. No wonder he was still single at thirty-three. The money for his drinking binges undoubtedly came from his father's meager earnings.
Soon, Shuichi stood in the shadows across from a modest two-story house. A light glowed in the downstairs window. Someone was home.
A cold anger tightened in his gut. My home and my life's work were turned to rubble by the Nine-Tails. But this leech's house stands untouched. What kind of justice is that?
He pushed the bitterness down, focusing. Two figures were silhouetted against the lit doorway. One was unmistakably the bulky, slouching form of Taro Fukawa. The other was a sharp-faced man Shuichi didn't recognize, whose features alone screamed 'trouble.'
Seeing them deep in conversation, oblivious to the night around them, Shuichi melted into a deeper patch of shadow closer to the house, his enhanced senses straining to catch their words.
"...in a few days, that one-armed brat's shop reopens. You know what to do. And the place on the next street with the new noodle dish—business is too good. Needs adjusting." The sharp-faced man's voice was a low, unpleasant rasp.
"That kid's got one arm. Can't even cook anymore, can he?" Fukawa replied, picking at his ear with a little finger, his tone dismissive.
"He's got two apprentices, doesn't he? Find fault. Ruin the reputation. Make sure no one wants to eat there." The man gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Once our family's business picks up, your cut will be more than fair."
"You business types are such a headache. If his foreign food is so popular, why don't you just learn to make it?" Fukawa sounded oddly disengaged.
The sharp-faced man's expression hardened. "Fukawa, what's with you today? You were eager enough for the work when I first came to you. Found a real job or something?" He couldn't mask his disbelief. The idea of Taro Fukawa holding down legitimate work was laughable.
Fukawa didn't answer directly. A slow, crafty smile spread across his face. "The village is rebuilding. Hiring lots of labor. A man can earn an honest wage hauling bricks."
"Go do your honest work, then," the man sneered. "Your old man will curse you for sure when he finds out. But I need a drink."
"You'll get your work done. But the price just went up. Take it or leave it. I've got bricks to move."
The two men stared at each other for a tense moment. The village's reconstruction was sucking up all the unskilled labor. Finding another willing thug wouldn't be as easy. "Fine," the man spat. "But only a little more."
Shuichi watched as Fukawa gave a grunting, non-committal "heh" and turned, shuffling into his house without another word, leaving the agitated man fuming on the doorstep.
"Fukawa, don't get too cocky!" the man hissed at the closed door. "Once the rebuilding's done, you think chances like this will just fall into your lap?"
So, Shuichi thought from the shadows. He's not just a mindless brute. A small-time opportunist, but an opportunist nonetheless. Annoying, but predictable.
He heard the click of the interior lock. The sharp-faced man cursed under his breath and stalked off into the night. The stage was set.
Shuichi moved with a silence that belonged to the shadows themselves. He scaled the side of the small house with ease, finding an unlocked window on the dark second floor. He perched on the sill, peering into a sparse bedroom: a single bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe. Empty.
As he'd guessed, the second floor likely held only this bedroom and perhaps a small washroom. The living areas were downstairs.
Below, he heard the clink of glass and a heavy sigh. Taro Fukawa was home. The man had gone straight to the refrigerator, retrieved a bottle of beer, and collapsed onto a worn sofa. The sound of a cap popping off, then a long, deep guzzle.
"Heh. Thinks he can lowball me and still get the job done. I'd have to be an idiot." Fukawa's voice, muffled by the floor, carried a note of smug contempt. "Do his dirty work right after a grand reopening? I'd be the first one the Uchiha cops haul in. Who'd hire me then?"
He took another swig. "This whole mess with the Fox… it's an opportunity. So many people dead, jobs opening up everywhere. If I play my cards right now, keep my nose sorta clean, maybe I can land something real. Steady. Why would I sink with his rotten ship?"
A grumble. "Old man's late again tonight. Wandering off who knows where. Only reason I listen to him at all is 'cause he's still got an income. Otherwise, what's a washed-up old geezer gonna do?"
Crash.
A sound from upstairs—something small hitting the floor.
"Damn it, scared me." Fukawa's complaint was followed by the thud of the beer bottle on the table. Heavy footsteps approached the stairs.
Shuichi melted back from the window, becoming one with the darkness inside the room.
Fukawa reached the second-floor landing. The darkness felt thicker than usual, pressing in on him. A prickling unease made him hurry to flip the hallway light switch.
"Sound came from the bedroom…" he muttered to himself, pushing the door open.
The room was as he left it, save for one detail: his alarm clock lay on the floor by the bed.
"What the hell? How'd you fall?" The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Not a burglar, then. Still strange, but he stepped into the room to retrieve the clock.
THUD.
The sound came from behind him this time. The sliver of light from the hallway vanished as the bedroom door swung shut, plunging the room into absolute blackness.
Fukawa whirled around. A figure stood silhouetted against the darker black of the door, featureless in the absence of light. The light switch was right next to it, utterly out of reach.
"Taro Fukawa." The voice was a stranger's, male, calm, and utterly cold.
Fukawa's mind, fogged by beer and surprise, stumbled. He opened his mouth to yell—
But the figure was already upon him. The last thing he saw clearly were a pair of eyes glowing in the dark like bloody jewels.
Shuichi's hand shot out, clamping onto Fukawa's fleshy shoulder. The palm split open, the maw within latching onto the man's neck with a wet, voracious sound. It wasn't feeding in earnest—Shuichi had no intention of consuming this man fully. The very idea was repulsive. This was a test, an initiation, and a disposal.
Before a scream could form, Shuichi whipped his arm sideways, slamming Fukawa's head into the solid wall beside them.
CRUNCH.
A good, solid hit.
Fukawa's body went limp, the impending cry cut off as consciousness fled. He slid down the wall, leaving a dark, damp smear.
Shuichi withdrew his hand, the mouth sealing shut. He looked at the unconscious, bleeding man with profound distaste.
"Disgusting," he murmured, wiping his pristine palm on his own pants. "All fat. Tastes like cheap beer and regret."
He had taken only a few bites, a sampling of the "flesh and blood energy." It was enough. Fukawa wasn't dead yet, but with the head trauma and blood loss, he wouldn't be far from it. He would bleed out here in his own dark bedroom, a fitting end for a small, cruel life.
Shuichi felt a faint, cold trickle of power settle in his core—the 80% share from his minor feast. It was meager, unsatisfying, but it was a start. A proof of concept.
He listened for a moment. The house was silent. The old father wasn't home yet. He looked once more at the crumpled form of Taro Fukawa, then turned, opened the window, and slipped back out into the welcoming embrace of the Konoha night.
One problem had been removed. A tiny fraction of power had been gained. And the path of the Demon King, of the Twelve Kizuki, had claimed its first, insignificant tribute within the village walls.
(End of Chapter)
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