Yasuhiro leaned back in his chair, his lower back tensed as he eased himself into the crumbling piece of furniture. The rest of the village hall was very much the same and in dire need of repair. The roof leaked under the slightest bit of rain but as the chief of Tenka Village, he knew better than to use the community’s hard-earned money to make his own life easier.

Tenka Village sat on the border between the Land of Fire and the Land of Iron. In a few decades, he’d watched it grow from a few small huts to a bustling village that was two hundred people strong. Sadly, it was one born of necessity as after the Great War, many found themselves fleeing various wars and evil leaders.

For him, it was the countless skirmishes in his home country, the Land of Rain.

Initially, he intended to migrate to the Land of Iron after plundering a set of well-forged swords from a wandering ronin. Corpses of mercenaries and shinobi alike were common back then, but finding one untouched was sheer luck on his part. Unfortunately, there was no secret manual of the man’s martial arts.

Still, the swords had sentimental value and were the single most prized possession he had—the only prized possession he had and one he would pass on to his grandson in due time.

“If only the little brat learns to calm down,” he huffed, exhaling thin smoke clouds as he set his aged pipe on the table.

The village hall’s dilapidated door smashed open with enough force he heard it from his office a floor above.

“Chief!”

Yasuhiro bit his tongue, cursing as he flew down the stairs. “What is it?” He rounded to face Naomichi the Blacksmith. “Is it… Is it them?”

Naomichi nodded, which was all the confirmation he needed to fly through the door with the younger man on his tail. Yasuhiro kept his head on a swivel, taking a headcount of any villagers they passed and instructing them to lock themselves in their homes.

“Fuckin’ rogues,” Naomichi grunted. “Who do they think they are, huh? Settin’ up shop outside our village and then treatin’ us like fuckin’ peasants!” He stamped to his foot and spat on the well-trod earth below them.

Yasuhiro didn’t voice his thoughts, but the same frustration broiled within him. His swords pressed themselves against his left hip and he gripped the katana’s worn handle to calm himself down.

Two years—that was how long the band of rogues had terrorised Tenka Village.

They arrived during the dead of night, kicking down doors to announce their intention to settle in an abandoned tower nearby and anyone of use was dragged away kicking and screaming to renovate it. Every service the village could offer was abused: the inns were occupied without pay, the village folk were used as serfs, and they consistently and regularly undermined Yasuhiro’s authority.

Yet, what could he do? The rogues were once shinobi and could use chakra as easy as breathing. He was an old man in possession of well-maintained but aged samurai swords and the rest of the villagers were even worse off than he was.

He and Naomichi stopped in front of The Empty Plate—named quite aptly for when it was built. Looking back at Naomichi, he raised a hand. “Wait out here. I will handle Goro Tanimoto.”

“...Fine,” replied the blacksmith, spitting again at the mention of the band’s leader.

Sighing, Yasuhiro opened the door with shaking hands, scanning the first two floors. As expected, they were filled to the brim with rogues—be they masterless samurai or villageless shinobi. Goro sat front and centre, directly in front of the door, the inn’s only serving girl sat quivering on his lap.

She whimpered, looking ready to bolt towards him, but Goro’s rumbling laugh stopped her before she could twitch in his direction. He tilted his chin up and flashed him a vicious leer. “It sure is nice to see you alive and well, old man.”

“...Mr Goro,” Yasuhiro bowed slightly, “would you mind releasing the poor girl?”

He rolled his eyes, sending her off with a harsh slap to the rear. “Off you go.”

The rest of the rogues jeered and whistled, some even trying to grab onto her as she crossed the floor. She threw herself into Yasuhiro’s embrace, sobbing into his old kimono.

“There there.” He rubbed circles into her back, not letting the rage bleed into his voice. “Go home, Yumi. I’m sorry this happened to you… but it’s a burden I cannot lift off our shoulders. Go home to your husband and your son—be with them for the rest of the day. I’ll help close up with Chie when we finish here.”

Gratitude overflowed Yumi’s red-rimmed eyes. “Th-Thank you, Chief.”

Goro barked out a laugh that his subordinates tagged onto. The tavern door swung shut, leaving Yasuhiro alone in the dining area with twenty-odd rogues when there should’ve been at least half a dozen more.

“Good to see you’ve still got your wits about you, old man,” said Goro, almost as if he’d read his mind. “I’ve lost a few of my men since you last saw us.” Yasuhiro clammed up, but the rogue shinobi continued, “See, my boys and I had an unpleasant encounter with some Hidden Sound ninja.”

“...I’m not familiar with that village.”

“It’s a new one. I dunno who’s in charge of it and I don’t really care. There’s a reason I don’t wear a headband anymore. Living under the thumb of some decrepit old bastard never tickled my fancy—no offence to you, of course.” Goro grinned and leaned forward, cupping his chin in a hand. “Bad news is, I lost a few of my men, damaged or lost a good number of weapons, and worst of all—I’m starving!”

Yasuhiro narrowed his eyes, searching the man’s face for any lies as his comrades laughed at the moronic joke. At the very least, his trademark nodachi was nowhere to be seen so he seemed to be telling the truth.

“Well, we can do something for your hunger first,” he said, throwing up a pleasant smile and bowing deeply. “As for the weapons, I invite you to my office in the village hall after your meal so we can discuss the details of your repairs.”

The rogue ninja pointed his finger in his direction. “See this? This is why we get along so well. You always know when to bow—and with me, that’s all the goddamn time, isn’t that right, old man?”

He deepened his bow to the point that he couldn’t see anything beyond his own feet. His grey hair hung over his face. Yasuhiro gritted his teeth, praying it hid the hatred contorting his face.

“...Of course, Mr Goro.” He took a breath. “I’ll check the kitchen and see how the food is coming along—with your permission, of course.”

Goro waved him away. “And tell them to bring more alcohol!”

Three terrified cooks scrambled around the kitchen, finishing meals they were already cooking in bulk and pulling out leftovers from the fridge. The inns were the village’s biggest source of income, and Yasuhiro made sure to invest in their future. Technology was a rare sight outside of towns, but he’d procured two home fridges a decade ago to give to the two inns.

He pulled aside one of the workers—a sweaty, pimpled teenage boy. “Where’s Chie?”

“I’m over here, Ohashi.”

Yasuhiro turned to her, eager to skip the byplay between them. “Can you do it?”

Chie stood taller than him—not that he was tall at all—and her dismissive stare had only intensified with age. “What do you take me for? Worry less about my kitchen and more about controlling the herd of deer you call a village, you wrinkly bastard.”

She was one of the village’s founders alongside himself and a few others who had died shortly after the rogues arrived. Her casual disrespect, as much as it seemed otherwise, was a sign of their friendship and a source of amusement in the otherwise dreary village life.

“Alright,” he said with a smile. “It’s good to see that despicable excuse of a man hasn’t dimmed your fire.”

The cooks flinched.

Chie rolled her eyes. “If you think he can hear us over the noise in here, you guys are better imbeciles than I’ve given you credit for.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The pimpled boy spun around. “He’s a shinobi, ma’am, with magic powers.”

“And if he heard us, he’ll walk in here and paint the room with our insides. I couldn’t tell you which is worse, kid. Two years under his yoke or instant death. I’m growing tired of this song and dance.” She shrugged her shoulders and turned to Yasuhiro. “Get out of here, Ohashi. I’ve got this sorry lot covered.”

Yasuhiro smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Chie. Goro will head to the village hall after you feed him and his. In the meantime, I’ll get the stragglers off the streets and make sure there aren’t any children out.”

“You go do that.”

He left through the back exit, circling to the main street. The village should have been bustling with life right about now; it was just past lunchtime and people would be readying themselves to return to work. Instead, they were forced to deal with a horde of ungrateful, uncaring, inhuman bastards under the command of Goro Tanimoto.

True to his word, Yasuhiro made sure to usher anyone left outside back into their houses, combing the streets as he made his way back to the village hall. The building served both as his family home and his place of work.

“Grandfather!”

Despite the circumstances, he smiled as his grandson sprinted towards him from the front door. “Tsutomu, my boy. Who sent you here?”

“Myself,” the six-year-old replied with a toothy grin, though it quickly fell from his face. “Grandfather… is it true?”

Leading him back into the house Yasuhiro walked him across the corridor and away from the village hall proper—his living quarters were attached to the side of the building. “Is what true?”

Tsutomu bowed his head. “The Jagged Blades… are they back?”

“The Jagged Blades,” he scoffed. “A fancy name won’t hide what they are, son. Goro and his subordinates are little more than pathetic lowlives who oppress those that they can and cower from those they can’t.”

“But they’re scary, grandfather,” his grandson whimpered. “What am I supposed to do?”

Yasuhiro kneeled and ruffled his hair. “You don’t have to do anything. Leave it to us adults to handle them.” Tsutomu nodded reluctantly. “Go, now. Stay in your room until I come to find you.”

On his way out, he locked the door separating the village hall and his residence from the outside. It wouldn’t stop Goro or any of his men from busting it down, but knowing his grandson couldn’t wander into danger set his mind at ease. He took a teapot and two old teacups to his office as he waited for the Goro to arrive.

The rogue entered the office with a lazy smirk, swiping the teapot and pouring himself a glass and—to Yasuhiro’s worry—pouring him a glass as well. He took the glass but held off on drinking first for fear of offending the man.

As expected, his demands were obnoxious, and more importantly, beyond the village’s capabilities. Naomichi was the only blacksmith experienced with weapons and he couldn’t fill an order that size—even with the help of his students. Next came the routine question of topping up the outposts’ provisions.

Tenka Village made enough to have a small surplus, but in recent years, the Jagged Blades had been siphoning off the surplus they usually traded to nearby villages, turning their home into a self-sustaining one.

While the rogues weren’t around all the time, the irregularity of their hunts for bounties made it impossible to plan for their return, leaving Yasuhiro to improvise around Goro’s personality.

“Chief!”

The front door slammed open, drawing a curious sound from the rogue ninja. “Who’s got the stones to disturb our meeting, hmm?” He raised an eyebrow and stood up. “Come, old man. Let’s go see.”

Sliding his swords off the rack, Yasuhiro slipped them through his waistband and followed the ex-shinobi down the stairs. “Naomichi? What are you doing here?”

The blacksmith was red-faced, still bent over and heaving for breath while shaking fearfully at the sight of the rogue ninja. “The Em-Empty Plate! Yumi’s hu-hu-husband… he—”

“—you heard the man,” said Goro, shoving Naomichi aside. “To The Empty Plate, we go.”

Yasuhiro trailed behind him, fearing the worst. Yumi’s husband was a good man, but he had a temper and was fiercely protective of his wife—especially since the Jagged Blades had come to town. Usually, his wife was there to calm him down, but today’s events had crossed a line, shaking her to the core.

Judging by the cheerful tune he was whistling, Goro knew that too. He threw open the tavern’s door and let out a long hum before stepping aside. Meanwhile, Yasuhiro didn't need longer than a few seconds to realise what had happened. He turned, emptying his stomach into the corner of the room as the gathered shinobi jeered.

“Coward!” “He’ll only make the smell worse!” “Get him out of here!”

He stumbled towards the body, tracing a hand across his young lifeless face. “...K-Kashiigi, you stupid, stupid boy.” He bunched the dead man’s kimono inside a fist, his eyes burning with tears.

“Damn. Someone ran him right through,” said Goro, standing over him and casting his looming shadow over both him and the body. He raised his voice, “Oi! Which one of you stabbed the poor bastard?”

A gaunt-looking man stepped forward—he sported a quickly darkening bruise on the side of his face. “It was me, boss.”

“He slugged you so you stabbed him?” Goro folded his arms. “Why’d he even do it?”

Yasuhiro rose to his feet, swaying slightly as he wiped the tears from his face. “Th-The serving girl is… was his wife.” He looked up, trying to keep his eyes off the corpse.

“He came in here screaming bloody murder.” The gaunt man snorted. “So I told him his wife completed her services as expected and that he should be proud of her.”

“I get why he hit you now.” Goro laughed and nudged the corpse with his foot. “Sorry bastard got what he deserved. See, we rule this town, right boys?”

The rest of the Jagged Blades roared, raising tankards and stamping their feet. Yasuhiro bowed his head and bit the inside of his cheek. He desperately wanted to draw his sword and kill every single scumbag in the inn, but they were shinobi.

“Hey, old man?” Goro swung his head back. “I’ll be generous and let your people off the hook. This idiot’s dead anyway and the situation’s a pretty positive one.”

He gulped. “It… it is?”

“Sure. That cute serving girl’s a widow now, ain’t she?” He smirked, undisguised lust smouldering in his dark eyes. “Maybe I’ll take her on as a concubine.” Again, his subordinates broke out into jeering laughter, whistling and bellowing at the top of their lungs. “But I’m not a savage. I’ll give her space to mourn, go out on more raids, shower her in gifts—she got any kids?”

“O-One.”

“Boy or girl?”

“A boy.”

Goro scratched at his stubble. “...The little shit might want revenge.”

Yasuhiro widened his eyes. “N-No, he’s barely one, Mr. Goro!”

The Mercenary’s face brightened. “That’s perfect! I’ll take in the schmuck’s kid. Teach him my ways.” He nodded to himself and walked to the kitchen, banging on the door. “Old hag, bring more alcohol! There’s a celebration to be had!” He walked back, looking down at the corpse in surprise. “Go deal with the body, old man.”

“...Yes, Mr Goro.”

As he was too small to carry the body on his own, Yasuhiro had to get one of the cooks to help him. Over the next few days, news of Kashiigi’s death spread like wildfire and many hid their hateful glares until the rogues returned to their outpost. The only thing he could do to contain their rage was to propose a solution.

It was one he had been weighing up in his mind for the last nine months.

He called for a village meeting inside the hall, forced to face the hundreds of people he had failed to protect. Yumi—Kashiigi’s wife—sat off to the side with her infant son, surrounded by concerned neighbours. She shot him a nervous smile and returned it, taking a breath before addressing the crowd before him.

“Thank you for gathering here today, everyone.” He ran his eyes over the crowd of assembled adults. “I’m sorry it feels like we are brushing past Kashiigi’s death. In some respect, we are. The Jagged Blades and their tyranny has stripped our village of all life.

Their sadness hung in the air and he saw his helpless gaze reflected in the many of the villagers’ eyes.

“Mr Ohashi!” Naomichi jumped to his feet. “We can’t take this anymore. Every time those bastards come here, they trample over us. They were bound to kill someone eventually and they will kill more!”

Yasuhiro looked down at the stage’s hardwood floor.

Naomichi had only given voice to the thoughts every one of them was thinking. He was forced to bend to Goro’s whims. If he wanted food, he got it; if he wanted amusement, he got it; and as the village’s leader, he was the one to break the terrible news to his people.

He was the one they looked to for support—support that he couldn’t offer. Because of his inability to offer it, Kashiigi had taken things upon himself and died.

“You’re right, Naomcihi. Something must be done. We won’t be able to take much more of their barbarity.”

“What do we do then?” The question had come from Chie, who was one of the people crowded around Yumi. The old woman's voice was blunt and her words were to the point. “Because last I checked, none of us are shinobi.”

Yasuhiro smiled. “You’re right. However, if we pool our resources together, we can hire shinobi of our own.”

Intrigued whispers rose among the crowd.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll be contributing a sizeable amount of my savings to take some of the demand off the rest of you. It’s only right that I do so.”

“If we’re pooling resources, it better be someone good,” said Chie.

Yasuhiro tried for a confident smile, but seeing the doubt on everyone’s faces at his words, it turned into a grimace. Of course, he couldn’t blame them, but it still hurt to see.

“I-I’ll do it!”

The whispers stopped.

“Yumi…” His mouth hung open slightly in surprise. “A-Are you sure?”

The widow nodded, a dark hatred rising to the surface of her tired face. “They took my Kashiigi away from me—away from his son. I believe in you, Mr Ohashi. You’re always standing between us and that horrible Goro. If my money will help, I’ll gladly give it to you.”

“Fuck it.” Naomichi shot out of his chair. “I’ll give you my money too. I’m bloody tired of running around like a workhorse for that lot.”

One by one, the villagers stood up, pledging their support. Yasuhiro bowed deeply to them and they returned his bow, bringing tears to his eyes. “Thank you, everyone… truly. I’ll use your money to hire the strongest shinobi around.”

Yumi gasped. “W-Wait, does that mean…?”

“Right.” He nodded with a confident grin. “Goro’s days under the sun are numbered from here on out, so stay strong, everyone. I’m going to be hiring the Hidden Leaf.”