From Konoha Year Eight to Konoha Year Nine, the days were like the waters of the Naka River. They seemed slow, but as they flowed along, a year slipped by.
Over in Great Britain, the changes were tangible.
The twenty-man musket squad trained through an entire dry season and an entire rainy season. At first, their hands shook so badly they could not finish loading in a minute. Now, they could do it reliably within thirty seconds, blindfolded. They practiced volley fire over a hundred times. Although ammunition was precious and live-fire training was limited, their unquestioning discipline, the uniform way their muzzles rose, and the looks tempered in gunsmoke already set them apart from the native guards carrying wooden spears.
Shiya had become a true "Thunderclap Captain"-a nickname his men had given him. He had carved a crooked lightning bolt into his gunstock and treasured it beyond measure. Counting the twenty flintlocks and the reserves, thirty-five had been made in total, with the craftsmen still slowly hammering out the rest. A separate powder magazine had been dug into the mountainside, protected against moisture and insects. Yutian personally held the key.
Over three hundred mu of land had been cleared, with river channels brought in for irrigation. The rice could yield two harvests a year. Though the yields were low, supplemented with tubers and hunted meat, they barely managed to feed the camp's seven hundred-odd people and the small tribes still coming over to join them. The saltworks produced steadily. Beyond their own needs, salt became their main means of trading with inland tribes for hides, medicinal herbs, and labor.
Rules had been established too. Just a few simple ones: obey orders, work, no infighting, and hand over spoils for centralized distribution. Breaking the rules meant whipping, going hungry, or