Shanks stepped forward and offered a respectful bow toward the raised platform. It was a measured gesture—neither overly formal nor dismissive—simply a nod of acknowledgment toward the Daimyō's authority.

"Lord Daimyō," he greeted.

The Daimyō rose from his seat, smiling with a mix of curiosity and regard. "Shanks-san," he said warmly, "your name has been echoing through the halls of this city for the past several days. I'm pleased to finally meet you in person. Please—come, have a seat."

A servant gestured toward the nearest cushion to the Daimyō's left—the seat of highest honor among the guests.

Shanks nodded once more and approached calmly, his long coat sweeping behind him as he settled into the seat. His posture was relaxed, but there was unmistakable strength in his presence, like a blade sheathed in silk.

Just as the atmosphere in the hall was beginning to settle, a voice rang out—sharp and openly disdainful.

"Tch. Can such a young man truly take down hundreds of shinobi… and even one of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen? Don't make me laugh."

All heads turned as the speaker stepped forward slightly from among the seated guests. He was a middle-aged man clad in dark, practical attire—clearly a shinobi, though not one Shanks recognized. The headband he wore bore the insignia of a village unfamiliar to him, likely a small or neutral nation. His expression was hard, skeptical, and laced with contempt.

"And with just one arm," the man added, scoffing. "How could someone like him possibly handle that many trained killers on his own?"

Shanks turned his head toward the man, his expression calm and unreadable, though a faint edge of amusement flickered in his sky-blue eyes.

He understood immediately what this man saw—or rather, what he refused to see.

It wasn't Shanks's youth that provoked disbelief. It was the missing arm.

To some, especially those who equated strength with physical completeness, the idea that a one-armed ninja could single-handedly cut down waves of shinobi and repel an S-rank swordsman like Jūzō Biwa defied belief.

Although no one else in the room spoke their doubts aloud, it was clear from the shifting eyes and subtle expressions that the skepticism was shared by more than just the loudmouthed shinobi. Still, only one man had been reckless enough to voice it.

Shanks didn't reply immediately. Instead, his hand moved calmly toward the hilt of his sword.

He placed his right hand on the weapon resting at his side. With a subtle flick of his thumb, the blade was drawn just a few inches from its sheath—and in that moment, a crushing pressure flooded the hall.

Conqueror's Haki.

The invisible force burst forth like a tidal wave, slamming into every corner of the room. The very air seemed to tremble. Walls creaked ominously. Cracks splintered across the floor and through the wooden frames of several chairs. Utensils clattered and shattered under the strain. Even the paper sliding doors at the edge of the hall fluttered violently, as if a storm had erupted within.

Many present felt a sharp, unshakable illusion wash over them—as though the entire room was moments away from being split in half by Shanks's blade. Their minds conjured visions of blood and steel, of power so vast it defied reason.

Eyes widened. Breath caught.

Only the strongest in the room remained composed, though even they had to brace themselves against the weight of Shanks's presence.

Shanks looked directly at the man who had questioned him—his sky-blue eyes narrowing with razor-sharp intent.

"It's fine to have doubts," he said, his voice low and steady, yet echoing with undeniable force. "But voicing them in such a disdainful way… that's foolish."

He let the pressure linger for just a moment longer before continuing.

"You aimed that scorn at me," he said. "But let me ask—if someone like Jūzō Biwa or Orochimaru of Konoha were standing in my place, would you have spoken like that? Would you have lived long enough to regret it?"

The shinobi said nothing—he couldn't. His body trembled as sweat streamed down his face, and he gritted his teeth to keep from collapsing altogether. He struggled to stay upright, fighting against the oppressive force pressing down on him like a mountain.

Even the Uchiha seated nearby had turned solemn. Though Shanks's Haki wasn't directed at them, its sheer presence made the air feel heavier, harder to breathe. Their finely honed instincts told them that if this pressure were ever turned toward them in combat—not even aimed to kill, just to disturb—they'd be forced to fight under constant psychological strain. And under that kind of weight, even a minor mistake could be fatal.

Shanks slowly resheathed his sword, and with that motion, the pressure vanished like mist. But the silence it left behind was deafening.

And none in that hall would forget it soon.

The middle-aged shinobi who had voiced his disdain earlier slowly stood, his body still visibly trembling. He bowed stiffly toward Shanks, the sweat on his brow betraying his inner turmoil.

"My apologies," he said, voice tight but sincere.

Shanks didn't respond, only gave him a calm, unreadable look as the man returned to his seat in silence.

Around the room, the aftermath of Shanks's Conqueror's Haki had become more evident. A few of the weaker-willed attendants and lower-ranked guards had collapsed where they stood, unconscious. Some were slumped against the walls, while others had fallen to their knees. Their breathing, however, remained steady—they were merely overwhelmed by the sheer spiritual force Shanks had released.

Most of the doubters in the hall, whether vocal or silent, now sat with straight backs and solemn expressions. Any trace of scepticism in their eyes had been completely erased. Whatever questions they might have had about Shanks's strength had been answered—clearly and undeniably.

Shanks, now fully composed again, turned his gaze to the Daimyō, who looked slightly flustered by the unexpected outburst of power.

"Lord Daimyō," Shanks said, his voice even and reassuring, "those who've fainted under my aura will recover shortly. There's no need for concern. Just leave them be for a few minutes—they'll be fine."

The Daimyō exhaled in visible relief and nodded, his posture relaxing slightly as he looked toward the unconscious attendants.

"Thank you, Shanks-san," he said gratefully.

Then, regaining his composure, the Daimyō gestured toward a dignified man seated among the Uchiha on his right. The man had a composed expression and a presence that conveyed authority without arrogance.

"This is Yashiro-san," the Daimyō announced. "He is the leader of the Konoha expedition to the Land of Hot Water and will act as the captain of the Uchiha clan's team stationed here."

Shanks turned his attention toward Yashiro and gave a respectful nod. "It's an honour to meet you."

Yashiro returned the gesture with a nod of his own. "Likewise," he said in a calm, measured tone.

The tension in the room had begun to ease, though the weight of Shanks's presence still lingered faintly like an echo. But now, it was no longer a challenge—it was respect.

The Daimyō stood once more, his expression composed but authoritative, and addressed the room with a clear, steady voice that cut through the remaining murmurs.

"Today, I have an important announcement to make," he began, drawing the full attention of everyone present. "At my personal request, the Daimyō of the Land of Fire has agreed to assist us in our ongoing struggle against the Kirigakure forces. As a result, Konohagakure has dispatched the Uchiha clan to the Land of Hot Water for our protection and to engage the enemy directly."

A ripple of quiet acknowledgment moved through the hall.

"Therefore," he continued, "the bounty order I previously issued—to hunt and eliminate Kirigakure shinobi—will be formally suspended. No further bounty missions will be authorized. This change will be officially announced later today and will come into full effect in ten days' time."

There was a brief silence as everyone absorbed the weight of the decision.

The Daimyō then turned slightly, his gaze sweeping across the assembled bounty hunters and independent shinobi present, his tone shifting to something more personal—but no less firm.

"Now, to the matter at hand. I've summoned some of the finest bounty hunters and freelance ninja here not only to thank you for your past service, but to offer you something more permanent."

He gestured with an open hand.

"I want to extend to each of you an invitation to join the military structure of the Land of Hot Water. If not formally, then at least as defenders and supporters of our capital. Your efforts, your strength, your presence—they can help maintain peace in these uncertain times."

He paused for a moment, then added, "Rest assured, the compensation will be more than fair. Those at the level of Jonin will receive a base salary of three hundred thousand ryō per month."

A wave of interest sparked among the listeners.

"And for someone of Shanks Uzumaki's calibre—" The Daimyō turned to face him directly. "—I am prepared to offer a monthly salary of two million ryō."

A sharp intake of breath could be heard from a few corners of the room.

"Your duty will be to defend the capital, respond to emergencies across the country, and assist where danger arises. In cases of high-threat engagements or exceptional performance, further bonuses will be added to your pay. This is not just about money—it is about creating a line of defence strong enough to deter even the most ambitious invaders."

When the Daimyō finished speaking, the room stirred into conversation.

Some shinobi nodded in agreement, visibly pleased by the offer. A few immediately voiced their acceptance. Others, more cautious or perhaps bound by other obligations, politely declined. Still, one thing became obvious: the final decision everyone awaited was Shanks's.

All eyes turned toward him, silent with anticipation. His choice might not only set the tone—but sway the undecided.

Shanks remained seated, composed and unreadable, as he weighed the proposal.

----

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