In a small house nestled in the middle of nowhere, a boy around twelve to fifteen years old lay motionless on a bed.
His body was covered in injuries, deep cuts, bruises, and scars. It was a miracle he was still alive.
But his restless state betrayed his suffering.
He twitched and turned in his sleep, his breathing uneven and shallow.
From time to time, he shook as if caught in a nightmare.
An old man knelt beside him, carefully tending to the boy's wounds.
His movements were slow and deliberate as he applied herbs and natural remedies, avoiding anything that might worsen the boy's condition.
He wasn't skilled in medical ninjutsu, so he relied on traditional medicine and patience.
The boy's constant thrashing only made the task harder.
To the boy, this wasn't just a nightmare.
It was a living memory, a vivid, endless loop of pain and regret.
In his mind, he relived the worst moments of his life: losing his left eye to his superior, being hunted by comrades who had turned against him, and staggering through the wilderness with only one eye and a broken body.
He remembered meeting his best friend, handing him the last remnants of his power, and finally, the sharp, searing pain of gouging out his other eye.
The final memory hit the hardest: his fall from the cliff, his body plunging into the cold abyss.
He had thought his death was for a purpose, an end without resentment.
So why was he still here? Was this life after death? Or some kind of cruel punishment?
The nightmares lasted for months.
Though his body began to heal under the old man's care, his mind remained trapped in torment.
One day, two months after the boy had been brought into the old man's home, the elder came to tend to him as usual.
The boy's flesh wounds had mostly healed, but some areas were still tender, and full recovery was a long way off.
As the old man worked, the boy suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse and weak.
"Where am I?"
The old man paused, surprised.
"Are you hungry?"
"No," the boy answered softly.
"Can you move?" the man asked.
The boy was silent for a long moment. Finally, he replied, "No."
"As I thought," the man said with a sigh.
"You're still too weak. Don't worry about anything for now, I'll handle your daily needs. Just focus on healing."
"I understand," the boy said quietly.
After that brief exchange, the boy spoke no more.
The old man continued to care for him in silence, ensuring he was fed and his wounds were cleaned.
Unbeknownst to the old man, the boy's inability to move didn't stop him from observing his surroundings.
He soon realized the grim truth: he was paralyzed from the neck down.
The realization stung deeply, but one small solace remained.
He could still feel his chakra.
The boy had always been gifted, perhaps the most talented of his generation.
With time and focus, he began to explore what was left of his abilities.
He had limited knowledge of sensory techniques, but now that his body was useless, his mind had nothing but time to ponder and experiment.
If he couldn't move, he would find a way to adapt.