The convoy departed at dawn.
Tatsuya found himself in the middle of the formation—walking wounded interspersed with supply wagons and civilian refugees, bracketed fore and aft by combat-ready shinobi. The arrangement made tactical sense: soft targets in the center, hard shells on the outside. A formation designed to survive ambush rather than prevent it.
He counted thirty-seven people in total. Twelve wounded shinobi, himself included. Eight civilians, mostly women and children, Yuki among them. The rest were escorts and wagon drivers, their eyes never still, hands resting on weapon pouches with casual readiness.
The road wound west through dense forest, following the river he'd crossed two days ago. The terrain was rougher than he'd expected, not the manicured paths of his old world, but packed dirt and exposed roots, muddy where rain had collected in ruts. The wagons creaked and groaned over every obstacle.
He walked in silence, conserving energy. His ribs ached with each step, but the pain was manageable, a dull background throb rather than the sharp grinding of fresh fractures. The medic's work was holding. He'd have to thank her properly before they parted ways.
Around him, the other wounded moved with similar economy. A Chuunin with a bandaged head stared straight ahead, his expression empty. A young woman, Genin, judging from her lack of flak jacket, limped on a splinted leg, her face set in grim determination. An older man coughed wetly every few minutes, his chest wrapped in bandages that showed spots of old blood.
War's harvest. He'd seen it before, in a different context, the parade of trauma cases that rolled through emergency departments after accidents, disasters, violence. The specific wounds were different here, but the fundamental truth remained the same: the human body was fragile, and the world was full of things that could break it.
The first hour passed without incident. Then the second. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist, and the forest began to thin. More light filtered through the canopy. The air grew warmer.
"Konoha's maybe six hours ahead," someone said behind him. One of the escort shinobi, speaking to a colleague. "If we don't hit any trouble."
Six hours. Half a day of walking, and he'd be there. The place where he'd need to build a life, establish an identity, figure out how to navigate a world that shouldn't exist.
No pressure.
He caught himself smiling at the thought, a grim, private expression that had nothing to do with humor. The surgeon's black comedy, surfacing at inappropriate moments. He'd always laughed at the worst times. Colleagues had found it unsettling; patients' families had found it cruel. But it was just how his mind worked, finding absurdity in horror because the alternative was drowning in it.
A world of ninja magic. Child soldiers. Tailed beasts that were apparently eldritch abominations. And somewhere in the future—maybe decades away, maybe sooner—apocalyptic threats that would make this war look like a border skirmish.
And here he was, in a twelve-year-old's body, walking toward a village he'd only half-heard about from a nephew he'd never see again.
Hilarious, really.
They stopped twice for rest and water. During the second break, Yuki found him.
She approached hesitantly, clutching a canteen that looked too large for her small hands. Her eyes were clearer today, still haunted, but present in a way they hadn't been yesterday. The thousand-yard stare was receding, replaced by something more like wary alertness.
Good. Healthy, even. The mind's way of coming back online after shock.
"Tatsuya-san?"
The honorific startled him. He hadn't expected formality from a child he'd carried through a war zone. But this was a different culture, with different rules. He'd need to learn them.
"Just Tatsuya," he said. "How are you feeling?"
She considered the question with the same seriousness she'd shown before. "Better. I think." A pause. "I dreamed about them last night. My family."
"Good dreams or bad?"
"I don't know. They were just... there. Talking. Like nothing had happened." Her grip tightened on the canteen. "Is that normal?"
"Yes," he said. "The mind processes trauma in strange ways. Dreams are part of it."
She nodded slowly, accepting this. Then: "The lady said the orphanage is nice. That there are other children there."
"That's good."
"She said I might be adopted. If someone wants me."
The flatness in her voice caught him. Not hope, something more like resignation. As if she'd already accepted that she was a burden to be managed, a problem to be solved by administrative process.
Eight years old, and already learning that she was alone in the world.
"Yuki." He waited until she looked at him. "Whatever happens with the orphanage, you have my name. Tatsuya Meguri. If you need anything, if anyone gives you trouble, you find a way to get word to me. Understood?"
It was a reckless promise. He was a Genin with no standing, no connections, no power to actually help her if something went wrong. But the alternative was letting her walk into the system with nothing, no anchor, no backup, no sense that anyone cared what happened to her.
He'd seen what happened to children who felt disposable. In his old world, they became statistics. In this one, they probably became something worse, the thought further cemented the reality and brutality of the situation.
"Understood," Yuki said quietly. And for just a moment, something like warmth flickered behind her eyes.
The break ended. They resumed walking.
The forest gave way to farmland around midday.
The transition was gradual, trees thinning, clearings growing wider, until suddenly there were fields instead of undergrowth. Rice paddies stretched toward the horizon, their flooded surfaces reflecting the grey sky. Farmhouses dotted the landscape, small and practical, smoke rising from chimneys.
Civilians worked the fields. Actual civilians, not refugees, men and women in simple clothes, doing the mundane work of agriculture. They looked up as the convoy passed, some waving, others simply watching. A few children ran alongside the wagons for a while, laughing and calling out to the shinobi.
Normal life. Continuing despite the war, because war or no war, people needed to eat.
He found the sight oddly grounding. The forward camp had been pure military, every person a combatant or support staff, every action oriented toward the conflict. Here, there was evidence that something existed beyond the fighting. Farms and families and futures that didn't end on a battlefield. A reminder that regardless of your hardships, the world keeps on trudging on, for better of for worse.
Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
The road improved as they traveled. Packed dirt gave way to gravel, then to something almost like pavement, flat stones fitted together with surprising precision. The wagons rolled more smoothly. The pace quickened.
And then, around a bend in the road, he saw it.
Konoha.
The village was larger than he'd imagined.
A massive wall encircled the settlement, timber and stone, easily fifty feet high, with watchtowers at regular intervals. Behind it, buildings rose in a chaotic sprawl, rooftops visible in every direction. And dominating the skyline, carved into a cliff face that loomed over everything else, were faces.
Three of them. Massive stone portraits, each maybe a hundred feet tall, staring out over the village with expressions that ranged from stern to benevolent. The Hokages, he realized. The leaders. Their faces immortalized in rock as a reminder of... what? Legacy? Authority? The weight of tradition pressing down on everyone below?
Probably all of the above.
The gate came into view as they approached, a massive wooden structure set into the wall, flanked by guard posts and crowned with the leaf symbol. Shinobi in uniform stood watch, their posture professional but not aggressive. The convoy's escort exchanged hand signals with them as they approached, and the gates swung open without ceremony.
They passed through, and Tatsuya entered the Village Hidden in the Leaves.
His first impression was: organized chaos.
The streets were crowded, civilians and shinobi mingling in a flow that somehow worked despite no obvious traffic rules. Vendors called out from stalls that lined the main thoroughfare. Children ran between adult legs, laughing or arguing or simply existing in that heedless way children had when they felt safe.
The buildings were a mix of styles, traditional wooden structures with tiled roofs, more modern concrete edifices, everything packed together without apparent planning. Power lines (power lines! Electricity existed here!) strung between poles. Signs advertised shops and services in a script he couldn't read, no, wait, he could. The characters made sense when he focused on them, another gift from the body's education.