Shanks finally ca to a halt outside a small, weathered herb shop tucked between two larger buildings on a quiet street. The wooden sign above the entrance creaked in the breeze, and the faint sll of dried roots and bitter leaves drifted out from the doorway. He gently set the restaurant manager down on the cobbled path outside.
The manager staggered slightly, his legs wobbling beneath him as he struggled to regain his balance. His face had gone pale, and a sheen of sweat clung to his brow. He doubled over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. The experience of being dragged through the city at breakneck speed—so fast he could barely process the blur of lights, voices, and wind—had left him completely disoriented and violently nauseous. Never in his life had he moved so quickly.
anwhile, Shanks stepped into the shop without hesitation. The interior was dimly lit, filled with the pungent aroma of dried herbs, old wood, and sothing vaguely dicinal. Jars of strange powders lined the shelves, and bundles of roots and leaves hung from the ceiling in organized chaos. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper lay slumped in a chair, unconscious.
Shanks paid him no mind. He moved straight to a specific shelf, plucked the herb he had co for with practiced ease, and laid a few neatly folded bills on the counter—more than enough to cover the cost. Then he left.
Outside, the manager was still crouched on the ground, gripping his stomach and groaning softly. His vision swam, and his ears still rang from the wind that had howled past him only monts before. Shanks looked down at him with a calm, almost amused expression.
"When you feel well enough," Shanks said evenly, "go back to your restaurant."
His voice was steady, neither impatient nor concerned—just a simple instruction. And then, without waiting for a reply, he vanished once again, his presence gone in an instant like a whisper on the wind.
The manager didn't even try to speak. He rely slumped to the ground, sitting on the cool stone with his back against the wall of the shop, eyes half-lidded and mouth slightly open. He let out a slow, shaky breath and whispered to no one in particular, "What just happened…?"
----
Erza ate in silence, her spoon moving chanically from the bowl to her lips. The others at the table mirrored her quietude, their faces pale and tired, their movents slow. After the last five days of hardship, no one had the energy—or the heart—for conversation. The air was heavy with the unspoken weight of what they had endured, and expecting laughter or idle chatter would have been foolish.
But Erza's silence was different. She wasn't just eating—she was thinking. Her brow furrowed subtly as she chewed, eyes distant, fixed sowhere beyond the wooden table in front of her. Sothing was tugging at the edge of her mory, sothing important she couldn't quite grasp. She took another bite, and then another, until suddenly her eyes widened.
"I rember…" she whispered to herself, then abruptly pushed back her chair and stood up.
She turned toward one of the waiters, who had been lingering quietly by the wall, avoiding eye contact with the table full of Uzumaki children. "Excuse ," Erza said firmly, "could I have a blank sheet of paper and a pen?"
The waiter stiffened at the request but quickly nodded. No one working in the inn dared to offend these guests.
Without hesitation, the waiter hurried behind the counter. He tore a page from the back of an unused ledger—whatever he could find—and grabbed a pen, then returned and handed both items to Erza with a slight bow.
"Thank you," she said, taking the items and sitting back down.
Without another word, Erza began to draw. Her hand moved quickly, with purpose, as if the image had been waiting behind her eyes and now spilled onto the page in a rush of ink. The sound of pen scratching paper drew the attention of the others, and one by one, the children leaned in to watch.
Curious faces hovered over her shoulder, eyes squinting at the erging design. It was so sort of pattern. None of them could make sense of it.
Yoko asked, "What is this pattern?"
Erza hesitated. A shadow of uncertainty crossed her face as she glanced toward the others around them. After a mont, she shook her head and replied in a firm yet respectful tone, "I'm sorry, Yoko… but I need to speak with Onii-chan about this first. It's not sothing I can share freely—not without his permission. If he allows it, then and only then will I tell you what I know."
Just then, Shanks entered the restaurant. He had kept all the herbs in the carriage outside, and he overheard Erza's words. "Erza, what is it that you'll only tell ?"
Erza walked over to him, gently took his hand, and led him to a secluded corner of the restaurant—far away from the other mbers of the Uzumaki Clan—so their conversation wouldn't be overheard.
She spoke in a low voice. "Onii-chan, do you rember when you asked to bring the sealing scroll for Uncle Tatsuya's body?"
Shanks nodded.
Erza continued, "While you were walking ahead, talking to about a few things, I noticed sothing strange. There was a dead masked ninja nearby. His mask had shattered, and… his tongue was hanging out—unnaturally far. There was a pattern on it. At the ti, I felt like I'd seen it sowhere before, but I couldn't rember where. You were also talking, giving instructions, and I was afraid that if I interrupted you with sothing uncertain, you might get upset. So I kept quiet."
She lowered her head, ashad.
Shanks shook his head slowly, then said, "No problem. Now that you're bringing this up, it ans you rember where you saw that pattern. So, tell ."
Erza nodded. As she handed him the folded paper, she explained, "I saw this pattern once before—on a docunt lying on my grandfather's desk. At the ti, my father told it was a seal. He said soone from Konoha had requested it and that it was created in cooperation with them. But he never told who that person was or what the seal was ant for."
Shanks unfolded the paper, his eyes narrowing as he examined the mark. To most people—even those from the Uzumaki clan—this symbol would an nothing. Even the mories of his current body offered no clue.
But from the mories of Earth, the world he ca from, he recognized it imdiately.
It was a curse mark—specifically, the one used by Root, the secret faction led by Danzo Shimura.
His grip on the paper tightened.
That ant the masked shinobi who had killed his father and tried to wipe out the rest of his family… were from Konoha.
Whether it had been ordered by the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, or was a rogue operation orchestrated by Danzo himself, he didn't yet know. But one thing was now painfully clear:
Konoha was involved.
A hot surge of rage began to rise in Shanks' chest.
----
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