Training Ground Three was a killing field disguised as a park.
Tatsuya arrived at 0545, fifteen minutes early, and used the time to study the terrain. The clearing was maybe two hundred meters across, ringed by dense forest on three sides and a rocky outcropping on the fourth. Training posts dotted the space at irregular intervals—some wooden, some stone, all scarred by countless impacts. A stream bisected the eastern edge, feeding into a small pond that caught the grey predawn light.
Pretty. Peaceful. And absolutely designed for ambush training.
He counted three natural chokepoints, two elevated positions with clear sightlines, and at least four spots where the undergrowth was thick enough to conceal an adult. The stream provided noise cover for approach from the east. The rocks offered defensive terrain for anyone willing to give up mobility.
A surgeon's mind, analyzing a body. A soldier's mind, analyzing a battlefield.
He wasn't sure when the second had started feeling natural.
Other genin trickled in as the sky lightened. He catalogued them automatically: five, then eight, then twelve. Mostly young—his apparent age or slightly older. A mix of expressions ranging from eager to exhausted to carefully blank. All wearing the same dark clothing, the same equipment pouches, the same leaf-marked headbands.
Reserve pool. The orphans and the teamless, gathered together because no one else wanted them.
He recognized the type. Every hospital had them—the patients who fell through the cracks, who didn't fit neatly into specialties or treatment protocols. The ones who got shuffled between departments until someone finally took responsibility or they simply... disappeared.
These genin wouldn't disappear. They'd be assigned to missions as needed, slotted into teams missing members, used as bodies when bodies were required. Flexible. Expendable. Useful.
He intended to become more than useful.
At exactly 0600, a figure emerged from the treeline.
The man was jonin—Tatsuya could tell by the vest, the bearing, the particular quality of stillness that came from years of combat experience. Middle-aged, with iron-grey hair cropped short and a face that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts: mismatched features, old scars, a nose that had been broken and badly reset at least twice.
"Line up," the jonin said. Not loudly. He didn't need to.
Twelve genin formed a ragged row. Tatsuya positioned himself near the middle—visible enough to be noticed, unremarkable enough to avoid special attention.
"I'm Instructor Yamada. For the next three months, your lives belong to me." The jonin's voice was flat, uninflected, the tone of someone who had delivered this speech a hundred times and would deliver it a hundred more. "You're here because you don't have teams. Some of you never did. Some of you lost them. Doesn't matter. What matters is what you do now."
He began walking down the line, examining each genin in turn. Tatsuya kept his gaze forward, his posture neutral.
"The reserve pool exists because the village needs flexibility. Missions come up fast. Teams need reinforcement. Sometimes we need bodies for tasks that don't rate full squad deployment." Yamada stopped in front of a nervous-looking boy with a bandaged arm. "You. What's your specialty?"
"T-trap-making, sir. I'm good with—"
"Show me."
The boy fumbled with his equipment pouch, eventually producing a spool of wire and a handful of components. His hands shook as he assembled something that looked like a triggered snare.
"Adequate," Yamada said after a moment. "Practice until it's better than adequate." He moved on.
The inspection continued down the line. A girl who specialized in stealth. A heavyset boy who favored taijutsu. Twins who fought as a paired unit and looked uncomfortable being separated. Each genin was assessed, categorized, and dismissed with a single word: adequate, lacking, passable, disappointing.
Then Yamada reached Tatsuya.
"You're the survivor. Third Division."
It wasn't a question. Tatsuya met the man's eyes—dark, assessing, revealing nothing. "Yes, sir."
"Thirty-seven personnel. You walked out alone."
"I found a civilian. We walked out together."
Something flickered in Yamada's expression. Not quite approval—more like acknowledgment. "What's your specialty?"
The honest answer was surgery, but he couldn't say that. The practical answer was nothing, but that wouldn't help. He defaulted to what he'd observed of the body's capabilities.
"General combat. Taijutsu, weapons, basic ninjutsu." He paused, then added: "I learn fast."
Yamada's scarred face didn't change. "Everyone thinks they learn fast. Show me."
The assessment was brutal and efficient.
Yamada paired them off for taijutsu sparring, rotating partners every ten minutes. Tatsuya fought five different opponents in the first hour, losing three matches and winning two. The losses were instructive—he was outmatched in raw speed by a wiry girl who moved like water, overpowered by the heavyset boy, and simply outclassed by a quiet genin whose economy of motion suggested actual training.
The wins were harder to analyze. One opponent had been sloppy, leaving openings a child could exploit. The other had panicked when Tatsuya didn't react to her feints, losing composure and making mistakes.
He filed the information away. Speed was a weakness. Raw strength was a weakness. But pattern recognition, pressure application, exploiting psychological openings—those might be strengths.
After taijutsu came weapons. Kunai throwing at stationary targets, then moving ones, then each other. The body's muscle memory helped here; his accuracy improved as the session continued, the motions becoming more natural with repetition. By the end, he was hitting center mass about sixty percent of the time.
Not good enough. But better than when he'd started.
Ninjutsu assessment was mercifully brief. The Academy Three—Bunshin, Kawarimi, Henge—were tested and found adequate. No one asked about anything more advanced, which was fortunate, because Tatsuya wasn't sure the body knew anything more advanced.
The final test was a five-kilometer run through the forest. Full equipment, uneven terrain, deliberate obstacles placed along the route. Tatsuya finished in the middle of the pack, his ribs aching fiercely by the end, his lungs burning with effort.
When it was over, Yamada gathered them again.
"Disappointing," he said, and the word landed like a physical blow on several of the genin. "But not hopeless. You're here to improve. If you don't improve, you don't get mission assignments. If you don't get mission assignments, you don't advance. If you don't advance..." He let the silence fill in the rest.
He assigned training schedules. Physical conditioning in the mornings. Skill-specific drills in the afternoons. One day per week for rest and individual development. The schedule was grueling—six hours of formal training daily, plus whatever personal work they wanted to add.
Tatsuya intended to add a lot.
"Dismissed until tomorrow," Yamada said. "Use your time wisely. Some of you won't be here in three months."
The genin dispersed. Some headed for the village proper; others lingered, finding corners of the training ground to continue practicing. Tatsuya stayed.
He found an unoccupied section near the stream and began working through the taijutsu forms he'd practiced at the forward camp. The body remembered them—step, strike, pivot, guard—but the execution was rough, imprecise. Good enough for the Academy. Not good enough for survival.
He broke each form down into components. Isolated the footwork, repeated it until the pattern felt natural. Then the hand positions. Then the weight transfers. Then the breathing. Piece by piece, building competence from fragments.
Observe. Analyze. Practice. Refine. Repeat.
An hour passed. Two. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning chill. Other genin drifted away, but Tatsuya kept going. His muscles burned. His ribs protested. He ignored both.
"You're doing it wrong."
He didn't stop moving, but he tracked the voice. The quiet genin from the sparring matches—the one who'd beaten him cleanly—was watching from a few meters away. Male, around fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and a face that might have been handsome if it weren't so carefully expressionless.
"Which part?"
"Your weight's too far forward. It makes your back foot slow." The genin demonstrated, shifting into the same stance Tatsuya had been practicing. The difference was subtle but significant—a slight redistribution of mass that made the whole position more stable. "Like this."
Tatsuya adjusted. Tried the movement again. The footwork came smoother this time.
"Better," the genin said.
"Thanks." Tatsuya reset to the beginning of the form. "What's your name?"
A pause. Then: "Shin. Just Shin."
Just Shin. No family name, no clan affiliation. Another orphan, then. Or someone who'd chosen to leave his past behind.
Tatsuya understood that impulse.
"I'm Tatsuya."
"I know. The survivor." Shin's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—curiosity, maybe, or reassessment. "You should stretch more. Your flexibility's limiting your range."
It was true. The body was strong for its size but tight, the muscles accustomed to power over precision. Another thing to work on.
"I'll add it to the list."
"There's a list?"
"Growing one." Tatsuya moved through the form again, focusing on the weight distribution Shin had corrected. "Taijutsu's slow. Weapons accuracy is inconsistent. Chakra control needs work. And apparently flexibility." He paused. "What's on yours?"
Another silence. Then, unexpectedly, a slight upturn at the corner of Shin's mouth. Not quite a smile—more like the ghost of one.
"Ninjutsu variety. I've got the basics, but nothing else." The almost-smile faded. "My old sensei was supposed to teach me more. Before."
Before. The word carried weight. Before the mission that killed his team. Before whatever loss had put him in the reserve pool.
Tatsuya didn't ask. Some questions weren't meant to be answered.
"Maybe we can trade," he said instead. "I'll work on your ninjutsu if you help with my taijutsu."
Shin considered this for a long moment. "You don't know any advanced ninjutsu."
"Not yet. But I'm going to learn." Tatsuya reset to the starting position again. "I learn fast."
"Everyone thinks they learn fast."
"Yamada said the same thing." Tatsuya began the form once more, keeping his weight properly distributed this time. "I guess I'll have to prove it."
Shin watched him for a while longer. Then, without another word, he moved to an adjacent space and began his own practice.
It wasn't agreement. But it wasn't rejection either.
Tatsuya would take it.
The first week established a rhythm.
Mornings: Yamada's formal training. Physical conditioning, sparring, basic drills. Tatsuya pushed himself to the edge of what his body could handle, then pushed a little further. The ribs healed slowly; he worked around them, modifying exercises to avoid aggravating the fractures.
Afternoons: Individual practice. He split his time between taijutsu refinement and chakra control exercises. The latter was frustrating—he could feel the energy inside him, that warm reservoir of potential, but directing it precisely was like trying to write with his off hand. Possible, but laborious.
Evenings: The library. He devoured information on chakra theory, elemental transformation, the history of Konoha's major conflicts. Some of it confirmed what he half-remembered from his nephew's lectures. Some of it was entirely new.
The Second Shinobi World War had officially ended two months before his arrival in Konoha. The peace was fragile—border skirmishes continued, and diplomatic relations with Iwagakure were tense at best—but the major combat operations had ceased. The village was rebuilding, licking its wounds, preparing for whatever came next.
What came next, according to his fragmentary memories, was the Third Shinobi World War. Maybe a decade away. Maybe less. He couldn't remember exactly when it started, only that it had been brutal.
He needed to be ready.
On his fifth day in the village, he visited Yuki.
The Third District Orphanage was a large building in a residential area—clean, well-maintained, utterly institutional. Children played in a courtyard under the supervision of adults who looked tired but kind. The sound of their laughter felt strange after days of training and study.
Normal life. Continuing despite everything.
He found Yuki in a corner of the courtyard, sitting alone while others played around her. She looked up when he approached, and something in her face eased.
"You came."
"I said I would."
He sat beside her on the low wall she'd claimed as her perch. The stone was warm from the sun. Around them, children shrieked and chased each other, oblivious to the two quiet figures on the periphery.
"How are you?" he asked.
Yuki considered the question with the same seriousness she'd shown before. "Better, I think. The nightmares are less." A pause. "They say I might be adopted soon. A family in the merchant district lost their daughter. They want someone to..." She trailed off.
"To fill the gap," Tatsuya finished.
"Yes."
He thought about empty spaces. About identities that didn't quite fit, roles you stepped into because someone had to. About becoming someone new because the person you'd been was gone.
"How do you feel about that?"
"I don't know." Yuki's voice was small. "They seem nice. But I don't want to forget. My parents. My brother. If I let someone else call me daughter, does that mean I'm replacing them?"
The question cut deeper than she knew.
"No," Tatsuya said, and was surprised by how certain he sounded. "You don't replace people. You carry them with you, even when you can't see them anymore. Even when your life changes around them." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Letting yourself be happy again isn't betrayal. It's what they would have wanted for you."
Yuki was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "Is that what you do? Carry people with you?"
A woman's voice calling a name he couldn't remember. A hospital room that smelled of antiseptic. A life that had ended without warning or explanation.
"Yes," he said. "I try."
They sat in silence after that, watching the other children play. Eventually, Yuki's time ran out—visiting hours ended, and the caretakers began herding everyone inside. She hugged him before she left, a quick fierce grip that caught him off guard.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For remembering me."
Then she was gone, disappearing into the building with the others, and Tatsuya was left alone on the sun-warm stone.
I remember everyone, he thought. That's the problem.
He walked back to the barracks as the sun began to set, his mind heavy with thoughts that had nothing to do with training schedules or chakra theory.
The second week brought the first mission.
Yamada called him aside after morning training, his expression as unreadable as ever. "You're assigned to supplementary support for a supply escort. D-rank. No combat expected. Report to the north gate at 0500 tomorrow."
A D-rank. The lowest tier, reserved for tasks that barely qualified as missions. Escort duty, manual labor, errands that couldn't justify deploying actual combat personnel.
"Understood," Tatsuya said. "What am I supporting?"
"A genin team short one member. Temporary illness. You'll fill the gap until they return."
Fill the gap. There was that phrase again.
"Who's the jonin-sensei?"
"Kobayashi Ren. He's..." Yamada paused, which was unusual—the man rarely hesitated. "He's competent. Follow his orders, stay out of the way, don't cause problems."
An odd qualification. Competent should go without saying for a jonin. The fact that Yamada felt the need to specify it suggested something else.
Tatsuya filed the observation away. "Understood."
He spent the rest of the day preparing. Checked his equipment, restocked supplies, reviewed what little information the library had on standard escort procedures. The mission profile was simple: accompany a merchant caravan from Konoha to a village three days' travel east, ensure no bandit interference, return.
No combat expected. But expected wasn't the same as certain.
At 0500 the next morning, he arrived at the north gate to find a jonin and two genin waiting.
Kobayashi Ren was a tall man with a forgettable face—the kind of person you'd pass in a crowd without a second glance. Brown hair, brown eyes, average build. His equipment was standard issue, well-maintained but unremarkable. If not for the jonin vest, Tatsuya would have assumed he was a chuunin at best.
The two genin were more distinctive. One was a girl with red hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her expression suggesting she'd rather be anywhere else. The other was a boy who looked barely ten, with an earnest face and the kind of nervous energy that came from wanting desperately to impress.
"You're the fill-in?" Kobayashi asked, his tone flat.
"Tatsuya Meguri. Reserve pool."
"Right." The jonin didn't introduce the others. "Stay with the cart. Don't wander. If you see anything suspicious, tell me." He turned and started walking. "Let's go."
The red-haired girl fell into step beside Tatsuya as they passed through the gate. "I'm Akane," she said quietly. "The kid is Daisuke. Don't mind Kobayashi-sensei—he's always like this."
"Like what?"
"Checked out." Akane's voice carried a bitter edge. "He used to be different, before..." She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Just do your job and keep your head down. That's what we all do."
Tatsuya noted the warning. A sensei who'd given up caring, students who'd learned to work around him. Not a healthy dynamic. Not the environment that produced strong shinobi.
But it wasn't his team, wasn't his problem. He was here to fill a gap, not to fix broken systems.
The mission proceeded without incident for the first two days. The merchant caravan—four wagons carrying textiles and preserved food—traveled at civilian pace along well-maintained roads. Tatsuya walked with the carts, scanned the treelines, and kept his mouth shut.
At night, he practiced. Away from the camp, in whatever clearing he could find, working through taijutsu forms and chakra exercises by moonlight. The body was adapting, slowly. The movements came smoother each day, the chakra responded more readily to his direction.
Progress. Incremental, invisible progress.
On the third night, something changed.
He was practicing in a grove maybe two hundred meters from camp—close enough to return quickly, far enough for privacy. The moon was high, casting everything in silver-grey shadow. He was working on chakra control, trying to maintain a stable flow to his hands, when he felt it.
Presence.
Not sight, not sound—something deeper. That chakra sense he'd touched briefly at the forward camp, stirring again without warning. It painted the world in new colors: the camp behind him, four bright points of warmth. The forest around him, scattered signatures of wildlife. And to his left, maybe fifty meters away, something that felt wrong.
He went still. Drew a kunai without conscious thought.
The presence didn't move. It watched.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the presence withdrew—not quickly, but deliberately, fading into the forest with the unmistakable intent of someone who wanted to be noticed leaving.
A message. I see you. And I want you to know it.
Tatsuya didn't sleep that night.
The mission concluded without further incident. The caravan reached its destination, the merchants paid the village's fee, and Team Kobayashi returned to Konoha by a different route. No one mentioned the presence in the forest. Tatsuya didn't bring it up.
But he didn't forget.
Back in the village, he reported to the Administrative Building for debriefing. The chuunin on duty took his mission log, asked perfunctory questions, and dismissed him with directions back to the reserve pool.
"Wait," Tatsuya said before leaving. "Is there... a procedure for reporting unusual observations during missions? Things that aren't threats but might be... significant?"
The chuunin raised an eyebrow. "What kind of observations?"
Tatsuya hesitated. Describing a feeling of being watched seemed ridiculous. But if there was something out there—someone—testing reserve genin...
"Never mind," he said. "It was probably nothing."
He left before the chuunin could press further.
That night, alone in his barracks room, he pulled out the coded journal he'd started keeping. Notes on the future, as much as he could remember. Names, dates, events—fragments of knowledge that might prove critical.
He added a new entry:
Someone is watching the reserve pool. Don't know who. Don't know why. Stay alert.
Below it, almost as an afterthought:
Dreams again last night. A woman with dark hair. A voice calling a name that isn't mine. The original Tatsuya—who was he? Who was his family?
He stared at the words for a long time.
Then he closed the journal, hid it in his equipment chest, and lay down on the hard mattress.
Foundation, he thought. Everything starts with foundation. Get strong enough, and the questions will answer themselves.
Sleep came eventually. When it did, he dreamed of eyes watching him from the darkness, and a voice whispering words he couldn't quite hear.
In the morning, he rose before dawn and went to train.