The night was as black as ink.
The Hidden Mist Village, perpetually shrouded in dense fog, was filled tonight with the suffocating stench of blood and rust.
Kaguya Shiro curled up in the corner of a rundown shack at the edge of the Kaguya Clan compound.
His frail six-year-old body trembled uncontrollably.
Outside, frenzied battle cries echoed through the night, accompanied by the dull sounds of steel piercing flesh and the thunderous explosions of ninjutsu.
He knew.
It had begun.
The Kaguya Clan’s rebellion.
The night of madness that was destined to end in the clan’s annihilation had finally arrived.
“For the glory of the Kaguya Clan!” “Kill them all!” The roars of his clansmen carried an almost sickening excitement.
Peering through the gaps in the wooden planks, Shiro watched figures race through the mist beneath the moonlight, weapons flashing as they carved deadly arcs of cold light through the darkness.
Three days earlier, when he had realized he had been reincarnated into this world as an orphan from a branch family of the Kaguya Clan, panic had nearly swallowed him whole.
He had read the manga.
He knew exactly what would happen tonight.
The entire Kaguya Clan would launch an assault on the Hidden Mist Village, only to be massacred by the Mizukage’s forces, who had long been prepared.
No one would survive.
Except Kimimaro.
Shiro thought of the white-haired boy his own age.
The clan’s greatest prodigy.
The wielder of the Dead Bone Pulse.
The clan’s ultimate weapon of slaughter.
At this very moment, those snake-like eyes of Orochimaru were undoubtedly fixed upon him.
As for Shiro, he was nothing more than an insignificant orphan from a branch family.
If he wanted to survive, he would have to find his own way to survive.
“Shiro, hurry!” A hushed voice came from behind the shack.
His entire body tensed before he immediately recognized the speaker.
It was Fujiwara, a traveling merchant who had been close to his late parents.
Ever since Shiro’s parents had died, the kind-hearted middle-aged man had treated him like his own son.
More importantly, he had been the key figure helping Shiro secretly prepare his escape over the past several days.
“Uncle Fujiwara?” “The Mist ANBU have already surrounded the eastern side.
There’s still a narrow path to the west.” Fujiwara’s face was grave in the shadows.
“A merchant caravan left this morning.
They’re waiting for you beneath the old pine tree ten kilometers away.” “This is the last thing I can do for you.” Shiro didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed the small bundle he had prepared long ago.
A few worn-out clothes.
Some dried rations.
And a handful of coins stolen from the clan’s warehouse.
Wrapped carefully inside strips of cloth, a finger bone was barely visible.
It was one he had removed from his own finger while secretly experimenting with the Dead Bone Pulse.
That’s right.
He, too, had awakened the Dead Bone Pulse.
The difference was that he’d been smart enough never to reveal it to anyone.
Taking advantage of the darkness, the dense mist, and the chaos, the two quietly avoided the main battlefield and slipped along the drainage ditch that ran beside the clan compound.
Along the way, Shiro witnessed a scene he would never forget for the rest of his life.
Moonlight pierced through the mist, illuminating a clearing.
Orochimaru stood there, his long black hair swaying gently in the night breeze.
His deep purple, snake-like eyes gleamed as though he had just discovered a treasure.
Kneeling before him was Kimimaro, his snow-white hair shining beneath the moonlight.
“What do you desire?” Orochimaru’s hoarse voice was filled with irresistible temptation.
“The meaning of my existence.” Kimimaro’s expression was frighteningly calm.
“Please…
grant it to me.” Orochimaru smiled.
The sight of that smile sent chills racing down Shiro’s spine.
He saw the near-religious devotion burning in Kimimaro’s eyes.
He also watched as Orochimaru gently rested a hand atop the boy’s head, like a master marking his own possession.
At that moment, Shiro became even more certain that he had made the right choice.
He would never become anyone’s tool.
Nor would he die for some hollow illusion of glory.
Instead, he would live for himself.
Truly live.
“Stop staring.
We have to go.” Fujiwara pulled him away, and the two quickly disappeared into the mist.
Orochimaru slightly turned his head.
His pair of snake-like eyes glanced toward the direction where the two had fled, and a strange smile curled across his lips.
Another member of the Kaguya Clan?
What a pity.
Just a branch family child who never awakened the Dead Bone Pulse.
“My lord, is there something over there?” Following Orochimaru’s gaze, Kimimaro looked into the distance before asking quietly in confusion.
“It’s nothing.” “Just an interesting little fellow.” As he spoke, Orochimaru gently stroked Kimimaro’s head.
“It’s time for us to leave as well.” …
Meanwhile, after proceeding with extreme caution, Shiro and Fujiwara finally escaped the Kaguya Clan’s territory and disappeared into the dense forest surrounding the Hidden Mist Village.
Looking back, Shiro saw flames soaring into the sky above the Kaguya Clan compound.
The screams gradually faded.
A Kekkei Genkai clan that had endured for over a century was meeting its end on this Bloody Mist night.
“Take care, kid.” “This is where we part ways.” Stopping at a fork in the road, Fujiwara handed Shiro a crudely drawn map.
“Follow the marks.
If you keep moving before dawn, you’ll catch up to the caravan.” “The Land of Rice Fields may be chaotic, but at least it isn’t the Bloody Mist.” Shiro nodded silently, his throat tightened.
He didn’t thank Fujiwara.
Nor did he ask why the man wasn’t leaving with him.
Instead, he simply bowed deeply before turning around and disappearing into the darkness.
…
5 days later.
At the border of the Land of Water.
Blisters covered Shiro’s feet, and his clothes were caked with dirt.
Throughout the journey, he had slept in the open and avoided every major road.
Relying on the keen sense of direction he had developed from years of delivering food in his previous life, he had managed to follow the trail markers left behind by Fujiwara’s caravan.
Now he sat in the rear hold of a large wooden cargo ship.
Around him were stacks of medicinal herbs and coarse cloth, specialties of the Land of Water.
The caravan’s owner was a scar-faced middle-aged woman named Atsubaki.
An old acquaintance of Fujiwara’s, Atsubaki had taken Shiro in and let him earn his keep by doing odd jobs.
“Kid, you escaped from the Hidden Mist Village, didn’t you?” She suddenly asked while the caravan was making camp that evening.
Shiro’s heart tightened, but he nodded anyway.
“The Hidden Mist…” Atsubaki tossed another piece of firewood into the campfire.
“Getting out of there was probably the best thing that could’ve happened to you.” “But don’t expect life in the Land of Rice Fields to be peaceful either.” “It’s a lawless land.” “The great nations don’t care about it, and the smaller ones can’t control it.” “Rogue ninja, missing-nin, and bandits…” “They’re more common than weeds growing by the roadside.” Shiro listened quietly.
He broke apart a piece of dried ration, dipped it into his soup, and ate it one small bite at a time.
At that moment, the index finger on his right hand twitched involuntarily.
It was an instinctive reaction after removing one of his finger bones with the Dead Bone Pulse.
Although the bone had long since regenerated, the muscle memory remained.
After another seven or eight days of traveling, the cargo ship finally arrived at the eastern docks of the Land of Rice Fields.
The caravan members busied themselves unloading the cargo.
Meanwhile, Atsubaki rented two horse-drawn wagons before leading the caravan farther inland.
After another two days of travel, the terrain gradually became flatter.
Scattered farmland and dilapidated villages began appearing along both sides of the road.
Shiro also noticed something else.
Many of the houses bore scars left behind by ninjutsu or weapons.
The villagers they passed all looked at the caravan with a mixture of vigilance and greed.
“We’re almost there.” Around noon on the third day, Atsubaki pointed toward the faint outline of city walls in the distance.
“The largest market in the Land of Rice Fields.
Once we get there…” She stopped mid-sentence.
Five figures slowly stepped out from around the bend ahead.
None of them wore a ninja village forehead protector.
Leading them was a one-eyed brute carrying a chipped ninja blade over his shoulder.
The other four spread out, blocking both sides of the road.
“Rogue ninja…
Damn it…” Atsubaki cursed under her breath as her hand moved to the kunai at her waist.
The caravan guards immediately tensed.
There were only six people in the entire caravan, and two of them were boys barely in their teens.
“Leave the cargo and the women.” “The rest of you can walk away.” The one-eyed man grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed, blackened teeth.
“In your dreams!” One of the guards beside Atsubaki roared and charged forward.
The battle erupted in an instant.
The rogue ninja were clearly seasoned veterans.
They coordinated flawlessly.
After only a brief exchange, one of the caravan guards collapsed, his blood staining the dirt road crimson.
Watching the scene unfold, Shiro’s heart pounded violently.
Crouched behind one of the wagons, Shiro’s mind raced.
Run?
With the body of a frail six-year-old, he wouldn’t get far.
Fight?
He had no combat experience whatsoever.
The only thing he could rely on was his barely mastered Dead Bone Pulse.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, the bones beneath the skin of his right index finger began to shift slowly.
“Found you, brat!” A cold voice suddenly came from behind him.
Shiro spun around.
A lean rogue ninja had somehow circled behind the wagon.
The man’s short blade shot straight toward Shiro’s chest.
Instinct took over.
Shiro threw himself sideways.
The blade scraped across his ribs, slicing through both his clothes and skin.
A searing pain shot through his body.
But what terrified him even more was the touch of death.
Am I going to die?
I escaped the Bloody Mist…
only to die here?
After being given a second chance at life…
am I really going to die meaninglessly on the side of the road?