Hi guys, drop those stones!!!
Chapter 88: Blacksmithing Old man
Back at the location of my main body, I stood amidst the quiet aftermath of my earlier skirmish. The Jonin I had eliminated had used only silent hand seals for communication.
I had already deciphered their sign language during my observation phase, so their coordination no longer posed a threat.
My concern wasn't whether they could communicate effectively. It was whether I could convincingly play the role of the man I had just replaced.
Once the group reassembled at the Shogun's mansion, I followed them inside. I had foolishly believed that my infiltration would be straightforward.
I was wrong.
I knew no genjutsu strong enough to alter minds or warp identities should someone press me, so I had relied solely on physical disguise, fuinjutsu, and chakra manipulation.
As we returned from patrol, the group—a team of ten Jonin-class shinobi assigned to the mansion's internal security—dispersed toward what looked like a resting barracks. One of them peeled off, no doubt to report the results of our patrol.
"Man, that was a tiring one," someone muttered as we entered the dim, wide barrack space.
"Especially since we're not allowed to use our main weapons," another added, flipping a kunai in his hand with absent frustration. "Using these like standard shinobi when our real strengths lie elsewhere? Ridiculous."
As the ten of us settled into the room, I could feel tension in the air thickening. It was subtle, but unmistakable.
They were suspicious of me. I hadn't spoken since returning, and my silence was drawing attention. I didn't know the speech patterns or personality of the Jonin I had impersonated.
Through Mine's Eye, I sensed how their alertness slowly built. I had done everything right: taken the man's body, skinned and sealed it over my own face using fuinjutsu, and maintained my chakra levels at an appropriate, suppressed Jonin-level threshold.
But even though I had considered his talking habits, there was nothing I could do about behavior that I didn't know.
"Hey man, you okay?" one of them finally asked, clearly probing.
I exhaled slowly. Just a breath.
The moment I did, the atmosphere shifted.
One of the shinobi moved to the trunk near his sleeping area, lifting a short sword with deliberate intent. The rest responded instinctively, muscle memory and reflexes taking over as they prepared for combat.
But I was already moving.
Before the short sword had even cleared its sheath, my hands blurred through a complex web of over twenty seals. Chakra surged outward, concentrated and sharp.
[Wood Style – Binding Bark Coffin.]
Instantly, the floor beneath all eight remaining Jonin split open. Vines and roots surged upward simultaneously, synchronized in both motion and lethality. Each tendril struck with predatory precision, wrapping tightly around necks, limbs, and torsos.
Their bodies stiffened. No time to react.
[Wood Style – Silent Canopy Execution.]
Like a triggered mechanism, sharpened wooden spikes drove into the base of each skull at once.
Eight kills.
The entire room fell into utter silence as every Jonin collapsed in unison, their bodies suspended in stillness by the executionary roots.
I stood in the center of the room, chakra slowly settling back into me. My breathing was steady, but the fatigue was beginning to catch up.
The bodies would need to be dealt with, the room sanitized, and evidence erased. But for now, the Shogun's mansion remained unaware.
I made more Shadow Clones and made them each take the spot of the others and begin communicating, while I myself moved into the mansion.
I knew I had to move quickly. It wouldn't take long for someone to notice the group's absence, even if I had meticulously erased all signs of the target eliminations.
Once again, the gaping hole in my plan was a lack of knowledge about their behavioral routines. If the group leader returned and noticed anything unusual—anything at all—I would be exposed.
At best, I had five to ten minutes before the alarm would be raised and the entire mansion turned its focus to hunting me down.
My chakra reserves were dangerously low. I had split my chakra ten ways—one clone was still in the Land of the Toads, and several others were stationed in the mansion, maintaining the illusion that the Jonin were still alive and operating as normal. I barely had enough energy to use one, maybe two more S-rank techniques.
Not that it would matter much if I was found. Even at full strength, I couldn't take on the combined force of Kage-level shinobi reportedly residing within the Shogun's residence.
That's why I didn't waste time. I needed to find the hidden prison—where the rumored blacksmith was being held—and vanish.
I activated the Second Inner Gate.
The First and Second Gates didn't emit aura, nor did they drastically affect my chakra signature. What they did was sharpen my reflexes and heighten my speed and awareness—passively. My mind accelerated, and my limbs responded like lightning.
With that boost, I moved rapidly through the mansion's eastern wing, my steps quiet, my senses attuned. As I neared the outer perimeter of the inner court, my Mind's Eye detected something.
Deep below the eastern wing.
Very deep.
What was it with people in power and burying their secrets underground?
Without hesitation, I placed a hand to the ground and used, [Earth Style – Tunneling Technique.] The earth softened, creating a narrow spiral tunnel that I dropped into.
I descended swiftly, the air growing denser and warmer with every meter. Eventually, the earth gave way to stone. I pressed forward until I breached an open chamber.
There were no guards.
Only one man.
He stood at the far end of a vast underground blacksmith forge, hammering away with singular focus. His legs were shackled together by thick iron restraints. He only had one hand—his right—and it was bound to a heavy blacksmith's hammer by an iron band bolted into the handle, as though the tool was now a permanent extension of his arm.
He was massive—easily seven feet tall—with a long, unkempt beard reaching to his chest and disheveled white hair cascading down to his back. His muscles were knotted with years of labor, and his skin was darkened with soot and scar tissue.
He hadn't turned to face me. But he spoke.
"Whoever is up there," he rasped, voice dry and hoarse, "I suggest you leave. If you're from the Akatsuki, I'm not interested in helping you."
The heat in the room was overwhelming. Even standing inside the earth just beyond the threshold, I had felt the searing waves emanating from the forge. Yet he stood there as if the inferno was a mild breeze.
I was stunned he had sensed me at all—but then again, I shouldn't have been. At his level, everyone had their own method of perception.
I stepped out from the tunnel and dropped into the chamber.
The room was enormous. Walls of blackened stone enclosed the forge. A glowing crucible in the center cast flickering orange light across the room. Racks of weapons lined the walls.
To my left: dozens of katanas. Each blade hummed faintly with refined chakra. Their edge alone suggested mastery—sleek, curved metal that seemed to breathe.
To the right: short swords, spears, rapiers, bows, even chakrams. Every weapon radiated lethality.
I had seen countless armories in the Land of Iron, but nothing like this. These were not standard-issue weapons. They were singular, refined, purposeful. Each one could maybe rival the swords of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist. Perhaps even exceed them.
It was no exaggeration to say: I had found the jackpot.
Weapons like these could change a battlefield. Maybe even a war.
And the man who made them?
He hadn't even looked up yet.
As the man continued hammering and I kept scanning the array of weapons in silent awe, his voice broke the heavy rhythm.
"I thought I told you not to come in," he said. "You must be pretty ballsy to enter this place. If you know it exists, then you know how much the Shogun values it."
At that, I couldn't help but ask, "If the Shogun values this place so much, why aren't there any guards nearby?"
He didn't seem particularly surprised by my observation. He just kept hammering, each strike of the metal like a thunderclap. My ears flinched with every blow.
"That's because he knows I wouldn't run away," he finally said.
"And why is that? Why wouldn't you?"
He offered no response, just kept hammering. The way he ignored the question suggested the answer was either painful or simply not up for discussion.
I moved closer to the walls, letting my gaze linger on the katanas arranged in precise rows. They were immaculate. Lethal. Art pieces disguised as weapons. But there were so many of them.
"Why are there so many?" I asked, not expecting an answer. "These aren't standard blades. Each of them is worthy of a Kage. Why are they being wasted here?"
I looked back at the old man. He was working on yet another katana. Of course he was.
"Another katana, huh," I murmured.
Without looking up, he answered flatly. "That's because they're all failed products."
"You're not bothered by the fact that I was able to reach this place?" I asked.
"You're not the first one, boy," he said, his tone unmoved. "And I'm sure you won't be the last. Many have come before you. Most of them are dead. A few—Akatsuki mostly—survived. The world must've changed a lot while I've been down here."
"How long have you been down here?" I asked.
"Maybe over fifty years. Give or take."
Fifty years? That was longer than most shinobi lived, let alone worked.
"If these are all failed products," I asked carefully, "what's considered a completed product?"
For the first time since I arrived, the old man stopped hammering.
He looked down at the blade he was crafting. It glowed with heat—a vivid, molten red. Then, without ceremony, he tossed it into a vat of water nearby. Steam exploded upward as the blade hissed and cooled.
He turned toward me. He couldn't move much—his legs were chained together, and now I noticed they were also anchored to the anvil. He couldn't leave even if he wanted to.
He was only allowed to do one thing: blacksmith. Forge, cool, place aside. That was the entirety of his existence. But a man of his skill didn't need freedom of movement to create.
"A completed product," he said slowly, his tone now solemn, "is made when I have the finest materials. When a person capable of mastering weapon style to its highest peak stands before me. And when that person desires power not for themselves, but for a cause greater than they are."
He looked directly at me then.
"It has nothing to do with my skill," he continued. "I'm already more than capable of creating a weapon that would be considered perfect by any standard."
There was a steady confidence in his words.
And now, I understood why Apolo had mentioned that I would find and rescue this man.
…
Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator