I'm…
I'm… alive?
Hardly.
Cold clung to me like frostbite, seeping into my bones. My lungs wheezed like rusted bellows, each breath an uneven, dying rhythm. Smoke rolled over my vision, and somewhere beyond it, voices shouted in a language I'd never heard before, yet somehow understood perfectly.
"Medical ninja!"The shout cracked against my eardrums.
"Fujiwara's got her throat slit! We can't heal anyone if the mednin's dying!" That voice… younger. A kid.
"Then do something…" His tone fractured into sobs. "I just want to die. Quickly."
Shapes swam in the smoke. My vision blurred, but I saw a boy on his knees, one hand clutching his chest as if holding his heart in. My own energy bled away; my eyelids grew heavier with every second.
Then—
A strange sensation.
Why… why does my stomach feel wind on the inside?
I forced my head downward. My abdomen gaped wide open, skin and muscle parted like butchered meat. I could see the pulsing dark inside.
"Crap! He's lost too much blood!" Panic thundered from somewhere above me.
"Abandon him," a calmer voice cut in, each syllable as sharp as a blade.
Another voice—angry, desperate—argued, "We can't just leave him here, he's—"*
"Think, Emiya." The calm voice hardened. "The medic, or a no-good soldier whose effort won't even be seen in battle? We're being tracked. It's only a matter of time before they catch up."
Emiya…? Who the hell is Emiya?
"…Fine. Whatever."
Footsteps pounded away, fading into the distance.
They'd abandoned me.
---
The forest answered with rustling treetops. Something darted across the canopy—fast. Then a heavy thud landed nearby.
"He's still breathing? With that gaping hole?" A voice laced with smug disbelief.
"He'll be dead soon anyway. The sensory ninjas will trace the chakra trail those brats left behind," another replied, cold and calculating.
Ninjas? Chakra? What the hell are they talking about?
"What if instead of abandoning him, we use him?" The suggestion dripped with malice.
Then—a shock. A cool, brimming sensation flooded from my wound. My torn flesh knit together before my eyes. Bone reformed. Skin smoothed. In moments, the fist-sized hole was gone, as though it had never been there.
Was this a miracle? Magic?
"I'm done. That took more chakra than I expected," the healer muttered.
"Bring him."
Rough hands yanked me up. They bound me with ropes studded with paper talismans, characters I'd never seen before, yet could read perfectly: Sudden ignition and combustion.
A sharp slap jolted my vision into focus. "Get lost, kid. And don't let me see you again." The man's voice was venom.
I staggered away, legs trembling, the strange warmth still weaving through my veins. I didn't understand. I was tired. Confused.
Where am I? What am I?
---
I stumbled through the woods until the river's reflection stopped me cold.
A child stared back. Five years old, maybe younger. My face, round, soft, untouched by time, was mine and yet not mine.
This wasn't my body.
I'd been… transmigrated. Dropped into a world of ninjas, chakra, and kids sent into battles they had no business surviving.
And yet, if those enemies had healed me instead of killing me outright, there had to be a reason. A war tactic, maybe. Which meant… this was war.
But where exactly was I?
---
An hour later, they caught me.
The ones who called themselves the Chinoike Clan.
I didn't even put up a fight, what could a five-year-old do? They lined me up with other children, heads bowed, misery etched into every face. Their eyes were empty, their expressions dead, their uniforms plain black with ash-grey undershirts.
An adult stalked down the line, disdain carved deep into his features. *
"Be grateful you're still breathing."*
My stomach growled. That watery mush they called soup hadn't touched my hunger.
He stopped. "Hands out. Now!"
Confused, I followed the others and held out my hands.
"Horse! Ram! Monkey!" he barked.
The others moved fluidly through a series of precise hand signs. I clapped my hands together awkwardly.
The man's shadow fell over me.
SLAP!
Pain exploded across my cheek.
"You don't understand," he said coldly. "We're at war. If you're useless, you're dead."
I lowered my head, ignoring the stares boring into my back.
"Again!"
I watched the others carefully, trying to mimic their shapes. Horse, hands together, elbows out. Ram, shift, fingers weaving. *Monkey, damn it, my fingers wouldn't bend right.
The instructor's disappointment was palpable.
"Hosoi Okami," he called. He pointed at me. "Step forward."
My stomach knotted as I broke from the line.
"Tsuri. Teach this boy a lesson."
A girl stepped forward. Malnourished, taller than me, hair curtaining her face, a kunai in hand.
"The seal of confrontation," the instructor commanded.
She lifted two fingers. I mirrored her.
Pain bloomed in my gut. I dropped to my knees, gasping, eyes blurring with tears.
"Get up," the instructor ordered.
I couldn't. My stomach twisted, my head swam.
"I said get up!"
Somehow, I stood. Shaking.
"Continue."
Tsuri's eyes locked on mine. Cold. Unreadable.
And then—
**BAM!**
---
What's it been? Weeks?
I couldn't tell from solitary. A deep pit with an opening at the top, where snow, dust, and dirt poured in without care.
My muscles ached from pain, constantly rebuilding themselves from the brutal training sessions I'd been forced through. After a record of sparring losses, I'd been deemed the worst shinobi in the clan.
After being released from solitary, the guard threw my gear at me, this time, sleek night-black fabric.
"Quickly, put this on," he spat, not sparing me a glance.
I dressed in the changing shed, a couple of blocks from the tower. My mind drifted to the countless losses since my arrival here.
Thirty losses. Zero wins.
I knew nothing, no form, no technique, and on top of that, my face had been beaten to a pulp by the others.
But even as someone from another universe with moral codes, I'd been forced to adapt to this brutal shinobi world. Mushy meals for food. Constant training.
I couldn't grasp this world or its traditions. From what I'd observed, it seemed like some alternate ancient Japan.
We were constantly briefed by the instructors, whenever there was a new recruit, that we were at war.
But we hadn't been attacked, despite how large our base was. The constant smoke from fireplaces should've drawn attention from soldiers, or in this case, shinobi, right?
If I were the leader of an enemy force, I'd expect an ambush. But maybe the sheer numbers of our clan neutralized any threat. With that logic, it was safe to assume we were the top dogs of this region… or at least one of the top clans.
I couldn't make a firm judgment yet. My information was limited, and communication with my comrades wasn't an option. I'd learned their language from scraps and a few scrolls.
Education here was minimal, brief history and language lessons for the clan's children.
My head ached from overthinking, from exhausting speculation just to make sense of my situation.
I stood in a group of four shinobi, their faces masked, their eyes narrowed with experience. The freezing cold prompted me to close my eyes.
I rubbed my temples as we gathered around a campfire in a place called "Tetsu no Bokuso-chi"—the Meadows of Iron, located northwest of the Land of Iron. The instructor briefed us on our mission.
"Your first mission is to steal the Egg of Joroi by any means. The camp isn't far from here, but taking a known path will make detection easy. Proceed with caution through the forest." The instructor twirled a kunai at his fingertips.
One squad member asked, "When you say 'them,' you mean guards, right?"
"Obviously. They're transporting goods from the Meadows of Iron to No Man's Bridge. You'll have to act fast."
"And if we're spotted?" a feminine voice asked.
"Leave no witnesses."
The instructor and the other shinobi vanished in a blur of speed.
Leave no witnesses?
Wait… is this it? Am I going to kill someone?"
But—
"Your mask," the feminine voice said, her gaze fixed on me.
I tilted my head. "…Mask?"
"Put it on. You'll get cold, Hosoi Okami."
"Oh." I fumbled with the mask.
The others leapt away in a burst of speed, leaving me behind.
I crouched, my mind begging for it to work this time. When I opened my eyes, I was above the treeline, falling back slowly.
"I… I did it?"
This whole thing still felt unreal. Which brought me to chakra, a concept familiar from my old world, but here, it was something else entirely.
Chakra was formed by weaving mental and physical energy together. Hand signs provided manual control to mold it—explaining the twisting sensation inside me during training.
I landed on a branch and hopped between trees, struggling to keep up. My squadmates' figures blurred into the darkness.
But… killing someone?
---
**Third-Person POV**
A convoy of carriages rolled along the path, pulled by men in the colors of the FunatoClan.
Inside one carriage, a discussion unfolded.
"This route's been deemed safe by eastern scouts. No need to worry," said a bald man adorned in gold and jewelry, Lord Gumbai.
"If you say so, Lord Gumbai. And bringing this to the Funato docks was wise, they dominate sea warfare," replied a younger man in a white cloak, the sigil of a bird on his back.
"Yes, Shinra. We're close to the docks now. No threat can stop us. Once this product is sold, it'll be worth a fortune!"
"Generational wealth," Shinra agreed, raising his sake cup in a toast.
Then—
"Stop!! The fourth carriage… The shinobi guards are dead!"
Lord Gumbai and Shinra choked on their sake.
*"What?"* Gumbai whispered.
"Shhh. We don't know what's out there," Shinra warned, sweat beading on his brow.
The remaining guards raised their spears, eyes darting for movement as the convoy lurched forward in panic.
"No blood… no traces. Poison, maybe?" one muttered.
Then, a scream from the front.
Dark shadows streaked through the treetops, glinting metal cutting the freezing air.
"THERE!" A guard pointed, before a shuriken silenced him, embedding itself in his throat.
"You idiots, take out the—", A kunai pierced another's mouth, tip protruding from the back of his skull.
In a heartbeat, small figures in black materialized, tanto blades unsheathed.
Gurgles and wet slashes filled the air.
Lord Gumbai peeked through the carriage window, and saw the carnage. Piled bodies. Snow stained red.
"T-they're… all dead!" he screamed, jewelry clattering as he shook.
A hand touched his shoulder.
"Shhh. Take this." Shinra handed him a katana.
"W-what do I do with this?"
Shinra smiled. "I have a backup plan."
Then, THUD! Something landed on the carriage roof.
Gumbai gripped the katana, hands trembling. "All my gold… my properties… gone."
A small figure appeared between them—a tanto blade dripping blood.
"What? When did—?"
Gumbai lunged, face red with rage—
The katana vanished from his grip. So did his fingers. Blood sprayed.
"ARGH!"
"My fingers! Damn it! Shinra, do something! I thought you knew ninjutsu!"
Shinra tilted his head, Gumbai's blood staining his clothes. A smile crept across his face.
*"I told you I had a backup plan."*
"Wait… Did you just—"
"Lure you here to kill you and take the Egg of Joroi for myself?" Shinra scoffed. "Honestly, your greed offends me."
Gumbai's face twisted in rage. "You tricked me! No one else knew this path!"
"Too bad. Blame your own stupidity." Shinra stood, stepping out of the carriage.
The masked figure remained, blade at their side.
"Well? Kill me already!" Gumbai spat.
Silence.
"I'll let him do the honors," a feminine voice said from behind the mask. "My blade doesn't deserve your filth."
She picked up the fallen katana and handed it to another shadow, Hosoi Okami.
"Hosoi. Clean up this mess. I know it's hard for you, but—"
He snatched the blade mid-sentence.
A single, graceful swing.
Gumbai's head hit the floor.
The girl's eyes widened behind her mask.
"Ahh… It's been so long," Hosoi murmured, voice hollow.