In the grand scheme of his "game," Shen Mo often found that contests against powerful, non-player antagonists—dungeon bosses—were more effective at generating desperate spending than mere Player-versus-Player (PVP) duels.
A common enemy forced players to pool resources and invest heavily to overcome a guaranteed, external threat.
Unfortunately, this world lacked readily available, high-level, predictable 'boss' entities for his clients to challenge.
At least, not yet.
The first true member-level confrontation was fast approaching: Zabuza versus Sasuke and his growing team. Shen Mo felt a rising tide of excitement. This wasn't merely a business venture; it was a creative outlet. The passion to design, to manipulate, and to watch the systems interact was an unexpected, intoxicating rush.
"Not many men my age get the chance to turn an entire reality into their personal, profitable sandbox," Shen Mo mused, a genuine, delighted smile touching his lips.
He picked up his coffee cup and returned to the keyboard.
The days melted into a blur of frantic development for everyone involved. While Shen Mo finalized his strategic parameters, Zabuza and Haku were obsessively mastering their purchased strength, integrating the inhuman speed and raw power into their assassin's repertoire.
Meanwhile, the young Konoha Genin were also rapidly acquiring power, though through a distinctly different, commercially negotiated route. Sasuke's membership badge had become the conduit for Naruto's rapid advancement.
Naruto, in his characteristic, impatient eagerness, had agreed to sell a fixed, daily quantum of his vast, Kyuubi-fueled chakra directly to the system in exchange for Tier 1 Jars.
This method offered an acceleration vastly superior to standard training. Shen Mo, busy with his designs, simply used an automated system function to handle the transactions. The jars were instantly materialized upon confirmation of payment, and the raw chakra was harvested, leaving Naruto temporarily exhausted but rapidly recovering due to the Nine-Tails' constant regeneration.
Forty Tier 1 Jars a day.
Four days later, the cumulative depletion resulted in Naruto receiving his own official Membership Badge, but only after he spent four agonizing days in a coma-like deep sleep to stabilize the overwhelming shock to his system.
Inside his seal, the Nine-Tailed Fox (Kyuubi) was becoming deeply unnerved.
"This brat... is he being targeted? Is some unseen entity repeatedly draining his life force?" the great beast rumbled in the depths of the seal.
The constant extraction of chakra, done just subtly enough not to kill the host, suggested a highly sophisticated, predatory intelligence.
The extraction cycle, coupled with the rapid, artificial boosts from the opened Jars, was making Naruto incredibly resilient. Had he consumed the right Power Pill from his haul, he would already possess the physical capabilities of a veteran, mid-level Jōnin.
It was the sixth day. Shen Mo finally leaned back from his glowing laptop, letting out a profound sigh of satisfaction.
"It is done."
After countless revisions and internal system evaluations, the future monetization path was crystal clear. Selling the Jars remained the Primary Revenue Stream—the foundational, high-yield "gacha" model. No simple, consumable item could match the psychological and financial pull of a randomized prize.
"Zabuza is in position," Shen Mo confirmed, utilizing a low-level Surveillance Spell to check on the increasingly lethal collaboration between the Demon and his apprentice. He then spared a quick glance toward Sasuke and the others. The stage was set.
He stood up, calling to Hiju, who had been sulking and worrying about imaginary weight gain. "Come, Hiju, it's time for a field trip."
"Mrow—!" Hiju instantly transformed from a morose lump into an electrified ball of fur, circling three times before scrambling up his trouser leg and settling triumphantly on his shoulder. After nearly a week confined to the apartment, the small cat was desperate for fresh air and adventure.
It was bright noon, the sun high and fierce.
"Now, to meet the notorious local entrepreneur."
Shen Mo squinted up at the blinding sun, then began walking slowly toward a sprawling, garishly constructed building that resembled a giant, misshapen mushroom tucked deep within the surrounding forest—Gatō's Base.
The person he intended to meet was Gatō, a man whose style and public persona were wildly inconsistent with his immense wealth.
Shen Mo recalled passing through a previous town where the local Kitahara family, rich but not nearly as wealthy as Gatō, employed six Chunin and a Special Jōnin for security, maintaining a decorum of quiet power.
Gatō, by contrast, had a ridiculous public image, kept his money haphazardly, and relied on a handful of common bandits, oblivious to the fact that his careless handling of Ryo made him a magnet for shinobi like Zabuza.
An incredibly wealthy man with the security instincts of a common fool. Shen Mo shook his head slightly. The Ninja World contained its strange paradoxes.
The towering trees choked out the midday light, plunging the path toward Gatō's base into a foreboding gloom. Shouts and drunken laughter echoed from within the compound.
Squeak...
As Shen Mo approached, the large door to the building swung inward, seemingly on its own. The cacophony of noise inside abruptly died. Every head in the large, smoky hall turned to stare at the lone figure and the small cat standing in the doorway.
A muscular thug, dressed in tattered armor and clutching a long, rusty machete, squinted and addressed the short, morbidly obese man in an ill-fitting suit who was holding court at the center of the room.
"Boss, is this a guest of yours?"
This was Gatō—short, round, with a ridiculous, oily hairstyle, looking like a stuffed monkey poured into a suit. He swirled a glass of cheap wine in his hand, his eyes bleary and dismissive.
He gave Shen Mo a cursory, indifferent glance and waved his cane carelessly. "Never seen him. If he's not one of ours, kill him and dump the body. But leave the cat. It's a fine creature; I want it."
Even in his drunken state, Gatō appreciated the sleek, unusual beauty of Hiju.
"Got it, Boss!"
"Haha, looks like this kid drew the short straw today."
"Hey, nice clothes you got there. Hand over your money, and maybe we let you run off with your skin intact."
"Take off those fancy clothes first. Look at that delicate skin, that soft flesh. Heh heh heh..."
The bandits rose from their tables, their laughter coarse, their eyes filled with wicked intent. They were a motley collection of humanity's worst—filthy, lawless scum.
Shen Mo did not betray a single emotion. He remained utterly motionless.
Hiju, however, was furious. Her back arched, her tiny body trembling, and a high-pitched, angry "Meowww!" escaped her. Her claws were out, gripping his shoulder, but she looked more adorable than intimidating.
"Calm yourself," Shen Mo murmured, his voice gentle as he reached up and affectionately stroked her head.
He didn't spare a glance for the twenty or so thugs now slowly, confidently circling him. He was looking at Gatō.
Pop!
He simply snapped his fingers.
The sound was shockingly quiet, yet it seemed to reverberate in the very marrow of every person present. The entire, chaotic scene froze for a single, pregnant second—a brief, terrifying silence.
Then, the horror began.
"Boss... your hand..."
A bandit standing near Gatō stammered, his eyes bulging as he pointed at his leader.
Gatō raised his hand to inspect the commotion, and in that moment, he saw it. His sleeve, his suit, his flesh—it wasn't tearing; it was disintegrating.
It started as fine powder, sifting away on an unseen current of air. His outer garments dissolved first, followed by his skin, then the intricate network of veins and muscle fibers beneath.
"Aaaahhhh! What is this?!"
A hysterical shriek tore from Gatō's throat. As he tried to scramble back, his movement only accelerated the process. Other men around the room began to panic, their horrified screams echoing the terror as they, too, watched their extremities turn into dust devils.
They could not fight it; they could not escape it. They could only stand and watch as their very existence—bone, blood, and muscle—was instantaneously atomized, scattering into the air and settling on the dirty floor.
A slow, agonizing, irreversible death by disintegration. The last sensation they knew was the paralyzing fear of being torn apart piece by microscopic piece.
The room, moments ago loud with foul bravado, fell into a profound, terrifying silence, broken only by the gentle hush of dust settling.