The moment Reikan Shiin uttered the words, "…we may now begin the auction." the air in the hall changed palpably.
Gone was the scattered murmur of small talk and light politicking. It was replaced by a collective silence so thick it seemed to weigh down on the shoulders of every figure present.
Even the torchlight flickering along the scroll-engraved pillars of the grand hall dimmed under the sheer intensity of the new atmosphere. A tension that was quiet, but electric.
Dangerous, even.
Despite their calm exteriors, every individual in the room—seasoned diplomats, hardened shinobi, and elder representatives—tightened their mental defences.
The Shiin Clan may not have been shinobi in the traditional sense, but they were no less dangerous. Their bloodline technique—an uncanny manipulation of memories—was a whispered terror across even the most secure minds. It wasn't genjutsu. It was worse. Trickier. Real. And because of that, everyone seated around the crescent-shaped auction hall instinctively braced themselves. No one here would risk even a whisper of betrayal—not under Reikan Shiin's eye.
Reikan himself remained poised at the front. His voice rang clear, calm and smooth like flowing sake. "Today's gathering is not merely ceremonial," he said. "We are here to discuss an opportunity—perhaps the most valuable currently."
He gestured with one hand and behind him, a large scroll unfurled down the wall with a thud. Upon it was painted a stylized map of the Land of Rice Fields, marked with bold ink strokes. At its centre, a spot glimmered faintly with gold paint.
"A gold vein was discovered last season near the eastern ridge of Fushine Village," Reikan began, his fingers forming a loose triangle before his chest. "Preliminary surveys estimate the mine could produce over four hundred million Ryo in the first five years of extraction alone. With deeper excavation, that number only rises."
There was a collective intake of breath, hushed but present. Even the most composed among them couldn't entirely hide their reactions.
Reikan let the words settle before continuing, "We—the Shiin Clan and our benefactors from the Land of Iron—have decided to lease the extraction and management rights of this mine. The right to station military presence for its protection. The right to transportation routes. And, naturally, a portion of the profits."
He paused, letting the gravity of the situation weigh down on the room. "In these… volatile times," he added, his eyes narrowing subtly, "this is not just a financial venture. It is a lifeline. A guarantee."
Everyone knew what he meant.
War.
It loomed on the horizon like a brewing storm. The Kages' recent political aggression had disrupted the already delicate balance between nations. And war—though profitable to some—was never cheap. Supplies. Troops. Bribes. Medicine. Equipment. Ryos were more valuable than ever, and the acquisition of a gold mine was tantamount to economic supremacy in the coming years.
It wasn't a chakra crystal mine, no. But right now, it might as well have been far more valuable.
Reikan lifted a small ceremonial mallet and struck the wooden platform before him.
"Tok!"
The sound echoed like a kunai bouncing off stone.
"We begin the bidding at seventy million ryo."
Several gasps escaped from the seats at the far left—minor village representatives. They had known this wouldn't be cheap, but to start there?
"Seventy million from Konoha," came the immediate bid. Jiraiya's voice was casual, as if he were discussing tea prices. He leaned back in his seat, arms folded, long white mane cascading behind him like a relaxed wolf in enemy territory.
"Eighty million," rasped a heavy voice—Ebizo of Sunagakure. He sat upright beside Rasa, who said nothing, eyes fixed on Reikan.
"Eighty-five," spoke a young, sharp-eyed man—representative of Kirigakure.
"Ninety," said a tall, broad-shouldered shinobi in dark blue robes—Kumogakure's envoy.
Jiraiya raised a brow and smirked.
"Ninety-one," he said with deliberate pause.
The Kumo representative visibly twitched.
The Iwagakure kunoichi, who had remained silent thus far, calmly lifted a single finger. "One hundred million."
Heads turned. She was statuesque, with stern, impassive features, dressed in earthen hues. Her name, Jiraiya recalled, was Koari Inzaki—a rising force among Iwa's diplomatic core. And the true reason he'd been sent here.
Back and forth the numbers flew—fast, sharp like kunai clashing in the dark.
By the time the bid reached 247 million, the hall was abuzz with whispered disbelief. Even the minor villages, resigned to the futility of their presence, could hardly believe the fervour with which the great powers threw their Ryo into the flames of possibility.
"Two seventy-five," came from Ebizo—then silence. Suna had folded.
"Three hundred," declared the Kiri envoy, grim-faced.
"Three fifty," Koari said coolly.
"Three fifty-one," Jiraiya answered, not missing a beat.
Kiri folded next, muttering under their breath about insane spending.
That left three—Konoha, Kumo, and Iwa.
The Kumo representative leaned over toward Koari, speaking just loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Withdraw, and Kumo will ensure Iwagakure's borders remain untouched when the tide rises."
Koari glanced sideways at him, unimpressed.
"Will Suna promise the same?" she asked.
The Kumo man said nothing.
"That's what I thought," Koari snapped. "Four hundred million."
Gasps erupted.
"Four ten," barked the Kumo rep through clenched teeth.
"Four eleven," drawled Jiraiya, casually tapping a finger against the armrest of his chair.
The Kumo envoy's fist clenched. "Are you mocking me?" he hissed across the hall.
"I'm just bidding," Jiraiya said, tone light but eyes sharp. "It's an auction, remember?"
Koari stifled a chuckle. "Four twenty."
"Four twenty-five," Kumo replied, strained.
"Four twenty-six," Jiraiya, again.
Koari raised a brow at him.
And so it went until the number reached 440—a deadlock. Everyone watched, breath baited.
"Four forty," Koari Inzaki of Iwagakure called, her tone ironclad.
"Four forty-one!" barked the Kumo representative immediately, his jaw tight, a vein beginning to pulse near his temple.
Jiraiya stretched in his seat, let out an exaggerated sigh, and rubbed his temples as though the entire affair had become far too bothersome.
The hall hushed.
And then, without warning, Jiraiya stood.
He rose with a dramatic flourish, his red cloak sweeping behind him like a cape in the wind.
"Ladies, gentlemen, future warmongers and gold diggers!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the vaulted hall. "I think we've all been going about this the wrong way."
Koari narrowed her eyes.
The Kumo envoy stiffened. "What are you—?"
Jiraiya raised a hand, cutting him off. "I, Jiraiya, Sanin of the Hidden Leaf, hereby make a formal declaration. I have no interest in Konoha securing this mine… if it means watching Kumogakure's smug face light up like he won the lottery."
Gasps and chuckles broke out. The Kumo rep's face turned a dangerous shade of red.
"I propose this—" Jiraiya went on, pacing a few slow steps along the centre aisle of the grand room like a wandering bard in a theatre. "Iwa can have the mine. I'll even help cover the rest of the bid if you're short, Koari-chan."
She blinked.
The room stilled.
"All I ask…" he added, with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes, "is that they don't get it."
He jabbed a thumb toward the Kumo rep without even looking.
"You would rather gift it to Iwa than see Kumo profit?" the man snapped, half-rising.
"I'd rather toss it into a volcano than let your village have it," Jiraiya quipped, waving him off. "But this seemed more… productive. For they bend before the mountain's weight, because the stone remembers what the wind forgets."
Several of the minor representatives struggled to hide their laughter. A delegate from Takigakure coughed violently, clearly choking on tea.
Koari stared at Jiraiya for a long moment. Her face was unreadable, but behind her eyes, something shifted—surprise, then calculation, and finally amusement.
She rose smoothly, inclining her head slightly in Jiraiya's direction. "Four forty-nine million," she said, her voice ringing out over the stunned gathering.
The ceremonial mallet struck.
"Tok!"
"Sold to Iwagakure," Reikan Shiin intoned, barely able to hide his curious smile.
Stunned silence.
"Why would Konoha support Iwa?" muttered the Kumo rep, eyes narrowing. "Unless… they're working together?"
As murmurs spread like wildfire, Jiraiya stood, brushing off imaginary dust from his red robes. "Well then," he yawned. "Guess I'll be taking my leave."
He left with purposeful strides, not glancing back. Relief was visible on the faces of multiple delegates—the tension between Jiraiya and Kumo had been nearing explosive.
As he exited, leaving behind the ornate hall and its marble floor, the heavy doors groaned shut behind him with a thud.
The auction was over.
But Jiraiya's mission wasn't.
Later, beneath the vast expanse of the afternoon sky, somewhere far from the grandeur of politics and the greed of men, Jiraiya lay beneath a blooming jacaranda tree. Purple petals drifted from above like tiny fragments of a dream. He rested his arms behind his head, eyes half-closed, breathing slow and deep.
The wind whispered through the grass and stirred the blossoms.
He wasn't resting.
He was waiting.
And whoever he was waiting for… was late.
He exhaled, staring at the drifting clouds above.
"Any moment now," he murmured. "Let's see if you're as interesting as they say, Koari Inzaki."
A petal landed on his nose.
=====
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