"Simply put, my body is quite weak. Every month, there are those few days where I feel exceptionally unwell..."
Qingyu said this with a straight face, though internally he was gritting his teeth. To avoid a mission that could potentially place him in Danzo's crosshairs or some other life-threatening conspiracy, he had officially cast aside his dignity.
"You... you actually have such a constitution?!"
Yamanaka Yuta's mouth wouldn't stop twitching. If he hadn't heard it with his own ears, he would never have believed such words could come from a young man's mouth.
What is this? Is he a kunoichi? Even female ninjas in the Anbu are expected to overcome such physical hurdles for the sake of a mission!
Yuta was momentarily speechless. He didn't even know how to describe the cocktail of confusion and secondhand embarrassment he was feeling.
"Yes!"
Qingyu nodded vigorously, sensing that Yuta might actually be buying this absurd premise. He decided to double down. "In fact, I'm at 'that point' right now. My days have arrived!"
"..."
Yuta's face was a map of dark lines. He found he could no longer look Qingyu in the eye.
"Ahem... ahem..."
After a long, awkward silence, Yuta cleared his throat to dispel the tension. "Well... Qingyu... I understand! Since it's 'inconvenient' for you, I'll find someone else. You... take care of your health! I'm leaving now!"
With that, Yuta beat a hasty retreat. He didn't want to spend another second in that hallway. He was afraid that if they kept talking, the kid might claim he was pregnant next.
The frustration Yuta had felt from being rejected vanished, replaced by a bizarre urge to laugh. Fine, fine! If he doesn't want to do it, I won't force him. As he walked away, Yuta started thinking about a backup candidate—a "tool" he had used many times before. But he couldn't help but analyze why Qingyu had refused.
Maybe his constitution really is that weak, Yuta mused. The last time in the morgue was pretty intense—non-stop work by the cold iron beds for days. Maybe that gave the boy a bad experience. Young people these days just can't take the grind like we used to. Next time, I should show him a bit more care.
The more Yuta rationalized it, the better he felt. He still had a very high opinion of Qingyu; he just figured the kid needed a lighter touch.
"Phew~"
Qingyu exhaled a massive sigh of relief as Yuta's silhouette vanished into the darkness of the corridor.
"Finally managed to bluff my way out!"
Every cell in his body screamed "NO" to secret missions. He didn't care about the content; he just knew that in the world of ninjas, the more you know, the faster you die. Especially now, while he was still "leveling up." He was, at best, an "A-rank" potential, but he didn't have the capital to play the hero yet.
Besides, he had a nagging suspicion. In this sprawling village of Konoha, almost every major dark conspiracy eventually led back to the one man sitting at the pinnacle of the Root.
Qingyu returned to his cubicle and resumed his daily grind of interrogations and memory reading.
Konoha's Military Police Force remained incredibly active. Most of the people they brought in were guilty, but it was usually small-time stuff:
- Someone stole a loaf of bread.
- Two neighbors got into a fistfight.
- A kid broke a window with a rock.
In a modern society, these would be handled with a fine or a simple mediation. But in the Shinobi World, they were treated with extreme severity. Fines, detention, official marks on the record—it was all very "by the book."
Over time, Qingyu could feel a palpable sense of resentment building in the memories of these civilians toward the Uchiha-run Police Force.
And so, the seeds of the Uchiha disaster are sown, Qingyu thought.
He was seeing a side of the village that even the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, wouldn't see on his official tours. It was raw, unedited memory. It was the truth.
It was ironic. The Police Force was making a massive contribution to the village's safety, but their strictness was earning them a terrible reputation among the populace. And without proper guidance or "public relations" from the village higher-ups, that hatred was focused solely on the Uchiha.
Qingyu simply shook his head. He was a small cog in the machine—the bridge between the Police and the Prison. He saw them come in, read their minds, and watched them get sent away. Most civilians only got a few days, rarely more than a month. The "permanent residents" of the prison were usually the rogue ninjas who had committed real crimes.
Six months later. (Eight months total since joining the Anbu).
Qingyu had evolved. He was no longer just a sensory ninja waiting for a body; he was now the fastest interrogator in the department. He was the Guard Captain's first choice for any suspect.
Morino Eaton and Yamanaka Yuta hadn't visited him in half a year.
Until one morning.
Qingyu walked into his small cubicle and found an old man already sitting there, waiting for him. The old man looked up and smiled a knowing, mischievous smile.
"So, Qingyu... is it 'the day' today?"