I woke up already aware that something was wrong.
Not in the vague sense people use when they say they "felt off," but in the practical way that comes from habit. Breathing was shallow. The surface under my back wasn't familiar. The air smelled wrong—too damp, too heavy, with chemicals that didn't belong together.
I didn't open my eyes immediately.
I counted breaths instead. Slow. Controlled. The body responded well enough. It seems like my body has been pushed to the limit. Weird...
Voices filtered through the background.
Someone coughing hard, wet and uncontrolled. A sharp order followed by muttered complaints. Fabric shifting. Metal clinking. Rain hitting canvas overhead in a steady pattern.
Canvas.
That narrowed things down.
I opened my eyes and noticed that the ceiling was low and stained, patched in places with rough stitching. Light came from a lantern hanging off to the side, its glow uneven as it swayed slightly. I turned my head just enough to take in the rest without drawing attention to myself.
Rows of cots. Too close together. Some occupied, some empty but not clean. People moved between them, dressed in dark clothing under white aprons that had seen better days. Bandages everywhere. Blood that had soaked in and dried.
A field medical tent.
Not one I recognized. *Just what the fuck is going on here?*
I shifted my attention inward.
The body felt wrong. Smaller than it should be. Lighter. The proportions were off, muscle memory responding in ways that didn't match my expectation. I flexed my fingers slowly.
They moved without delay.
The hands weren't mine.
That was the first fact worth acknowledging.
I stayed still and let my eyes wander without focusing on any one person for too long. Someone walking past glanced at me, then kept going. No reaction. Either waking up wasn't unusual, or I wasn't important enough to watch.
I tested movement carefully. A slight roll of the shoulder. A controlled breath. There was tightness across my torso, pressure under the bandages, but no sharp pain. Whatever injury this body had taken, it was already on the mend.
I tried to sit up.
My stomach tightened immediately, a wave of nausea rising fast. I stopped and stayed flat.
Noted.
I looked down at myself.
Bandages wrapped my chest, arms, and one thigh. The clothing underneath was dark and rough, functional rather than comfortable. No hospital gown. No modern equipment. Just fabric and straps.
Outside, the rain didn't stop.
I listened again, this time with more focus.
No engines. No radios. No modern cadence to the voices. The language was familiar enough to understand, as fluent Japanese speaker, it's pretty clear but the dialect is a bit off, maybe older?
This wasn't anywhere I'd been before.
I worked through the possibilities out of habit. Kidnapping didn't explain the body. Drugs didn't explain the environment. Hallucination didn't explain consistency.
The last clear memory I had was climbing. Cold air. A black stone embedded on the mountainside, touching it, then nothing...
So whatever this was, it has something to do with that Blackstone.
I let the thought sit without reaction. Dwelling didn't help. Information did.
I shifted my focus inward again, more deliberately this time.
That was when I felt it.
Something moved inside me when I thought about moving.
Not muscle. Not breath. It was another sensation entirely, warm and present, like a current running under the skin. It flowed like a stream of water.
I froze internally, keeping my face blank.
I concentrated, just enough to test it.
The sensation responded immediately. Then I tried to stop it.
It resisted briefly, then settled, as if waiting for further instruction.
So it obeyed my will, that's interesting.
A dull pressure formed behind my eyes, growing heavier by the second. I clenched my jaw and stayed still, letting it happen.
Memories followed.
Not mine.
A training ground. Wet dirt under bare feet. A voice shouting orders. Falling, getting back up. A symbol stitched onto clothing. Being watched differently by adults. Pride mixed with pressure.
A funeral pyre. Heat too close. Smoke burning the eyes. Someone crying quietly when they thought no one was listening.
Then something more recent.
Moving through forest in formation. Mud pulling at sandals. A sudden explosion. Pain. Screaming. Blood on hands that weren't mine. Someone shouting my name.
Zen.
The name felt familiar yet unfamiliar, but the meaning is to my liking.
I stayed still on the cot while the pressure worked through me, letting the memories settle instead of forcing them. They didn't arrive all at once. They connected to context, to sensation, to words overheard around me.
This body was fourteen.
This body was a soldier.
This body belonged to a village called Konoha.
That word came with images. A symbol—spiral-shaped—on headbands, banners, uniforms. The Uzumaki crest.
War followed next.
Second Shinobi World War. The phrase surfaced whole, drilled into the mind through repetition and briefings.
And the sensation inside me had a name too.
Chakra.
When the word settled, understanding followed. Not mysticism. Not destiny. A system. Energy generated by the body and mind together, circulated through internal pathways, shaped through training.
A tool.
That changed things.
I tested it again, gently, letting a small amount move without shaping it. The sensation was clearer now, easier to control and very useful.
The pressure in my head eased slightly.
So the problem wasn't chakra itself. It was synchronization. Body and whatever else was now part of me, weren't fully aligned yet. However, this is trainable.
A medic stopped beside my cot.
She was young, maybe late teens, dark hair tied back tight. There was dried blood on her sleeve and exhaustion in her posture.
She checked the tag hanging from the frame, then looked at me.
"You're awake," she said.
"Yes." I replied.
"Don't sit up yet." She pressed two fingers against my wrist, frowned slightly, then moved her hand away. "Your chakra flow's still uneven."
I said nothing.
She studied my face, clearly expecting confusion, fear, questions.
When she didn't get any of that, her expression tightened.
"You remember your name?"
"Yes."
"Good." She straightened. "Don't force chakra. If you tear your coils again, you'll be back here longer."
She moved on without waiting for a response.
I filed that away.
People assumed behaviour based on context. Right now, the context was "wounded chūnin recovering." That worked in my favour.
I stayed in the medical tent until they cleared me to stand.
When I finally did, the rest of the world filled in and as I walked out of the medical tent, I observed the camp sprawled across muddy ground packed hard by constant use. Rows of tents. Supply crates under canvas covers. Training areas marked by stakes and rope. Guards at the perimeter, alert but tired.
Everyone wore variations of the same gear. Dark clothing. Bandages. Headbands with the spiral symbol.
Rain soaked everything.
I recognized the structure now. Not just from memory, but from pattern.
Military camp. Forward operating base.
The memories told me where I was more precisely: the Iwa front. Fighting Iwagakure forces in drawn-out clashes, raids, and counter-raids.
That placed other things too.
Sakumo Hatake was somewhere above this camp in the chain of command. Leading the front. Although I dont see him.
That made sense. People like that didn't hover over medical tents.
I moved carefully, testing balance, strength, coordination. The body responded well enough. Younger, yes. Lighter. But trained.
And there was chakra.
I experimented quietly as I walked, keeping the flow minimal. Circulating. Testing response. Each attempt was met with cooperation, as if it was specifically designed for usage.
In my old world, the body was the limit. You trained until bone, muscle, and nerves refused to go further. After that, improvement slowed to a crawl.
Here, the body adapted to the energy.
The chakra system was truly wonderful. The limit was only based on the individual's creativity and imagination.
After walking around for a while and getting used to chakra, I noticed that the administration tent was in sight and so I went there.
The clerk didn't look up right away.
"Name," he said.
"Zen Uchiha."
He scanned a list, tapped a line with his pen. "Sole survivor from the ravine ambush."
I didn't correct him.
"Your squad is listed KIA," he continued. "You're reassigned. Team Twelve."
He slid a mission tag across the table.
"Report to your jōnin. Gear up. You move early."
I took the tag and left.
Team Twelve was near the equipment racks.
Three people.
The jōnin stood with arms crossed, posture relaxed but ready. Tall, broad, scar across his nose. He watched me approach without staring.
"Zen," he said. "I'm Ryōma."
He nodded toward the others.
"Hana. Medic."
She looked up from adjusting her pouch, eyes sharp and assessing.
"Daichi."
Daichi was tightening a strap on his gear. He glanced at me, did a quick once-over, then looked away.
Ryōma spoke evenly. "You cleared medical?"
"Yes." I replied.
"Can you move?" He asked with a bit of scepticism.
"I can, yes."
"Good." He didn't waste words. "We leave before dawn. Mission is supply disruption and confirmation."
Daichi snorted. "Always supply disruption."
Hana shot him a look. "Would you rather carry wounded back again?"
Daichi grimaced. "No."
Ryōma ignored the exchange. "Follow signals. Speak if you see something. Don't freelance."
I nodded.
Hana kept looking at me. Not hostile. Curious, but cautious.
"You're tall," Daichi said suddenly.
Hana sighed. "That's your observation?"
"It's what I noticed."
She turned back to me. "How are you feeling?"
"Functional."
That made her frown. "That's not an answer."
"It's the truth."
She studied my face for another moment, then shook her head. "Fine. Just don't lie about injuries."
We spent the rest of the day preparing.
Cleaning weapons. Sorting supplies. Rewrapping bandages. Small talk that circled around weather, rations, and rumors from other fronts.
I listened more than I spoke.
Daichi talked to fill silence. Complaints, jokes, stories that trailed off. Hana corrected him when he got careless. Ryōma spoke only when needed.
At one point, Daichi tossed me a ration bar.
"Eat," he said. "You look like you should."
I caught it. "Thanks."
He blinked, then shrugged like it didn't matter.
That night, under the edge of the tent where the rain didn't reach, I practiced chakra control carefully. Circulation only. No shaping. When I pushed too far, the pressure returned. I stopped.
So growth would be gradual.
That was fine.
Before sleep, the goal was simple: learn faster than expected.
We moved before dawn, on my first mission in this world.
Ryōma raised a hand as we reached the treeline, signaling halt.
Daichi crouched, tension obvious. Hana adjusted her grip on her pouch.
I stood in the rear, watching, feeling the chakra stir again under my skin and this was the start. I'm gonna truly enjoy this world more than I thought. Never the less, it will be interesting to see what makes people in this world tick.