The early morning air bit at my skin the moment I stepped out of the medical tent. The sky was still dark. The camp stretched out before me, a patchwork of tents, supply crates, and makeshift pits.
Smoke drifted lazily from a cooking station, the smell of ration soup faint but recognizable. Shinobi moved through the camp with the quiet efficiency of people used to conflict and war.
It was a war camp, through and through.
I tightened the strap on my flak jacket, forcing my mind to focus.
Spotting a shinobi adjusting the wrappings around his arm, I stepped closer. "Excuse me," I said, keeping my tone even. "Where's the command tent?"
He glanced up, eyes flicking to me.
"Straight through," he said, jerking his chin toward the far end of camp.
"Big canvas one near the signal pole. Can't miss it."
"Thanks."
The ground crunched faintly under my boots as I made my way through the rows of tents.
When I reached the far side, I spotted it immediately. The command tent was larger than the rest.
No visible guards.
Either they trusted the perimeter seals or the sentries were hiding, and I couldn't sense them.
I pushed the flap open and stepped inside.
The air was warmer inside with the scent of parchment, ink, and burning oil. A large tactical map dominated the center of the room, spread across a table littered with markers and notes. Around it stood three shinibi, all older, carrying an edge of danger.
They noticed me as I entered.
At the far end sat the commander. He was lean and sat with a quiet authority. His dark hair was tied loosely at the nape, a few strands falling over his forehead, framing a face marked by sharp, watchful eyes.
The kind of eyes you learned not to underestimate.
One glance was enough to tell
A Nara.
They all carried that same look: calm, calculating.
He looked at me as I entered.
His voice, when he spoke, was firm. "My name is Nara Kenshiro, Commander of this corp. You're the chūnin recovered last night. Basara, right?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, straightening instinctively.
He nodded once, "Good. debrief."
I stepped forward, coming to stand near the map table. The other shinobi shifted slightly, giving me space.
I drew a slow breath. "We were assigned to scout and, if needed, sabotage supply lines in the eastern Grass region. We left the village under Jonin Tokuma."
Commander Kenshiro gave a small nod for me to continue.
"We reached the region in two days," I said, keeping my tone steady. "Everything seemed clear until around 0200 hours, that's when we were hit. No warning. I'd estimate two enemy squads, maybe more."
One of the jōnin standing near the map, tall, flak vest unzipped, a scar cutting across his cheek, spoke up. "Was it Iwa? Any distinctive ninjutsu?"
"I'm… not sure" I answered.
The commander's eyes narrowed slightly as I continued. "They cut off our retreat with explosive tags. We tried to regroup, but…" I hesitated, the memory flashing behind my eyes;
The sudden heat, light, and the ground vanishing under my feet.
"One of the blasts went off too close during the second engagement. I caught the shockwave head-on and blacked out."
Kenshiro's eyes narrowed slightly, sharp in the low light.
"When I woke, it was quiet. No bodies nearby, no movement. The clearing was… empty. I think the enemy assumed I was dead." I continued feeling tense.
Kenshiro leaned back slightly, but his gaze didn't waver. "And what did you do next?"
"I pulled back from the clearing to recover and patch myself up," I said. "That's when I encountered Tokubetsu Jōnin Shigure. She took command after stabilizing both of us and ordered us to move toward the camp. A patrol found us en route and brought us in."
Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "So you're the only confirmed survivor of Tokuma's team."
A stilted silence settled between us. I didn't answer; there wasn't much to say.
Kenshiro gave a curt nod. "Understood. We'll record your report as given. As we are not stretched thin, you can take two days to recuperate before you're reassigned to the active roster. Dismissed, Chunin."
I inclined my head. "Yes, sir."
As I turned to leave, I caught the faintest flicker of thoughtfulness cross his face, a quiet calculation that made me wonder what exactly was going through his mind.
I pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the chill dawn air. The horizon was just waking up A faint mist clung to the ground, curling low around the tents.
A few shinobi moved around their voices low
My legs felt heavy as I walked passed them.
I drifted past the main rows of tents, heading toward the quieter edges of camp. Out here, the sounds faded to just distant murmurs. I figured there had to be a few empty tents.
Stopping at a smaller tent near the perimeter, I crouched and pressed my fingers lightly against the tarp. You never wake a sleeping shinobi by accident. No movement. Empty.
I slipped inside. The air was cool and still. Two simple cots sat against the walls, a small crate between them holding a battered lamp and a half-empty canteen. Someone had left a folded blanket on one side, probably meant for whoever needed it next.
I dropped onto the closet cot; it creaked softly beneath me. For the first time since i woke up in this body, I wasn't running, bleeding, or watching the shadows for movement.
I stared at the tent's ceiling, the silence felt… wrong. My mind didn't know what to do with it.
How the hell did I even get here?
Now that the adrenaline had burned away and my body had stopped screaming at me to move, the questions started clawing their way back in. I could remember the manga , the story, the shinobi, the wars, the faces that would die before they ever reached their dreams. I knew this world down to the dirty details, but not how I'd ended up in it.
The CYOA, the damned choices I'd filled out on some late, bored night, refused to come into focus. Like trying to remember a dream you'd lost halfway through waking. I could feel the outline of it, the echo of something important, but every time I reached for it, it slipped away.
So instead, I forced myself to think about what I did know. About what Basara… the original Basara, could do.
His body was strong enough. He had decent taijutsu for a chūnin, solid enough to keep him alive if he didn't make mistakes. What caught me off guard was how much foundation he actually had, the way his muscles reacted, how his balance shifted naturally into a form. Whatever he had done, it was working.
I frowned, letting a slow exhale slip out. I had thought the old Basara had been weak and only knew basic chakra reinforcement. He could strengthen a punch and move faster by safely pushing chakra into his legs without tearing his muscles, but now that I had context, it stunned me how few could do that reliably. Most chūnin never reached that kind of control. They relied on brute strength or jutsu instead of real precision.
If I wanted to survive this war, without a sensei, without scrolls, without a clan's library or backing. I'd have to start there. With control. Build the groundwork piece by piece.
Earth Release would be my next focus. The Earth Wall technique was simple, sturdy, adaptable and forgiving enough that I could practice without drawing attention. If I could manipulate the terrain, create cover, or even just buy time in a fight… it would be worth everything.
Maybe then, I could start experimenting. See if I had anything from that CYOA, I'd have to experiment to see what had carried over. Power, knowledge, instinct… something.
But that could wait.
Right now, my head feels heavy. The adrenaline was gone, leaving the ache of fatigue in its place. I adjusted the thin blanket over me, the coarse fabric scratching faintly against my fingers.
I can start training a little later. Start rebuilding from whatever scraps of skill and memory I had.
For now… rest. Just a few hours.
I let my eyes close. The sounds of the camp outside; muted voices, faint steps, the whisper of wind against canvas, blurred into one low hum.
My breathing steadied. And slowly,
I drifted into sleep, the weight of two worlds pressing down.