Chapter 3: Bones Piled Up, Tears Flowing
The morning sun cut through the dissipating mist like a spotlight on the world's most depressing stage. The rain-washed streets gleamed with that fresh, post-storm cleanliness that made everything look deceptively peaceful.
Maruyama Qifeng stepped outside and stretched, feeling genuinely refreshed for the first time since arriving in this murder-happy world.
Living next to a morgue used to seem lonely. Now? It's prime real estate.
What others saw as tragic isolation, he now recognized as strategic positioning. He wasn't the weird kid who lived next to dead people—he was a savvy entrepreneur with premium access to his inventory.
It's not a morgue, it's a treasure vault with a really unfortunate aesthetic.
He practically skipped toward his workplace, humming under his breath. A beautiful day starts with touching corpses! If anyone had told him six months ago that this would be his morning motivation, he'd have recommended therapy.
Two figures stood by the morgue entrance—ANBU, judging by their standard-issue "I could kill you with a paperclip" outfits. Maruyama knew enough about ANBU to understand they were the Hokage's personal cleanup crew, the kind of people who made problems disappear permanently.
Great. The ninja mafia wants to chat.
"Your Excellencies," he called out, switching to his best "harmless civilian" persona as he jogged over. No point in antagonizing people who could make him disappear without paperwork.
"ANBU casualty from last night," one said with all the emotion of someone ordering coffee. "You know the drill."
*Ah yes, the drill. Take dead ANBU agent, remove all identifying features, notify family that their loved one died as a "regular ninja." Nothing suspicious here.*
They dropped a scroll and vanished like smoke, because apparently even body delivery had to be dramatically ninja-like.
Maruyama unlocked the morgue and stepped inside, immediately hit by the artificial winter of the refrigeration system. The cold was necessary to prevent decomposition, but it also made the place feel like a walk-in freezer full of people who'd never complain about the temperature.
At least the neighbors are quiet.
He unrolled the scroll and unsealed it, revealing the ANBU operative's remains. The body had been neatly separated at the neck—a clean, professional kill.
"One-shot decapitation," he murmured, examining the wound. "Someone was seriously outclassed."
When the gap in skill is that wide, death becomes less 'heroic last stand' and more 'Tuesday afternoon paperwork.'
But before he started his magical corpse-fondling routine, Maruyama did something that felt important: he stopped and actually looked at the person in front of him.
This had been someone's son, maybe someone's brother or husband. Someone who'd probably joined ANBU thinking they were protecting the village, not knowing they'd end up as anonymous statistic number whatever-the-hell.
The least I can do is make him look human again.
He gently closed the corpse's eyes—still wide with the terror of realizing death was coming—and got to work. Leather gloves, clean clothes, careful stitching to reattach the head. It wasn't pretty, but it was respectful.
I'm taking something from you, so I owe you this much dignity.
The whole process was his way of maintaining some semblance of humanity in what was essentially supernatural grave robbing. He wasn't just looting corpses—he was providing a service and accepting payment. Totally different. Morally speaking.
Keep telling yourself that, Qifeng.
After finishing the restoration work, he bowed toward the body and silently apologized. Then, because bills don't pay themselves and power doesn't grow on trees, he got down to business.
Yellow light flickered around the corpse, though dimmer than Miura's had been.
Special Jonin maybe? Economy-class ninja loot?
[Yellow corpse, success rate 30%, would you like to loot the body? (3/3 attempts remaining, 9/9 daily)]
Here goes nothing.
Maybe it was the respectful treatment, or maybe the RNG gods finally smiled on him, but he hit the jackpot on the first try.
[SUCCESS! Obtained: Fire Style - Great Fireball Technique Ninjutsu Card!]
Holy shit, actual ninjutsu! And it's the cool, flashy kind too!
B-rank Fire Style—practical, powerful, and most importantly, visually impressive. Nothing said "I'm a real ninja" like breathing fire like a discount dragon.
Let's see what else this poor bastard has to offer.
[SUCCESS! Obtained: Exclusive Forehead Protector of Konoha Special Jonin Nakano Sora!]
A forehead protector? That's... underwhelming.
[FAILED!]
Two out of three wasn't bad, but the forehead protector felt like finding a toy in your cereal when you were hoping for cash.
Although, knowing this world, even the mundane shit probably has hidden features.
He picked up the worn forehead protector, and suddenly his vision blurred. Images flashed before his eyes like someone was force-feeding him a slideshow:
"Oishi Jonin, the Fire Country's defenses aren't that tight, are they?"
"Wait. Now's not the time. Konoha's overall strength can't be underestimated."
"What about us?"
"Someone's here!"
A flash of silver, then the vision shattered like glass.
Well, that's not ominous at all.
"Iwagakure," he muttered, pieces clicking into place.
The Third Great Ninja War.
His blood went cold. The Second War's losers were getting restless, and the Third Tsuchikage Onoki was exactly the kind of ambitious bastard who'd start World War Three over real estate envy.
And here I thought I'd have time to build up my corpse-fondling empire in peace.
War meant more bodies, which meant more loot opportunities. But it also meant higher chances of becoming loot himself. A classic risk-reward scenario, except the stakes were his continued existence.
Time to power-level before the apocalypse starts.
Steeling himself, he picked up the earrings from yesterday's haul. The vision that followed was somehow worse than impending war:
A little girl's voice: "Sister, are we going on another mission?"
The child looked like a porcelain doll, all innocent eyes and worried smiles.
"Well, Chana, you have to study hard."
"Sister, remember, Chana's birthday is in a few days. Sister will be back in time."
"Yeah! There must be a gift!"
"Okay."
The little girl watched her sister leave, her brave smile cracking as soon as she thought no one was looking.
"Sister, you must come back. Chana will be good and wait for you."
The vision ended, leaving Maruyama staring at the earrings—a birthday gift that would never be delivered.
Goddamn it.
This was the reality of the ninja world: little girls waiting for sisters who'd never come home, birthday promises that couldn't be kept, gifts that turned into memorials.
The peaceful village built on a foundation of orphans and unfulfilled promises.
Every ninja who died had people who loved them, people who counted on them coming back. The earrings weren't just jewelry—they were a covenant between sisters, a promise wrapped in silver and hope.
And now they're ninja loot in my inventory. What does that make me?
The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a lead blanket. These weren't just random drops from a video game. They were the last remnants of real people with real stories.
Bones piled up, tears flowing. And I'm the guy sorting through the wreckage.
Finally, partly from duty and partly from morbid curiosity, he examined the underwear. He turned it over, studied the craftsmanship, assessed the... structural engineering.
Just normal underwear. Although, admittedly, the architectural specifications are quite impressive.
What? I'm being thorough. For investigative purposes. Obviously.
He spent perhaps more time on this examination than was strictly necessary, but hey—attention to detail was important in his line of work.
War's coming, people are dying, children are being orphaned, and I'm here appraising undergarments. If that's not a perfect summary of the human condition, I don't know what is.