Chapter 1 – The Body of a Dying Shinobi
Rain hammered the village streets. Mud clung to everything. Smoke rose from broken huts. The war had not spared this place.
He woke coughing. Blood slicked his hair. His chest ached. Limbs trembled.
This body was not his own. Kenjaku's body, yes, but the mind inside it was his. A human soul reborn into a foreign vessel. The original Kenjaku's memories were gone. Combat skills were gone. Only this fragile shell remained.
The left leg spasmed. The arm quivered. Movement sent pain shooting through ribs and joints. Wounds would not heal by his will. They would heal slowly, naturally—or not at all.
A scream cut through the rain. Nearby, shinobi clashed with rain-ninjas. Kunai dug into the wall inches from his head. Reflexes were useless. Instincts were useless. Only observation.
Kenjaku moved low, staying in the shadows. The battle's rhythm pulsed around him. Every motion told a story: where enemies moved, where the wounded stumbled, where villagers hid.
He noticed a wounded jōnin staggering across the field, clutching his side. A potential distraction. A potential threat. But he could not step into the body. Not yet.
He shifted carefully, each movement measured, each step chosen to avoid pain. Scars and injuries were permanent. Each one a reminder of the body's limits.
The rain fell harder, masking his presence. The battlefield waited. The village waited. And for the first time in centuries, a fragment of a long-dead curse waited too, in a body that could barely survive the storm.