The ink on the procurement list had barely dried when the Senju Trading Company's warehouse was nearly emptied.
Mikoto flicked the abacus, her expression darkening.
"Based on the Daimyo's Office's first batch of orders, we're short six hundred medical scrolls and twelve hundred mass-produced explosive tags. Current inventory won't last three days."
Nawaki was squatting in the courtyard, gnawing on a sweet potato. He looked up at that. "Then increase production."
"With what?" Mikoto spread open the ledger and pointed at a column of figures. "The sealing ink currently depends entirely on Orochimaru mixing it by hand. He can make forty batches a day at most. If he does it alone, this order won't be finished until next spring."
Nawaki spat out a strip of sweet potato skin, rose to his feet, and dusted off his hands.
"That's why I said—you manage it."
Mikoto froze for a moment.
Nawaki pulled a wooden seal from his robes and shoved it into her hand. It was the Senju Trading Company's special financial seal, freshly carved the night before, its grain still holding a faint warmth of chakra.
"Procurement, hiring, production schedules, shipping—you have full authority. Don't ask me how much to spend. Sign it, stamp it, and send it through."
Mikoto lowered her gaze to the seal in her hand without replying.
"What? Too much work?"
"No." Mikoto clenched the seal, her voice low. "Aren't you afraid I'll cook the books?"
Nawaki grinned.
"If you really wanted to screw me over, you could've stabbed me in the canyon last time. Why wait until now?"
After saying that, he turned toward the underground laboratory. He took two steps, then looked back.
"Oh, right. When hiring—give priority to retired and disabled ninja. Put those who can't do physical work on quality inspection and packaging.