The day proceeded as scheduled.
Arata sat through his morning lessons with Master Kenji, listening to lectures on administrative law and the proper forms of address for visiting dignitaries. He took notes and he answered questions when asked.
On the surface, he was the perfect prince—dutiful, attentive and of course unremarkable.
But beneath that surface, his mind was elsewhere.
The royal family of Grass has been a puppet for generations I think, he thought. Or maybe they always were, maybe the council was always the one holding the strings and the Daimyo was just a figurehead to give the people someone to look up at.
He didn't know and right now, it didn't matter.
What mattered was that he needed to understand how the nation worked—the laws, the customs, the systems of power and he is trying to compare it to the workings of law on earth—if he was ever going to rule the nation behind the curtain then he need to paid attention and learned. He stored every piece of information away for later.
Outside the study hall, the palace continued its daily rhythm. The maids cleaned and guards patrolled. The head maid, Akane, moved through the corridors with her usual quiet efficiency, hiding the pain of her aching muscles behind a mask of composure.
No one suspected anything but she didn't know there's shadows around her who knows everything.
During his afternoon break, Arata retreated to his room.
Munchkin was asleep in her basket. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, warm and golden.
He sat cross-legged on the futon and sense his infinite storage.
The copied summoning scroll waited there—pale gold, rolled with a silver threads.
Over the past day, he had been experimenting with its functions. Carefully, he had used his copy power to peel away individual layers of the scroll's essence. Not the whole thing at once, but piece by piece.
He had successfully copied the chakra-infused ink as a separate sphere—a dark, shimmering liquid suspended in stasis, ready to be fused into anything he wanted. That was one master copy stored away.
Next one is the location marking.
This one was more interesting. The summoning scroll contained a complex formula that marked the location of the signer and connected it to a matching formula on the summon's end. When activated, the two formulas created a temporary space portal—the in-and-out mechanism of all summoning techniques.
It was, Arata realized, functionally similar to the Fourth Hokage's Flying Thunder God Technique. A mark and a connection that resulting into a jump through space.
He had copied that function too. Another sphere, silver and intricate, floating in his storage.
Now came the ambitious part.
He lifted his sleeve, revealing the inside of his forearm. A black marking peeked out from beneath the fabric—a swirling pattern of lines and dots, still shifting and still settling. It looked like a tattoo that hadn't finished healing as it try to expand.
He had created it by fusing three things together originally: the chakra-infused ink, the location marking formula, and a small portion of his infinite storage power.
Infinite storage, he thought. A space that only I can access. A pocket dimension where I can keep things safe but what if I could make it more than that? What if I could make it a meeting place? A base of operations?
He had tried to copy his infinite storage power directly. It hadn't worked. The power was either too fundamental, too entwined with his soul, or simply not copiable at all.
So instead, he had taken a different approach. He had fused a link to his storage into the marking. Like installing a door, not the room itself.
If this works, he thought, anyone with this marking—anyone I authorize—can step into my storage space. They can meet there, plan there, hide there. And they go out the same they enter the space.
It was a network. A shadow transportation system as me as the central focal point.
He had also fused a shadow trait into the marking—a piece of his own shadow's essence. He wasn't sure what that would do yet but as the forces under him have trait of his shadow then having this trait will make the space much more accepting. The marking was still transforming, still merging, the lines shifting like living things.
It's a good sign, he told himself. It means the merging is taking place. Though is not yet ready yet hoping that it will be complete tomorrow.
He let his sleeve fall back into place and turned his attention to the other matter.
The snail.
It was sitting on the floor beside his futon, no bigger than his hand, inching toward him with glacial slowness. Its shell was pale brown, unremarkable at first glance.
But if your going to take a closer look, you will saw it.
Jutsu formulas. Tiny, intricate, carved directly into the shell's surface. They pulsed faintly with chakra.
This isn't just a regular snail, he thinks.
He had signed the contract the previous night—curiosity getting the better of him. A drop of blood, a thumbprint, a swirl of chakra. And then… nothing. No giant snail and no dramatic entrance.
Just this. A palm size creature, inching across his floor.
Arata watched it for a long moment.
What am I supposed to do with this snail?
The snail reached his foot and stopped. It seemed to be tired after crawling around.
He sighed.
"Alright," he muttered. "We'll figure you out later."
The snail did not respond. It simply sat there, silent, as snails as should be.
Night fell over the Land of Grass.
The moon was a thin crescent, casting pale light through the windows of Arata's room. Candles flickered on the low table. Munchkin was asleep in her basket. The tiny snail had taken up residence on Arata's right shoulder, its shell cool against his neck.
He sat on his futon, thinking.
Yamiko knelt in the corner, her golden eyes half-closed. The shadow spies were in position.
The door slid open.
Two faceless shadows entered first, dragging a woman between them. Her arms were pinned behind her back. Her feet barely touched the floor. Her eyes were wide, darting around the room, trying to understand what was happening.
Behind her, more shadows entered, each holding another captive.
Five in total.
The head maid, Akane. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had been beaten earlier—Arata could see the way she moved, stiff and careful—but she still held herself with a dignity that almost impressed him.
Miya, his personal maid. She was trembling, her eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape that didn't exist.
Two younger maids, both in their twenties. One was sobbing quietly. The other was frozen, her face blank with shock.
And the fifth—a maid Arata barely recognized. She worked in the kitchens, he thought. She was staring at the shadows holding her with a mixture of terror and confusion.
All of them were gagged with cloth. All of them were forced to their knees in a row before Arata.
The shadows released them but stayed close, ready to grab anyone who tried to run.
Arata looked at each of them in turn. Five women. Five spies. Four of them planted by Elder Mura—Akane, Miya, and the two younger maids. And the fifth, the kitchen maid, was from the Land of Waterfalls.
Interesting, he thought. Even the neighbors are watching.
He reached for the stack of documents on the low table—the evidence of corruption that Akane had been caught planting in the Daimyo's files. He skimmed through them again. Ledgers with false entries. Letters suggesting secret payments. Everything carefully crafted to make the Daimyo look like an embezzler.
Elder Mura, Arata thought. He's planning a coup, he wants to replace the Daimyo with himself, but he needs an excuse. Public corruption. A scandal. Something to turn the people against the royal family.
He set the documents down.
"I know about Elder Mura," he said quietly. "I know about the poison as well. I know about the evidence you were planting tonight."
The gagged maids made muffled sounds of protest. Akane went very still.
Arata looked at each of them in turn. "You are all spies. Some of you work for Elder Mura. One of you works for the Land of Waterfalls. You've been reporting on this household, manipulating events, and in at least one case, attempting murder."
His eyes settled on Akane.
"You tried to kill me. The poison in my tea, the 'weakening heart' the physicians diagnosed. That was you."
Akane's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
Arata sighed. "Here's how this will work. I'm going to take what I need from you. Your memories. Your knowledge. Your skills. And then I'm going to remake you into something more useful."
The younger maid from the kitchens—the Waterfalls spy—began struggling against her captors, her muffled screams high and desperate.
Arata ignored her.
"Akane," he said. "You first."
The shadows dragged her forward until she knelt directly in front of him. He could smell the fear on her—sweat and something else, something acrid. But her eyes were steady.
"Please," she whispered through the gag. The shadow behind her pulled the cloth down so she could speak. "Please. I have a daughter. She's only seven. Don't—"
"I'm not going to hurt your daughter," Arata said. "But I need what's inside you. All of it."
He reached out and placed his palm on her forehead.
Akane's eyes widened. She tried to pull back, but the shadows held her fast.
"Please—" she begged. "Please, I'll tell you everything—"
"I know you will. But I can't take the risk that you're lying. And I can't trust that you won't betray me later. And no worries the new you will still take care of your daughter, that I promise you."
Her eyes went white as Arata activated Extraction.
He had never done this to a living person before. The sensation was strange—like reaching into a river and pulling out a handful of water, but heavier. Denser. He could feel everything flowing into his palm: memories, thoughts, emotions, fears, hopes. The very essence of Akane's soul.
The sphere bloomed. Pale blue, shot through with silver threads.
Akane's body went limp. Her eyes, still white, stared at nothing. Her chest stopped moving.
She was dead.
The other maids watched in horror. Miya let out a muffled scream. The kitchen maid from Waterfalls fainted, slumping against the shadow holding her. The two younger Mura maids wept silently, tears streaming down their faces.
Arata held the sphere in his hand. Her soul. Her memories. Everything that made her who she was.
He placed his other palm on Akane's lifeless body.
Copy.
The familiar warmth bloomed. Another sphere appeared—this one pale gold, containing a perfect copy of the body. The empty vessel. The shell.
He now had two spheres: the soul (with all its memories) and the body (empty but intact).
Fusion.
He brought the spheres together. They merged without resistance, swirling into a single orb of blinding white light. The light surged through the room, forcing the maids to squeeze their eyes shut.
Then it dimmed.
And a second Akane knelt beside the original lifeless body.
She was identical—same face, same build, same gray-streaked hair. But her eyes were different. Calm. Clear and even devoted.
She bowed her head. "Master."
Arata smiled. It was a small, tired smile, but genuine.
"It looks like it was a success," he said.
He looked at the lifeless body of the original Akane—still kneeling, still frozen, empty. A shadow spy dragged it away, dissolving into darkness with it.
Arata turned to the remaining maids.
"Next."
The process was repeated for each captive.
Miya went second. She struggled, she wept, she begged. But in the end, her soul was extracted, her body copied, and the fusion created a new Miya—loyal, calm, devoted.
The two younger maids from Elder Mura went third and fourth. They had been recruited recently, their memories confirmed. One had been tasked with monitoring the Daimyo's correspondence. The other had been responsible for spreading rumors among the servants. Both died. Both were reborn.
Finally, the kitchen maid from the Land of Waterfalls.
She had woken from her faint just in time to watch the others die. Her face was gray with terror. When the shadows dragged her forward, she didn't struggle. She simply stared at Arata with wide, hopeless eyes.
"Please," she whispered. "I don't want to die."
Arata said nothing and he placed his palm on her forehead.
She struggled but the extraction was quick. Her soul was turn into a sphere, then was fused with a copy of her body. When the light faded, the new version knelt before him, her expression calm.
"Master," she said.
Arata nodded.
Five new servants. Five loyal spies.
By midnight, the room was quiet.
The five women knelt in a row before Arata—Akane, Miya, the two younger Mura maids, and the Waterfalls kitchen maid. Their eyes were clear. Their expressions calm. They wore the same faces, the same bodies, but something fundamental had changed.
They were his now, completely.
"The evidence," Arata said to Akane. "burn it but report to Elder Mura that everything is under control and the evidence was successfully planted he must not suspect anything."
Akane bowed. "Yes, Master."
"Miya. You will continue your duties as my personal maid. You will report to me directly if anyone make contact to you and asks, nothing has changed and everything is proceeding as plan." Arata knows that Miya was planted as a spies to check Akane's action.
"Yes, Master."
The other three received similar instructions—continue their routines, maintain their cover, report everything to him.
Arata leaned back on his futon. The tiny snail shifted on his shoulder, its shell cool against his neck.
"One more thing," he said. "I am developing a marking. It will allow you to enter our main headquarters—a place where our future meeting, planning, and hideout will take place. It is not yet ready. When it is, you will receive it. Until then, you will continue as you are."
He paused.
"Go. Return to your posts."
The five women rose and leave out of the room, their movements silent and smooth. The shadows watched them go.
He raised his sleeve and looked at the black marking on his forearm. It was still shifting, still transforming—the lines moving like slow serpents, the chakra within it pulsing gently.
Not ready yet, he thought. But soon.
He let his sleeve fall.
Munchkin snored softly in her basket. The snail settled into the hollow of his collarbone, its shell warm against his skin.
He closed his eyes as the shadow spies and yamiko retreat into the shadows.
Sleep took him, deep and dreamless.