The human body is an incredible machine.
I lay on my back, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. Three hours had passed since my crawl to the window. My muscles still twitched a bit, the underdeveloped tissue of this body reminding me of my physical limitations.
I needed to establish a baseline.
My initial inability to walk wasn't born of muscular density alone. It had to be caused by a disconnection caused by my sudden integration into this body. My consciousness, already used to have a human body previously, was attempting to send complex commands, the kind to sprint, balance and grip, to a nervous system that had barely gotten over walking.
If I wanted mobility, I had to stop treating this body like a vehicle I already knew how to drive. I had to build my mind-muscle connections from the ground up.
I started with my hands. Lying perfectly still to conserve energy, I focused entirely on my right index finger. Flex. The finger twitched. Extend. It straightened. I repeated it several times, forcing my brain to slowly map the connection to my nerves.
Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Thumb. When the right hand moved with enough fluidity, I moved to the left. Then the toes. To the rotation of my ankles. It was agonizing, tedious work, similar to a post-stroke rehabilitation. But, it was the logical solution to my condition. To attempt harsh movements in my current body could cause me to develop permanent damage and I could not afford that.
As I was finishing my exercises, the wooden door opened abruptly.
The dull noise from the nearby children shifted. The wails grew more desperate, and the movement became more frantic. Two caretakers entered, dragging a large metal cart behind them.
"Line up. Bowls out." The woman from earlier barked, her voice cutting through the noise altogether.
I didn't rush. I used my recent-found connection to my body to successfully roll onto my side and assume a firm, sitting position.
I observed the room as the kids lined up. There were roughly thirty of us in this specific room. Most looked to be between two to four years old. Their clothes were universally ragged, seemingly standardized inside this orphanage installment. The older ones moved obediently, extending their small wooden bowls without complaints.
Looking around, I found my own bowl resting near the edge of my futon. Gripping it tightly with both hands, I forced my legs under me. I focused on my center of gravity, ignoring the instinct to stand straight up like a proper adult, and instead maintained a low, wide crouch. Slowly, I joined the back of the line.
The porridge was a gray liquid, with unidentifiable bits of green in its surface. When it was my turn, the caretaker didn't look at my face. She simply dumped the food into my bowl.
"Move", she grunted.
I returned to my futon and stared at the bowl. In my previous life, I wouldn't have even fed this to a dog. Just by looking at it, my stomach churned. However, I knew that, despite being in another world, food was still essential to my survival and development.
I closed my eyes, lifted the bowl to my lips and drank.
It tasted like salted dirt and boiled water. I suppressed the urge to gag, forcing myself to swallow until the bowl was empty. I set it down, my stomach churning heavily.
After waiting for a few minutes of digestion, I turned my attention to my next critical variable: Information.
I remained seated, pulling my knees to my chest. I stayed quiet, trying to listen to the chat between the caretakers.
The two of them stood near the cart, while talking in low, exhausted tones.
"...heard from the logistics office this morning." the taller one muttered, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her left hand. "They're cutting medical supplies again. Say it's needed at the western border."
The woman who had checked on me earlier scoffed, a harsh sound. "The western border? I thought the skirmishes in the Grass were dying down."
"They are. Or so they say." the taller one replied, her voice dropping lower, casting a cautious glance toward the door. "But my cousin works supply the commanders. He says the Iwa forces are retreating, but Kumo is getting restless. The war might be officially winding down, but the borders are still messy."
I processed everything. The war is winding down. Skirmishes in the Grass. Iwa is retreating. That was it. The Third Shinobi World War is ending. The Battle of Kannabi Bridge would happen sometime later. Minato is already recognized as the Yellow Flash, but the Third Hokage still held the seat.
It gave me an estimation. I had approximately two years.
Two years before a masked man went through the village's barrier. Two years before a natural disaster colored in orange and full of hatred levelled half of Konoha. Two years to ensure that when the buildings started falling, I wouldn't be under the debris.
The caretakers finished their chat and hauled the cart out of the room, sliding the door behind them shut.
I looked down at my hands. Physical strength would not be enough. In a world full of people breathing fire, a strong body was just a pre-requisite before entering the battlefield. I had to focus on Chakra.
I closed my eyes. In my previous life, I had read theories and obsessed over the lore. Chakra was not magic, it was made up of the physical and spiritual energy, the former being stored inside the body, generated by the billions of cells humans had. Spiritual energy, however, was honed through experience and mental focus.
I crossed my legs and focused on my breathing. In through the nose, expanding my chest. Out through the mouth, a slow, controlled release. I tried to slow my heart rate, tuning out the noise from the outside.
I looked inward, searching for the connection between the physical and the spiritual energy.
I expected resistance. After all, it was very likely that my high spiritual energy promoted an imbalance with the physical energy inside me.
Deep within my core, somewhere near the solar plexus, I felt it. It was a heavy, dense pressure.
I mentalized a thread, attempting to pull a fraction of that pressure upward, into the pathways I knew existed, but couldn't see.
The reaction was immediate.
A sharp pain lanced through my abdomen. My eyes snapped open, as my abdominal muscles seized in a cramp. I fell forward onto my hands, gasping for air, a cold sweat drenching my back.
I gritted my teeth, waiting for the discomfort to pass.
When the pain subsided, I pushed myself back up.
I wasn't disappointed. Actually, I was pretty satisfied.
The pain was information. It confirmed two things. First, the chakra was there. Second, the chakra coils in this body were narrow, rigid, and very unconditioned.
It was a problem I could fix.
I had my baseline. I knew the timeline. I understood my own weaknesses.
Now, the real work began.