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Super Prologue: The Hunted Shinobi and the Dawn of the Rowvillige
The wind howled through the fractured valleys of the Elemental Nations, carrying with it the scent of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood. Amidst the chaos, a lone figure stumbled through the underbrush, his breath ragged, his body trembling from exhaustion. Every shadow seemed to move, every rustle of leaves a whisper of imminent death. He was a shinobi of no renown, a canonfodder in the endless wars between nations, yet his heart bore the weight of an unshakable hope—a hope so fragile it threatened to shatter with every passing moment.
He had prayed endlessly in the nights spent under the skeletal remains of ruined homes, offering desperate pleas to gods he didn't know existed. "Let me live," he whispered to the wind. "Give me a sign, give me anything. Let my loneliness, my failures, my despair… let them mean something." His voice cracked, and for a moment, the world seemed to answer not with sound, but with silence, an almost oppressive stillness that pressed against his ribs.
Then, amidst the shadows and the quiet, there came a presence. Not a human, not a shinobi, not any force of nature the world had taught him to fear. It was something else—something impossible, absolute. Fleece Johnson.
The air itself seemed to bend around him. There was no grand announcement, no heralding fanfare; only the undeniable weight of authority and power. The shinobi fell to his knees, his mind trembling with disbelief and awe. Here stood the entity capable of altering fates, the one whose very existence seemed to transcend logic, who could grant the deepest desires of the desperate, the lost, and the forgotten.
"You have survived long enough," Fleece Johnson said, his voice calm yet resonant with an underlying power that could crumble mountains. "And because of your hope… I will give you what you seek."
It was not a simple gift. It was protection, it was allies, it was a lifeline stronger than any jutsu, sharper than any blade. The shinobi's heart thundered in his chest. Relief, disbelief, and gratitude collided within him so violently he thought he might tear himself apart. His despair had been answered—not with mercy, not with chance, but with an unshakable force that promised life where death had been certain.
Yet, as the shinobi was enveloped in this miracle, a distant ripple moved unseen. Somewhere, in another world, a figure sat unaware of the tides of fate about to sweep him into a new existence. An ordinary individual, trembling not from exhaustion or fear of death, but from the anticipation of consequences that had not yet arrived.
The first OC Rowkage—though he did not yet bear the title—clutched at his chest, heart hammering. He had lived a life of mundane mistakes, secret indulgences, and a relentless anxiety that the universe might one day demand payment for them. Search histories, trivial errors, moments of overconfidence—all piled upon him in quiet torment. He could feel it in his bones: premium punishment awaited him, and there was no escaping its judgment.
He was not a warrior. He was not a legend. He was, in every sense, an ordinary person on the cusp of the extraordinary. And yet, fate had a different plan.
The ground shuddered faintly, as if reality itself were preparing for an upheaval. From the haze of distant hills came the sound of metal grinding against earth—the unmistakable, almost surreal roar of the Booty Warrior Truck Kun. It was separate from Fleece Johnson, an independent agent of fate, relentless and merciless in its purpose.
The OC Rowkage's eyes widened in terror. There was no warning, no opportunity to plead or bargain. One moment he stood in his world, surrounded by the familiar, mundane architecture of life; the next, the ground beneath him was gone, replaced by the impossible velocity of a vehicle that could rend dimensions. His body was flung through a corridor of light and shadow, the physical world disintegrating into abstract streaks of sensation, until finally… he arrived.
And there, standing amidst the new world, the shattered remnants of time and space, was Fleece Johnson.
The transition was not gentle, nor was it merciful. Yet, somehow, the fear that had gripped him—the anxiety of premium punishment—slid away, replaced by a dawning comprehension of his new role. He was not punished. He was granted power. He was given fragments of knowledge that danced along the edges of comprehension, tools and abilities that would shape not only his existence, but the lives of those who would come to inhabit this strange, new village.
The Rowvillige did not yet exist in name, but it was forming in spirit. Villagers, ordinary souls displaced or born into the chaos of the world, would come together under the guidance of this first isekai'd leader. They would gain an innate ability, a latent power only to be called upon as a last resort: chanting a single word—"Row"—and performing a ritualized dance that could summon Fleece Johnson himself.
The canonfodder shinobi, still alive and clinging to the thread of hope Fleece Johnson had offered, watched from the periphery, hiding among these emerging villagers. He understood little of the powers now seeding the land, yet instinctively knew that survival would depend upon the strange, potent abilities of the Rowvillige—and the enigmatic, absolute authority of Fleece Johnson.
Time began to stretch differently here. The wars of the world—the first, second, and fourth—were no longer distant echoes; they were canvases upon which this new order would eventually leave its mark. And far in the future, cosmic conflicts of a scale even the shinobi could not imagine—the Otsutsuki arcs—loomed, waiting for the Rowvillige to face them.
But for now, the first OC Rowkage stood silently, breathing in the alien air of this reborn world. His fears of premium punishment, his past mistakes and anxieties, all of it became a shadow behind the doorway of opportunity. Here, he would grow, learn, and lead. Here, a village would rise. And here, the canonfodder shinobi would finally find shelter in the chaos of the extraordinary.
The wind carried a whisper across the plains of the forming village, brushing against the faces of those who would one day call it home. It was faint, almost imperceptible: the first pulse of the Rowvillige's heartbeat, the unspoken promise that, in the direst of circumstances, the chant and dance—the "Row"—would be there as a last resort, a final line of defense, and a beacon of impossible hope.
Above it all, Fleece Johnson watched, silent and exclusive in his truth, his presence unchallenged, his power absolute. The shinobi's prayer had been answered. The ordinary OC had been transformed. The Rowvillige was on the cusp of existence. And the story—the one that would stretch across generations, wars, and cosmic arcs—was only beginning.