The debriefing room was on the third floor. Sparse furnishings: a table, two chairs, overhead lighting that hummed faintly. A chuunin waited for him—different from yesterday, older, with a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw.
"Tatsuya Meguri?" At his nod: "Sit."
He sat.
"You were attached to the Third Division, Fourth Company. Correct?"
"Yes."
"That unit was declared lost eight days ago. Thirty-seven personnel. You're the only confirmed survivor."
The words landed like stones. Thirty-seven people. An entire company, gone. And he was here, wearing the body of one of them, with no memory of how that body had survived when everyone else died.
"What happened?" the chuunin asked.
"I don't know." Truth, technically. "I woke up after the fighting was over. Enemy withdrawal, maybe, or they thought they'd finished us. I found a civilian survivor and made for friendly lines."
"You don't remember the engagement itself?"
"No." He gestured vaguely toward his temple. "The medics at the forward camp documented concussion trauma. There are gaps—some things are clear, others aren't. They said it might resolve with time, or it might not."
The chuunin glanced down at the file in front of him—the medical report, probably—and nodded slowly. His expression was unreadable, professional, detached. One more broken soldier with scrambled memories. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth questioning further.
"Your injuries are consistent with heavy combat exposure. Fractured ribs, concussion trauma, multiple lacerations." He looked up. "You should be dead."
"I'm not."
"No. You're not." The chuunin made a note on his form. "Lucky."
Sure. If being trapped in another world in a body that wasn't his counted as luck.
"Your unit had no surviving officers. No team structure to reassign you to. You'll go into the reserve pool until command finds a use for you. Regular training rotations, mission assignment as needed. Standard orphan Genin placement."
Orphan Genin. It sounded like a category. A bureaucratic designation for people like him—nobodies without clan or connection, to be deployed as the village saw fit.
"Understood."
"Report to Training Ground Three tomorrow at oh-six-hundred. You'll be assigned to a rotation with other reserves. Questions?"
"What about the civilian I brought in? The girl, Yuki. Is there a way to check on her?"
The Chuunin's expression flickered—surprise, maybe, that a Genin was asking about a refugee instead of his own situation. "Civilian processing is handled by a different department. You'd have to inquire there."
"Where would I find that?"
"Third floor, west wing. Ask for the Refugee Placement Office." A pause. "You actually care what happens to her?"
It was a genuine question, not a challenge. Tatsuya considered his answer.
"She watched her family die. She's alone. Someone should make sure she's okay."
The Chuunin studied him for another long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Rare attitude. Most shinobi learn to stop caring pretty quick."
"Maybe I'm a slow learner."
Something that might have been respect crossed the man's scarred face. "Maybe. Dismissed, genin. Don't be late tomorrow."
He found the Refugee Placement Office without difficulty. The woman behind the desk was civilian, he could tell by the absence of that constant alertness shinobi carried, and overworked, if the stacks of files on her desk were any indication.
"Name?"
"Tatsuya Meguri. I'm inquiring about a refugee I escorted in. A girl named Yuki. Eight years old, dark hair. Arrived with yesterday's convoy."
The woman shuffled through papers, found the relevant file, scanned it briefly. "Yuki. Processed yesterday afternoon. Assigned to the Third District Orphanage pending permanent placement." She looked up. "Relation?"
"None. I just wanted to make sure she got somewhere safe."
"She's housed, fed, and receiving psychological evaluation. Standard procedure for war refugees." The woman's voice was matter-of-fact, neither warm nor cold. "Is there anything else?"
"Can I visit her?"
A pause. "The orphanage has visiting hours. Tenth bell to fourteenth bell, open days only. You'll need to sign in at the entrance."
"Thank you."
He turned to leave, then stopped. "One more question. The library, it's near the Academy, isn't it?"
The woman looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Every Academy student knew where the library was. It was one of the first landmarks drilled into them.
"Head injury," he added, letting embarrassment color his voice. It wasn't hard to fake—the frustration of not knowing things he should know was real enough. "Some things are... hazy."
Her expression softened. She'd probably seen dozens of soldiers come back with pieces missing—memories, limbs, the light behind their eyes. One more genin with scrambled recall was barely worth noting.
"West of here, two blocks past the Academy. Three-story building, can't miss it." She paused. "They have maps at the front desk. Might help you get reoriented."
"Thank you." He filed the interaction away as he left. The head injury excuse worked smoothly—too smoothly to waste. He'd need to use it sparingly, strategically, only for the gaps that truly mattered. Overuse would invite scrutiny. But for now, it was a tool, and he was learning to use every tool available. The library was exactly where she'd said.
The library was larger than he'd expected—a three-story building filled with scrolls and books and what appeared to be filing cabinets stuffed with mission reports. He spent the afternoon there, reading everything he could find on basic village operations.
Konoha's structure was military-feudal. The Hokage at the top, with absolute authority in theory and political constraints in practice. Below him, a council of advisors, clan heads, and department chiefs. Below them, the jonin—the elite, the officers. Then the chunin—the sergeants and specialists. And at the bottom, the genin—the grunts, the cannon fodder, the expendable.
The clans complicated everything. They'd existed long before the village—warring factions that had fought and bled and buried each other for generations until someone convinced them to stop. The founding of Konoha hadn't eliminated their power; it had institutionalized it. Major families—Uchiha, Senju, Hyuuga, Nara, Yamanaka, Akimichi, and others—held political influence disproportionate to their numbers. Council seats. Hereditary privileges. Specialized techniques passed down through blood. The village hadn't created the clan system; the clans had created the village, and they hadn't forgotten it.
The clanless, like the body he wore, were second-class citizens by default.
Good to know. Made his path forward even harder, but at least he understood the terrain.
He found a section on recent history—the First and Second Shinobi World Wars, the founding of the village, the Hokage lineage. The current Hokage was Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third. His predecessor, Tobirama Senju, had died in the last war. The faces on the mountain made sense now: Hashirama, Tobirama, Hiruzen.
Minato. The name surfaced from his fragmented memories. The Fourth Hokage was supposed to be Minato Namikaze. The Yellow Flash. The protagonist's father.
How old would Minato be now? A teenager, probably. Maybe younger. If the timeline tracked the way he remembered it, Minato wouldn't become Hokage for years—maybe a decade or more. Which meant he was out there somewhere, training, rising through the ranks, becoming the legend he'd one day be.
Tatsuya filed the information away. Minato would be one if his targets, not for elimination, but for cultivation. If he could get close, earn trust, become useful... that was a path forward. A connection to someone who'd matter.
But not yet. First he had to become someone worth connecting to.
He left the library as the sun was setting, his head full of new information and his plans slightly more refined.
Tomorrow: training. The beginning of a long, brutal process of turning this body into something useful.
Tonight: sleep. As much as he could get.
He returned to his barracks room, ate a ration bar from his remaining supplies, and lay down on the hard mattress.
The ceiling stared back at him, blank and indifferent.
One day down. A lifetime to go.
He closed his eyes and waited for morning.