"Man always thinks about the past before he dies, as if he were frantically searching for proof he truly lived."
— Jet Black, Cowboy Bebop
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Deep within the Land of Fire
The forest stretched endlessly around him, thick and wild, and ancient in a way that even Konoha's forest couldn't compare. Towering trees pierced the sky, their roots clawing through moss-covered ground. Ferns taller than a grown man lined the path ahead, and distant birdcalls echoed through the dense canopy. The air here felt alive, as if the land had its own mind.
Otis moved silently through it.
The Land of Fire was massive—far more vast than most maps made it seem. In the old world he remembered, Russia had been a continent unto itself. This place was just as sprawling. Even three days of travel on foot hadn't brought him to the halfway mark of his mission route. It humbled him, walking through untamed wilderness where no villages dotted the map and no patrols passed through. Only raw, untouched nature.
In the world of Naruto, even an average genin can reach speeds between 60 to 90 mph during combat. However, this is only during short bursts of high activity. In casual movement, genin tend to move at around 40 mph, while chūnin average 100–400 mph in battle, and jōnin can reach speeds nearing 1,000 mph when fully active. And we were not taking elites in this category.
But Otis wasn't sprinting like a chūnin on a mission.
He was traveling alone, carefully—scouting terrain, foraging, avoiding unnecessary attention, and taking time to rest and observe. That meant his speed stayed closer to a steady 100–120 mph at most, and that wasn't continuous.
To put it in perspective:
The total area of the Land of Fire—which in this alternate timeline is nearly as vast as Russia (about 17 million square kilometers)—is a massive expanse of wild terrain, dense forests, and winding paths.
Even if someone could run 100 mph non-stop, it would still take about 9 days to cross such a landscape.
But Otis wasn't a machine. He stopped to sleep, eat, train, and survey his surroundings. His journey took weeks, not just because of the distance, but because of how he moved. He didn't rush. He studied the world, step by step.
Thick branches creaked overhead as wind stirred them. Somewhere off to the left, a distant splash — probably a boar or some other large animal — broke the quiet. Otis paused only briefly, listening, then kept walking.
Kosuke hadn't come with him this time. The old man's joints had begun to creak louder than the forest's branches, and Otis had insisted.
"Sensei, you've trained me long enough, so trust me with this one," he had said, bowing his head in respect.
Kosuke just laughed and patted Otis on the shoulder. The old man was capable, yes. Sleeping on cold forest ground and walking for days without proper rest wasn't something he'd let Kosuke go through again. Not if Otis could handle it alone. This was a C-rank assignment. It is within his reach
He carried no tent—just a tarp and a storage seal scroll. Storage seals had become something he never took for granted. Inside one, food—carefully prepped, sealed in waxed containers Otis had learned to make it with the help from Kosuke. Nutrient-dense meals that wouldn't spoil. Beans. Smoked meat. Rice balls wrapped in dried leaf wrap. Crackers made from root flour and salt.
That said, fresh food was always better when the opportunity showed itself.
Last night, he'd caught a silver-furred hare near the riverbend and roasted it over a fire. The bones had been buried. The skin folded and saved for later use. Tonight, maybe he'd find something bigger.
Or maybe not. Either way, he'd survive.
He moved using the trees when needed, sometimes leaping branch to branch, but often choosing the ground to stay connected to the signs around him—broken twigs, disturbed soil, claw marks on bark. All clues are essential for survival.
Otis trekked through the thick forest, each step muffled by the wet earth beneath his boots. The canopy above was so dense it turned day into dusk, filtering sunlight into dim green shadows.
His cloak was torn near the hem, snagged by a thorn bush he hadn't seen in time. Mud clung to his boots and the edge of his trousers. Every few hours, he paused—listening, watching.
At night, he built a small fire, just enough for warmth and light. The flames flickered low, casting dancing shadows. He never let his guard down.
He'd read enough of the Bingo Books to know the truth—rogue ninja often moved through these forgotten zones, slipping past borders unnoticed. And while Otis wasn't afraid, he wasn't foolish either. Out here, silence was survival. Listening was as important as breathing.
At night, under a sky so wide it felt endless, Otis would lie back on a slope or high branch and stare up. Stars brighter than Konoha. The constellations here didn't match the ones from his old world.
A week passed like this. The mission's objective was still days away. But Otis didn't rush.
On the sixth night, the wind turned cold. He slept wrapped in his cloak, axe propped nearby,
At dawn, a raven flew overhead. Not a message bird—just a wild one.
Otis glanced upward, then kept walking. He didn't rush. A part of him had begun to appreciate this—being with nature. The wind, the quiet, the raw, unsheltered world..
It reminded him that he was still small… even as he grew stronger.
***
Land of Fire Outskirts – Border Outpost, Day 20
It took nearly twenty days of travel to finally reach the border outpost.
Otis stood on the ridge, his eyes scanning the wooden palisades and watchtowers. The small outpost sat nestled between rocky hills and dense forest, isolated by both terrain and distance. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A couple of guards patrolled the walls, relaxed and underdressed for battle. The flag of the Land of Fire flapped in the wind, faded and weather-beaten.
Otis adjusted the straps of his chest belt. His cloak was stained with mud and rain. He looked more like a wanderer than a shinobi.
Just a C-rank mission.
Bandits.
What could go wrong?
Inside the Outpost – Briefing
"Glad someone finally showed up," the local commander grunted. He was a man in his fifties, balding with heavy bags under his eyes and a permanent frown. His armor was rusting at the edges, one hand resting loosely on the hilt of a worn blade at his hip. A man who'd seen too many winters—and likely too many graves. His frown seemed permanent.
Samurai, Otis thought. Or used to be.
"We've had several attacks over the last two months. Nothing major at first—just a bunch of desperate lowlifes with blades. But…"
His eyes drifted to the far wall where a rough map was pinned,
"Last week, they hit a merchant convoy. Women. Children. They didn't just rob them."
He didn't say what they did—but he didn't have to.
He rubbed his neck and continued. "We don't have many guards out here. Most are volunteers from nearby villages. Farmers, blacksmiths. I trained them as best I could, but…"
He let the failure hang in the air.
"So I posted the mission. We'll support you however we can. Supplies, maps, men—whatever you need. All I ask is this: find out where those bastards are hiding.Once we know, we strike together."
He reached behind the desk and handed Otis a scroll.
Otis opened it. The paper was stained, the handwriting jagged and smeared with something dark. Dried blood.
"This land belongs to The broken."
(Pic)
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(A/N)
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