The packed room I was in was no longer a territory, but a cage. By the end of the second week, my physical rehabilitation had reached a plateau. I could already control my center of gravity, but I was bottlenecked by my environment. If I wanted to progress, I'd have to expand.
I needed to step outside.
The orphanage doors were unlocked during the daylight hours. As long as the orphans didn't start fires or miss the evening headcount, they were allowed to wander around the village, preferably close to the orphanage, but no one would care if you went further than that. This freedom they gave us kept us out of their hair momentarily, saving them the effort of entertaining toddlers all day.
I slipped past a pair of older kids fighting over a tattered woven ball and stepped out into the open air of Konohagakure.
It was my first time outside the building. The sheer scale of the environment stunned me.
From the window, the village looked like every other place. From the ground, it was very different. The buildings were built close together to maximize the space within the walls. Power lines crossed between the structures, showing, once more, the confusing technology of this world.
But it was the people that had truly anchored the reality of my situation.
Civilians moved with hurried steps, carrying baskets of root vegetables. However, between the crowd, were the ones that stole the spotlight.
Shinobi.
Seeing them on a screen in my past life was very different. I had already seen the village auditor, but I had not completely accepted where I was, at least some days had to pass so that I could fully accept what happened. I observed them intently.
They did not walk like normal people. Their footfalls were entirely silent, their centers of gravity low and stable. I saw a man with a flak jacket bypass a moving cart seamlessly, his steps efficiently gliding over the dirt.
I also noticed some shinobi wearing the Uchiha fan crest on their right shoulder, likely members stationed with the Leaf's Military Police.
Uchiha…
I started to daydream, but I quickly suppressed it. This safety was an illusion. In less than two years, it was very likely that half of these veterans were going to be squashed like insects by the giant fox. If I wanted to survive, I needed to plan an escape route, collect materials and develop myself as quickly as possible.
I kept to the edges of the street, walking next to the walls of the buildings to avoid being trampled. I oriented myself by looking up at the Hokage Monument, using the stone faces as a fixed compass point.
Relying on my memory of the top-down view of the village from the anime, I remembered that the outer perimeter housed the training grounds of this place.
The journey was exhausting. It took me nearly an hour of walking, while dodging merchant carts and avoiding the gaze of patrolling military police.
Eventually, the density of the buildings began to thin. The dirt roads gave way to unkempt grass, and a forest loomed ahead. A rusted fence marked the boundary of what seemed a low-priority training zone. A weathered wooden sign designated it as Training Ground 14.
I slipped through a gap in the fence and stepped into the clearing.
The ground was heavily scarred, full of deep craters and scorched earth where a fire-style jutsu had incinerated the grass. In the center, stood three massive wooden posts, chewed away by hundreds of blade impacts and blunt-force strikes.
I approached the nearest post, running my small hand over it. The impacts were deep, indicating the force applied behind them. I knelt down in the dirt at the base of the post, my eyes scanning the overgrown weeds.
Shinobi could be methodical, but they were not perfect. During training, especially in the fading light of the evening, a deflected kunai or a shattered shuriken could easily be lost in the dense brushes. In a wartime economy, metal was probably recycled, but the village would not send retrieval teams just to comb the dirt of every training ground.
I began my search. I dropped to my hands and knees, combing through the tall grass. I moved in a grid pattern, parting the weeds, digging my fingers into the damp soil near the craters.
Twenty minutes passed like that. My knees were stained brown, and my fingernails were full of mud. I found nothing but rocks and discarded ration wrappers.
I was forced to adjust my parameters. If a weapon struck the post and deflected, it wouldn't drop straight down. It would ricochet at an angle. With that in mind, I moved ten feet away from the posts, searching once more.
Finally, my fingers brushed against something unnaturally cold.
I paused, my heart giving a slight, anxious jump. I dug into the mud, my fingers wrapping around a piece of heavy metal. I pulled it free, wiping the wet earth against my leg.
It was a kunai.
It was in terrible condition. The handle had rotted away and the blade was severely chipped and dull with rust. To an active shinobi, it was garbage.
To me, it was a treasure.
It was heavier than I expected. In the anime, characters flipped and spun these weapons effortlessly. But, in my tiny undernourished hands, the broken kunai felt like lead weight. If I tried to stab someone with this, the impact would snap my own wrist.
I gripped the bare metal handle, pointing the dull tip forward. I tried to simulate a throwing stance, raising the blade beside my ear and snapping my arm forward.
The result was terrible. My shoulder lacked the strength to generate the required force, and my wrist could not keep up with the moving weight. If I threw it, it would perhaps land only five feet away at best.
I lowered my arm, staring at the rusted metal. I couldn't wield it like a shinobi. Not yet.
I resumed my search, emboldened by the find. If there was a kunai, I could find more tools.
Ten minutes later, tangled in the root of a tree, I found my second prize. It was a spool of ninja wire. The spool itself was cracked, and much of the wire had been snapped or tangled, probably discarded in frustration by a Genin practicing trap-making
I spent another ten minutes untangling the thin steel wire, coiling the usable lengths around a small stick. I managed to salvage perhaps fifteen feet of unbroken wire.
I sat back, looking at the rusted kunai and the coil of wire in my lap.
I was weaponizing my environment. It was a small step, but it was a tangible increase of power.
Suddenly, the sharp snap of a breaking branch echoed through the trees.
I froze, with every muscle locking into place. I slowly, carefully, gathered the kunai and the wire, pressing them against my chest, and hid myself between the roots of the giant tree I was under.
A figure emerged from the dense treeline on the opposite side of the clearing.
It was a teenager. He wore the standard blue shirt and loose pants of the Academy, with a weapons pouch strapped to his right thigh. He looked exhausted.
I watched intently, my eyes wide.
The boy didn't rest. He walked to the center of the clearing, pacing a distance away from the wooden posts. He reached into his pouch, drawing three shuriken in a single motion that my eyes could barely track.
He leaped into the air, his body twisting high up. At the apex of his jump, his arm blurred.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The three distinct impacts sounded almost in unison.
The boy landed in a crouch, his chest heaving. I looked past him to the wooden posts. Three shuriken were buried deep into the wood, forming a tight shape in the center of the middle post.
I felt a cold drop of sweat slide down my temple.
The execution was flawless. It was a casual display of the baseline power of a pre-Genin in Konohagakure.
The boy grunted, stood up, and jogged over to retrieve his weapons. He spent another hour running through intense taijutsu katas, striking the air with precise intention.
I didn't move. I stayed wedged in the dirt and the roots, clutching my rusted kunai to my chest, and observed every single movement he made. I tried to memorize the pivot of his hips, the angle of his elbows, and the way he exhaled on every strike.
Strangely, I could recall this information easily.
When the sun finally began to die down, the boy wiped his face, secured his pouch and disappeared back into the village.
I waited another ten minutes to ensure the clearing was empty before I crawled out of the roots. My muscles were stiff from holding the cramped position, but my mind was completely lucid.
I looked at the deep cuts in the wooden post, and then down at the rusted metal in my hand.
The gap between the current me and the baseline required to survive in this world was crazy. But seeing it with my own eyes had not discouraged me.
I tucked the kunai and the wire deep into the oversized folds of my shirt, pressing them tight against my stomach.
The three-kilometer walk back to the orphanage was a blur of agonizing endurance. By the time I entered the building, my legs were already shaking.
I immediately went to the washroom. The water from the iron pump was freezing, but I managed to scrub the dirt from my body. If the caretakers saw my state, they would ask questions. Questions led to scrutiny, and scrutiny would mean them discovering the tools I brought back.
I made it to the dining hall just as the evening rations were being distributed. I sat in the corner, keeping my head down, forcing the tasteless porridge down my throat.
When the lights were down, silence settled over the orphanage room. I waited. I waited until the orphans around me deepened into sleep.
Moving carefully, I rolled off my futon. I crawled to the far corner of the room, near the place where I had previously noticed a slight warping in the wood. I used my fingernails to pry the loose floorboard up.
With that, I slipped the coiled ninja wire and the kunai into the cavity beneath the floor. I pressed the board back down, ensuring it sat clean with the rest of the wood.
I crawled back to my futon, laying on my back. For the first time since waking up in this world, I didn't feel entirely helpless.
I closed my eyes and slept.