8

They come through the front door all at once, shoulder-to-shoulder, jostling like a pack of merry teenagers out for a night on the town.

Except, none are actually teenagers. Not one of the men who enter Daigo's shop appears younger than thirty. Two of them look how Naruto feels: dirty, bedraggled, hollow-cheeked, unshaven, muss-haired, red-eyed, and generally disagreeable. Each wears a cheap hemp tunic and short trousers, gray rope wrapped about their hips as belts. A feral jumpiness sits behind their scowls.

Between these men slouches a third, who stands almost as wide as the other two put together. His hair is pulled back in an old-fashioned top-knot, as if he's a samurai arriving home two or three centuries too late. His tunic's of a better make than the others—black silk, with a real leather belt and silver buckle. Hints of tattoos creep about his upper arms and shoulders. Beneath a pock-marked brow, his mouth twists in a cruel little smile. He breathes in a series of perturbed, nasal snorts.

It takes Naruto a moment to recognize the weapons each man carries. He knows that he's seen some variation on them before, but these are designs that he doesn't quite recognize. The two hangers-on wear them in rough leather thongs slung over their backs—scuffed, wooden bases connected onto long, black metal cylinders.

It hits him: They're muskets. Unlike any musket Naruto's ever seen, but they fit the bill all the same.

The big man in the middle has no long gun, instead bearing what appear to be a pair of pistols in holsters attached to his hips. The grips on each are polished and inlaid with jagged copper designs.

Naruto finds himself nonplussed. He honestly can't remember the last time he saw men actually using this kind of thing. Almost every gun he's ever seen—especially handguns—has been hanging in a museum or dusty private collection.

Firearms. Huh. Must be hunters or something.

As he steps into the shop's interior, the big man lets loose a barking shout. "Oy, Daigo! You'd best have our shit ready and waitin', or we're gonna start countin' fingers and toes! You hear me, you creepy old—" He trails off, gaze finally drifting to the stranger standing beside the shopkeeper.

All three men stop in their tracks. Bleary eyes dart over Naruto, taking him in head to toe. He feels a bit like a piece of livestock. At last, the lead newcomer cracks a restrained smile. His teeth compete with Daigo's in terms of loathsomeness.

"Hey now, old-timer," the big man says. "What do we got here?"