On the first morning after the wooden barrier rose, the migration caravan split into three lines.
The first held ninety-four people, ready to apply for farmland resettlement offered by the Land of Fire.
The second held sixty-one people willing to repair roads in the old mining town, but they would accept a residence contract for only one dry season.
The rest still pointed their wheels southwest.
They did not know how long they could stop at the next place, nor did they share a destination. They simply did not want to turn their relief registration into permanent affiliation just yet.
The Western Border official laid the existing travel documents on the table.
The Land of Fire travel permit required applicants to state which fief they belonged to.
The Shinobi Village mission pass required a Forehead Protector and a superior's identification number.
A merchant caravan's credentials needed the guarantee of an established trading firm.
Ordinary residents without permanent addresses could only obtain temporary shelter documents issued by the local lord.
The migrants happened to have none of those things.
"If you don't choose resettlement, you can't prove who you are once you leave."
The official said this to Yayoi.
"I'll still be Yayoi after I leave."
"The checkpoints don't know you."
"Then register what they can verify. Don't fill in a country for me."
Gen brought out the individual registrations completed during the relief effort.
Names could be changed.
Family relationships could be declared.
Self-chosen marks could be checked.
Outside witnesses could attest to the registration process.
Voluntarily retained chakra signatures could prevent someone else from using the same number.
These details were enough to answer the questions a checkpoint most needed answered: whether the person before them was the same person examined earlier, whether that person was subject to any