Shanks finally came to a halt outside a small, weathered herb shop tucked between two larger buildings on a quiet street. The wooden sign above the entrance creaked in the breeze, and the faint smell of dried roots and bitter leaves drifted out from the doorway. He gently set the restaurant manager down on the cobbled path outside.
The manager staggered slightly, his legs wobbling beneath him as he struggled to regain his balance. His face had gone pale, and a sheen of sweat clung to his brow. He doubled over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. The experience of being dragged through the city at breakneck speed—so fast he could barely process the blur of lights, voices, and wind—had left him completely disoriented and violently nauseous. Never in his life had he moved so quickly.
Meanwhile, Shanks stepped into the shop without hesitation. The interior was dimly lit, filled with the pungent aroma of dried herbs, old wood, and something vaguely medicinal. Jars of strange powders lined the shelves, and bundles of roots and leaves hung from the ceiling in organized chaos. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper lay slumped in a chair, unconscious.
Shanks paid him no mind. He moved straight to a specific shelf, plucked the herb he had come for with practiced ease, and laid a few neatly folded bills on the counter—more than enough to cover the cost. Then he left.
Outside, the manager was still crouched on the ground, gripping his stomach and groaning softly. His vision swam, and his ears still rang from the wind that had howled past him only moments before. Shanks looked down at him with a calm, almost amused expression.
"When you feel well enough," Shanks said evenly, "go back to your restaurant."
His voice was steady, neither impatient nor concerned—just a simple instruction. And then, without waiting for a reply, he vanished once again, his presence gone in an instant like a whisper on the wind.
The manager didn't even try to speak. He merely slumped to the ground, sitting on the cool stone with his back against the wall of the shop, eyes half-lidded and mouth slightly open. He let out a slow, shaky breath and whispered to no one in particular, "What just happened…?"
----
Erza ate in silence, her spoon moving mechanically from the bowl to her lips. The others at the table mirrored her quietude, their faces pale and tired, their movements slow. After the last five days of hardship, no one had the energy—or the heart—for conversation. The air was heavy with the unspoken weight of what they had endured, and expecting laughter or idle chatter would have been foolish.
But Erza's silence was different. She wasn't just eating—she was thinking. Her brow furrowed subtly as she chewed, eyes distant, fixed somewhere beyond the wooden table in front of her. Something was tugging at the edge of her memory, something important she couldn't quite grasp. She took another bite, and then another, until suddenly her eyes widened.
"I remember…" she whispered to herself, then abruptly pushed back her chair and stood up.
She turned toward one of the waiters, who had been lingering quietly by the wall, avoiding eye contact with the table full of Uzumaki children. "Excuse me," Erza said firmly, "could I have a blank sheet of paper and a pen?"
The waiter stiffened at the request but quickly nodded. No one working in the inn dared to offend these guests.
Without hesitation, the waiter hurried behind the counter. He tore a page from the back of an unused ledger—whatever he could find—and grabbed a pen, then returned and handed both items to Erza with a slight bow.
"Thank you," she said, taking the items and sitting back down.
Without another word, Erza began to draw. Her hand moved quickly, with purpose, as if the image had been waiting behind her eyes and now spilled onto the page in a rush of ink. The sound of pen scratching paper drew the attention of the others, and one by one, the children leaned in to watch.
Curious faces hovered over her shoulder, eyes squinting at the emerging design. It was some sort of pattern. None of them could make sense of it.
Yoko asked, "What is this pattern?"
Erza hesitated. A shadow of uncertainty crossed her face as she glanced toward the others around them. After a moment, she shook her head and replied in a firm yet respectful tone, "I'm sorry, Yoko… but I need to speak with Onii-chan about this first. It's not something I can share freely—not without his permission. If he allows it, then and only then will I tell you what I know."
Just then, Shanks entered the restaurant. He had kept all the herbs in the carriage outside, and he overheard Erza's words. "Erza, what is it that you'll only tell me?"
Erza walked over to him, gently took his hand, and led him to a secluded corner of the restaurant—far away from the other members of the Uzumaki Clan—so their conversation wouldn't be overheard.
She spoke in a low voice. "Onii-chan, do you remember when you asked me to bring the sealing scroll for Uncle Tatsuya's body?"
Shanks nodded.
Erza continued, "While you were walking ahead, talking to me about a few things, I noticed something strange. There was a dead masked ninja nearby. His mask had shattered, and… his tongue was hanging out—unnaturally far. There was a pattern on it. At the time, I felt like I'd seen it somewhere before, but I couldn't remember where. You were also talking, giving me instructions, and I was afraid that if I interrupted you with something uncertain, you might get upset. So I kept quiet."
She lowered her head, ashamed.
Shanks shook his head slowly, then said, "No problem. Now that you're bringing this up, it means you remember where you saw that pattern. So, tell me."
Erza nodded. As she handed him the folded paper, she explained, "I saw this pattern once before—on a document lying on my grandfather's desk. At the time, my father told me it was a seal. He said someone from Konoha had requested it and that it was created in cooperation with them. But he never told me who that person was or what the seal was meant for."
Shanks unfolded the paper, his eyes narrowing as he examined the mark. To most people—even those from the Uzumaki clan—this symbol would mean nothing. Even the memories of his current body offered no clue.
But from the memories of Earth, the world he came from, he recognized it immediately.
It was a curse mark—specifically, the one used by Root, the secret faction led by Danzo Shimura.
His grip on the paper tightened.
That meant the masked shinobi who had killed his father and tried to wipe out the rest of his family… were from Konoha.
Whether it had been ordered by the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, or was a rogue operation orchestrated by Danzo himself, he didn't yet know. But one thing was now painfully clear:
Konoha was involved.
A hot surge of rage began to rise in Shanks' chest.
----
Want to get daily updates and read chapters on a daily basis? Then join my Patreon!
Patreon Link: https://[email protected]/Hkj822
Join Discord Link: https://discord.gg/FUnTzyS9