In the stories Tetsumaru knew from his past life, the Aburame clan had produced many powerful shinobi. Clad in high-collared trench coats and dark sunglasses, their unique and eerie "Insect Mimicry" techniques left a lasting impression.
The foundation of the clan's secret arts revolved around the Kikaichu. They were strikingly similar to the Gu sorcery of Chinese legends—mysterious, unsettling, and more than a little creepy. Consequently, the Aburame didn't exactly have the best PR with the average villager. Aside from their own teammates, most people gave them a wide berth.
Furthermore, the two most defining traits of an Aburame ninja were a "thin presence"—making them easy to forget—and a tendency to be absolute chatterboxes. It was a lethal combination.
To survive in the Aburame clan, there were three unspoken rules:
Rule One: Never talk to yourself anywhere except your own bedroom. There is a high probability an Aburame ninja is sitting right next to you, and you just haven't noticed them for the last hour.Rule Two: Once you leave your bedroom, act exactly as your status demands. At any given moment, you might be carrying one or more Kikaichu planted by a clansman.Rule Three: Except for family, never strike up a conversation with another Aburame. You might accidentally trigger a chatterbox's interest, and they will talk to you until you lose the will to live.
What is the first rule of survival for a transmigrator? It's to lay low.
Blend into the crowd. Disguise yourself as a perfectly ordinary member of society. Don't be eccentric; don't draw attention. At the end of the day, a transmigrator is naturally "different," and their soul cannot withstand close scrutiny. To be a transmigrator is to be an infiltrator.
Living in the Aburame clan, therefore, came with immense pressure. It took Tetsumaru a full fifty days to finally "domesticate" his new body. He managed to curb the spontaneous skipping and hopping, slowly bringing his daily behavior in line with the other children.
Tetsumaru breathed a massive sigh of relief. But he had relaxed far too soon.
A swarm of children was noisily finishing lunch. A few older boys gulped down their food, shouted "I'm full!" with stuffed cheeks, and bolted for the door. They nearly collided with the kunoichi at the entrance, quickly bowing their heads. "Aunt Sachiko, we're done!"
Aburame Sachiko gave each boy a playful flick on the forehead as a "punishment" before letting them go. With the post-war baby boom in full swing, the number of children in the Aburame clan had skyrocketed. There were over forty kids in the Nest House during the day. Sachiko couldn't possibly watch them all, so she tended to be more lenient with those over four, focusing mainly on keeping them fed.
After eating, the children formed groups and ran wild through the village. This was the norm for most kids in Konoha; the village currently lacked public facilities, so pre-schoolers were essentially "free-range."
Tetsumaru led his cousins to the edge of the forest to meet up with other playmates before the whole pack plunged into the trees.
He caught a few grasshoppers, skewered them on a grass stem, and headed to the reeds by the river. He tied a grasshopper to a sturdy thin string, tossed it into the reeds, and dragged it out. He repeated this until he had caught two greedy frogs.
Next, he tied the frogs securely with a rope as thick as a finger and tossed them into the deep pool at the river's bend. The panicked frogs struggled desperately, their splashing attracting a predator from the depths.
A massive mouth erupted from the water, swallowing a frog whole—and the specialized hook hidden behind it. The boys behind Tetsumaru let out a deafening cheer. Finally, we got you!
A giant fish had appeared in this deep pool some time ago, wreaking havoc on the boys' "fishing" expeditions. It had claimed countless homemade hooks, lines, and nets. More than one boy had been dragged into the water by its sheer strength, emerging soaked and humiliated. Recently, the fish had even started venturing into the shallows to snap at the kids.
Fortunately, the shallows were only calf-deep, and since only the older boys went "noodling," no one had been killed. These kids weren't the scions of major clans; they didn't have the money or the connections to hire a ninja to deal with a pest. So, they turned to their "King of the Kids": Aburame Tetsumaru.
As a transmigrator, Tetsumaru's preferred strategy was to be "steady." He wanted to play it safe. However, the influence of a three-year-old's biology was surprisingly potent. He realized his "domestication" of his body was an illusion; in critical moments, he simply couldn't control himself.
He had struggled. He had tried. He had failed.
Eight months ago, his four-year-old cousin, Aburame Shio, had provoked him at the Nest House. Adult-Tetsumaru thought about who Shio's father was, who his grandfather was, and the worst possible consequences of a fight.
But before his brain could finish the logic, his body had already flattened the older boy's nose with a headbutt. He followed up with a dozen punches to the eye socket, turning his cousin into a literal weeping panda.
The worst part? He had ended up sitting on the chubby cousin's stomach, triumphantly demanding, "Do you give up? Do you?" punctuating every question with a slap until the older boy was too terrified to even cry out loud.
When his adult consciousness regained control, he found himself surrounded by staring relatives. The awkwardness, the confusion, and the sheer feeling of "social death" were off the charts.
Two days later, Shio's older brother, five-year-old Shijie, came to teach the "bully" a lesson. He was promptly sent to the hospital after Tetsumaru hit him with a "Triple Threat": sand to the face, a kick to the groin, and a finger-poke to the eyes.
A day after that, in front of both sets of parents, Tetsumaru beat Shio again, knocking out a baby tooth with another headbutt. Aside from the uncontrollable embarrassment, he was "treated" to a serving of "bamboo shoots fried with meat"—the classic idiom for a sound thrashing—from his father that night... though his father also gave him two extra chicken drumsticks for dinner.
He really had to thank the "Shinobi World's" educational views. They were lightyears away from Earth's. Anywhere else, he would have been sent to a juvenile detention center.
Six months ago, he beat up a kid from the Inuzuka clan. He didn't even catch the name.
Four months ago, he blinded Uchiha Mine with dirt before poking him in the eyes. Facing a circle of glaring, adult "red-eye syndrome" sufferers (the Uchiha), he had actually taunted them: "I'll give you a pair of Sharingan myself!"
Over the next twenty days, Tetsumaru gave a dozen Uchiha boys "red eyes" (bruises) and took a fair few beatings himself in return.
No matter how much he swore he'd stop, no matter how much he regretted it afterward, he just couldn't control his competitive, show-off instincts. After enough incidents, the title of "King of the Kids" was firmly stuck to his head. Eventually, he just accepted his fate.
As the King, he had obligations. If his "little brothers" were bullied by a fish, he had to step up.
His solution was simple: catch it and eat it. As a transmigrator from a nation of foodies, this thought was natural to him, leaving his followers both confused and exhilarated.
After three days of observation, Tetsumaru set the trap. It went perfectly. The fish had lived a charmed life; the boys' previous attempts were so pathetic it had lost all fear of humans. It didn't even hesitate before biting.
Tetsumaru smirked. "This isn't your average hook."
He yanked a secondary cord attached to the main rope, releasing a slipknot. The specialized hook, which had been held in a straight line, snapped open into a cross shape. The four points pierced the fish's mouth, locking it firmly in place.
The fish thrashed in agony, but Tetsumaru had tied the middle of the rope to the tip of a flexible sapling. The tree acted like a giant fishing rod, absorbing the tension. He then tied the end of the rope to the trunk of a massive tree—one so large it would take five children holding hands to encircle it—as a final fail-safe.
If the fish had the strength to pull down that tree, Tetsumaru vowed he would lead his followers in a wide circle around this river forever.
Leaving the fish to exhaust itself against the tree, Tetsumaru led the boys away. Humans in the Shinobi World had superhuman stamina, but the animals were even worse. This would take a while.
The boys spent the afternoon raiding bird nests, poking into tree hollows, and digging for wild tubers. They eventually gathered by the stream. They buried bird eggs and wild potatoes in the dirt, lit a bonfire over them, and roasted fish, birds, and even insects. They were all desperate for protein and fat.
After the war, Konoha had its baby boom, but the tension between the Five Great Nations hadn't eased. Small-scale skirmishes were intensifying. Military conflicts might stimulate the economy at first, but they quickly turn into a drain, causing shortages and inflation.
The rising prices hit orphans first, then low-income families, and now it was reaching the families of average shinobi. The children of Konoha were generally going hungry. Thus, the older boys would give their rations to the younger ones and the girls, while they went out in packs to forage. Technically, these "wild lands" belonged to someone, but no clan was going to complain about hungry kids at a time like this.
If Konoha was like this, the other villages were likely worse. But the conflict couldn't stop. They had to prepare for war; the Ninja Academy was even expanding its enrollment.
Four years ago, at the height of the last war, Konoha's Academy students had been a vital source of reinforcements. While their quality was lower—especially the early graduates who were often overwhelmed two-to-one by Suna or Kiri rookies—Konoha had the numbers. For every one elite Genin Suna produced, Konoha churned out ten "cannon fodder" rookies. Konoha won the last stages of the war through sheer attrition, one village crushing three.
Since the ceasefire, every ambitious village had established its own Ninja Academy to mass-produce civilian shinobi. This year, the first major wave of civilian ninjas was graduating. The number of shinobi was exploding, but the number of available missions remained stagnant. The villages had to pay out of pocket to maintain them. Combined with the bottomless pit of the arms race, every village's economy was beginning to buckle.
The boys devoured the meat and tubers, somewhat soothing their stomachs, before heading back to watch Tetsumaru finish the hunt.
With the right method, the process was smooth. The tree had won the battle. The exhausted fish could only weakly splash the water as the boys dragged it into the shallows.
Tetsumaru led four of the bigger boys into the water, each armed with three sharpened bamboo spears. From five meters away, Tetsumaru raised his spear and shouted: "Ready... Throw!"
Two spears hit home.
"Again! Ready... Throw!"
"One more time! Throw!"
Once he was sure the fish was dead, he turned to the boys on the bank. "Alright! Everyone, pull it up!"
The giant fish was hauled ashore. It was dead, but its body still twitched with nerve-reflexes. The boys cheered around Tetsumaru like they had won a great battle.
King of the Kids Throne: Stability +1.
Tetsumaru looked up at the sky and sighed. Just now, in the water, his movements had felt suspiciously like... he was imitating the majestic hand-wave of a certain revolutionary leader.
Ugh, please let me grow up fast. A child's body is terrifying.
The fish was massive. Excited boys took turns lying on the ground next to it to compare heights; the fish was more than twice as long as most of them.
You couldn't roast something this big whole. It had to be butchered. Tetsumaru pulled the hook from the fish's mouth and was surprised to find the "bait" frog was still alive.
A miracle. Set it free; I don't need that tiny bit of meat today.
The "hook" was actually two Senbon needles tied into a cross with ox tendon. He disassembled them and returned them to two boys; they had "borrowed" (stolen) them from their homes. He'd have to give them extra fish to compensate for the "bamboo shoots fried with meat" they were definitely going to receive later.
He gutted the fish, throwing the entrails into a pre-dug pit by the water; there would be fresh crawfish there tomorrow. He removed the gills, peeled off scales as large as half a palm, and washed away the blood in the river. By the time they hauled the meat back to the bank, Tetsumaru's group was exhausted.
A second wave of boys took over, breaking down the fish under Tetsumaru's direction. Even the little ones stayed busy, rinsing the cuts of meat and laying them on clean leaves to drain and air-dry.
It took over an hour for the dozen boys to finish. Finally, it was time to distribute the spoils. Tetsumaru ordered them to wash the mud and fishy smell off in the river before sitting in a circle.
By then, some of the younger kids who hadn't helped with the hunt arrived with boiling water. Following Tetsumaru's earlier orders, they had borrowed a pot to boil water for everyone. Tetsumaru couldn't stand the smell of raw river water; as far as he was concerned, boiled water was the only way to go.
Drinking boiled water was especially important for poor kids because they couldn't afford to get sick. Whenever he organized an event, he made sure someone was on "water duty."
"Alright, listen up!"
Tetsumaru stood and shouted, drawing everyone's attention.
"We're going to distribute the meat. There will be two rounds. The first is the 'Participation Reward'—everyone gets one share."
"The second is the 'Contribution Reward,' distributed based on how much work you did."
"Everyone agree?"
"Agree!" The responses varied in volume.
Tetsumaru wasn't satisfied. He waved his hands. "Come on, louder! And clap!"
"AGREE!! Hahahaha!" The boys cheered and laughed, clapping enthusiastically.
"Good. For the Participation Reward, everyone must get an equal share. There are twenty-two of us. Does anyone know how to divide this into twenty-two equal parts?"
The boys started shouting ideas. Some wanted to use a scale, others a ruler. Most, predictably, had no clue. These were three-to-five-year-olds; lack of knowledge was normal. Someone like Tetsumaru was the anomaly.
Tetsumaru waited for them to finish before summarizing: "It's hard. It's one fish. Even if we weigh the pieces and they're the same, people will still think some cuts are better than others, right?"
"Yeah, that's true."
"Tetsumaru-boss, what's the plan?"
Tetsumaru walked to the meat and set aside about a quarter of the total—including the head, tail, and bones.
"First, I will divide the rest into two piles. The big pile is for the equal shares. The small pile is for the second round." Tetsumaru expertly sorted the meat.
"Eiji, Shiro—you two are the most careful. You two are responsible for dividing the big pile into twenty-two shares."
"You got it!" The two older boys beamed, feeling honored that the boss called on them specifically.
"Remember, once you're done, everyone else picks their share first. Except for me, you two pick last."
This was the "Ultimate Fairness" method—a classic system to minimize grumbling. It ensured no one could claim the distributors were playing favorites. In his past life, Tetsumaru had often seen leaders do the opposite—picking first—which only caused endless trouble.
Those who understood: Woah, Boss is amazing. Those who didn't: I don't know what he said, but Boss is amazing.
After a noisy butchering session, everyone picked their shares in order. Tetsumaru ended up with a piece that was noticeably smaller and scruffier than the rest. Several boys felt bad and tried to swap with him, but he refused.
"Regardless of whether the portions were perfectly equal, does anyone have an issue with the fairness of the split?"
The boys thought about it. They realized that even if they weren't thrilled with their specific piece, they couldn't call it unfair.
Next, Tetsumaru distributed the "Contribution" meat: a portion for those who went into the water, a portion for those who provided the Senbon and rope, and a smaller portion for those who helped with the hauling, butchering, and water. As the leader, he handled this second distribution directly, and no one complained.
Finally, Tetsumaru gave the unwanted bones to a kid from the Inuzuka clan (for his dogs), while he kept the head, the tail, and the unwanted scales for himself. With the sun setting, he declared the hunt over, and the boys headed home, laden with fish.
Back at home, Tetsumaru split the massive fish head and cleaned it thoroughly. They had tofu in the kitchen, so he decided to make Fish Head and Tofu Soup.
The head was too big for the pot, so he hung the other half over the stove to be smoked. He heated oil, seared the fish head until golden brown, added water and wood to the fire, and let it boil vigorously. The aroma soon filled the house.
Tetsumaru gave it a sniff and tossed in various spices. He lamented the lack of chili peppers; a "Chopped Chili Fish Head" would have been perfect.
Once the soup was milky white and the yellow fish oil had surfaced, he added the cubed tofu and turned down the heat to simmer. He started the rice, ensuring dinner would be ready when his mother returned.
He used the waiting time to observe his "babies"—a colony of Sugar Ants.
He had found these Sugar Ants near the clan compound. They were a rare breed someone from the clan had brought back from the Land of Grass. In their native land, these ants could produce sugar. However, after being introduced to the Land of Fire, they stopped producing, so they were discarded like trash.
The area around the Aburame compound was full of discarded insects. As a clan of insect-users, they experimented with thousands of species. They didn't seem to worry much about invasive species, and neither did the rest of the village.
Tetsumaru had tasted "Ant Sugar" before; merchants brought it from the Land of Grass. The Sugar Ants there had massive abdomens and were eaten raw. You'd bite the abdomen, and a thick, sweet liquid would burst out—sweeter than candy, though slightly less so than honey, and lacking honey's floral scent.
Tetsumaru had wondered: Where does that sugar come from?
Sugar has to come from plants—beets, sweet roots, nectar, or cane. Honey is processed nectar and pollen. In his previous life, industrial sugar started with cane and matured with corn starch. It all started with plants.
So, where were these big-bellied ants getting their sugar?
Tetsumaru's goal with the ants was simple: Money.
After a year of observation since his "awakening," he had confirmed that being a "high and mighty" Konoha Shinobi was essentially being a mercenary. The village organization was intensely feudal. Even the social status of most Jonin wasn't that high. One glaring sign was that shinobi had to provide their own equipment and bear their own risks.
You pay for everything yourself. If you succeed, you get the mission pay. If you fail, you get nothing—not even medical compensation if you're injured. It wasn't uncommon for a ninja to complete a mission but still end up in the red due to the cost of supplies.
If a ninja died, the client owed nothing. The village gave a small stipend to the family, but it was a pittance compared to the mission rewards. Even during wartime, the village only provided free food; everything else was out of pocket.
Every battle, patrol, or guard duty was logged as a "mission" with an immediate payout. How else do you think the Fourth Hokage, who died at 24, managed to rack up nearly 900 mission credits? You got paid, and then you immediately handed that money back to the logistics department for medicine and weapons.
When Tetsumaru learned this from the clan ninjas, he was flabbergasted. It turned his worldview upside down. He didn't know which genius designed this system, but they had turned war into a "contracted" business.
In his era on Earth, the state shouldered military costs to ensure discipline and combat power. Two hundred years before that, modern nations used a similar mercenary model, but even then, the mercenaries were better off than ninjas. Employers paid deposits, compensated for gear damage, and provided for the wounded and dead.
Under this exploitative system, the Konoha higher-ups lived comfortably. They didn't have to risk their lives on missions, but they took a cut of every single reward.
The bottom-tier ninjas had it rough. Only famous Jonin made real money. A Chunin or Genin who suffered a heavy injury was one step away from bankruptcy. If they died, their families were often left destitute.
Tetsumaru was destined to be a ninja. He would need a lot of money in the future, so he had to plan ahead.
What? Not become a ninja? With the surname Aburame, that was a pipe dream.
Furthermore, in Konoha, civilians had even fewer protections. In the future, Orochimaru would go mad with human experimentation. How many Konoha civilians became lab rats? No one in the village cared; at most, it just made the Hokage "angry." It wasn't until Orochimaru started putting ninjas in jars that the Third Hokage finally kicked him out.
Without being a ninja, his Aburame identity was a liability. Certain "Great Figures" (like Danzo) would welcome him with open arms—straight to an operating table.