I looked at the blue screen floating in the air before me, its faint glow casting eerie shadows on the cramped walls of my room. My eyes scanned it repeatedly, hoping for some sort of interaction, but nothing changed. A long sigh escaped my lips as I slumped back in my chair.
"No system? Damn, what the hell is this useless blue screen," I muttered, frustration lacing my tone.
Out of desperation, I tapped and swiped at different spots on the screen, but it stubbornly remained unresponsive. Eventually, I gave up with a resigned groan. "No easy life huh…Figures… even in a reincarnation, I can't catch a break."
Accepting my reality, I grabbed a slightly worn notebook and an old pencil from the desk drawer.
Sitting at the small, battered study table near the window, I began jotting down the advantages, disadvantages, and routes I could take. The dim light from a flickering bulb barely illuminated the room, its dull hum the only sound besides the scratching of the pencil against the paper.
The room itself wasn't much, just a cramped space with peeling wallpaper and mismatched furniture. The bed took up most of the area, its thin mattress sagging under years of use.
A faded rug covered part of the creaking wooden floor, and a single window offered a narrow view of the alley outside, where faint whispers of the village reached my ears. A closet in the corner leaned slightly to one side, barely holding onto its doors.
"It looks like both this room and the information about this body needs a serious overhaul," I muttered, glancing around the space with a mixture of disdain and determination.
I spent hours sorting through the scattered belongings in the room.
Old clothes, a few personal items, and scraps of paper with barely legible writing painted a picture of Satoru Kenji, a boy with a simple ninja lineage who had been left to fend for himself after losing his parents during the Second Shinobi War.
The thought weighed on me as I worked, the faint echoes of battles fought and lives lost still lingering in the atmosphere of the village.
By the time I finished, the moon was high in the sky, its pale light seeping through the window.
The room now had a semblance of order. I had moved the excess clutter into the hall outside, creating enough space to stretch or even practice basic exercises.
The satisfaction of progress brought a small smile to my face as I sat down to compile what I had learned about my new life.
Kenji wasn't part of any notable clan. The Kenji name, while present in the Land of Fire, was scattered and unremarkable. My parents, it seemed, were casualties of the same conflict that had left the village scarred both physically and emotionally, the war.
Although it had ended a few months ago, its aftermath was everywhere.
The village carried an air of quiet mourning, with people speaking in hushed tones and children playing less enthusiastically than one might expect. The market streets I wandered earlier in the day had been subdued, with merchants offering limited wares and villagers exchanging strained smiles.
I stared at the old calendar pinned to the wall. "Year 56 after Konoha's establishment," I read aloud, trying to wrap my head around the dual dating system. The juxtaposition of Japanese culture and an English calendar system didn't make sense, but there were more pressing issues to worry about.
Suddenly, a thought hit me. "Is Sakumo Hatake still alive?" I muttered, recalling the tragic figure from the series.
It took a full week to gather enough information to form a basic understanding of my timeline and circumstances.
During this time, I often wandered the streets of Konoha, listening to the fragmented conversations of its inhabitants. The scars of war were etched into every corner. Peoples bore marks of past battles both mentally and physically.
Children played quietly, their games lacking the carefree joy of youth. Adults carried the weight of loss in their eyes, speaking of loved ones who would never return.
After coming back from the academy I took a bath and then went to my study table to write down the information that I collected while wandering around collecting gossip.
I frowned, closing my notebook with a thud. "So, Kakashi's father has already fallen… What a grim start."
The realization weighed heavily on me. The whispers I'd overheard earlier had confirmed the worst. Sakumo had taken his life just days before my reincarnation.
The despair and anger for Sakumo in the villagers' voices was palpable. Some spoke of honoring his sacrifice, while others bitterly blamed him for perceived failures. It was a harsh reminder of the unforgiving world I now inhabited.
Filling my stomach with the afternoon food, I went back to the academy. This time not to the classroom but to the library, which preserves all the information that I need dearly.
The library became my sanctuary, a place where I could immerse myself in study without the judgmental stares of others. Sitting at a creaky wooden desk, I pored over texts on chakra manipulation and the fundamentals of being a shinobi.
The words blurred together as I struggled to absorb everything. My fingers traced the aged pages, each one a step toward survival.
"I have to reach genin level before graduation," I whispered to myself, determination filling my voice. "If the war starts before that… I'll just be another expendable pawn."
The thought of being cannon fodder sent a chill down my spine. I gritted my teeth and returned to my studies, ignoring the sleepiness in my eyes.
There was no room for self-pity in this world. If I didn't rise above my circumstances, I would perish just as easily as the countless nameless shinobi who came before me.
"Let's avoid the main cast for now and focus on building myself up," I muttered, forcing my wandering mind back to the task at hand. My future was a blank slate, and I intended to write my story not have it written for me.