The Banker and the Copy Jutsu

The Bank of the Golden Leaf was a fortress of glass and polished jade, a modern marvel in the bustling center of the Hidden Leaf Village. But today, its marble halls held a tension thicker than battlefield smoke. The target wasn't the vault, but the man who controlled it: Bank Manager Izumo.

Izumo had spent a decade subtly siphoning funds, his movements masked by complex financial Genjutsu and paper trails that only a master tracker could unravel. When the Village discovered the theft, Izumo had vanished, taking refuge with a pair of highly-skilled rogue ninjas, the Brothers of the Iron Fist, who were now holed up in his secure, high-rise office.

The mission fell to Kenji, a fresh Genin known primarily for his utterly unimpressive signature technique: the Minor Object Copy Jutsu. While other shinobi practiced Shadow Clones or Fireball Jutsus, Kenji could perfectly duplicate small, non-living objects—a coin, a pen, a single sheet of blank paper. It was a joke among the Jōnin.

"You're sending the paper boy?" hissed a Chunin when the Hokage gave the assignment.

"The Iron Fist Brothers are sensory types," the Hokage replied calmly. "They anticipate large chakra signatures and fast movement. Kenji’s technique is mundane. It's beneath their notice. And that is his weapon."

Kenji stood across the street, peering through the rain-streaked window. The Brothers were massive, armored men, one guarding the door, the other standing over the terrified Izumo. Kenji activated his jutsu.

"Minor Object Copy Jutsu: Glass Shard Clone!"

A tiny, perfect copy of a speck of grit from the pavement appeared in his palm. He tossed it. It dissolved upon hitting the wall. Next, he copied a half-eaten lollipop stick and three loose buttons. Each creation required a tiny, almost undetectable flicker of chakra.

He spent the next hour in a repetitive, focused state, copying every piece of debris and office supply he could see through the windows: staples, paperclips, coffee grounds, and coins. He didn't just copy them; he launched the duplicates inside the office.

The Brothers of the Iron Fist, trained to spot the heavy chakra of a Substitution Jutsu or the sudden spike of a Chidori, felt nothing. Their sensory net was designed for ninjas, not dust.

When Kenji finally made his move, he didn't even enter the building. He executed his final jutsu from the roof of the adjacent tower.

"Minor Object Copy Jutsu: Mass Deployment!"

In an instant, thousands of tiny objects materialized inside Izumo’s office.

• Hundreds of blank ledger sheets appeared, raining down on the armored guards like a chaotic white blizzard, obscuring their vision.

• Thousands of copied coins materialized on the floor, creating a literal carpet of metal that rolled and shifted, making the footing of the Iron Fist Brothers impossible to maintain.

• A torrent of duplicate keys rained onto the sensory Brother’s head, the sheer volume of solid, replicated matter momentarily scrambling his focus.

The guards roared in confusion, flailing as the floor slid beneath them. They were overwhelmed not by power, but by the sheer, unexpected volume of the mundane. The sensory ninja desperately tried to filter the sudden, overwhelming static—an impossible task.

In the ensuing three seconds of chaos, Kenji’s Jōnin backup, a master of silent movement, slipped past the distracted guards, executed a clean paralyzing jutsu on Izumo, and secured him with chakra cuffs.

The mission was a success. Izumo, the corrupt banker, was taken into custody.

Kenji stood beside his Jōnin sensei, dusting the rain off his jacket.

“You know, for a Genin, flooding a high-security office with fake office supplies is certainly… unorthodox,” the sensei remarked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“My jutsu isn’t strong, Sensei,” Kenji said, looking at the city lights. “But the Hokage said something about it being beneath notice. If they're waiting for a mountain, they’ll never see the avalanche of dust.”

In the world of shinobi, strength was obvious, but genius, Kenji had just proven, was often in the subtle art of not being noticed at all. He had found the loophole in the enemy’s perception.