With the obstructive forces cleared away, Konoha's development entered an entirely new phase.
One year later, the village looked completely different.
Peace Avenue had expanded into three interlaced districts, occupying the largest swath of the village center. New-laid stone roads were spotless; shop signs crowded both sides. From dawn until late at night the streets were packed—hawkers calling, crowds chatting, wagon wheels rumbling—alive with energy.
A merchant from the Land of Wind, named Baki, squeezed in from a jammed intersection, clinging to his companion's arm to keep his balance as he took it all in. The prosperity exceeded anything he'd imagined.
He saw Uchiha Police Force patrols moving through the press of people in uniform. Their presence didn't create tension; if anything, vendors and visitors alike seemed more at ease.
"Back where we're from, the biggest fist makes the rules—every day it's turf fights and brawls," Baki muttered to his companion. "But here the strongest fighters… actually keep order so everyone can make money. This place is like those storytellers' tales of paradise."
His companion nodded hard, eyes wide. "Yeah. I asked around—there isn't even a single beggar. The village pays stipends to those crippled by war—every month—and every child can attend school for free. I came to see if I can bring my wife and kids over."
Among outsiders, people had begun calling Konoha in private "the city of opportunity where gold flows." Do business here and, with the Uchiha guaranteeing safety, no one dared cause trouble. The market was enormous; no matter how much stock you brought, it would sell.
The Ninja Mission Center was no longer a little wooden hut; a three-story building stood in its place. Ordinary folk like Baki could only operate on the first floor, where a giant board cycled through task listings—mostly escorts, searches, and deliveries. The second and third floors were for shinobi only.
A Konoha chunin named Kenta trudged in from a mission, dusty and travel-worn. He didn't queue at the counter; he went straight to a line of machines in the first-floor hall's corner, pulled a mission scroll from his pouch, and slid it into a slot.
The machine hummed softly.
"Mission ID B-734, escort mission. Completion grade: S. Credit points +150. Fee of 300,000 ryō deposited to your personal account."
The mechanical voice delivered its verdict without a hint of emotion.
Kenta was tired, but satisfied. He pulled up his account, watching the credit tally climb, and felt the fatigue melt away. Two more B-rank jobs and his points would be enough.
Then he could apply on the second floor's Ninja Credit Bank for a low-interest loan—to buy his parents a new home near the commercial district. Their current place leaked whenever it rained. It was time to improve the family's life.
At the new Ninja Academy, a class clustered around a large sand table. Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura were among them. Instead of listening to dry lectures, they spent more time on practical simulations like this.
Naruto's team was simulating an escort from Konoha to Tanzaku Quarters. Naruto moved a caravan token with a wooden stick. "We take this forest route—it's the shortest."
"No," Sasuke pointed to a canyon on the model. "The terrain's narrow—perfect ambush site. Better to take the long way on the southern highway."
"But the detour adds a day and a half," Sakura said, scribbling calculations in a notebook. "That lowers risk, but ups costs—freight and daily consumption. And there are more bandits on the highway. With our manpower, we might not handle it. If anyone gets hurt, the losses get worse."
They argued, assessed possible risks, and drafted response plans.
This teaching style gave them far more than the textbook ever could. Everyone had to think and participate—instead of passively receive.
On the village outskirts, a new residential district was going up. Frames for rows of two-story houses already stood. Using assets seized in the previous crackdown, the village was building standardized housing for all.
A villager named Tanaka had moved in early. Standing on his lawn, he watched his two kids chase each other, grinning from ear to ear.
A neighbor watering flowers waved. "Tanaka, I heard that new pastry shop on First Street is great. Want to check it out tomorrow?"
"Sure," Tanaka replied. "Perfect timing—my monthly dividend just came in, so I'm flush." He meant the payout from the village's Public Fund. A portion of profits—from commercial-street rents, Mission Center commissions, and more—flowed into the fund and was distributed to every villager monthly.
Their conversation stayed on everyday life: which shop had the best food, whose kid was acing school, how big next month's dividend might be. Peaceful and content—no one worried about making ends meet or about scraping by on dangerous jobs.
No one spoke about the next war or which acquaintance had died on a mission. The whole village felt stable and well-off—unthinkable in the past. Compared with other settlements, Konoha was a world apart.
Its prosperity now surpassed any other shinobi village—and even outshone the bustle of the Fire Daimyo's capital.
Such a dramatic change naturally drew the attention of the Land of Fire's highest ruler.
A high-level delegation from the Daimyo's court arrived in Konoha, led by his close confidant, a minister named Fujiwara. Behind him walked the nation's top finance officials, their purpose clear: to audit Konoha's post-reform tax obligation for the year.
In Konoha's administrative chamber, the mood was serious. Representing the village, Shikaku handed over a thick ledger detailing annual income and expenditures.
The lead treasurer, an elderly man called Okura with white hair and forty years of experience—said to have an eye that no account in the Land of Fire could fool—took the book, donned his spectacles, and flipped straight to the final page for the total revenue.
One look, and he froze. "This… this is impossible!"
All eyes turned to him.
The figure wasn't just ten times last year's; more shocking, it exceeded the capital's entire annual tax intake by thirty percent. A "military village" out-earning the nation's capital—unbelievable.
"There's a mistake. There has to be." Okura muttered. How could a military settlement generate such wealth in a single year? Even if everyone worked themselves to death—it shouldn't be possible. He himself couldn't imagine doing it.
For hours the chamber was silent except for the crisp click of abacus beads.
Okura and his aides pored over the ledger, auditing each line with the strictest standard. Commercial-street rents and transaction taxes. Mission Center commissions. Security service revenue from the Uchiha Police Force. Profits from the Hyuga Workshop's precision goods. Transit duties from the new logistics hub…
Every account had clear entries, sources, and destinations, all meticulously documented.
Time passed.
At last, Okura set the abacus down, slumping into his chair, forehead beaded with cold sweat. In a lifetime of work, he had never seen books so healthy—and so terrifying.
He turned to Fujiwara and spoke hoarsely, "My lord… there is no mistake."
"Konoha—no, the Namikaze—have, in a single year, created an economic monster."
Fujiwara understood what that meant. Konoha was no longer a military arm living off stipends from the Daimyo's court. It was now an independent economic power with fearsome capacity—a de facto kingdom. And the ruler of that kingdom bore the name Namikaze.
After the session, Fujiwara did not depart at once. In his capacity as the Daimyo's envoy, he delivered a letter to the Namikaze residence. The tone was exceedingly respectful—more upper-to-lower than higher-to-lower.
In it, the Daimyo first offered congratulations on Konoha's achievements, then—in wording almost like a request—invited the head of the Namikaze to visit the capital at his convenience.
(End of Chapter)
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