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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 49. Business instinct
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 20:14:29 +0000 UTCFugaku stepped out of the forest shadows in the pre-dawn stillness, leading two purebred stallions by the reins. Their sleek, polished dark coats shimmered faintly in the pale light.
Before him stretched a deserted, dew-covered green meadow, surrounded by hills and trees. There were no prying eyes here. Moving quickly and confidently, Fugaku hitched the horses to a black carriage adorned with the Uchiha clan crest, then pulled out two syringes filled with a thick green liquid.
"Easy," he muttered, before injecting each horse with a dose.
The effect was immediate. Veins bulged on their necks and flanks like intertwined ropes. Muscles swelled with power, bones subtly lengthened, and their eyes flared with an animalistic fire. The stallions shuddered and kicked, but didn’t panic — they had been through this before. The transformation from hardy steeds into hoofed titans capable of running for three days straight while dragging a heavy carriage across any terrain had already been etched into their bodies.
"Is this your hidden jutsu?" came a female voice behind him.
Fugaku turned instantly — it was Mikoto. Or rather, her head, which was returning to her body along a long, snake-like neck that stretched five meters through the air. Within seconds, she looked once again like an ordinary woman, now seated on the front bench of the carriage.
"That technique is creepy," he muttered, settling in beside her.
"To each their own," Mikoto shrugged. "Some would say your injections are even scarier. Especially when they see what they do to the body."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping, more intimate.
"Can you make me like you?" she asked, meeting his eyes. "I’ve seen how you train with the boys. How you block kunai with your bare hands. How you lift weight that even the Hokage couldn’t move. I want that too."
"I’ve thought about it," he said slowly. "You’re an adult. Your body is fully formed. The serum will push it to its peak without breaking it."
He pulled a dense vial of green liquid and a syringe from his inner pocket. The Venom shimmered inside.
"You want to become stronger right now?" he asked, eyes locked on hers.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "Do it."
Fugaku gently took her hand, found the vein. Her skin was warm, her pulse steady. He inserted the needle and pressed the plunger slowly.
Almost instantly, Mikoto jerked, then clutched her stomach and collapsed onto the grass, gasping for breath. Her body began to contort, as if invisible blows were striking it in waves. He watched as new muscles surfaced beneath her skin, bones lengthened, inner tissue tore and reformed into something denser, more resilient. Her back arched, her teeth clenched, lips turned white.
After several agonizing minutes, she rose to her feet, trembling. She was now nearly twenty centimeters taller. Her body looked like it had been sculpted from marble — not bulky, but with perfect proportions. Chiseled abs, defined shoulders, strong yet elegant arms and legs. As if a sculptor had infused her with the essence of both warrior and woman.
Her figure had changed — the youthful angularity was gone. Now her silhouette held something he remembered from his previous world. The shape of Wonder Woman. An Amazon. Beauty and strength in one form. And he liked it.
"I can smell things more intensely," Mikoto said, looking around as if seeing the world for the first time. "And I see so much more clearly. Even without activating the Sharingan."
"Venom enhances everything," Fugaku nodded. "Strength, speed, perception, regeneration. For now, you’ll need to take it once a week, on schedule. No skips. After a year, your body will stabilize. It’ll become the new normal. No more injections needed."
Mikoto looked down and flinched. The skirt that had once reached her knees now barely covered her thighs. And the T-shirt, stretched over her newly enhanced chest, had simply split at the seams.
"I feel... awkward," she muttered.
"There’s a large black tracksuit in the carriage. I prepared it in advance."
"You were prepared?" she asked, surprised. "So you already knew I’d ask?"
"I knew you wouldn’t stay on the sidelines," he said quietly.
Mikoto couldn’t help herself — she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Brief, decisive, almost grateful. He didn’t move, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Fugaku settled onto the front bench and took the reins. He snapped them — and the horses surged forward with such force that the carriage nearly bounced off the ground.
///
It took them only a day to reach the Land of Hot Springs. The horses, infused with Venom, didn’t stop for a second, never slowed down — not in the mountains, not on the narrow forest trails, not on the bare plains where the wind tore the hood off one’s face.
Fugaku and Mikoto rode in silence for most of the journey — not because they had nothing to say, but because each was processing their own transformation. He — in the role of a husband. She — in a new body, with a new perception of the world.
The Land of Hot Springs welcomed them with lush abundance. The resort town was full of life: shops, bright lanterns, dancing street performers. Music poured from everywhere — open restaurant doors, street musicians, hotel windows. The air smelled of grilled meat, hot spices, and the humid steam of the springs.
The crowd was diverse: tourists, wealthy merchants, local dealers, street magicians, shinobi on vacation, old men in kimonos, and drunk warriors.
They were already being awaited at the entrance to the large stable.
"Welcome, esteemed Uchiha," bowed a man in a black business suit. His hair was slicked back neatly, and a droplet-shaped hotel pin adorned his lapel. "My name is Seki. On behalf of the Senju Spa Hotel, I’ll be accompanying you and ensuring your utmost comfort during your stay."
“For that price, you better,” Fugaku snorted, not slowing his pace. “Let’s hope the brochure wasn’t lying.”
"Your room has a balcony, reinforced soundproofing, and a private masseur," Seki replied with dignity, walking beside them. He was carrying a single bag — Mikoto’s. "Your horses will be in good hands. We specialize in rare breeds."
“I doubt anyone here has dealt with monsters like ours,” Mikoto said quietly, glancing at the stable boy, who swallowed nervously.
They moved along the central street, paved with colorful tiles. People bustled around them, and within a few steps, Fugaku identified two main categories: those who came to spend money, and those who came to earn it.
To the left, seated on a plush armchair in the middle of the street, a fat businessman was having his head massaged by a ragged performer who skillfully juggled oil jars. To the right, a lanky banker tossed a small coin into the case of a string instrument — played by a boy of about sixteen, and playing, it must be said, quite well.
But some stood out from the swirl of commerce.
Men in gray armor, with katana at their sides. They stood in the shadows, observing, occasionally speaking to each other without visible emotion.
“Samurai,” Fugaku muttered, frowning slightly. “What are men from the Land of Iron doing here?”
Seki turned his head politely while continuing to walk. “The same thing they do every summer, sir. Recruiting.”
“Recruiting?” Mikoto repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. “Here? In the middle of this celebration of life and bars? They must be desperate.”
“It’s not that simple,” Seki explained gently, barely dodging a passing candy vendor. “Many young people with chakra come here. Bastards of shinobi who once had a night with a village girl and vanished. They have no training at the academy, no jōnin mentors. But they do have chakra.”
Fugaku and Mikoto exchanged glances. It made more sense than it seemed at first.
“They come here seeking destiny,” Seki continued. “Hoping someone will hire them as bodyguards, take them on as apprentices. Hoping someone will give them a chance. The samurai offer training. Not for free — as a loan. Later, once the person becomes a full-fledged warrior and finds a lord to serve, they start repaying the debt from their salary.”
“So it’s a business?” Fugaku asked, watching the armor of one of the warriors — clearly a veteran — with interest. “Sword school on credit?”
“Something like that,” the attendant nodded. “Lord Mifune has been developing the system for nearly ten years now.”
“How’s the recruitment going?” Mikoto asked calmly.
Seki hesitated slightly for the first time.
“Not great. The youth consider the way of the sword outdated. Especially when compared to the flexibility and power of a shinobi. The samurai don’t have many techniques, and the ones they do… well, they’re not flashy.”
“They’re fools to underestimate the sword,” Mikoto muttered, adjusting the hilt of Kusanagi at her hip. “One good strike can replace a hundred jutsu.”
Fugaku noticed one of the samurai briefly glance at Mikoto — and give her a respectful nod.
In the distance, the hotel façade came into view: an elegant building in traditional style, with red pillars, lanterns, and a tiered roof. The scent of jasmine and light steam drifted from within.
///
They settled into a spacious suite on the top floor of the hotel, with wide windows offering a picturesque view of the distant mountains. Silvery clouds crawled slowly along the slopes. Inside, the Senju clan had hidden the Uchiha’s weapons.
“Let’s begin,” Fugaku said quietly, pricking his finger.
At his gesture, the air flared — and shadows began to swirl through the room. A hundred silent bats lined up on the floor. Only one — larger, with golden eyes and dressed in a black kimono — perched on Fugaku’s hand.
“Use echolocation to scan the entire mountain range,” Fugaku ordered, pointing out the window. “Map the tunnels, shafts, and hollows. Mark traps. But don’t touch them.”
“Understood,” the speaking bat replied.
A flutter of wings followed — and the room fell silent again. Only shadows flickered past the windows, disappearing into the sky.
“Looks like we have at least twelve hours of idleness,” Mikoto whispered, wrapping her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “What shall we do, my love?”
Fugaku frowned slightly. He wasn’t used to vacations. But her warm palm on his chest, her voice, the scent of her hair — reminded him he didn’t have to be a weapon every second of the day.
“Every guidebook praises the local cuisine like it’s a wonder of the world,” he said suddenly, turning and pulling her closer by the waist. “Maybe we should go test that claim?”
“Wonderful idea,” she rose onto her toes, nearly brushing his lips — but didn’t kiss him. “But first — shopping. You look like a mercenary, and I look like an escaped criminal in this tracksuit. I want to feel like a tourist.”
///
The tourist market was loud, colorful, and rich with the scent of spices. They wandered between stalls, trying on summer clothes.
“Which one do you like more?” Mikoto held up two shirts — one blue, one red. “Keep in mind, I’ll be staring at you all vacation.”
“Then pick the one you won’t get tired of,” he replied.
She laughed — genuinely, brightly, like before the wedding. In the end, he ended up in a light blue shirt, knee-length shorts, and a ridiculous straw hat that said “I ♥ Hot Springs.” He felt awkward, but when Mikoto looked at him with a smile — he knew it was right.
She picked short white shorts for herself, a pink tank top with “Strong Girl” written across it, and oversized sunglasses.
“Now we look like a normal couple,” she purred, glancing at their reflection. “Well, almost.”
Under the shirt, Fugaku still wore a belt with weapons. At Mikoto’s hip, secured with straps, hung Kusanagi. They never went unarmed — even when disguised as a pair of love-struck tourists.
///
That evening, they headed to the famous “Dragon’s Dance” restaurant, where a legendary chef, basking in fame and fortune, reigned in the kitchen. The establishment was perched on a mountaintop.
As expected of such a high-end place, all tables were booked months in advance. But Seki, the hotel’s representative, had arranged everything — and the VIP guests were given the best table by a dimly lit aquarium, where a giant fish drifted slowly in the water.
“Bring us your signature dish,” Fugaku said.
After the waiter left, Mikoto leaned forward across the table and whispered, lowering her voice:
“Did you see who’s sitting behind you?”
Fugaku calmly reached for his glass of wine.
“The daimyo of the Land of Vegetables? Or the head of the Kamizuru clan? The place is full of important people.”
“No!” she hissed. “I’m talking about Mifune! He’s sitting right there!”
Fugaku lazily turned his head. At a distant table, in the shadows, sat an elderly samurai. Gray hair, bandages on his forehead, simple clothes, a bowl of soup in a ceramic cup. He ate in silence, with slow dignity.
“Looks like he’s here for an inspection,” Fugaku remarked calmly. “Checking how the recruitment’s going.”
“You don’t get it!” Mikoto was almost trembling with excitement. “That’s Mifune. A sword legend. They say he can cut lightning. His strikes are so fast even a Sharingan can’t always keep up.”
“A sword obsession,” he murmured. “You never outgrew it.”
“Of course not,” Mikoto said, eyes locked on Mifune. “A sword is honor. A sword is discipline. Not chakra, but will. In a world where everyone relies on jutsu, the way of steel becomes even more valuable.”
Fugaku didn’t argue. He watched his wife—radiant, enthralled—and understood: no matter how much she had changed, the same girl still lived within her. The one who had once trained with a sword, one of the few in the clan who chose steel over fire.
The food arrived with the solemnity of a royal banquet. The tray was nearly half the size of the table, covered with a heavy silver dome.
“Heavenly lobster in snow sauce,” the waiter announced, lifting the lid with exaggerated care.
From the rising steam emerged something that looked like a dragon clad in a misty, buttery armor. The lobster meat gleamed, surrounded by green curry and scattered flower petals.
“Too fancy,” Fugaku muttered.
“Perfect,” Mikoto sighed dreamily.
And it really was delicious. Exceptionally so. The waiter left with an empty tray and not a single complaint. For any chef, that was the highest praise.
They were about to stand when a shadow fell over their table. Mifune.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said with a slight bow. His gaze wasn’t on Fugaku—it was on Mikoto. “I noticed the legendary Kusanagi at your side. As a student of sword history, I couldn’t help but approach.”
Mikoto didn’t miss a beat. Her eyes swept over the samurai’s katana.
“You have something worth admiring too,” she said with a smile. “Kurosawa. I’ve read its qualities rival Kusanagi’s.”
Mifune gave a subtle nod, his lips twitching into a respectful half-smile.
“I knew we would understand each other,” he said. “May I sit? Just a few words—swordsman to swordsman.”
Fugaku leaned back slightly. He could tell how the old man carried himself: his posture, his gaze, his breathing. This wasn’t just a swordsman—it was a politician, a strategist, and a businessman. Men like that never approached idly.
“Of course,” Fugaku replied, gesturing to the chair—polite, but without enthusiasm.
Mifune sat, laced his fingers together, and looked Fugaku in the eyes—not with hostility, but with intent.
“Forgive my curiosity, but may I ask what brings you to the Land of Hot Springs?”
“Tourism,” Fugaku said flatly. “Just as I recognized you, Mifune, you recognized me. And I think you don’t need a reminder that I’m a man of business. I don’t like my time wasted on preludes.”
His voice wasn’t sharp. It was calm—and it was in that calmness the threat lay.
Mikoto shot him a pointed look. She would’ve loved to hear tales of swordplay, fighting styles, or a day in the life of a samurai. But he’d gone straight to the heart of it—just like always.
To Mifune’s credit, he didn’t take offense. He even gave a slight nod, as if he respected the directness.
“I understand,” he said. “You are Uchiha Fugaku, and you see the world as it is. That’s a rare gift. That’s why I’m not approaching you as a warrior… but as someone who can recognize potential. Recruitment to my schools has been weak in recent months. The youth chase ninjutsu—no elegance, no discipline. They just want flash and noise. Swords are out of fashion.” He turned his gaze to Mikoto. “But when I saw your companion…”
“I’m his wife,” she corrected gently but firmly. “Uchiha Mikoto.”
Mifune inclined his head—genuinely, with respect.
“Forgive the ignorance. I meant no offense.”
He paused, then returned to the point, eyes back on Fugaku.
“When I saw your wife and recognized Kusanagi… I had an idea. A demonstration match. Kusanagi versus Kurosawa. Legend against legend. Pure swordsmanship. No genjutsu, no ninjutsu. Just blades, discipline, and will.”
Fugaku said nothing. Cold analysis had already started in his mind: who would win, who would lose, how this would affect the Uchiha clan’s image, how many tickets could be sold. What it might lead to. What could go wrong.
And yet—the decision wasn’t his.
He looked at his wife, into the eyes sparking with emotion.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
Mikoto slowly turned to Mifune, narrowed her eyes slightly, and tilted her head. A shadow of a smile touched her lips.
“I think legends are meant to burn, not gather dust. That fight would give me experience I couldn’t buy.”
Mifune nodded, barely hiding his satisfaction.
“I knew you would understand. My assistant will contact you soon—we’ll arrange a location, date, the performance format…”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Mikoto cut him off in a tone almost tender. “We haven’t discussed my fee yet.”
A pause followed. Mifune frowned slightly, like a man suddenly accused of being impolite.
“Didn’t you say you’d be gaining invaluable experience?”
“I am,” she replied, her voice still soft, but with a cold logic behind her words. “But so are you, Mifune. It’s not every day someone gets to fight Kusanagi, is it? And beyond that, this will draw attention to your schools—new students, sponsors, prestige. So you get two benefits, while I only get one.”
He fell silent. His brows twitched faintly.
Fugaku quietly watched his wife negotiate. It was captivating.
“I can pay,” Mifune said at last, evenly—yielding, but not conceding defeat.
“Not interested,” Mikoto cut him off. “From a legendary samurai, I don’t want meaningless paper. I want your skill. A few private lessons. A couple of scrolls. That has value.”
Mifune grew colder, like tempered steel.
“Lady Mikoto,” he said slowly, clearly, “if you want sword lessons, enroll in a school. Like everyone else.”
“I don’t need your basic strikes, stances, or breathing drills—I learned all that as a child,” Mikoto waved it away like an annoying insect. “I’m not a student. I’m a warrior. I don’t want to just swing a sword—I want to understand it. Its essence. Its soul.”
As she said this, she straightened. Her eyes gleamed. There was something in her—part the girl who first laid eyes on a blade, part the woman who knew exactly what she was worth.
Mifune didn’t reply immediately. He looked down at her sword, as if trying to read the truth within it. Then—just a flicker of a smile.
“Your ambition is admirable,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think I’d meet someone who still understands the spirit of the blade. Very well. I’ll grant you scrolls on meditative sword practices. And five hours of private training.”
Mikoto smiled—unhurried, calm, like a huntress who had snared a rare prize without spilling a drop of blood.
“I knew we’d understand each other,” she said.
They shook hands. Mifune’s grip was firm, samurai-like. Mikoto’s—gentle, graceful, as if the handshake itself was part of a ritual.
Fugaku had remained silent the entire time. He watched his wife with a slight squint—and suddenly realized that for the first time in many years, he saw something in her he’d never truly noticed before.
Not just strength. Not just determination.
But a business instinct. The ability to negotiate, to see opportunity, to calculate positions.
