Who controls the budget in the ninja world

You hunch over the glowing screen of your sleek interdimensional PC in the cramped confines of your Konoha room, the air thick with the faint scent of ink and polished wood. Sunlight filters through the paper-shaded window, catching the shine of your forehead protector as you pore over a spreadsheet linking worlds—ryo tallies from the Hid...

You hunch over the glowing screen of your sleek interdimensional PC in the cramped confines of your Konoha room, the air thick with the faint scent of ink and polished wood. Sunlight filters through the paper-shaded window, catching the shine of your forehead protector as you pore over a spreadsheet linking worlds—ryo tallies from the Hidden Leaf morphing seamlessly into dollars and gold bars. Your black shorts and fitted shirt cling comfortably in the humid afternoon, ninja sandals kicked off beside the low table. Life as a twelve-year-old civilian ninja feels deceptively ordinary, until the magic strikes. A shrill ring pierces the quiet, emanating from the cordless phone that defies all village physics—no wires, no chakra signature, just endless interdimensional juice. You snatch it up, and the screen flickers to life with a face straight out of chaos: a lanky pirate from some rubbery sea saga, grinning like an idiot with a bandana slipping over wild hair and a half-chewed bone dangling from his lips. "Oi, Hisoka-san! Emergency funds, stat! My crew's building the ultimate Meat Cannon—gonna launch barbecue bombs at enemies! Need ten million beri yesterday for premium ribs and explosive spices!" Your eye twitches as the proposal scrolls in: line items for "gigantic grill chakra converters" and "party rations for 500," totaling a budget that could bankrupt a tailed beast. Numbers dance mockingly on your eternal fuinjutsu notepad, red flags everywhere. Patience frays like cheap ninja wire. You lean closer, voice steady but edged. "Explain the ROI on spiced explosives. And why is 'captain's endless sake reserve' eating thirty percent?" He scratches his head, oblivious, launching into a rambling tale of feasts conquering fleets. Outside, footsteps echo faintly in the hall—lazy shuffles that scream Kakashi, probably dragging the academy crew for some impromptu drill. Your silence fuinjutsu hums weakly on the doorframe, half-forgotten in your focus, and a familiar prickle of paranoia creeps up your spine as the pirate's voice rises in enthusiasm.

The lanky pirate's grin falters for a split second, his half-chewed bone nearly tumbling from his mouth as he blinks at your demand. He leans back in whatever rickety shipboard chair holds him, wild hair flopping under the slipping bandana, and waves a bony hand like he's swatting away a fly. "F-Five percent? But Hisoka-san, that's barely...

The lanky pirate's grin falters for a split second, his half-chewed bone nearly tumbling from his mouth as he blinks at your demand. He leans back in whatever rickety shipboard chair holds him, wild hair flopping under the slipping bandana, and waves a bony hand like he's swatting away a fly. "F-Five percent? But Hisoka-san, that's barely enough for morale! The crew mutinies without proper grog—happened last week, cannons jammed from sour moods!" You feel your jaw tighten, the glow from the PC screen casting harsh shadows across your Konoha headband. The spreadsheet on your eternal notepad pulses with fresh red ink, tallying the idiocy: sake slashed, but his "tactical value" pitch still hangs like bad bait. Outside, those lazy shuffles grow louder, Kakashi's familiar drag echoing down the hall, mingled now with muffled chatter from the academy pack—probably Guy's overenthusiastic bark cutting through. The pirate barrels on, oblivious to your fraying patience, eyes lighting up as he gestures wildly at his own flickering feed. "Meat Cannon's genius! Picture it: ribs rocketing at Mach speed, exploding into savory shrapnel. Enemies too busy licking fingers to fight—total psychological warfare! We've tested on seagulls; feathered fiends surrendered for seconds. Ten million beri seals the deal, promise no overruns!" A vein throbs in your temple, wind chakra humming faintly under your skin as paranoia spikes—the silence fuinjutsu flickers weakly on the doorframe, ill-prepared for his rising volume. Your black shirt sticks slightly in the humid air, fingers itching to slam the approve button or hurl the cordless phone. He leans closer, pleading with puppy-dog eyes that scream fiscal disaster. Just then, a soft knock rattles the door, Kakashi's voice muffled but unmistakable. "Hisoka? Drill time. You in or what?" The pirate's enthusiasm peaks, drowning it out with a fresh wave of barbecue blueprints.

You lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the pirate's flickering image as his bony fingers jab at a crumpled blueprint, ribs sketched exploding mid-air like deranged fireworks. "Seagulls surrendering? That's your proof?" Your voice cuts low, laced with the sharp edge of your wind chakra, but the words barely escape before Kakashi knoc...

You lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the pirate's flickering image as his bony fingers jab at a crumpled blueprint, ribs sketched exploding mid-air like deranged fireworks. "Seagulls surrendering? That's your proof?" Your voice cuts low, laced with the sharp edge of your wind chakra, but the words barely escape before Kakashi knocks again, sharper this time, his muffled drawl filtering through the door. "Hisoka, come on. Guy's already doing laps around the compound. Mission brief's in ten." The pirate doesn't miss a beat, his puppy-dog eyes widening in mock offense, bandana slipping further as he clutches his chest. "Proof? It's poetry! Imagine Marines dodging drumsticks—pure chaos! Just fund the prototype, Hisoka-san, and I'll name a flavor after you: Konoha Spicy Wind!" He chomps down on his bone for emphasis, bits flying across the screen, while your eternal notepad auto-fills another row of red: "Morale grog" crossed out, "Psychological ribs" flagged as 92% waste. Paranoia prickles your skin like static, the silence fuinjutsu humming faintly on the doorframe—strong enough for whispers, not for this idiot's volume. Your fingers drum the desk, black shirt clinging in the stuffy room, as Kakashi's shadow shifts under the door crack. He rattles the handle lightly, patient but persistent. "You okay in there? Sounded like yelling." The pirate leans in closer, voice pitching higher with desperation, his wild hair filling the frame. "Eight million beri? Final offer! The crew's chanting your name already—Hisoka the Budget Slayer!" Outside, Kakashi sighs audibly, footsteps pausing as if weighing a kunai toss through the wood. The PC chimes softly, a notification popping: Aizen's queue position rising, his stern face queued next.