[ Ken Shimura POV ]
The street vendors were already out in force by the time I left the apartment, their voices cutting through the morning air with enthusiasm. Fresh vegetables, grilled fish, steaming bowls of ramen, the vibrant fragrances hit me all at once, making my stomach clench with renewed urgency. My memories told me where to go, but actually being here, seeing it with my own eyes, was different.
Konoha was alive in ways I hadn't expected.
People moved through the streets with purpose, shinobi and civilians mixing together in a flow that somehow worked despite the chaos. A chunin leapt across rooftops overhead, moving fast enough that most people didn't even glance up. Normal. Just another Tuesday in a village where children learned to throw kunais in the academy.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out what passed for my wallet, a worn cloth pouch containing exactly 847 ryo. Not much. Barely enough to last the week if I was careful. Aunt Yuki's salary as a hospital nurse kept us well fed, but there was never anything extra. Never any room for everyday delicacies or luxuries.
Ichiraku Ramen stood on the corner, steam rising from the pots in thick white clouds. The sight of it made something click in my head - this wasn't just any ramen stand. This was the ramen stand. Teuchi's place. Where Naruto ate enough ramen to feed a small village.
From what I know, he is the same age as me. We're in the same Academy class, though my memories painted him as the loud dead-last who everyone either ignored or actively disliked. The kyuubi host, though most people wouldn't say that part out loud. I'd never interacted with him much, just another face in a class of thirty students, both of us unremarkable in different ways.
The prices were written on a board above his head—380 ryo for a basic bowl.
I could afford it.
"One miso ramen" I said, sliding onto a stool. My voice came out steadier than I expected.
Teuchi glanced up, offering a welcoming smile "Coming right up!"
His hands worked through the motions with the experience that came from making the same dish thousands of times. Noodles into boiling water. Broth ladled from a pot that probably never fully emptied. Toppings arranged with quick precision.
The bowl appeared in front of me three minutes later, steam rising off the surface. I picked up the chopsticks and took my first bite.
It was good. Really good.
The broth was rich, the noodles had the right texture, the pork melted on my tongue. I ate quickly, efficiently, fuel for the body that needed it.
The system screen appeared in the corner of my vision as I ate, translucent enough not to interfere but present enough to remind me of the quest timer. Seven hours and fifty-three minutes remaining.
I finished the ramen, paid Teuchi, and stepped back into the flow of foot traffic. The Market District was closest, a sprawling maze of stalls and shops that served as Konoha's commercial heart.
The walk took fifteen minutes, weaving through streets that gradually widened as residential areas gave way to commercial zones. More people here, more noise, more energy. Merchants called out prices and deals. Customers haggled with varying degrees of success. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the distinctive sound of metal striking metal—a weapons shop, probably, forging kunai and shuriken for the village's shinobi's endless appetite for sharp objects.
The Market District sprawled before me in organized chaos. Stalls lined both sides of the main street, canvas awnings providing shade from the climbing sun. Everything was here—food, clothes, weapons, ninja tools, household goods, even a few shops selling things I couldn't immediately identify.
I walked slowly, taking it in. My memories provided context, but seeing it was different. This was real. This was the backbone of the village's economy, the place where money changed hands and goods moved from producer to consumer. Civilians and shinobi shopped side by side, the distinction blurred by the common need for food and supplies.
A weapons shop caught my attention. The display window showed kunai arranged in precise rows, shuriken of varying sizes, tanto blades polished to a mirror shine. I stepped inside, the bell above the door chiming softly.
The interior smelled like metal and oil. Weapons lined the walls in neat displays, organized by type and quality. A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, her arms crossed, watching me with the kind of neutral expression that suggested she'd seen thousands of Academy students come through this door.
"Looking or buying?" she asked, voice flat.
"Just looking," I admitted. "Trying to figure out what I'll need."
The woman's expression didn't change "Academy student?"
"Yeah" I said. Final year, graduation exams coming up soon. Assuming I would pass, I'd need gear eventually.
The woman's expression softened slightly "Well, Don't touch the display cases unless you're serious about buying"
I nodded and moved to the left wall, examining the weapons with what I hoped looked like casual interest. In reality, I was absorbing everything—prices, quality markers, the weight of different kunai when I picked them up. My memories provided some knowledge, but hands-on experience added layers of understanding that pure memory couldn't match.
A set of ten basic kunai cost 500 ryo. Twenty shuriken ran 400. A decent tanto blade started at 2,000 and went up from there. Wires, explosive tags, smoke bombs—all priced for shinobi budgets that assumed regular mission income.
I was broke by those standards.
The system chimed softly in my head.
[[ Location Assessed: Market District ]]
[[ Significance: Economic center of Konoha. Primary source of supplies for both civilian and shinobi populations. Control of trade routes and merchant relationships critical to village prosperity. ]]
[[ Progress: 1/3 complete ]]
I left the weapons shop and continued through the Market District, committing layouts to memory. Which shops sold what. Where the side alleys led.
Thirty minutes later, I headed toward the Academy. The building sat on higher ground, visible from most parts of the village—a deliberate choice. The Academy was where Konoha's future was forged, where civilian children became shinobi, where the Will of Fire was passed from one generation to the next. Making it prominent was a statement of values.
The walk uphill made my legs burn slightly, though less than it should have. The stamina enhancement was already paying dividends in small ways. I reached the Academy grounds and paused at the gates, looking up at the building.
It was bigger than I'd expected. Three stories of stone and wood, windows reflecting morning sunlight, a training yard visible off to one side. Students were out there now, running drills under the watchful eye of instructors. Their movements were synchronized, practiced, the kind of repetition that built foundation skills.
I'd spent years here with lectures and sparring matches and written exams. Years of being perfectly mediocre, blending into the middle of the class, never excelling but never failing.
Looking at the building now, I felt a strange disconnect. Those memories felt secondhand, like reading someone else's diary. I could access them, understand them, but the emotional weight wasn't there. This body had performed those seals, run those laps, taken those beatings in sparring matches.
A group of students emerged from the main building, laughing about something. One of them glanced my way—a kid with spiky brown hair and a confident grin. Takeshi Yamada. Classmate. Good at taijutsu, terrible at genjutsu. We'd sparred a few times. He'd won more often than not.
Takeshi raised a hand in a casual greeting "Yo, Shimura! Skipping class?"
I simply nodded.
He shrugged, already losing interest, and continued on with his group. Just another unremarkable interaction.
The system chimed again.
[[ Location Assessed: Shinobi Academy ]]
[[ Significance: Primary training facility for Konoha's next generation of shinobi. Produces approximately 30-40 genin per year. Curriculum focused on foundational skills, loyalty indoctrination, and basic mission readiness. Success rate from genin to chunin: ~15%. Survival rate for active duty shinobi: classified ]]
[[ Progress: 2/3 complete ]]
The survival rate note made my stomach twist. My memories hadn't included that particular statistic, probably because it was the kind of information the Academy didn't advertise. But the system had access to data I didn't, apparently. Another reminder that this world ran on violence and death, that the kids training in that yard had roughly one-in-seven odds of making chunin, and significantly worse odds of living to retirement.
The risk is real when life is on line.
One location left. I had options—Memorial Stone or Hokage Tower. The stone was closer, just a short walk through a nearby park and will of fire lecture is the last thing I needed from Hokage, if I somehow catches his eye, from his office.
I chose the Memorial Stone.
The park was quiet when I arrived, the morning crowds not enough to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. Trees provided shade over walking paths, and somewhere nearby I could hear water running. The Memorial Stone stood in a small clearing, a simple monument of dark stone carved with names.
So many names.
They covered every available surface, each one representing a shinobi who'd died in service to Konoha. The oldest names near the top had weathered with age, characters worn smooth by decades of rain and wind. The newest additions near the bottom were sharp and clear, recently carved.
I approached slowly, reading names at random. Some sparked recognition—instructors who'd died on missions, older students who'd graduated and never came back, even one or two clan members whose deaths had been mentioned in Academy lectures. Most were strangers, just names on stone, lives reduced to characters and dates.
Then I found them.
Shimura Kenji. Shimura Akane.
Died during the Nine-Tails attack, thirteen years ago. The memories associated with them were hazy, fragments of warmth and safety that felt more like echoes than actual recollections. Ken had been too young to remember much beyond impressions. A mother's smile. A father's rough hands ruffling his hair.
I stared at their names, carved into the stone alongside hundreds of others who'd fallen that night. The Nine-Tails attack had nearly destroyed Konoha, left countless children orphaned, created a generation of trauma that still rippled through the village.
And at the center of it all was Naruto, the Nine Tails Host, the dead-last in my class who nobody wanted to acknowledge.
"It never gets easier, does it?"
The voice came from behind me. I turned to find a woman approaching, her red eyes studying me with a mix of curiosity and sympathy. Long black hair, fair skin, a jonin vest over bandaged arms. Kurenai Yuhi. I recognized her immediately from my knowledge of the plot, though we'd never met.
She stopped a respectful distance away, her gaze flickering to the names I'd been staring at, then back to my face "Academy student, right? Shouldn't you be in class right now?"
"I have permission from my sensei to be here"
Her expression suggested she didn't quite believe me, but she didn't press. Instead, she moved closer to the memorial, her gaze tracing over a different name—Yuhi Shinku. Her father, if I remembered correctly. A jonin who'd died during the Nine-Tails attack as well.
"Your parents?" she asked quietly, nodding toward the names I'd been reading.
"Yeah. Don't really remember them. I was just a baby when it happened"
"I'm sorry." She said it simply, without the usual platitudes people offered when they didn't know what else to say. "I lost my father that night too. It's been Thirteen years, and some days it still feels like yesterday."
I nodded, not bothering myself to speak. The memories weren't really mine, but the weight of loss was universal enough that I could understand it.
Kurenai turned to face me fully, her red eyes glancing at me "It's hard, carrying that kind of loss. Especially when you're training to become a shinobi yourself"
"Maybe," I said carefully. "But that's the job, isn't it? Ninja die. It's what we sign up for when we graduate"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, surprised by the bluntness "That's a very... cynical way of looking at it. It's not true"
"My parents died protecting the village. They knew the risks. So do I." I paused, then added, "Doesn't mean their deaths were meaningless. They bought time for others to survive. That has to count for something"
Kurenai was quiet for a moment, studying me with an intensity that made me wonder if I'd said too much. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer "You're right. Their sacrifice wasn't meaningless. But it also doesn't mean you have to treat your own life as disposable. The Will of Fire isn't about throwing yourself away—it's about protecting what matters to you. Your comrades, the next generation, the village itself."
She stepped closer, her expression earnest "Your parents died so you could live. Don't dishonor that by treating survival as just... delaying the inevitable. Find something worth protecting. Someone worth living for. That's what being a shinobi means—not just being ready to die, but having a reason to live."
I met her gaze, seeing the conviction there. She meant every word. This was someone who'd lost her father but hadn't let it destroy her, who'd turned that loss into purpose. In the original timeline, she'd become a jonin instructor, a genjutsu specialist, someone who protected her students fiercely.
"I'll keep that in mind" I said quietly. And I meant it, even if my reasons were different from what she imagined.
Kurenai's expression softened into something almost like a smile.
"I'll head back" I said, though I had no intention of doing so. The system's quest was more important than sitting through lectures I already had memories of.
She nodded, apparently satisfied "What's your name, student?"
"Shimura Ken," I said, then added, "And you're Yuhi Kurenai, right? I've heard about you. The genjutsu specialist."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by what might have been amusement "My reputation precedes me, apparently. Yes, I'm Kurenai. It's good to meet you, Ken" She glanced back at the memorial stone, then at me "Take care of yourself. And remember—your parents' sacrifice means you have a chance to make your own choices and live to the fullest"
With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps dispersing on the stone path.
I watched her go, processing the encounter. Kurenai Yuhi. One of Konoha's jonin, a skilled genjutsu user, and in the original timeline, the instructor of Team 8. She'd just given me advice about finding purpose, about protecting what mattered.
If she only knew that I was playing a completely different game.
The system remained silent for a moment, then chimed.
[[ Location Assessed: Memorial Stone ]]
[[ Significance: Monument to fallen shinobi. Serves as reminder of sacrifice required for village security. Updated continuously with new casualties. Current total: 8,847 names. Annual addition rate: ~200-300 names. ]]
[[ Progress: 3/3 complete ]]
[[ Quest Complete: Know Your Ground ]]
[[ Reward Available: Bronze Tier Gacha Pull x1 ]]
[[ Claim Reward? YES / NO ]]
Eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven names. And growing by hundreds every year. The numbers made the reality starker somehow, transformed abstract danger into concrete statistics.
I pressed YES, because what else was I going to do?
The wheel materialized again, spinning with the same flashy lights and colors. This time the sections looked slightly better—I caught glimpses of technique scrolls, higher quality equipment, even what looked like skill books. Bronze tier was a step up from Zero, apparently.
The wheel slowed, clicked and then eventually came to halt.
[[ Reward: Chakra Control Exercise ]]
[[ Effect: Knowledge of advanced chakra control technique. Enables vertical surface walking through chakra adhesion. Foundation for water walking and other advanced applications. ]]
Information flooded my mind in a rush that made me stagger. Suddenly I knew the technique, understood the theory, could visualize the chakra flow required to stick to vertical surfaces. It wasn't muscle memory—I'd still need to practice to actually do it. But the knowledge was there, complete and comprehensive, like someone had downloaded a training manual directly into my brain.
Tree walking. One of the fundamental chakra control exercises, typically taught to genin by their jonin instructors during early missions. It was the next step beyond the Academy basics, the bridge between student and real shinobi.
It's an essential addition in getting a good grasp of any jutsu that I was going to learn.
And now I knew how to do it.
I stood in the park, staring at the Memorial Stone, processing what had just happened. The system had given me knowledge that would normally take weeks of instruction and practice to acquire. No jonin instructor needed. No trial and error fumbling through the technique until I figured it out.
Just instant understanding.
If the system could teach me techniques directly, skipping the normal learning curve, then I could advance faster than any regular genin. Learn things I'd normally have no access to. Build skills that would take others years to develop.
The advantage was enormous.
But it came with a cost, I suspected. The quests, the requirements, the time limits. Nothing was free in this world—not power, not knowledge, not survival. The system would demand more from me, push me harder, force me to take risks I might not be ready for.
And I'd take them anyway.
Because the alternative was being Ken Shimura, the mediocre Academy student who'd died drunk and alone in his apartment, his potential wasted, his name never making it onto the Memorial Stone because he'd never been important enough to die for something.
I'd already died once in my old life. Shot by an old man on a Kyoto street corner. That version of me had been worthless, directionless, a waste of space who couldn't even hold down a job interview.
This time, I would be different.
I turned away from the Memorial Stone, leaving the names of the dead behind me. The park was still quiet, peaceful in a way that felt almost wrong given what I knew was coming. Wars. Invasions. The Akatsuki hunting jinchuriki. Madara's plans. Kaguya.
A whole world of danger that Ken's memories hadn't prepared me for, but my knowledge of the plot had.
The system chimed one more time.
[[ New Quest Available: Foundation Building ]]
[[ Objective: Practice Tree Walking technique until successful. Maintain vertical position for 60 seconds. ]]
[[ Reward: Silver Tier Gacha Pull x1 ]]
[[ Time Remaining: 4 days ]]
[[ Accept Quest? YES / NO ]]
I pressed YES without hesitation.
Four days to master tree walking. Plenty of time, assuming I could find somewhere private to practice without drawing attention. The last thing I needed was Academy instructors or other students asking questions about how a mediocre student suddenly knew advanced chakra control techniques.
My stomach growled again, reminding me I'd only eaten a single bowl of ramen today. I still had about 470 ryo left after paying for the meal. Enough for another day or two if I was careful.
I started walking, leaving the Memorial Stone behind, my mind already working through logistics. Where to practice. When to practice. How to balance the system's quests with maintaining my cover as a regular Academy student.
The sun was higher now, approaching midday. Konoha stretched out around me, peaceful and oblivious to the storm that was coming.
But I knew.
Knowledge and system assistance was going to keep me alive.
I'd Adapt.