After finishing his late lunch, Gen left a generous tip, paid the bill, and walked out of the World Hotel.
There was no need to rush. Daylight wasn't the right time for his plans anyway, night was far more suitable for dirty work.
So he strolled leisurely through the middle districts of Whirlpool City.
The heart of the city reminded him of Shanghai from the dramas he'd seen in his previous life; vibrant, dazzling, yet twisted. The wealthy squandered fortunes on luxuries, drowning themselves in pleasure, while the poor struggled endlessly just to fill their stomachs.
The contrast was stark, prosperity built on misery.
It wasn't just Whirlpool City. The entire shinobi world was like this vast inequality, deep-rooted contradictions. Lords and merchants exploited the common folk without restraint, their power guaranteed by shinobi under their command.
But to be fair, the great Hidden Villages weren't innocent either. They too bore responsibility for this chaos.
Take the endless 'bandit problem,' for example. Was it truly difficult for shinobi to wipe them out? Of course not.
But the villages deliberately allowed them to linger.
Why? Simple, so there would always be missions.
As long as bandits prowled the roads, merchants had to pay for shinobi escorts, and the villages kept their steady stream of commissions. Even when brigands were wiped out, new ones would quickly rise out of society's desperation.
The cycle continued, and the villages profited from it.
A dark, chaotic world was the soil where shinobi thrived. True peace would make most of them useless and unemployed.
By nightfall, pubs, gambling dens, restaurants, and brothels lit up with gaudy lamps, casting the city in a wash of color.
People poured into the streets to spend, drink, and indulge, making the night far livelier than the day. The atmosphere rivaled Konoha's busiest markets outside of festivals.
Gen wandered for nearly two hours, but no one dared trouble him—not even a beggar. His transformed appearance was simply too intimidating; over two meters tall, broad-shouldered, solid as a wall, his stern features radiating an aura that warned strangers to keep their distance.
Once the sky was fully black, Gen turned and made his way toward the inner district. He didn't need anyone to tell him where his target lived; the more powerful a family, the deeper into the core they resided.
Hierarchy here was strict, and the boundaries could not be crossed.
He found a quiet alley, dispelled his transformation, donned a mask, and used a disguise technique before moving swiftly toward the city's inner core.
Soon, the brightest estate in the area came into view.
Avoiding the patrols with ease, Gen slipped inside. A single genjutsu on a well-dressed servant confirmed the place belonged to the Fujita family. He also extracted details about the head of the household's habits.
An hour and a half later, in the backyard study, Fujita Saigo, patriarch of the family, entered slowly, leaning on his cane. He settled into a plush leather chair, ready to review the day's accounts.
Saigo was about fifty, with a strong, weathered face, streaks of gray in his hair and beard, and the kind of imposing presence that demanded respect. His black suit and blue-striped tie gave him a dignified, businesslike air, far sharper than Gato had ever appeared in the original story.
Suddenly, the lights went out.
Saigo frowned, lifting his head. Before he could speak, a pair of crimson Sharingan glowed in the darkness, their three tomoe spinning lazily. His eyes glazed over, his expression went slack.
The lamps flickered back to life. Across from him sat a masked Gen, legs crossed casually, Sharingan still whirling in his eyes.
For shinobi, genjutsu worked by using chakra to disrupt the target's senses. But what about ordinary people without chakra?
It still worked, perhaps even better. The gulf in mental strength was so great that a shinobi didn't even need chakra to subjugate them. Direct mental force was enough to plunge a civilian into illusion.
Escaping such illusions was nearly impossible without chakra. One had to first perceive the falsehood, then possess the will to tear it apart. Without both, a person remained trapped.
To ensure control, Gen wove an entirely new memory into Saigo's mind. In this altered past, the Fujita family owed all their rise to the hidden support of Gen, their mysterious patron.
Behind him loomed the shadow of Kirigakure, the village that held the family's fate in its hands.
It was a complex, taxing use of genjutsu, embedding a fabricated history into memory. But it was worth it.
This way, Saigo would act as Gen's puppet in public while Gen remained safely in the shadows. Unless someone directly probed Saigo's mind, the illusion would hold.
Spirit Transformation wasn't an option here as it allowed only short possession, not long-term control.
Fifteen minutes later, the glow faded from Gen's Sharingan. He snapped his fingers.
Saigo blinked awake, then immediately stood and bowed deeply. "Sir."
Gen leaned back, crossing his legs once more. "Saigo. Kirigakure has a task for you."
"Please, command me. I will not fail."
"We need materials for human experimentation," Gen said calmly.
"Gather information on how many people die or go missing in Whirlpool City each day. I want exact ratios of shinobi to civilians. Then begin acquiring subjects but without drawing attention. Use whatever means you must; trickery, abductions, recruitment… I don't care."
"Yes, sir."
"Our principle is simple, don't alert the other villages, and don't spark panic among the refugees gathered here. We'll move slowly, steadily. The ratios are critical."
He narrowed his eyes. "Based on your judgment, what percentage can disappear without notice?"
Saigo bowed lower. "My lord, one-tenth will raise no alarm."
Gen frowned. "Too little."
"One-seventh," Saigo said firmly. "No higher. Beyond that, even I cannot cover the trail."
"…Very well. One-seventh."
"What kind of people shall I target?"
"Wandering shinobi, rogues, and samurai with chakra are best," Gen replied. "Next, strong civilians whose absence won't raise questions. The weak, or those whose disappearance would cause trouble, leave them."
"Yes, sir."