The rain poured down. The village, usually bustling, slowed its pace, surrendering to the tranquility brought by the white noise. The dirt streets turned into mud, forming large puddles that hindered the villagers' movement. Shinobi, who usually leaped between rooftops as if it were second nature, now moved with double the caution, wary of slipping.
Near the village walls, several training grounds could be found. Some were more dangerous than others. One of the most well-known was number forty-four, but very few knew it by its number; they usually referred to it by its nickname: the "Forest of Death."
But no genin in their right mind would enter that training ground, much less a civilian. Near that field were some open to the public, intended for Academy students who couldn't afford to reserve one for personal use.
Though, on a day like this, no one would expect anyone in their right mind to be training.
In Training Ground Thirty-Four, a blonde boy could be seen who didn't seem to care about the pouring rain.
THUD!
Although he had struck with considerable force, the sound of the blow was muffled by the storm. His knuckles were numb, with splinters of tree bark embedded in his fingers. But he kept striking the tree with constant discipline. With every hit, his soaked t-shirt splashed cold water that chilled his body. The fabric was heavy, pulling at him, as if trying to drag him to the ground along with his spirits.
When his hands weren't striking the tree, they were trembling. It was from the strange sensation of hitting something with all his spirit. He had never been in a fight before, so he wasn't aware of how much a punch could actually hurt.
THUD! THUD!
The tree splintered with each blow, and the red stains didn't spread only because the rain washed them away.
Naruto's face was soaked; if asked, he would say it was the rain. He should be in the apartment to avoid getting sick, but he didn't care. It was just him, the tree, and his fists. He just wanted to hit it again and again... And again. And again.
Because if he stopped... he would have to think.
And he didn't want to think about his world. But he never gets what he wants, because if he did, he wouldn't be in this world.
He wanted to be in his modern world, where war wasn't a subject he had to consider repeatedly.
He wanted a world where children weren't trained to be assassins.
He wanted his world, where he had family and friends.
HE WANTED HIS DAMN STUPID WORLD WHERE HE WASN'T DEFENSELESS!
BOOM!
The blow echoed through the field despite the rain. Blood spread down his arm. The water on his face wasn't from the rain. He was crying; for the first time since transmigrating to this world, he was crying.
How long had it been since he last cried? What exactly was he holding back? Even he didn't know. It was as if the body had decided on its own to finally break down.
His legs surrendered to gravity. Collapsing onto the muddy ground, his gaze lifted to the sky; the rain beat directly against his face. He closed his eyes, completely shutting off one of his senses. For the first time, he felt his thoughts settle.
He loved the rain. Maybe it was because if it rained, he didn't have to leave his house. But he remembered the times he had sipped tea while watching the rain fall from his window, and how it shifted the course of everyone's lives. He missed those days when he could relax and do nothing. Just contemplate the rain...
How did I get here?
His mind, without permission, returned to the source of this rage: the morning, at the Academy. The nerves and tension he felt at the start of the day seemed like a bad joke.