Chapter 2 – The Weak Vessel
By dawn, the rain had slowed. The village was slick and silent. Smoke still curled from burning huts. The cries of wounded shinobi echoed faintly in the mist.
Kenjaku moved cautiously. Every step reminded him of the body's fragility.
A stiff leg. A weak wrist. A deep slash across his chest. Wounds would heal only naturally. No power from his previous life could fix them. Each movement sent stabbing pain through muscles and joints.
Villagers moved around him, unaware of the chūnin in the shadows. A small boy tripped near a wall. Kenjaku reached out—but the arm spasmed. Pain shot through his shoulder. He froze. The boy stumbled back to his feet alone.
From the ridge, movements flickered. Rain-ninjas scavenged among fallen shinobi. He tried to sense their chakra. The body faltered. He stumbled slightly, chest burning.
He crouched behind debris, muscles screaming. Hours passed. The drizzle became steady rain again. He slipped between wreckage, avoiding patrols, keeping to the shadows. Every motion reminded him that the body had limits. Every scar, every bruise, every wound was permanent.
By evening, he had mapped half the village. He had not fought. He had not healed. He had survived.
He rested against a collapsed wall, letting the rain soak through. Pain remained. Fatigue remained. But he had lived.