Naruto: Being a Shinobi with no System But...

Aoki Ninja Tool Shop

The lighting inside the shop was dim, casting long shadows across the neatly arranged shelves of shinobi tools.

Behind the counter sat a lean, white-haired old man with a monocle perched on his nose. Under the glow of a desk lamp, he patiently filed the edge of a kunai, the rasp of metal against metal steady and unhurried.

The curtain rustled as Roshi entered with Anko and Itachi. The old man’s gaze lifted. His eyes lingered briefly on the Konoha forehead protector tied across Roshi’s brow before sweeping over the two younger shinobi behind him. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before returning his gaze to Roshi.

”Two sets of combat uniforms,” Roshi said, walking up to the counter. ”Durable material, with built-in cushioning at the joints.”

The old man set aside the kunai and file, then moved to a back shelf, pulling out several rolls of thick fabric in muted colors.

”Dark gray, indigo blue, and dark green,” he explained. ”The indigo and dark green are new blends—thirty percent more elasticity and protection. But they cost fifty percent more.”

Roshi turned to his teammates. ”Pick your own colors. Anko, you also need new weighted leg wraps and arm guards—yours are worn down. Make sure they meet standard Chūnin specs,” he added for the old man.

”For Itachi, the gear needs to be lightweight. Prioritize mobility.”

Normally, Genin wouldn’t invest in expensive combat gear. Their missions rarely demanded it. But Itachi wasn’t just any Genin—he was now part of a team meant for higher-level missions.

Anko pouted at the dull fabric options, her eyes drifting away—until they caught on a dark purple, hooded trench coat hanging from a rack nearby. The coat’s fabric had a unique matte finish, sharp cuts at the shoulders and elbows, reinforced for battle yet stylish. It radiated a sleek, untamed feel.

”That… counts as protective gear too, right?” she asked, pointing at it, her voice almost hopeful.

The old man followed her gaze. ”A combat trench coat. Treated to be light and breathable. A little less protection than a vest.”

”I’ll take it! The purple one, in my size!” Anko’s eyes brightened immediately. Just the sight of that coat seemed to lift her spirits, as though its vivid purple could cut through the shadows lingering in her heart.

Itachi quietly pointed toward the indigo blue roll of fabric, then indicated his height with a small gesture.

The old man made a note of their choices and disappeared into the back storeroom.

While they waited, Itachi’s gaze slid toward the glass display beneath the counter. Inside lay rows of specialized shuriken. One design in particular caught his attention—its edges lined with faint reverse serrations, gleaming faintly blue under the lamp. His eyes lingered.

”Interested?” Roshi asked, following his gaze. ”Those are new Fūma shuriken. Stronger armor-piercing and tearing effects, but harder to control. With your current wrist strength, you’d barely manage. Push it, and you could injure yourself. Next year—when you’re stronger—you’ll be ready.”

Itachi gave a short, wordless nod and looked away.

The old man returned soon after, carrying the ordered gear. Anko eagerly claimed the dark purple trench coat, running her fingers across the smooth fabric. Itachi accepted his indigo-blue uniform with quiet composure.

”That will be one hundred seventy-eight thousand ryō,” the old man said evenly.

Anko froze mid-motion. Her arm stiffened around the trench coat, and she turned wide-eyed toward Roshi. She knew shinobi gear was costly, but this… this was a fortune.

”Captain,” she blurted, her voice halfway between disbelief and awe. ”You’re not secretly a millionaire, are you? Treating us to dinner was one thing, but this… gift…” She hefted the delicate paper bag in her hand.

Roshi didn’t so much as flinch. He pulled out his money pouch, thumbed through a thick stack of bills, and handed them over with quiet decisiveness. His gaze slid sideways to Anko, his tone flat but edged with a warning:

”If it bothers you that much, you can pay for your own. I earned extra on the last mission.”

Anko gave an awkward smile, clutching the trench coat tighter to her chest, and wisely said no more.

The old man counted the bills, nodded, and the transaction was complete.

The trio stepped out into the evening. The sky above was fully dark, Konoha’s commercial street glowing brighter beneath lanterns and shop signs. Anko clutched her coat, her expression a little stiff; Itachi carried his package neatly in one arm.

Roshi’s voice cut through the hum of voices and street noise. ”Since we’re already on the subject of money—it’s time we establish rules for mission pay.” He didn’t stop walking, his gaze flicking across the two.

”From now on, forty percent of all earnings go into team funds—for tools, medicine, and consumables.”

He continued without pause, ”Of the remaining sixty percent, I’ll take forty. You two split the rest evenly. Any objections?”

Itachi nodded almost instantly, his young face calm, betraying no objection. Roshi was the Captain, the strongest among them—of course he deserved the larger share.

Besides, Itachi reasoned, most of the team’s public funds wouldn’t even be spent on Roshi. His fighting style hardly required the use of tools or consumables.

Anko, on the other hand, looked relieved. A grin spread across her face. ”In that case, I won’t object! Thanks, Captain!”

The three soon reached a fork in the road, the path splitting toward different districts of the village. Anko, clutching her new gear, waved lazily before disappearing into the bustling crowd drifting toward the apartment blocks.

Roshi turned to Itachi. ”Want me to walk you to the clan compound gate?”

”No need, Captain,” Itachi replied, bowing slightly, the indigo-blue paper bag held firmly in his hands.

”Hm.” Roshi said nothing more, striding off toward the western edge of the village.

Itachi continued on alone, his steps measured and steady. The tall silhouette of the Uchiha compound walls soon loomed ahead, their solemn presence unmistakable in the faint glow of the street lamps. Just as he rounded the corner, a voice, clear and familiar, slipped out from the deep shadows beneath an old roadside tree:

”Itachi, you’re back.”

Itachi didn’t falter. His eyes lifted toward the shade. ”Shisui.”

From the darkness, the tree’s shadow shifted, and a figure emerged as though born from the night itself. Uchiha Shisui stepped into the dim halo of a lamp, his high-collared dark blue uniform crisp, a short sword strapped across his back. His forehead protector gleamed faintly under the light. He wore his usual easy smile—gentle, effortless, as if it belonged there. His gaze lingered on the paper bag in Itachi’s arms.

”How was team practice today?” Shisui fell into step beside him without effort, their movements syncing as naturally as breathing.

”Captain Roshi is very strong,” Itachi said evenly, his voice calm but edged with respect. ”After training, he treated Anko-senpai and me to sukiyaki… and bought us ninja tools as gifts.”

He added, almost as an afterthought, ”Combat uniforms.”

Shisui blinked, the faintest note of surprise breaking through his smile. ”That’s unusually generous. A captain isn’t expected to buy equipment for his team.”

As one of Konoha’s top Jonin, he knew well the unspoken rules. Tools and gear were almost always a shinobi’s personal responsibility—or provided by their clan.

Itachi was aware of this too. His previous Jonin instructor had been competent, but never this… considerate.

”Captain Roshi is thoughtful,” Itachi murmured, eyes fixed on the lantern-lit road ahead. ”Gentle.”

Shisui’s lips curved a little higher. ”Do you like him that much?”

Itachi’s pace faltered for the briefest heartbeat, as though weighing the question carefully. Then he nodded, his voice steady, but with a quiet certainty. ”Yes. With Captain Roshi…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. ”…it feels easy.”

Not like the suffocating weight of clan meetings. Not like the tense atmosphere of the training grounds. And certainly not like the invisible pressure pressing down whenever he stood before his father.

With Roshi, he could eat without restraint, receive clear guidance, and glimpse the shape of a life that felt—almost—promising.

”Oh? Is that so?” Shisui’s voice carried a warmth of genuine relief. ”That’s good then. To have found such a comrade.”

His gaze softened. ”Truth is, I had been considering applying to Hokage-sama to become your captain myself.”

Itachi stayed silent, his footsteps light on the stone road. The night air filled with little more than the rhythm of their strides and the faint chorus of crickets.

After a few breaths, Itachi finally spoke again, his voice edged with something faintly uncertain: ”But… Captain Roshi seems to have another identity. Father is very cautious about it.” His dark eyes lifted toward Shisui, quietly searching. ”Shisui… is there a special clan in Konoha? One without a surname?”

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