Three months had passed since I buried the rusted kunai and the coiled ninja wire beneath the floorboards of the orphanage. The heat of the summer had finally ended, starting the chill climate of the autumn. This change in season brought a surge of illnesses to the orphanage, thinning the amount of toddlers and keeping the caretakers alert.
I avoided the sickness through paranoia. I washed my hands with water until the skin was raw, avoided sleeping near anyone who coughed, and spent as much time outside the crowded halls as the matrons would allow.
But avoiding illness did not mean I was healthy. I was currently in a dilemma.
It started when I began implementing the taijutsu katas.
I had observed the teenage pre-Genin in the training ground. My consciousness, seemingly unburdened by the passage of time, could record the movements that boy made with near-photographic precision. I knew exactly how he dropped his center of gravity before a strike. I knew the precise rotation of his hips that would generate force for his kicks.
But understanding these steps and possessing the body to execute it were two entirely different things.
I practiced in the narrow alleyway behind the orphanage, out of sight. The first time I attempted to replicate the opening stance, my legs trembled uncontrollably. When I threw a slow punch, focusing on the rotation of my shoulder and the extension of my elbow, pain flared in my muscles.
The issue was not my form. I lacked muscle density.
Every time you engage in strenuous physical conditioning, you'll create tears in the muscle fibers. In a healthy human, the body responds by repairing those tears, building the muscle back denser and stronger than before.
But this mechanism required food. Specifically, high-quality protein and a caloric surplus.
I had neither. My diet consisted of the same gray, salted rice porridge, twice a day. It provided me just enough nutrients to prevent me from starving to death, but it offered almost zero value for tissue repair.
By the end of the second month of practicing katas, I was not getting stronger. I actually felt weaker.
I recognized my body was eating itself away to keep up with the energy I demanded to be used. My arms felt perpetually heavy, and my joints ached nonstop.
If I continued training under these conditions, I would permanently stunt my physical development. I would remain frail, weak, and ultimately, useless.
In this world, I could not afford that.
However, willpower alone would not provide me with protein. And since the rationing board was cutting supplies to the orphanage to funnel resources elsewhere due to the war, no one was going to hand it to me.
I had to take it.
In the morning, I slipped out of the orphanage, my oversized, ragged shirt doing little to insulate me from the cold wind. Tucked against my stomach were the rusted kunai and the spool of ninja wire.
I retraced the route to the Training Ground 14.
I reached the fence of the training ground and slipped through the gap. The clearing was empty, the scarred wooden posts standing in the morning mist.
I didn't stop in the clearing. I moved past the logs and entered the dense perimeter of the surrounding forest.
I was not a hunter in my previous life. My knowledge of trapping was entirely theoretical, acquired from documentaries and survival shows I had watched from the comfort of a living room couch. But theory was, ultimately, better than nothing, and starvation served as ignition to put it into practice.
I spent an hour analyzing the bushes. I wasn't looking for deer or wild boar, since I lacked the tools to kill them and the strength to butcher them. I was looking for hares, or better yet, birds.
Near the base of a massive tree, I found what I was looking for. There was a small indentation in the dirt, surrounded by pinecones. It was a foraging spot, probably used by wood pigeons or ground-dwelling quails.
I set to work.
I unwound a five-foot section of the ninja wire. The steel was very thin, practically invisible in the shadows of the forest floor, but it was strong enough to hold the weight of an animal. I fashioned a small loop at one end.
Next, I found a young sapling growing about four feet away from the spot. I grabbed the trunk and pulled it downward, testing its resistance. The wood groaned, fighting to snap back to its original position. The force it could generate was enough.
Using the kunai, I carved a notch into the base of the tree. I found a small twig to act as a toggle. I tied the wire to the bent sapling, ran it down to the toggle, and wedged the toggle into the notch on the tree.
It was rudimentary, but it was effective. It was a spring-snare. If an animal stepped into the loop and disturbed the toggle, the tension on the sapling would be released. And, instantly, it would pull the wire and suspend the prey by its neck or leg.
I carefully brushed dirt and leaves over the wire to hide it, my hands shaking in anticipation.
Once the trap was set, I retreated, positioning myself into the space between two thick roots of a neighboring tree. I tried to hide my silhouette as much as possible.
And then, I waited.
Hunting, I quickly realized, was ninety-nine percent agonizing boredom. My stomach cramped, demanding sustenance.
I closed my eyes, regulating my breathing, and turning my focus inward. If my body was trapped here, I would work on my spiritual energy.
I found the dense pressure of my chakra resting near my solar plexus. Since I discovered my natural chakra spin, I had been practicing the counter-clockwise rotation every single day. It was no longer a resistant pool. At my command, the energy separated and began to spin, a smooth current of heat.
I didn't attempt to move my body while the chakra spun. I focused entirely on the volume of the flow.
The pathways in my abdomen were very narrow. I maintained the counter-clockwise spin, allowing the heat to build, and then applied a fraction of pressure, pushing the current slightly harder against the walls of the coils.
The aching returned immediately. I held the pressure, enduring it, forcing the coils to expand bit by bit. This was the conditioning I devised to make myself able to handle ninjutsu in the future. If I ever wanted to expel a fireball, my coils would have to be wide enough to handle the massive spikes in pressure without rupturing.
I held the meditation for two hours.
A rustling of leaves snapped my eyes open.
I instantly dropped the chakra rotation, letting the energy snap back into my core. I peered through the leaves, my breath catching in my throat.
The sapling had snapped upright. Dangling from the end of the ninja wire, thrashing wildly against the trunk of the tree, was a large, fat wood pigeon. The slipknot had caught it around the right wing and neck.
I scrambled out of the root, my legs pumping as I rushed toward the trap.
As I approached, reality crashed over me.
In my previous life, meat came in plastic, sanitized and disconnected from the act of violence that brought it to me. Here, the meat would be fighting for its life. The bird's eyes were wide in terror, its remaining free wing beating frantically.
I stopped a foot away, my heart hammering.
I was a grown man, but looking at the panicked animal, my hands hesitated. Taking a life, even a small one, was not something I was used to.
I paused.
This is my first test. I thought. In this world, either you kill or die by the hands of those ready to kill.
With newfound motivation, I got over my hesitation. My face hardened.
I stepped forward, grabbing the bird firmly around the body with both hands to pin its wings. I didn't prolong its suffering. I slid my right hand up to the base of its skull, took a short breath, and twisted sharply.
A snap echoed. The thrashing stopped immediately. The bird went limp.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the dead animal. I had crossed the threshold, at least slightly.
I unhooked the wire from the bird's neck and retrieved my trap, carefully rewinding the thread. I couldn't carry a dead bird back to the orphanage. The caretakers would not let me have it.
I had to process it here.
I moved deeper into the underbrush, finding a secluded area. I sat cross-legged in the dirt and withdrew the kunai.
The blade was dull, but the iron was enough to break the skin. Butchering an animal without proper tools or training is messy work. I plucked the feathers hastily. I used the edge of the kunai to open the abdominal cavity, and carefully removed the organs, setting them aside. I left only the dark red breast meat and the legs.
I needed a fire. Eating raw food would not cut it.
I gathered a handful of dry wood and dead twigs from the base of the trees. I proceeded to pile them in the dirt.
I didn't have matches. I would have to make fire by friction.
After searching, I found a sharp piece of flint rock. Holding the rusted kunai in one hand and the flint in the other, I struck the heavy iron against the stone directly over the wood.
Clack. Clack.
Nothing. My wrists ached, the kunai clumsy in my grip, I adjusted the angle, striking harder.
Clack. Sss.
A tiny, bright orange spark leaped from the flint, landing in the dry wood. I dropped the tools and leaned in close, blowing gently on the glowing ember.
I quickly fed the tiny fire with the twigs, keeping it as small as possible to avoid generating a massive smoke that might attract passing shinobi.
I skewered the butchered pigeon onto a branch and held it over the low flames.
The fat began to drip and hiss onto the coals. The smell of roasting meat dispersed. It was the most intoxicating smell I had ever encountered in this world. My mouth watered a lot.
I didn't wait for it to be perfectly cooked. The moment the outside was charred and the inside was no longer pink, I pulled it from the fire.
I tore into the meat. It was unsalted, tough, and faintly tasted like smoke and blood. It was absolute perfection.
I ate everything. I stripped the bones clean, chewing and swallowing the cooked bird anxiously. As the food hit my empty stomach, I could feel my body absorbing the protein and rushing the nutrients directly to my teared tissue.
When I was finished, I used the edge of the kunai to bury the bones, the internal organs, and the feathers deep in the dirt, covering the site with leaves to hide it from scavenging animals. I suffocated the tiny fire with soil, ensuring not a single flame remained.
I wiped my bloody hands on the grass and stood up.
The walk back to the orphanage felt different. My legs still ached, and I was exhausted, but my mind was sharp.
I had successfully made a solution using the tools I found, executed a kill, and ate real meat. I was becoming self-sufficient.
The gray porridge would be keeping me alive, but the forest was what really made me strong.
As the orphanage came into view, I allowed myself a quiet exhale. The katas would resume tomorrow. And next time, I would set three snares.