-Street of seals, Uzhiogakure, Land of whirlpools----
The bustling streets of the Land of Whirlpools hummed with life as nobles, civilians, and shinobi wove through the famed Street of Seals. Merchants called out their wares, ink-stained seal masters peddled custom tags, and shinobi haggled over bulk orders of explosive seals.
The air reeked faintly of ink and parchment.
"Hey! Did you hear? The lord of the Toka region, from the land of Hot water, Koza or something, dared to behead his retainer for assaulting a peasant."
"Man, I heard that too. He is one hardheaded Lord to dare the risk of losing his retainer's loyalty for justice."
"As if. Rather than losing loyalty, I heard that the retainers and even his citizens grew more fervent in their loyalty to him. Not just that, I heard the wandering master samurai Kokubo pledged his service and loyalty due to the act of justice."
An Uzumaki shopkeeper who was listening in on the gossip said aloud, "Damn! To think the brat who came for a commission back then had grown to be such a great Lord. Old man sure lucked out again. Why does he always get such influential customers?"
Such gossip was one of the many in the most prosperous street in the world.
Amid this daily chaos, a thunderous explosion erupted from one of the seal shops.
BOOOOOOOOM
Panic surged, but surprisingly few reacted with fear. Civilians and nobles alike stood their ground, unfazed by the blast. A bewildered traveller turned to a nearby merchant.
"Why is everyone so calm?" he asked.
The answer appeared as a shimmering barrier unfurled from the ground, halting the flames in their tracks.
"Everyone, please make way!"
Moments later, members of the Uzumaki Enforcer squad arrived, scrolls in hand. In practised synchronisation, they released the seals that chained the flames into the scorched ground. The roaring inferno dissipated into nothing, revealing soot-covered victims — some sporting minor burns, others bearing grievous injuries.
"Prioritise the healing of those whose lives can be saved."
The rescue squad swept in, their green-chakra-laden palms stabilising the injured. Whispers rippled through the crowd — admiration from smaller clans envious of such medical skill, disdain from hardened warrior clans who scorned "soft" jutsu.
However, the Civilians, the only people who could be considered normal humans in the street, sighed in pity at the wounded. They knew the pain would be unbearable, the scars would be for life, and the memories would haunt them till death. It was something they could understand and empathise with, unlike the shinobi who clearly disregarded anything but death. Some of the notorious clans, like Kaguya, would disregard even that.
"Let me through!"
A figure forced his way through the crowd. The Uzumaki enforcers instinctively shifted into combat stances, unfurling tanto blades and shuriken. The boy — barely more than a teenager — raised his hands in surrender.
"It's me, Kirito. Captain Guriki, you know me," he said urgently. "Please let me help. I'm a healer."
Recognition flickered in the captain's eyes. "He's the one who's been kneeling outside the old shop," Guriki said. "The one healing beggars and passersby."
The scarred leader of the Enforcers — a man notorious for his hostility to outsiders — narrowed his eyes. "Can you vouch for him?"
Before the captain could answer, a young Uzumaki child chimed in. "You can trust him! He's one of the refugees from the Land of Grass. The one with all those kids."
"Oh! So, he's the one who bought the refugee for all those kids."
"It must be true! Since Taro was the one who guided them that day, and Taro is clearly vouching for him."
"Well, you will vouch for him if you know that he spent all the wealth of his ruined clan to buy the right to stay as a refugee for a few years."
A foreign shinobi snorted, "So ridiculous. These damn Uzumaki are not avoiding the fact that they shelter refugees in the guise of teaching Fuinjutsu."
His friend silenced him, "Sh! Stay silent. You know that teaching Fuinjutsu was one of the peace alliance conditions put forward by the major shinobi clans in the past wars."
All he got was a scoff in response; they both knew that the fuinjutsu the Uzumaki taught were bare basics. At least they were systematically made.
But the fact remained that the Uzumaki was ripping off the shinobi.
Meanwhile, Murmurs of recognition spread among the refugees. While refugees seeking safety were common in the Land of Whirlpools, a single teenager arriving with a dozen children had stood out. More remarkable was how he managed to pay the costly fees demanded by the Uzumaki for entry fees disguised as "tuition" for Fuinjutsu training. Few could afford such a burden, especially for a craft as demanding as the sealing arts.
"Let him pass," the scarred man grunted.
Kirito rushed inside. The chaos of the aftermath greeted him: charred wood, bloodied limbs, and groaning victims.
"Fuck, this was a mess. Damn, the Uzumaki are truly madmen to test such Fuinjutsu regularly."
Ironically, except for Kirito, who uttered the words and the Uzumaki, who were the subject of them, everyone else tensed at them. However, contrary to the onlookers' expectations for more entertainment, Kirito began to work, and the Uzumaki let him. Green chakra surged from his hands, knitting burned muscles and reconnecting ruptured veins. By the time he had stabilised three patients, the Uzumaki healers had barely managed one each. His patients' scars were faint and clean — a contrast to the clumsy burns the others left behind as they cauterised wounds to stop the bleeding.
Whispers grew louder when Kirito approached the man with the severed arm. Clearly, the man was very near the centre of the explosion, considering the impact. However, instead of cauterising the stump, he enveloped the wound in green light.
"Oh! Dear Kami! Unbelievable!"
The gasps made Kirito the centre of the focus. The skill he has displayed so far has been fantastic. The ongoing scene crossed the boundary of skill and stepped into the realm of Kekkai Gekkai.
Muscles twitched as nerves reconnected between the stump and the severed limb.
"He's regenerating the nerves..." one healer gasped in awe.
The limb was not fully restored, but it was clear to the onlookers that it was being reconnected—a feat unheard of outside miraculous herbs or tools from the sage lands.
"Fuck the nerves, you healers. Who cares about that? Am I seeing things?"
The healer retorted, "You idiot, you don't understand the significance of healing the nerves. It might as well be the biggest advancement in healing. However, I also have the same doubt. Am I seeing things?"
Everyone watched with growing disbelief, especially when the skin grew over the reconnected stump. Sure, the Medics in this era could heal with their chakra. But to reconnect a severed limb in the span of a conversation was virtually unseen.
Only when the last victim was stable did they swarm Kirito. They grabbed his collar, demanding his techniques. The teenager only smiled.
"How did you do that? Is it a Kekkai Genkai? Or a special medicine?"
The last part felt dumb to many, but none dared to say it. After all, who would dare to reveal the existence of such special medicine?
"It's a jutsu I developed myself," he said.
A Nearby shinobi — previously cold and indifferent — muttered in shock.
"A jutsu?" one exclaimed. "You mean that technique can be taught?"
A noble from the Land of Rice scoffed. "Our court healer can do the same," he sneered.
"Your healer's a rare Aburame with healing insects," a shinobi snapped back. "That's a Kekkai Genkai's kinjutsu. What this kid did — it's replicable. Don't you get it? This could change everything."
"Oh!"
Realisation spread. It means that such skilled healers could be reproduced. Sure, the investment must be heavy, but the nobles and shinobi who walked the wealthiest street in the world were not short of money or authority.
Offers flooded in — wealth, land, even ninjutsu in exchange for his healing knowledge.
Yet Kirito shook his head at each proposal. Instead, he returned to his familiar spot in front of the old, decrepit shop. There, he sat once more, brush in hand, and began painting quietly.
The whispers persisted, but Kirito ignored them. The various paintings he held showed his story-from bustling clan buildings and kind people. Finally, it grew fearsome as depictions of the shinobi battlefield began, reaching gruesome heights in the painting of burned-down ruins.
The same ruins of the clan compound were shown in the first painting. The point from which this story began.
-------------A couple of months ago------
-----------In Land of grass---------
"Shh! Don't cry—we have to stay silent."
"Don't worry, Momosuke-kun. It's been a week. I think they've left… Let them vent."
"MOMMY! DADDY!"
"BIG BROTHER, THEY DIED. EVERYONE DIED!"
"AHH!"
As if a flood gate had burst open, the children sobbed uncontrollably, their cries filling the dark, cold basement. The space was cramped, the air heavy with dust and the scent of grain from the bags stacked against the walls. Three barely breathing adults lay among them, their bodies covered in wounds, and a few scattered chests stood as the last remnants of their once-thriving clan.
Despite their attempts to stay strong, the two oldest children—10-year-old Momosuke and 11-year-old Karui—were clearly on the verge of tears themselves. And it was justified.
A week ago, they had hidden here, trapped beneath the Kyudo clan's burning remains, as their people were exterminated. The first few hours had been the worst. The air had been filled with the metallic stench of blood, the acrid bite of smoke, and the gut-wrenching odour of death. Outside, the wails of their dying clanmates had echoed, mixing with the victorious cries of their attackers.
Unfortunately, the worst of the wails were not just from dying.
Momosuke, the black haired one of the elder two children, suddenly slapped his own cheeks, as if trying to shake off the weight of his grief. Then, forcing a bright smile, he stepped forward.
"Shh! Come on, kids. I'll tell you a story."
"I don't want fairy tales. Not now. *Hiccup*."
Momosuke wearily said, "Well, this story is a real one. One which unfolded in front of my very eyes."
Karui immediately followed his lead, not in slapping herself but motivating herself. She tied up her long brunette hair and did her best to show a gentle smile. If Momosuke—the clan heir, who had lost everything—was doing his best to console the others, she would do the same, especially regarding the same story that she also saw.
"It's about Kirito-san," she said, her voice steadying. "The day the clan leader first saw his talent."
At the mention of Kirito's name, the younger children—most of them barely five—perked up, their tear-streaked faces showing the faintest spark of excitement.
It was only natural. Kirito was the clan's genius, a prodigy expected to rise to the level of the clan leader himself. His name had been spoken with pride throughout the Kyudo clan. To the children, he was something akin to a hero of the old.
The children's gazes turned toward one of the injured adults—a 16-year-old boy, dressed in tattered blue shinobi armour. His black hair, usually standing straight, slacked to the floor from being wet. Wet with blood.
He was lying beside an elderly man missing both legs and a woman frozen stiff like a statue.
Karui's breath caught, her grey eyes watering. Because the woman, Lady Tsukuba, wasn't just unconscious. She was dead. And judging by her cold, rigid form, she had been for a while.
Her voice failed her.
Momosuke, however, only hesitated for a second. Though his expression darkened as his eyes lingered on his dead sister's body, he continued the story without pause. A week of sorrow and helplessness made him come to terms with the loss. Unlike Karui, he was trained in Kirito-nii's medical skills from the moment he first actively moulded chakra. Hence, he knew this would be the result the day his sister dragged the remaining two into the basement. Her wounds said that much.
He still remembered the proud moment, the day when his first strand of chakra entered the imaginary routes of the body called the Chakra pathway, the day he was deemed a shinobi in training.
"It was the day of my fifth birthday," he began, voice filled with forced cheer. "The day the 11-year-old Kirito-nii showed his incredible talent. He ran up the walls and water as if they were the ground! You know, that's a skill only the old ninja clans have, like the Inuzuka and Uchiha. Unlike our clan, which my grandfather, a former bowman for the Daimyo, established. Oh! That was where we got our clan's name from.…"
On and on, Momosuke rambled on. Jumping from one topic to another without clear connections between them. Especially his choking and hollow voice made the storytelling feel like the sound of chalk scratching against the blackboard. But it might as well be heavenly music for the kids.
At least it woke someone up.
Kirito's POV
Pain didn't wake me.
It wasn't the deep gashes on my body or the cold floor beneath me that pulled me from unconsciousness.
It was Momosuke's voice.
The boy who had once been the loudest and brightest in the clan—the one who was supposed to lead his new clan into the future—was now speaking with an unnatural stiffness, his tone strained from exhaustion.
As my eyes cracked open, I saw them. The hidden children, huddled together, their tiny faces drawn and pale. They clung to Momosuke's words, desperate for anything that resembled the warmth of the world they had lost.
And for a moment, despite the horror of our situation, they listened.
They were too young to understand the full weight of their tragedy, but they knew enough. That's why even the pickiest among them—children who would normally demand lively, engaging stories—sat still, clinging to Momosuke's every word. I still remember Yoshime, the 5-year-old, who was really picky about his stories, wanting good gestures and even a little ninjutsu to make them interesting.
However, such a failure of the story made him happy and clap along. Oh Kami!
Their desperation made my own memories resurface.
The fire. The screams. The smell of burning flesh and blood.
Flashes of the battlefield seared through my mind. I remembered the invading shinobi realising, far too late, that the Kyudo clan was far stronger than they had expected. They had assumed we were just another nameless group, a newly risen clan with a handful of poorly trained fighters.
They were wrong. The counterattack was tough, but it hit the invaders hard. It even made me feel like a protagonist for some time.
We had been growing. Adapting. Learning. And it was all because of me.
I had pushed the clan toward its ambition. I had shared knowledge no one in my position should have possessed. Especially the mercantile interests and propaganda, thinking about them now, I was stupid.
I had this knowledge because I wasn't truly from this era.
I was a reincarnated man. A doctor from Earth, reborn into the Kyudo clan during the twilight of the Shinobi Warring Clans era.
And I had doomed the Kyudo clan.
" …And then?"
The children's eager voices snapped me out of my thoughts.
Ironically, the grandson of the clan leader—Momosuke—was unknowingly explaining the very reason for our downfall as if it were something to be proud of.
"Now, our Kyudo clan can use multiple jutsu, like the Transformation Jutsu and Body Flicker. We can even walk on walls and water like the old shinobi clans! My grandfather could even do Kirito-nii's greatest invention—something even Kirito-nii himself couldn't do!"
I was definitely sure those jutsu, especially that one, tempted the invading clans. My voice rasped from my throat before I could stop myself.
"That's only because my chakra isn't strong enough yet," I muttered. "Give me a few years, and I can do that. No, I'll surpass even that."
The moment they heard me speak, the atmosphere shifted.
Momosuke practically leapt over the other kids to reach my side, his small hands glowing with a faint green light as he pressed them against my wounds.
Pain flared, then dulled.
"Ahh…" I exhaled, the relief washing over me.
Drip. Drip.
Something warm splashed onto my face.
Momosuke's tears.
Lifting a shaky hand, I wiped them away.
I forced myself upright, my thoughts racing. I needed to assess the damage—both to my body and to our survival chances.
"AI, show me my injuries."
A familiar sensation washed over me as chakra burned away, feeding the cheat embedded within my mind.
[Command accepted. Processing information from the host's body.]
It wasn't much of a cheat, my so-called "AI." At its best, its processing capabilities were on par with my intelligence. It consumed chakra, limiting its use. But it was still better than nothing. Unlike my own mind—burdened by exhaustion and fear—the AI worked tirelessly.
[Host status: Weak.
Lacerations: Right forearm, left leg.
Stitched slash: Across torso.
Burns: Left limb (healed).]
I glanced at myself. My tattered armour barely covered my body, leaving me wrapped mostly in bandages. My long black hair, once loose, now hung in a tangled mess.
Nearby, old man Jizen's legs were gone. The wounds had been roughly cauterised—likely by his own hand. Without it, he wouldn't have survived, but it meant reattaching them was impossible.
On second thought, if it weren't for the cauterisation, he would have been dead. I was not sure if Momosuke would have managed to cauterise the wound, with me being unconscious. However, the shape of the cauterised wounds is very familiar. The self-inflicted fire style wounds to survive a severed limb. A style of self-harm I had observed since I first stepped onto the battlefield at 7 years old.
SIGH
It was a pretty brutal moment. Especially when the clan leader dragged me to the battlefield, those thoughts made me look towards his latest stunt.
And then there was Lady Tsukuba.
The clan leader's granddaughter. The girl I was meant to marry.
The one they planned to use the marriage to tie me permanently to the clan.
Dead.
It felt heavy, the still form of Ladu Tsubaka, the clan leader's first grandchild, a 14-year-old who served in the daimyo's court. According to the public, she was brought back for this year's festival. But the real reason was simple: she had been brought back to marry me.
The clan leader had all but decided that I must be tied to the clan by his granddaughter. After all, I was an orphan raised by the village servants, with no blood relation to them. I vaguely remember flashes of memories in which my injured body is dragged by her, through the burning ground, into this basement.
Frankly, I had mixed feelings about her. I protested and tried my best to avoid marrying her. The lack of familiarity was one thing, but the biggest reason was that she was a civilian. In this world where lineage had a significant effect on children's prospects, I wanted someone much better.
Only I knew how much effort I had put, all so that I could from an ant level civilian to an glorified canon fodder. Yep, the civilian lineage makes the first-generation chakra user's life hell. Especially when compared to the shinobi lineage.
No wonder the clans rule the era.
Hence, a civilian wife felt like a bad thing for my future children. My AI, meta-knowledge, and confidence in myself led me to reject her for better prospects in the future.
The secondary reason is that I didn't want to bend to the whims of the greedy clan leader. Or it was simple teenage rebellion.
Forcing my gaze away, I steadied my breathing. I need to care for the kids, that's the least I can do considering my position.
I lifted my hands and formed the signs.
Ox > Tiger.
A simple two-hand sign jutsu, but the culmination of years of effort.
"Mystic palm."
Chakra surged through my body, following pathways I had memorised down to the smallest detail.
In a few seconds, the chakra completed the movements inside the body and finally connected at the end of the tiger sign. The signs themselves were considered the requirement for establishing a shinobi clan. The clan leader managed to get them from torturing the shinobi he encountered in his life when he was a bowman in the Daimyo's army.
Unlike the jutsu use shown in anime, Hand signs were not so simple. The Handsigns required the chakra to flow along the chakra pathway in the hands, adding the properties needed for the jutsu to the chakra. Of course, if one was skilled enough and their chakra control was good, they could directly impart the properties to the chakra. But it required immense talent and effort over decades.
"Fuck, this is much better."
As the green glow touched my wounds that Momosuke barely stitched up, they scarred over.
The scaring of the stitched wounds was almost instinctual to me. Especially after years of use, this allowed me to take in my situation.
The children had gone silent as I looked at old man Jizen's condition. The stubborn old man showed his expertise in administering first aid.
It was the very moment that I bent over the rigid form of Lady Tsukaba that Momosuke started crying aloud, at the top of his lungs. He clutched at my clothes as I looked over her.
"SISTER! SISTER, SISTER, SISTER…."
That single word echoed through the silent room, over and over as my chakra recovered. The cause of death was clear to me, it was. The very moment I sent my chakra through her body to diagnose the condition, I found the iconic stab wound of a Kunai on her back.
A simple Kunai stab is enough to kill a civilian. Considering the depth, I am sure that it was done offhandedly, as if the user didn't even bother to throw it properly. Considering the carnage last week, I had a grim suspicion about the reason for this cruelty.
I didn't know what to say or feel; we were strangers. I didn't know anything about her, and a part of it was my own fault. Yet, she saved me somehow. I cleared away my confusion and focused on caring for Jizen.
Once I was sure I had done everything I could for Jizen, I looked over myself.
My armour was in tatters, leaving me practically naked with strings of cloth protecting my privacy and the bandages making up the rest of my attire. My brown skin all but disappeared between the bandages. I tied my long black hair into a ponytail again.
I looked over my profile, the fruits of my labour.
Profile
Name: Kyudo Kirito
Age: 16 years, 4 months
Chakra: 6900 [Chunin]
Physique: Elite Chunin
Chakra Control: S
Chakra Control Exercises: Rasengan Balloons
Nature Transformations:
Water Release: 760/1000 [B-rank]
Taijutsu: Chakra Scalpel Precision Combat: 600/1000 [A-rank]
Kenjutsu: Medic Scalpel -????? [Theoritcal]
Genjutsu: None
Ninjutsu:
General Ninjutsu: Academy 3 [D-rank], Body Flicker – 200/1000 [ C-rank]
Medical Ninjutsu:
Mystic Palm Jutsu: 1000/1000 [A-rank] Chakra Scalpel: 1000/1000 [A-rank]
Water Release: Water Bullet [C], Water Severing Waves [B], Hidden Water mist [C]
Other Skills:
Chakra Disruption: 600/1000 Chakra Augmentation: 200/ 1000 [B-rank] Advanced Sensory Techniques: 500m range [B-rank]
Training:
Weighted Training: 90 kg per limb, 300 kg vest (In progress) Sign Languages [B] Tracking [A] Information Analysis & Gathering [S]
———-Clan grounds——-
Desolate emptiness.
It was something I felt when I used my chakra-sensing Jutsu. As each wave of chakra that was sent with the little finger poked into the ground, the more it felt jarring to me.
[Ding.
Acquiring information from Host's senses…..
Processing the data….
Cross Referencing with existing database….
Time Remaining: 1 hour…]
The usual bustling feeling of life, which was the norm for the village, no longer existed. I didn't use the AI to acknowledge that. Though the complete loss of life and wealth would be better understood with AI, it was not the only reason. I needed to know if any enemies remained.
My mind and logic said that it was impossible, but experiences in the past week made me paranoid.
I told the kids to be careful while they hid in the basement. Meanwhile, I silently stalked out of it through the hidden stairs that opened into the well.
Despite the clear sign from my sensing, I felt like I needed to be careful.
The moment I saw the clan grounds, I remembered the worst memories of both lives. The time the clan leader showed me the cruelest battlefield to 'toughen me' after seeing my modern sensibilities.
A battlefield that was a simple genocide.
I saw corpses of varying conditions as I silently checked the place. Burned, Drowned, bloated, Cut into pieces,….
It became even crueller as I saw a kid of Karui's age completely naked and bleeding between her legs. I felt a vicious satisfaction as I saw a Kaguya member whose genitals were torn apart as if bitten through.
While rare, I did see the bodies of the Hagoromo clan, the Kaguya clan and finally, the Senju clan.
I knew that the shinobi are mere instruments and tools that follow their contract, but knowing is one thing and accepting is another whole thing. My heart burned with rage that wanted to be vented, but I felt a sense of despair when I remembered the newly crowned clan leader of Senju, Senju Hashirama.
The canon all but slammed into my face that he was unbeatable unless literal gods and aliens were his enemies. Now that I think about it, even the anime didn't show him getting defeated. Not even by them.
I knew that the Uchiha would follow suit and establish Madara as the clan leader. I am a few years behind the formation of Hidden Leaf Village. At best, a decade. It was the end of the era I had been counting on for years. Ever since I was reborn and heard about the ongoings of shinobi world affairs, I was waiting for the end of this cruel era.
Waiting and hoping to join the new Konoha and enjoy my retirement in peace.
Now, I am reluctant.
Especially when I looked at the slaughtered village that had once formed around Kyudo clan. I had helped build it. Trade was the centre of it, and the families that were brought back. All of them were done by me personally.
It was the feeling of dripping water on my chest that made me trace the source to my eyes, stained with tears that the clan leader had hated the most. That man did his best to beat the capacity for tears out of me.
The clan leader was kind and happy with his family, but with the others, he reminded me of Danzo. His need to control everything, endless ambition and his way of looking at us tools, all of these things made me think that he would make a good addition to Root if he had been born a few decades later.
Once, I was sure that the place was empty with nothing but bodies and rubble, I went back for the kids.
The task at hand wasn't something I could do alone. It was a task that the clan leader had me do as long as I can remember. The task that was the essence of this era.
We need to pillage for wealth, food, and bury the dead. Then, we leave.