Beep… Beep… Beep…
The rhythm of the alarm morphed into the rapid thrum of a helicopter blade, then transitioned into the frantic, high-pitched ringing of the Mart's security system.
The smell of gunpowder and copper filled my nose. I felt the phantom heat of a blade against my throat.
I bolted upright, my breath coming in jagged hitches. My hand flew to my lower stomach, fingers clawing at the fabric of my shirt, searching for the wetness of blood and the jagged hole left by a bullet.
Nothing.
Just smooth skin. Just a thin cotton shirt.
I sat there for a long time, hunched forward, feet pressing against the cold wooden floor to ground myself. I missed the alarm once, swearing under my breath, before finally slapping it silent.
The silence that followed was heavy.
I looked around the room. It was a one-room apartment—small, cramped, and strictly organized. My military discipline wouldn't let me live in filth. Even if I wasn't a soldier anymore, the habits were baked into my bones.
The futon dipped where I'd slept, but the rest of the room was a masterpiece of order. Clothes were folded neatly on the chair. The kitchen counter was wiped down until it shone, and the sink was bone-dry.
I pushed myself up, folded the futon with precision, and slid it into the wardrobe. After a quick bath, I stood in front of the sink.
I looked into the mirror, expecting to see a thirty-year-old vet with crow's feet and a five o'clock shadow.
Instead, a kid stared back. Maybe nine or ten years old.
This was Kazu Mori. Orphan.
He had pale skin and dark, black spiky hair that defied gravity. His face was sharp, angular, with high cheekbones that made him look severe for his age. But the eyes—they were the worst part. They were deep, dark, and had seen too much.
I looked tired. Not "I need a nap" tired. Soul tired.
It's been four years since the grocery store incident.
Four years since I died.
Four years since I was transmigrated into the body of six-year-old Kazu Mori.
I sighed, gripping the edge of the sink.
I know a lot of people would kill for a second chance at life. To start over. But me? I didn't want this. I'd done my time. I'd waded through enough shit. I just wanted to rest. I just wanted the dark.
But I was here. So I had to move.
I went to the kitchen and tore open a packet of instant noodles. The packaging was a strange, thick paper, but the world itself was an even stranger contradiction.
I had a refrigerator and electric lights. But there was no TV. No phones. No internet. No microwaves.
Everything felt like a bizarre mixture of modern convenience and medieval Japanese architecture.
I poured in the hot water and waited. When I took the first bite, I paused. Back home, cheap noodles were salt and chemicals. These were different. The broth had a rich, complex depth to it, and the spices tasted fresh. It was the best thing about this new life so far.
A knock hit the door.
I stopped eating. I knew that rhythm. I crossed the room and opened the door to see Akito Taniguchi grinning at me.
I stared at him for a beat. Before he could even say hello, I closed the door.
"Hey—wait! Don't be like that! I lost my change! I haven't eaten since yesterday!"
I sighed and let him in. Five minutes later, he was on the floor, inhaling the rest of my noodles.
"Thanks," he wheezed. "You saved my life."
"What happened to your money, Akito?"
"Ah. Spent it. On a drink that's supposed to give you muscles." He flexed a skinny arm. "Merchant said it was a secret blend."
"…I want my noodles back," I muttered.
I watched him eat, suppressing a groan.
Akito was an orphan, just like me. We'd survived the same orphanage. When I turned ten and started receiving my parents' pension, I used it to get out. I moved here to get away from the noise.
Akito followed me a week later and rented the unit nearby.
He usually spent his money on junk, and I usually had to clean up his mess. It felt like I was being forced to babysit all over again.
I glanced at the clock. "We're gonna be late. Let's go."
We rushed outside, and the world hit me with its usual weirdness.
Instead of concrete, we ran on a hard-packed dirt road. There were no cars, no sirens—just the sounds of a village waking up. The houses were circular, with sloping roofs and odd wooden supports that looked like they belonged in a fantasy novel.
We moved past the vendors, our feet slapping against the ground. An old woman behind a fruit stall spotted us and shook her head.
She reminded me of an old woman in Kabul who treated me like her grandkid. She'd always found a way to feed me, even when I tried my best to ignore her. This woman had the same soft eyes.
"Kazu! Akito! Running late again?"
She tossed an apple. I caught it without breaking stride, the weight of it familiar in my palm.
"Thanks!" Akito yelled, already chewing a snack from another stall.
We moved through the crowd, greeted by nods and voices. People here actually looked at you. In my old life, everyone was a stranger. Here, everyone was a neighbor. It was nice, but I still wasn't used to it. I didn't want to get too close.
The school—the Academy—came into view. A wide yard, a massive old tree with a lone swing rocking in the breeze, and the red circular building looming in the background.
We ducked inside the halls. Akito waved at people, but I kept my head down.
For four years, I'd been careful. I made sure to perform "decently." Not top of the class, not bottom. Just enough to be unremarkable. If I stayed in the middle, I'd get a normal, low-risk job after graduation. I'd live a normal life. That was the mission.
But when we reached our room, a teacher was waiting.
"Follow me," he said. "You're not going to Class C today."
He led us to Class A. The elite room.
"Go on," he said. "This is your class now."
Akito froze. "But… why? This has to be a mistake."
The teacher sighed.
"We're just balancing the classes," he said. "Class C got a little too crowded."
He glanced at us briefly.
"And you two showed some potential, so the academy wants to see how you perform in Class A."
My heart sank.
Some potential?
Me?
I'd been faking my clumsiness for years. How much did they actually see?
If I caught the attention of the higher-ups, my quiet life was over.
Professionals don't get quiet lives.
They get sent to the front lines.
I didn't want that.
I just wanted something simple.
Flipping burgers. Guarding a gate. Anything that didn't involve another war.
The door slid shut, and the room went quiet. A man named Hirose stood at the board. He looked plain, forgettable—the most dangerous kind of person.
I looked around the class.
A boy with pale, white eyes watched us with pure scorn. A girl with a neat hair-bun looked at us with a calculating curiosity. And in the back, a kid in green spandex stared with a literal fire in his eyes.
I took a slow breath.
Yep. I'm in the Naruto world as some unknown background NPC. I shouldn't be here. I should be invisible.
And somehow, that role was already falling apart.