The shopkeeper lowered his head, rubbing his thumb over the smooth, cold surface of the stone scorpion. The shrewd gleam of a seasoned merchant flickered rapidly in his eyes. He recognized the value of the piece almost instantly.
The material itself was completely worthless, but the craftsmanship and precision were vanishingly rare. If he placed this in his display case, it would easily outshine the crude clay pots and sand paintings. It was exactly the kind of novelty that would catch the eye of passing merchants or shinobi with disposable income.
"The work is... decent," the shopkeeper said slowly, choosing his words with care. He forcibly suppressed his rising excitement, slipping a mask of feigned indifference over his face. "But the material is incredibly cheap. It's just scrap sandstone, isn't it? And it's a bit too small..."
He was probing for weakness, trying to devalue the product. Sengoku sneered inwardly, though his face remained a mask of absolute calm. He simply stood there, his dark eyes locked onto the man, waiting for a number. He had seen this exact negotiation tactic a thousand times in his past life.
Met with dead silence and an unflinching, icy stare from a seven-year-old, the shopkeeper felt a sudden prickle of unease. His standard haggling tricks felt entirely misplaced.
He coughed awkwardly, dropping the pretense. "Ahem... look, I'll do you a favor since the handiwork is rare. I'll give you twenty Ryo apiece for something this size. I'll buy as many as you can make." He tossed out a lowball figure, fully expecting the boy to try and haggle the price up.
'Twenty Ryo.' Sengoku ran the numbers instantly. His baseline goal was one thousand Ryo to purchase a single explosive tag on the black market. At twenty Ryo, he would need to sell fifty pieces. Given the time constraints of his academy classes and physical training, fifty carvings was his absolute maximum daily output.
Instead of arguing, Sengoku reached into his pocket. He didn't ask for the scorpion back. Instead, he pulled out a second item.
He had carved it on the walk over, using a scrap of dark red sandstone. It wasn't an animal this time; it was a miniature Sunagakure forehead protector.
He set it gently on the glass counter next to the scorpion.
The shopkeeper's eyes bulged. He stared at the two tiny objects—one grayish-yellow, one dark red—rendered utterly speechless.
The miniature headband was horrifyingly detailed. The weave and fold of the cloth backing, the slight, ergonomic curve of the metal plate, and the precise, sharp etching of the hourglass symbol—it was as if a genuine forehead protector had simply been shrunk by a jutsu. It demanded an even higher degree of spatial observation and micro-precision than the scorpion.
This time, the shopkeeper didn't even dare pick it up. He just stared. One organic subject, one rigid geometric object, both flawlessly executed. This went far beyond a child being "talented." This was borderline monstrous.
The man instantly realized he had severely misjudged the situation. The boy standing across from him couldn't be treated with ordinary logic. The desire to lowball vanished entirely, replaced by a sudden, gripping panic. If the price wasn't right, what was stopping this kid from turning around and walking into a rival shop? Masterpieces like these would sell effortlessly once they found the right buyer.
"Forty! Forty Ryo!" the shopkeeper blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "Forty Ryo a piece! That's my final offer! I'll take every single one you make, but..." He leaned over the counter, his eyes burning with frantic desperation. "They all have to be this exact quality! No rushed work, no crude cuts!"
'Forty Ryo.' Sengoku did the math again. Fifty pieces a day meant two thousand Ryo. That was two explosive tags every single day.
The price was acceptable.
His expression didn't shift, but he gave a slow, measured nod. "Deal. I will source my own materials. Expect daily deliveries."
"Good! Excellent! We have a deal!" The shopkeeper beamed, his earlier boredom completely wiped away, already visualizing the small fortune these trinkets would bring him. "Bring them by whenever you want! I'm always here!" He carefully scooped up the two samples as if they were made of fragile glass.
The negotiation was over.
Sengoku turned and pushed the door open, the bell chiming behind him. His pace quickened as he stepped back out into the cold desert wind. He didn't head home; instead, he steered his path toward the rocky wastelands on the outskirts of the village. He had an assembly line to run, and he needed a massive stockpile of sandstone.