Chapter 4 – Into Konoha Lines
The battlefield had quieted as night fell, but the rain had left the ground slick and treacherous. Mud clung to every surface, and the mist hung low, obscuring movement. Kenjaku crouched behind the crumbling wall of a half-collapsed house, the weight of his injuries pressing into every joint. His chest ached from the deep slash that had opened yesterday. Every breath sent pain crawling up his ribs.
He did not know the body's name. Did not know its abilities, its limits, or even its rank within Konoha. He did not know how to fight. He could barely walk without sending sharp reminders of his host's wounds up his spine.
The rain-ninjas moved through the village in scattered patrols, their faint chakra traces visible in the mist to the practiced eye. Kenjaku had no combat skill to match them. Even attempting a direct confrontation would have been suicide. He could only observe. He could only survive.
He shifted carefully, testing the host body's range of movement. The leg spasmed. Pain lanced through his chest. He froze, counting the seconds until the throb receded. A pebble clattered underfoot, rolling across a tile. A patrol shifted direction, their gaze lingering for a moment before moving on. He pressed himself flat against the wall, every heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Patience was survival. Every motion could alert enemies. Every mistake could be fatal.
The mist began to thicken as he moved between ruined huts, careful to avoid the wider streets. His hands probed the walls, searching for loose bricks or hidden debris to step on quietly. His body felt alien; even simple motions were accompanied by pain, by an awareness of weakness. Each scar and bruise screamed at him to stop, but he could not. Stagnation would be death.
Eventually, he reached the edge of the village. Open terrain stretched toward the forest line that marked Konoha's rear patrols. Two rain-ninjas patrolled the narrow path forward. Kenjaku froze, crouched low, and let the mist swallow him. He traced their faint chakra flows, feeling how their energy pulsed in time with their steps. He could sense the pattern without needing to know the techniques they might use.
Minutes passed. He shifted slightly, testing the body's flexibility, testing how quietly he could move. Pain flared with every adjustment. A sharp stab in his ribs forced him to halt. He could only inch forward, like a shadow, until the patrol drifted away.
The open ground stretched before him. One wrong step on the slick mud could give him away. He took a deep breath, ignoring the aches, ignoring the throbbing in his chest and limbs. Each step was calculated. Every motion deliberate. He would survive by patience, not strength.
The first glimpse of Konoha's lines came faintly through the mist: torches flickering along a tree line, a small encampment. Hope surged, but he did not run. He could not. Running would reveal him. He advanced slowly, observing the rhythm of patrols, the placement of obstacles, the occasional flash of enemy chakra near the perimeter.
One broken fence, one low wall, one puddle of mud later, he crept closer. His body groaned with every step, injuries reminding him that he could not push further than it allowed. His fingers brushed the grass, testing the ground, listening for sounds of approaching shinobi or enemy scouts.
Finally, a clearing opened. Konoha's outer patrols were visible, faces shadowed by hoods and helmets, kunai at the ready. Kenjaku froze at the edge. He had no name. No identity. No rank. He could not explain what he could do or who he was in terms they would understand.
A young patrolman spotted him first. Kenjaku raised his hands slightly, not in surrender—he did not know how—but in a universal gesture of non-threat. His chest burned with exertion, the body screaming at him to collapse.
The shinobi lowered their weapons slightly, cautious. "Who are you?" one demanded.
He paused. The words felt heavy. He did not know. Could not know. "I… I don't know," he said carefully, voice hoarse from the cold and exertion. "I… woke up in this body. I don't know my name. I don't know what I can do. I… I'm not your enemy."
The patrol exchanged glances, suspicious but not immediately hostile. They had seen too many strange things in war. The honesty in his tone, the injuries that crisscrossed his arms and legs, and the way he carefully avoided making sudden movements lent weight to his words.
"I can help," he continued. "I've been behind enemy lines. I've seen… their movements. The patrols. The terrain. I don't know how to fight. But I can guide you. I can… survive. If you help me, I can survive."
The patrolman studied him, eyes narrowing. "You don't know your name, your rank, or your abilities?"
Kenjaku shook his head slowly. "I don't. I just know what I've seen. I can move without being noticed. I can observe. That's all I can offer."
There was silence, broken only by the drizzle. The patrolman finally nodded, lowering his weapon fully. "Follow us. Stay quiet. And if you move recklessly, you die."
Kenjaku allowed himself a silent exhale. Every movement up to this point had been measured, cautious. Now, even as he followed the patrol toward the inner lines, he stayed alert, sensing the faint pulsing of chakra in the trees, in the mud, in the enemy scouts still nearby. Every fiber of his body ached, but he moved with care.
By the time he reached the first Konoha encampment, the outer walls were visible. Lanterns swayed in the evening mist. He crouched behind the trees, studying the perimeter. He still did not know his own name, his own rank, or how to fight. But he had made it this far.
For now, survival was all that mattered. Every wound throbbed, every movement reminded him of the limits of this body, but he was alive. And in this world, alive meant opportunity.