Thud! Thud! Boom!
The dull, rhythmic concussions of explosive tags reverberated through the earth, a constant, shivering reminder of the meat grinder just beyond the horizon. The air here, even behind the front lines, tasted of ash and metallic ozone.
Inside the Intelligence Division's command tent, the atmosphere was a different kind of chaotic. It was a storm of paper, ink, and urgent whispers.
"Captain Inoichi. This is the new recruit assigned to the Analysis Team. A Genin with high sensory aptitude."
Mawari Dokuraku gestured to the figure standing rigidly behind him.
Inoichi Yamanaka, the bustling head of the division, paused mid-signature. He looked up, his pale eyes narrowing as he assessed the boy.
Tonbo Tobitake.
The boy was a study in anonymity. Heavy, grey-white bandages swathed his eyes, ears, and neck, spiraling up to cover the top of his head above his Konoha forehead protector. He looked less like a fresh graduate and more like a walking casualty.
He observes the world without eyes? Inoichi thought, noting the boy's steady posture despite the lack of vision. Sensory talent indeed.
"Excuse me... Lord Inoichi? I am Tonbo Tobitake."
Sensing the Captain's attention, Tonbo straightened his spine, his voice betraying a tremor of nervous excitement.
"No time for pleasantries," Inoichi said, already turning back to his stack of decryption scrolls. "Mawari, he's yours. Get him up to speed on the Psycho Mind Transmission technique immediately. We're drowning in data."
"Understood, Captain." A glint of sharp amusement flashed behind Mawari's dark sunglasses.
Ah.
Tonbo's heart sank. He had hoped for guidance from the renowned head of the Yamanaka clan. Instead, he was being pawned off on Mawari.
He knew Mawari Dokuraku. In the future depicted in the anime, this man was a fixture of the Torture and Interrogation Force—a colleague of the terrifying Ibiki Morino.
The "Demon Instructor," Tonbo thought grimly. I hope he hasn't earned that nickname yet.
Tonbo hadn't planned on dying young. In his previous life, he had been an ordinary fan of anime and xianxia novels, reading late into the night until his heart simply stopped.
When he opened his eyes again, he was in the world of Naruto. But there was no golden age of peace. He had been dropped straight into the blood-soaked timeline of the Third Great Ninja War.
He was a fifth-year academy student forced into early graduation to fill the ranks.
Tonbo was terrified. He knew the statistics. Genin on the front lines were fodder. So, he had frantically leveraged his only asset—the character Tonbo Tobitake's canonical route.
The Analysis Team.
Their job was simple: crack open enemy skulls, extract the intel, and organize it for the brass. In peacetime, they were the gatekeepers of Konoha. In war, they were supposed to be safe.
"Catch."
A heavy scroll sailed through the air. Tonbo snatched it reflexively.
"That contains the specific chakra flow and seals for the Psycho Mind Transmission," Mawari said, already turning toward the tent flap. "With your sensory gifts, the basics should be trivial. If you hit a wall, ask me... after I finish my shift."
And he was gone.
Tonbo stood alone near the edge of the camp. The wind carried the faint scent of iron. He knew his classmates—Might Guy, Ebisu, Genma Shiranui—were likely already out there, throwing shuriken at Sand shinobi.
He didn't envy them. Logistics was where he belonged.
He sat cross-legged on the dry earth and unfurled the scroll. He pulled the bandages down from his eyes, blinking in the harsh sunlight.
He had expected a manual. He got an encyclopedia. The scroll was densely packed with small script, detailing not just the execution, but the dangerous nuances of mental intrusion. How to navigate a hostile psyche, how to filter relevant data, and most importantly, the mental firewalls required to stop the enemy's insanity from bleeding back into your own mind.
It was a complete discipline, not just a jutsu.
Tonbo took a breath and began to read.
As his eyes scanned the columns of ink, a strange sensation washed over him. The text didn't just register; it dissolved. The complex theories of spiritual energy manipulation unraveled in his mind like loose knots. It wasn't difficult. It was... intuitive.
Rat. Horse. Tiger.
He cycled through the hand seals. His chakra moved obediently, molding itself into the correct frequency without resistance.
He blinked. That's it?
He looked around the camp. He couldn't exactly tackle a passing Chunin to test a mind-invasion technique.
What now?
He couldn't practice flashy ninjutsu here; the Analysis Team relied on secrecy. Drawing attention was forbidden.
"I'll practice sensory perception then," he murmured.
He was a Sensor Type—a rarity far more precious than a Wind Release user. He rewound the bandages over his eyes, plunging his world into darkness.
Except it wasn't dark.
The moment the cloth settled, the world shifted. It became a blueprint of grayscale lines and vibrant flames.
He formed the Tiger seal to refine his focus.
Pulse.
His perception expanded instantly. A kilometer-wide sphere of awareness bloomed in his mind. He felt the small, cold flicker of a frog in the mud. He felt the frantic heartbeat of a bird. He felt the distinct, burning fires of ninja chakra moving through the camp.
It lacked the X-ray precision of the Byakugan, but the clarity was staggering.
My talent... it's not just the original body's capability, he realized. It's amplified.
Since crossing over, every piece of knowledge he touched seemed to integrate instantly. He decided to test the limits.
Transformation Jutsu.
Usually, a ninja needed to study a target to mimic them perfectly. Tonbo merely glanced at a stray dog near the supply crates. The anatomy, the texture of the fur, the posture—it was instantly cataloged.
Poof.
He didn't just look like the dog; he felt the shift in center of gravity.
Clone Jutsu.
In the academy, the hand seals took him a full second. Now? His fingers blurred. He was thirty percent faster. On a battlefield, that was the difference between life and a memorial stone.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice was cold.
Tonbo froze. He was halfway up a tree, testing his chakra control. Mawari Dokuraku stood at the base, his arms crossed.
"I told you to learn the Mind Transmission technique," Mawari said, his tone dangerous. "This is war, kid. Soldiers who disobey orders tend to have short careers."
Tonbo dropped from the branch, landing silently.
"I've learned it, sir," Tonbo said. "But I lack a test subject."
Mawari stared at him. The bandages hid Tonbo's expression, but Mawari's skepticism was etched plainly on his face.
According to the academy files, Tonbo was above average, but not a prodigy. It had taken Mawari three days of grueling meditation to master the entry frequency for that jutsu.
"Follow me."
Mawari didn't argue. He spun on his heel and marched toward a section of the camp dug into the earth—the temporary holding cells.
They descended into a damp, underground corridor lined with reinforced doors. Mawari stopped at the third one and shoved it open.
"The prisoner inside has already been broken," Mawari said, stepping into the gloom. "His consciousness is a mess. Go in. Try to read him. And remember—do not dive too deep, or you'll drown in there."
Tonbo stepped inside.
The room smelled of rust and fear. A single candle flickered, casting long shadows against the dirt walls. A Sand Ninja sat slumped in a chair, restrained. His eyes were glazed, staring at nothing.
Mawari leaned against the doorframe, watching. He was ready to intervene if the kid started seizing.
Tonbo approached the prisoner. He didn't hesitate. He knew the anatomy now. He knew exactly where the cranial nerves converged.
He placed his right hand gently over the Sand Ninja's forehead.
Rat. Horse. Tiger.
"He's actually doing it..." Mawari murmured, watching the chakra stability. The kid's hand placement was perfect, targeting the path of least resistance to the cortex.
Tonbo closed his eyes beneath the bandages.
Access.
It wasn't like reading a book. It was like falling down a well.
He plummeted through a tunnel of light and noise. Images flashed by—shards of a life not his own.
A childhood in the desert winds.
Graduating the Academy in Sunagakure.
The first time he held a kunai with intent.
This man was a Chunin. A veteran. He had survived six months on the front lines of the Third War before being captured.
The memories were fragmented, shattered by previous interrogations, but the core was there.
Tonbo felt the sand under his feet. He felt the weight of a puppet on his back. He felt the muscle memory of dodging a Fireball Jutsu, the instinct to feint left before striking right.
It wasn't just information. It was experience.
Tonbo's breath hitched. His own soul, emboldened by the transmigration, acted like a sponge. It didn't just view the memories; it absorbed the reflexes.
Combat experience. Reconnaissance tactics. The subtle twitch of a finger before throwing a shuriken.
He pulled his hand back, gasping as he returned to his own body. He looked at his hands. They felt different. Calloused with invisible scars.
I didn't just read him, Tonbo realized, a thrill of power shooting through his spine. I learned him.
"Well?" Mawari asked.
"I saw... his deployment history," Tonbo said, his voice steady despite the racing of his heart. "But more importantly... I think I'm going to be very good at this job."