System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 220: Chapter 219: Smoke Shop

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A week had drifted by since Alaric’s dramatic arrival in Konoha with Zabuza and Haku. The village had, for the most part, accepted his presence with a wary, watchful curiosity. He was a known associate of the Hokage now, a status that granted him a certain immunity from the usual scrutiny, but the ANBU were never far, their chakra signatures were clear as day within his senses.

He spent his days roaming, making him look like a enigmatic giant in a foreign land. His primary, unspoken objective was to locate Danzō Shimura, but the old war hawk was a master of the shadows, his movements were a secret even from most of the village’s elite.

Finding him by chance was proving to be a frustrating exercise in futility, if only he met the man at least once then Alaric would’ve just located his chakra signature.

So, Alaric walked. He explored the busy market streets, the quiet residential districts, the serene training grounds. He was walking by a familiar street where he saw the Yamanaka clan’s flower shop, its vibrant colors and sweet fragrances a beautiful contrast to the disciplined gray of the village’s stone walls. The scent was a pleasant lure, but Alaric’s attention was snagged by the establishment next to it.

It was a small, discreet shop with a dark wooden facade and a simple, elegant noren curtain hanging over the entrance, bearing the stylized image of a curling plume of smoke. It was a place he had passed several times but had never truly registered. He looked closer, and his eyebrows rose slightly. Through the clean glass of the display window, he saw it. A single, perfect pack of Premium Cigars.

”Now that’s fortunate...” he murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face.

He walked towards the shop and stopped at the front, admiring the understated display. The air around the entrance already carried the rich, earthy aroma of fine tobacco.

”Ah, good morning!” A young, cheerful-looking clerk with spiky brown hair popped his head out from behind the noren curtain, his smile was wide and genuine. ”What can I get for you?”

Alaric looked at the clerk, then pointed a long finger at the cigars in the window. ”How much for one pack?”

”Oh? Premium Cigars?” The clerk’s eyebrows rose, his gaze taking in Alaric’s fine crimson coat and confident bearing. ”It’s 5,000 Ryo per pack.”

”Okay,” Alaric nodded. ”Aside from these... do you have more in stock? I wanna buy a lot of ’em.”

The clerk’s professional smile widened into a genuinely intrigued grin. He eyed Alaric for a moment, then nodded enthusiastically. ”Sure, let’s go inside!” He held the noren curtain aside, leading Alaric into the shop’s interior.

As Alaric stepped inside, his own eyebrows rose in fascination. The small storefront was just a facade. The interior opened up into a spacious, well-lit room, a true haven for any smoker.

The walls were lined with shelves of polished dark wood, displaying an astonishing variety of cigars, cigarettes, and intricately carved pipes from every corner of the Elemental Nations. The air was filled with a complex, pleasant aroma of aged tobacco, cedar, and a hint of something sweet, like cherry wood. ’Why did they have Premium Cigars displayed outside? Are the ones outside just a fake display?’

The clerk moved behind a long, polished counter, his earlier cheerfulness now tinged with a professional eagerness. ”So, how many Premium Cigars did you want?”

”Wait a second,” Alaric replied, his gaze sweeping over the impressive collection. ”Do you have something better than the Premium Cigar? It seems there are lots of ’em that look better in quality.”

”Yes, please wait a moment,” the clerk nodded, his eyes gleaming. He disappeared through a door behind the counter and returned a moment later, carrying a large, lacquered wooden tray. On it, nestled in velvet lining, were several glass-topped boxes, each containing a different type of cigar. ”Here you go...”

He placed the tray on the counter with a practiced, reverent gesture. ”For our more... discerning clientele,” he began, his voice dropping into a smooth, practiced sales pitch, ”we offer a selection of rare and exclusive blends.”

He pointed to the first box. ”These are the ’Wind Country Reserves’. The leaves are grown in the harshest desert oases, then aged for three years in the cool, dry air of Sunagakure’s hidden caves. They have a distinct, spicy note, very popular with shinobi who appreciate a robust flavor.”

He then slid another box forward. ”And these... the ’Kumo Thunderheads’. Cultivated on the high-altitude plateaus of the Land of Lightning. The tobacco is exposed to the unique atmospheric chakra there, giving it a bold, almost electric tingle on the tongue. A favorite of the Raikage’s personal guard, I’m told.”

The clerk paused, his eyes twinkling as he saved the best for last. He carefully lifted a single, ornate box, its wood a deep, lustrous black, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

”And this,” he said, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper, ”is the Daimyo’s Choice. Each one is hand-rolled by the legendary master, old man Kenji, who is said to have rolled cigars for the Shodaime Hokage himself. The leaves are a secret blend, grown in a hidden valley here in the Land of Fire. The flavor is... indescribable. Smooth, complex, with a hint of sweetness that lingers for hours. We only receive a small shipment once a year. It is, without a doubt, the finest cigar in the world.”

’Wait, Hashirama smoked cigars? A man of culture I see,’ Alaric listened patiently, a faint, amused smirk on his lips. He picked up one of the Daimyo’s Choice cigars, examining its flawless construction, the perfect, oily sheen of the wrapper. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the rich, complex aroma. ”Impressive,” he conceded, placing it back in the box. He looked at the clerk. ”How many of these,” he gestured to the Daimyo’s Choice, ”and the Thunderheads, do you have in stock?”

The clerk blinked, slightly taken aback by the directness. ”Ah... of the Daimyo’s Choice, we have the remainder of this year’s shipment... perhaps five hundred packs. Of the Thunderheads, maybe a thousand.” He laughed nervously, assuming the question was purely hypothetical.

Alaric just nodded. ”I’ll take them all.”

”...” ”...”

The clerk’s smile froze on his face. He stared at Alaric, his mouth slightly agape. ”E-Excuse me, sir? D-Did you say... all of them?”

”That’s right,” Alaric confirmed, his tone casual. He began pulling other, equally impressive-looking boxes from the shelves behind the counter. ”And these ’Iron Country Frosts’, and these ’Mizukage’s Mist’ ones too. Everything you consider your high-end stock. I’ll buy it all.”

The clerk swallowed hard, his mind racing to calculate the astronomical sum. ”S-Sir,” he stammered, ”that would be... that would be nearly forty million Ryo.”

”Sounds about right,” Alaric said with a nonchalant shrug.

The clerk stared, utterly speechless. He had dealt with wealthy clients before... jōnin commanders, clan heads, even the occasional feudal lord. But no one, no one, had ever walked in and offered to buy out his entire premium inventory. He finally snapped out of his stupor, his professionalism kicking back in, now amplified by a profound sense of awe.

”Y-Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” he exclaimed, bowing deeply. He scrambled to gather the boxes, his hands trembling slightly. ”I will have everything packed for you immediately!”

A few minutes later, a small mountain of elegantly boxed cigars sat on the counter. The clerk, his face still flushed with a mixture of shock and elation, carefully slid a small, lacquered wooden card across the counter. It was black, with the shop’s name and a stylized smoke plume embossed in gold leaf.

”Sir,” he said, his voice filled with a new, profound respect. ”Please, accept this. It is our VIP card. It entitles you to a ten percent discount on all future purchases. You are, without a doubt, our most valued customer.”

Alaric took the card, glanced at it, and then tucked it into his coat pocket. ”Thanks,” he said. He then picked up one of the Daimyo’s Choice cigars, unwrapped it, and placed it between his lips. With a familiar, almost lazy snap of his fingers, the tip glowed red.

He took a long, slow drag, savoring the incredibly smooth, rich flavor. He exhaled a perfect smoke ring that floated towards the ceiling. ”Very nice,” he commented, a genuine note of appreciation in his voice. He then turned to the mountain of boxes on the counter.

With a casual wave of his hand, a complex fuinjutsu seal on his shoulder glowed for a fraction of a second, completely unseen beneath his coat. The entire pile of cigars, and the VIP card he’d just pocketed, vanished in a silent, shimmering distortion of space, sealed away into his private storage dimension.

The clerk, who had been watching, his eyes already wide, let out a small, strangled gasp. His jaw dropped, and he stared at the now-empty counter, then back at the man who was calmly smoking the finest cigar in the world, his mind utterly, completely, broken.

”Sensei?”

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