In the morning, when Sato Fan arrived at the warehouse, he discovered that Old Tanaka had not come.
At eight o’clock sharp, the warehouse door was locked.
He opened the door with his key and walked inside; it was empty.
Old Tanaka’s desk was spotless.
The ledger was gone, the old teacup that had been used for who knows how many years was gone, the ashtray on the desk had been taken away, and the desktop was bare, not even a single piece of paper left behind.
Was Old Tanaka late today?
No.
The old man had been a warehouse manager for twenty-five years and had never been late.
He appeared at the warehouse door punctually at 8:10 every morning, with an error of no more than two minutes.
This was the conclusion Sato Fan had reached after observing him for over a month.
He put down his backpack and began the inventory count; regardless of whether Old Tanaka came today or not, the work had to be done.
In Area A, there were 1,200 Kunai on the books, but 1,198 in reality.
A difference of two, which was within the reasonable margin of error.
For the explosive tags in Area B, all were within their shelf life, and the seals on the moisture-proof bags were intact.
In Area C, there were forty blank sealing scrolls and fifteen low-level sealing jutsu scrolls; the numbers matched.
He recorded on the form while counting, his movements no longer as unfamiliar as they had been on the first day.
Over a month was enough time for him to get to know every single item in the warehouse.
Around 9:30, the warehouse door was pushed open.
Sato Fan looked up and saw Old Tanaka standing at the door.
But he didn’t look like his usual self—today he wasn’t wearing his old vest, having changed into casual clothes: a gray-blue jacket and black trousers, and his hair seemed to have been combed.
He was carrying a bulging cloth bag in his hand.
“Tanaka-senpai?
You today…”
“I’m not working today.” Old Tanaka walked in and placed the cloth bag on his desk, “I’m retiring.”
Sato Fan was stunned for a moment.
Although Old Tanaka was indeed getting on in years, the word “retiring” coming from his mouth still felt a bit sudden.
“When did you decide?”
“Yesterday.” Old Tanaka pulled out the chair and sat down, glancing at his bare desk as if confirming that nothing had been left behind, “I intended to tell you in advance, but then I thought there wasn’t anything to say.
If you can’t do the work, you can’t do it.”
He leaned back in the chair and looked at Sato Fan.
“Over this past month, you’ve become familiar with the warehouse affairs.
Inventory, incoming and outgoing goods, reporting damages, writing reports—you can do it all yourself.
My being here is redundant.”
“You are not redundant,” Sato Fan said.
“Alright, enough with the pleasantries.” Old Tanaka waved his hand, his tone the same as usual—neither cold nor warm, “I came today just to handle the handover with you.
You already have the warehouse keys; the ledger is with me, and I’ll give it to you in a moment.
Starting tomorrow, this warehouse will be under your management.”
Sato Fan looked at him, silent for a few seconds.
“Alone?”
“Alone.” Old Tanaka nodded, “This armory isn’t very big, and not many people come to collect supplies, so one person is enough.
If you can’t handle the workload, ask Yamada for help, but I think you should be able to manage.”
Sato Fan didn’t speak.
He quickly calculated in his mind—managing a warehouse alone, the workload was indeed not heavy.
Inventory, incoming and outgoing goods, reports—he could handle these things all by himself.
Moreover, the advantage of being alone was…
No one was watching him.
When this thought flashed through his mind, his expression didn’t change at all.
He remained that honest and simple-looking person, showing no ripples of emotion.
“Then your health…” Sato Fan asked.
“Nothing major, just getting old.” Old Tanaka took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and lit it.
The smoke rose between the two of them, cut in half by the sunlight shining in from the window, “My legs and feet aren’t nimble anymore, and I can’t move boxes.
The work in the warehouse looks easy, but in reality, it’s all manual labor.
My old bones don’t want to struggle anymore.”
He took a drag of the cigarette and exhaled.
“Besides, there are more and more young people in the Village, and it wouldn’t be right for an old guy like me to overstay and occupy a position.”
“You have contributed to the Village,” Sato Fan said.
“So what if I contributed?” Old Tanaka smiled, a hint of self-deprecation in that smile, “The Village has provided for me for twenty-five years; that’s enough.
I’ll live out the rest of my days on my own.”
The two were silent for a while.
The warehouse was very quiet, with only the “tick-tock” sound of the old-fashioned wall clock.
Old Tanaka finished smoking, stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe, then opened the cloth bag and took out a few items.
First was a thick ledger—the very one that usually sat on his desk.
Then there were two key rings: one was the spare keys for the various warehouse door locks, and the other was for the locked boxes on the shelves.
“These are for you.” Old Tanaka pushed the items in front of Sato Fan, “Keep the ledger safe; Yamada will come to check it once at the end of every month.
Make sure to record the incoming and outgoing goods clearly, and don’t give anyone a handle to use against you.”
“I know.”
Old Tanaka reached into the cloth bag again.
This time, what he pulled out was not a ledger, nor keys—it was two scrolls.
The scrolls were not thick, with words written in calligraphy on the covers.
Sato Fan took them and glanced at them.
The first scroll: “Body Flicker Technique: Introduction and Advanced.”
The second scroll: “Earth Release: Mud Wall Detailed Explanation.”
Sato Fan looked up at Old Tanaka.
“This is…”
“For you,” Old Tanaka said, his tone as flat as usual, as if he were saying “The weather is nice today,” “Don’t you want to learn things?
Body Flicker Technique is for running away, and Mud Wall is for blocking people.
If you master these two moves, it’ll be enough to save your life.
There’s also a copy of my combat notes; take a look at it yourself.”
Sato Fan opened the cover of the first scroll, which contained Old Tanaka’s handwritten notes.
The handwriting was not particularly beautiful, but every stroke was clear.
From the sequence of hand seals to the way of mobilizing Chakra, and even the common mistakes made during practice, it was written densely.
“When did you write this?”
“I wrote it at night when I had nothing to do.” Old Tanaka lit another cigarette, “When you were practicing the Shadow Clone, I could tell.
You aren’t the type of person who needs someone to watch over your practice.
Giving you the scrolls to learn on your own is better than me nagging you from the side.”
Sato Fan looked at the scrolls in his hands, an indescribable feeling welling up in his heart.
He had transmigrated into this world for twelve years, and no one had ever proactively taught him anything.
The teachers at the Ninja Academy taught the whole class, not him.
Kusakabe taught the coordination of three people, not him alone.
Only Old Tanaka, a retired Jonin who had been a warehouse manager for twenty-five years, had dug out his bottom-of-the-box treasures and given them to him on his very last day.
“Thank you, Tanaka-senpai,” he said.
His voice was not loud, but very earnest.
“Don’t thank me; I didn’t teach you because of you,” Old Tanaka took a drag of his cigarette, “I have taught three people.
You are the third.”
“What about the first two?”
“The first one studied for three months and then stopped, saying it was too hard and that it wouldn’t be used in logistics anyway.
The second one studied for half a year, thought he had the skills, got transferred away, and later died out there.” Old Tanaka flicked the cigarette ash, his tone as calm as if he were talking about what he had eaten for lunch, “I don’t know what you can achieve, and I don’t know how long you can live.
But if you really want to learn, these things are enough for you to practice for a while.”
Sato Fan put the scrolls away and placed them on his desk.
Old Tanaka was silent for another moment.
Smoke swirled between the two of them.
He looked at Sato Fan through the smoke, his gaze different from usual—not the lazy “I’ve seen it all” look, but something more earnest and heavier.
“Little Sato, I have a question for you,” Old Tanaka said.
“Go ahead.”
“You’ve been practicing the Shadow Clone for over a month, right?”
Sato Fan nodded.
“How long can you maintain it now?”
“About forty minutes.”
Old Tanaka stared at him for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled a puff of smoke.
“One month and three days, and you’ve reached forty minutes with the Shadow Clone.
Do you know what level this is considered?”
Sato Fan didn’t speak.
He knew his progress wasn’t slow, but he hadn’t carefully considered what level it was compared to others.
“When I learned the Shadow Clone, it took me two months,” Old Tanaka said, “I’m telling you—you have more talent than you think.
Geniuses can learn the Shadow Clone in one to three weeks.
Ordinary people take one to three months. The source of this chapter is g.com.
You, at one month and three days, are stuck in the middle, which counts as average aptitude.”
He took another drag of the cigarette.
“For this past month, I’ve been watching.
You don’t eat during your lunch break every day, instead going to practice for half an hour.
You don’t leave after work, practicing for another half hour.
You don’t rest on weekends either, running behind the warehouse to practice alone.
You have calluses on your hands, and marks on the webbing between your thumb and index finger; those are left from holding a Kunai for a long time.
You didn’t just pass the exams in school because of ‘good luck,’ did you?”
Sato Fan was silent, not speaking.
“I’m not trying to expose you.” Old Tanaka stubbed out the cigarette, looking into Sato Fan’s eyes, “I want to tell you that it’s fine to hide your true abilities, but don’t hide yourself away completely.
You’ve been practicing the Shadow Clone for over a month, practicing in the open space every day—did you think no one saw you?
That wall behind the warehouse has a hole in it, and you can see the open space from the road in the Logistics Area.
What did you think that was?
A dog hole?”
Sato Fan was stunned.
He had never noticed that hole.
“Over this past month, there have been at least dozens of people who passed by that hole.
Some stopped to watch for a few moments, some took a glance and left.
But not a single person came to ask you ‘What are you practicing?’ Do you know why?”
Sato Fan shook his head.
“Because Konoha is not short on geniuses, nor is it short on hardworking people.” Old Tanaka stood up, holding the cloth bag in his hand, “You hiding your abilities is fine.
You practicing in secret is also fine.
But you must remember, hiding your abilities is for living better, not for living like a mouse.
A mouse hiding in a hole can be stepped on by anyone.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
Sato Fan watched Old Tanaka’s back, his heart skipping a beat.
Old Tanaka knew everything.
He knew he was hiding his abilities.
But he didn’t expose him.
He didn’t reprimand him, nor did he lecture him about “being an upright Ninja.” He just gave him two scrolls, said a few words, and then left.
“Tanaka-senpai,” Sato Fan called out to him.
Old Tanaka stopped, not turning back.
“Why are you helping me?”
Old Tanaka was silent for a few seconds.
“Because you are not a genius.”
After saying this, he pushed the door open and walked out.
The door closed behind him with a “click,” the latch bolt snapping into the door frame.
Only Sato Fan was left in the warehouse.
He stood in front of Old Tanaka’s desk, looking at the three scrolls and the two key rings.
Sunlight shone in from the small window high up, illuminating the covers of the scrolls, making the words “Body Flicker Technique: Introduction and Advanced” shine brightly.
Old Tanaka’s last sentence spun in his mind a few times.
“Because you are not a genius.”
“Not a genius?”
Sato Fan pondered the meaning of this sentence.
Sato Fan put away the scrolls and keys and sat back at his own desk.
He opened the ledger and looked at it page by page.
The numbers were dense, but he was clear about every single entry.
For over a month, he had followed Old Tanaka, looking over these accounts countless times.
Every incoming and outgoing entry, every damage report, every “reasonable error”—he knew them by heart.
Now, these things were all his.
One warehouse, one ledger, two key rings, three Ninjutsu scrolls.
This was the result of 12 years of “hard work.”
He closed the ledger, leaned back in the chair, and stared at the ceiling.
Starting tomorrow, he would be the only one managing the warehouse.
No one would watch him, no one would check his accounts, and no one would ask him “Where did you go for lunch?” or “Why don’t you leave after work?”
The Demon Pill descends upon the world!!!!