For three grueling days, Sengoku dedicated every spare second outside of his academy classes and physical conditioning to his new assembly line. In the corner of his stone house, the pile of rough sandstone scraps steadily shrank, replaced by neatly stacked rows of finished merchandise. Desert scorpions, wind-eroded rock formations, Sunagakure headbands, kunai, shuriken—each piece was identical, exuding a cold, precise aesthetic.
His fingertips throbbed, red and swollen from gripping the carving knife and exerting constant, microscopic pressure. Yet, his dark eyes never lost their intense focus.
By the twilight of the third day, he brushed the dust from his final carving—a miniature Kazekage hat. He had far exceeded the daily quota he had negotiated. Without a moment's delay, he wrapped the entire batch in an old cloth and headed out.
When the shopkeeper at Sand's Artistry saw the sheer volume of identical, high-quality crafts, his eyes practically glazed over. His hands trembled slightly as he counted the pieces. True to his word, the man paid forty Ryo per item, even eagerly hinting that he would buy as much stock as Sengoku could produce.
Sengoku walked out of the shop with a heavy pouch containing nearly six thousand Ryo in mixed bills and coins. It was a massive fortune for a seven-year-old—enough to purchase six standard explosive tags on the black market. His heart hammered in his chest, but he quickly suppressed the spike of excitement.
With his funds secured, Sengoku headed toward his next target: a small, unassuming weapons shop near the edge of the village. From eavesdropping on Tetsumaru and the older academy students, Sengoku knew this specific store had a reputation for moving restricted goods under the table.
The storefront was spacious but noticeably lacking in foot traffic. Behind the heavy wooden counter stood a broad-shouldered man with a sharp, guarded gaze and a faded scar running down his cheek. His steady breathing and heavy presence immediately marked him not as a simple merchant, but as a retired shinobi.
Sengoku walked right up to the counter. He didn't bother with small talk. Looking up at the scarred man, he kept his voice low and blunt. "I want to buy explosive tags."
The owner's sharp eyes snapped down to the child. His brow furrowed in immediate irritation. "Where did you come from, brat? Those aren't toys for kids to play with. Get out of here before you cause trouble." His tone was harsh, leaving no room for argument.
Sengoku had expected this pushback. He didn't flinch. "I'm an academy student. I'll be graduating soon. I just want to test the destructive radius for a new jutsu. I won't use them inside the village."
The owner let out a harsh bark of laughter, his eyes filled with skepticism. "A student? Test the radius? With what, your Clone Jutsu? Stop wasting my time. Get out before I call the patrol squad."
Talking wouldn't work. Sengoku needed leverage.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out the bulging pouch of money, and slammed it onto the wooden counter with a heavy thud. He pulled the drawstring loose, revealing the thick stack of bills inside.
"I have the money," Sengoku stated, his voice ironclad, holding the man's gaze. "I'll take just one. Even lower-yield tags are fine. I just need to observe the detonation effect."
The threat of the patrol squad died in the owner's throat. His eyes darted to the wad of cash. It was far more than the standard rate for a single tag.
The owner studied the boy with newfound suspicion, searching the child's calm face for any sign of a prank. A seven-year-old walking around with this much cash just to test an explosion was absurd, yet the boy was dead serious. However, standard explosive tags were heavily regulated military assets; their serial numbers were tracked. Selling lethal ordnance to an academy student was a massive risk.
But the kid had said lower-yield was fine.
The harsh, aggressive aura surrounding the retired shinobi slowly retracted, replaced by the calculating gleam of a black-market merchant. He leaned forward over the counter, dropping his voice to a low murmur.
"Listen, kid. You can forget about standard explosive tags. I wouldn't sell you one no matter how much you pay. The tracking is too strict." The man paused, a sly glint appearing in his scarred eye. "But... if you just want a loud bang and a flash of fire to get a feel for the blast radius, I do have some training equipment."
Turning around, the owner unlocked a bottom drawer and retrieved a small wooden box. Inside lay a stack of slightly yellowed tags. The ink of the sealing formula was noticeably faded, and the ambient chakra they emitted was faint.
"Here," the owner tapped the paper. "Training tags. They pack about a quarter of the explosive force of standard military issue. Smaller blast radius, much less lethal. The major clans use them to train their heirs in evasion and shrapnel dodging. Five hundred Ryo a piece. Non-negotiable. Take it, or take your money and leave."
'Five hundred Ryo. A quarter of the power.'
Sengoku's mind raced. Technically, the price-to-power ratio was a rip-off. But for his specific needs, it was absolutely perfect. He didn't need a lethal blast right now; he needed to test The Pursuer's structural integrity, its shrapnel dispersal, and the reliability of its internal detonation mechanism. A weaker tag was actually much safer for his initial live-fire tests.
"I'll take four," Sengoku said without hesitation.
The owner raised an eyebrow, surprised by the boy's decisiveness, but he didn't question it. He swiftly counted out four training tags, wrapped them in a square of oil paper, and slid them across the counter. He took two thousand Ryo from Sengoku's pouch and pushed the rest back.
"Remember, kid," the owner warned, his tone dropping back into a deadly serious register. "Even if they're weak, they are still explosive tags. Do not detonate them inside the village walls. If the Anbu come knocking, I don't know you, and you don't know me."
"Understood." Sengoku pocketed his remaining money and the oil paper packet. Through the thick paper, he could feel the faint, volatile thrum of the sealed chakra resting against his chest.
He turned and walked out of the store, stepping into the cool evening air.
Step one was complete.