Chapter 7: Huoshi's Obsession
"Let me get this straight," Sarutobi Hiruzen said around his pipe, smoke curling thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "An unknown ninja infiltrates our village, gets himself spectacularly murdered by one of our jonin, and then—poof—both the killer and the corpse vanish into thin air?"
The ANBU operative shifted uncomfortably. When the Hokage used that particular tone, it usually meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
"That's... correct, Hokage-sama."
Hiruzen took another drag, savoring both the tobacco and the absurdity of the situation. At his age, he'd learned to appreciate life's little ironies—they were often the only entertainment he got between mountains of paperwork and international incidents.
"You know," he mused, "most days I deal with budget disputes and complaints about the quality of cafeteria food. Then something like this happens, and I remember why I never should have taken this job."
The tension wasn't lost on him, though. A chunin-level operative didn't just waltz into Konoha by accident. Someone had been planning this for years, probably decades. The kind of deep-cover work that required the patience of a saint and the paranoia of a career criminal.
"It's a sleeper agent," he concluded, settling into his chair with the air of a man solving a particularly tedious puzzle. "Had to be. Nobody goes through that much trouble to sneak in just to get themselves killed on the first night. Something spooked them, made them abandon cover after God knows how long."
He gestured toward the window, where Konoha slept peacefully under moonlight that did nothing to hide the growing shadows of war.
"Check our watch lists. Cross-reference anyone who's been acting unusual lately. And for heaven's sake, find out where that body went. Dead spies don't just walk away on their own."
Though knowing my luck, he thought darkly, this one probably will.
Back at the morgue, Qifeng was having what could generously be called a spiritual experience.
He stood before his two latest acquisitions—one legitimately deceased unknown ninja, one freshly minted spy-turned-corpse—with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning or tax refunds.
Two bodies, he thought, practically vibrating with contained excitement. One rare experience card used. If I don't get my money's worth out of these, I'm officially the unluckiest transmigrator in literary history.
The borrowed power was still coursing through him, Miura Ichigo's decades of experience whispering combat techniques and tactical knowledge that his original body had no business knowing. Rather than waste it, Qifeng spent the remaining time practicing—throwing kunai with precision that would have made his academy instructors weep, moving through kata that felt both foreign and familiar.
When the power finally faded, leaving him feeling oddly hollow, the system cheerfully informed him of his reward for initiative:
[Experience concluded! Due to active learning, additional bonuses gained: Taijustu +3, Genjustu +1, Chakra +1]
"Now that," Qifeng said with genuine satisfaction, "is what I call a solid return on investment."
In his moment of triumph, he automatically reached for the cigarette he'd bummed from Asuma earlier. The familiar ritual of lighting up felt like the perfect celebration for a job well done.
He took a deep, satisfied drag—
And immediately remembered he was standing in a morgue surrounded by corpses.
Oh, come on.
The realization hit him like a slap from his grandmother's ghost. Here he was, contaminating the air around people who deserved better, blowing smoke over the dead like some kind of disrespectful—
He tried to hold the smoke in rather than exhale it, which turned out to be roughly equivalent to voluntarily swallowing liquid regret. His body rebelled against the concentrated nicotine assault, sending him stumbling outside in a fit of retching that would have been embarrassing if anyone had been around to witness it.
Note to self, he gasped between coughs, respiratory etiquette applies even to the deceased.
After cleaning up the evidence of his earlier fight—because nothing said "suspicious activity" like leaving broken glass and blood spatters around a morgue—Qifeng settled into his grandfather's old rocking chair to wait for midnight.
The chair creaked ominously with each gentle sway, producing the kind of sound that horror movie directors paid good money to reproduce. Combined with the morgue setting, it created an atmosphere that would have sent most people screaming into the night.
Qifeng found it oddly soothing.
"Ah, the simple life," he murmured, perfectly content to rock gently surrounded by the dead. "No social obligations, no small talk, no one asking me about my five-year plan. Just me, my corpses, and the sweet promise of supernatural loot."
He'd never been much of a people person in his previous life, and death had done nothing to improve his social skills. If anything, his current hobby made him even less suitable for polite company.
At least the dead don't judge your life choices, he reflected. They've got their own problems.
When midnight finally arrived, he approached the ritual with the solemnity it deserved. He washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and even attempted to smooth down his chronically unruly hair.
Respect the process, he reminded himself. Respect the dead. And maybe, just maybe, they'll respect you back with something useful.
He stood before Huoshi's body, the green glow marking it as ready for examination. Something about the man's peaceful expression gave him pause.
"Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot," Qifeng said conversationally. "You tried to kill me, I killed you back—it's the circle of life. But I want you to know, I don't take this lightly. You died far from home, chasing something important enough to blow your cover. That means something."
He placed his hand on the corpse's chest.
"So how about we make a deal? Give me something good, and I promise I'll make it worth your while."
[Failure!]
Qifeng stared at the system message, then at Huoshi's face.
"Really? After that touching speech? I poured my heart out to you!"
He tried again, this time with significantly less diplomacy.
[Success! Obtained: Huoshi's Obsession!]
The item that materialized was a mask so thin it seemed almost ethereal, crafted from what looked like human skin but felt like silk between his fingers.
[Name: Huoshi's Obsession]
[Description: An Iwagakure chunin who infiltrated Konoha at age eight, spending twenty-three years away from his homeland. In his final moments, he dreamed only of seeing the Village Hidden in Stone once more.]
[Effect: Disguise +2, allows facial structure modification, remaining uses: 5/5]*
[Note: The dead yearn for home. Huoshi's final wish is to be buried in the Land of Earth.]
The description hit Qifeng like a physical blow. Twenty-three years. The man had been away from home for twenty-three years, living a lie, maintaining a cover identity in enemy territory. And in the end, all he'd wanted was to go home.
Qifeng looked down at the mask in his hands, then at Huoshi's peaceful face. For a moment, he saw not an enemy spy but a homesick young man who'd died far from everything he'd ever loved.
"Damn," he whispered. "That's... that's actually really sad."
He carefully folded the mask and tucked it away, then placed a respectful hand on Huoshi's shoulder.
"I meant what I said earlier. If I ever get the chance, I'll make sure you get home. Nobody should have to spend eternity in foreign soil."
There may be conflicts due to stance issues during life, but once you are dead, dust returns to dust, earth returns to earth.
As an elite Chunin who is good at disguise and a veteran lurker who has been lurking in Konoha for twenty-three years, it is barely reasonable for him to possess such a thing.
After all, whether it is the transformation technique or Orochimaru's Vanishing Facial Copy Jutsu technique, there are chakra fluctuations, and it is difficult to avoid the perception of sensory ninjas, let alone the Byakugan of the Hyuga clan.
The third draw from Huoshi went smoothly, yielding a +2 attribute enhancement card that he immediately applied to his ninjutsu skills. Whether it was gratitude for his promise or simple luck, he chose not to question.
Finally, he turned to the red corpse—the mysterious unknown ninja whose death had started this entire chain of events.
[Red corpse, success rate 15%. Attempt corpse examination? (Current attempts: 3/3, daily total: 6/9)]
Fifteen percent. Roughly the same odds as winning a decent scratch-off lottery ticket, getting struck by lightning, or finding a parking spot in downtown during rush hour.
In other words, absolutely terrible.
Qifeng grinned anyway. After the night he'd had, he was feeling lucky.
"Alright, mystery meat," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Time to see what you've got for me. And it better be good, because I've already blown my good deed quota for the week on your roommate here."
[Yes!]
The system began its calculation, and Qifeng held his breath.
Sometimes, fifteen percent was all you needed.