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Naruto: A Novelist

Red_roseking_2
21
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 21 chs / week.
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4.4k
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Synopsis
Basically what the name says, i am to lazy to write all this so..... First book: No Longer human.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: A World Without Power

Chapter 1: A World Without Power

The sun hung low over the Hidden Leaf Village, its golden rays cascading through the trees of the vast forest surrounding the settlement. The village bustled with life as ninja and civilians alike moved about their daily routines. The faint scent of grilled fish and freshly baked sweet potatoes wafted from roadside stalls, mingling with the earthy aroma of the autumn leaves blanketing the dirt paths. Children played in the streets, their laughter piercing the air, a bittersweet melody for those who walked alone. Among the sea of faces, a boy named Akari blended into the background, unnoticed, a ghost within the bustling village.

Akari's face was pale and angular, his dark brown hair falling in unkempt strands over a pair of sharp eyes that seemed too weary for his age. At fourteen, he had already resigned himself to the harsh truths of life, a wisdom not earned through choice but through the sheer weight of survival. He adjusted the fraying edges of his dull, hand-me-down tunic and pulled his thin shawl tighter as the crisp autumn air nipped at his skin.

Unlike the others around him, Akari wasn't born into a clan with ancient techniques or inherited strength. He was a mere civilian orphan, the son of no one important, and in a world ruled by strength and legacy, that meant he was invisible. His dreams of becoming a ninja had died quietly the moment he failed the genin exam—twice. The academy instructors had been kind enough in their words but brutally clear in their actions: he wasn't good enough.

As he shuffled through the village streets, the sounds of a smith's hammer echoed from a nearby shop, the rhythmic clangs mixing with the distant murmur of a market square. It was vibrant, lively even, but Akari couldn't shake the sense of alienation clinging to him like a shadow. He wasn't part of this energy; he was merely an observer, a foreigner in a world that had long since moved on without him.

---

This wasn't how life was supposed to be. He had seen the stories—the stories of other reincarnated individuals in countless books and manga in his past life. People like him, who woke up in a different world, were supposed to be special. They were supposed to have power, talent, or knowledge that set them apart. They were supposed to shine.

Yet here he was, powerless, with no bloodline, no chakra reserves worth mentioning, and no unique talents to speak of. His memories of the past world didn't grant him enlightenment or strength; they only reminded him of what he lacked. And what he lacked, above all, was a place to belong.

Akari had tried to change that. He had trained until his arms felt like lead and his legs gave out beneath him, pouring every ounce of effort into mastering the basic ninja techniques. But effort alone couldn't bridge the gap between him and the children of clans who had been born into privilege and taught the ways of chakra from birth. In the end, the academy doors had shut behind him, leaving him stranded outside the path he had once dreamed of taking.

For a while, the village had provided him with meager support—a small stipend to ensure the orphans weren't left to starve—but as he grew older, that lifeline had been severed. Now, survival was his responsibility, and it weighed on him every day.

---

Akari's thoughts were interrupted as he passed by a trio of chunin walking together. They were dressed in standard flak jackets, their hitae-ate glinting under the sunlight. The first two spoke animatedly about their latest mission, while the third trailed behind, nose buried in a book.

The cover caught Akari's eye. It was a familiar one—Tales of the Gutsy Ninja, written by none other than the Sannin, Jiraiya. The sight of it stopped Akari in his tracks. The chunin didn't notice him, their conversation carrying them down the path and out of sight, but the image of that book stayed burned into his mind.

Akari had seen it before, of course. Copies of Jiraiya's works were popular not just in the village but across the Land of Fire. But what struck him now wasn't the book itself—it was the realization that the ninja world didn't seem to have much else.

The bookshelves in the stores he passed each day were sparse, filled with little more than instructional guides for young shinobi, romantic escapism, and Jiraiya's infamous Icha Icha series, which he dared not touch. There was no philosophy, no introspection, no literature that spoke to the human condition or the pain of existing in a world that demanded strength above all else.

A flicker of something stirred within him.

For the first time in what felt like months, Akari felt the faintest glimmer of possibility. What if he could write something? Something that wasn't about romance or bravado, but about life as it was—raw, unfiltered, and unforgiving? He had no money, no skills with kunai or genjutsu, but he had his thoughts, his words, and his memories of a world that had long since faded from him.

-----

Akari walked through the streets of the Hidden Leaf Village as the golden hues of sunset gave way to the deep purples of twilight. The crowds had thinned, leaving behind only the occasional merchant packing up their wares and shinobi heading toward their next assignments. The chill of the night crept in, biting through his thin clothes as he made his way to the rundown apartment he called home.

The building stood at the edge of the village, tucked away from the busier streets. Its walls were cracked and weathered, the wooden frame creaking with the slightest gust of wind. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving the structure exposed to the elements. Akari climbed the rickety staircase to his small room on the second floor, each step groaning under his weight.

His apartment was a single, sparsely furnished room. A low table sat in the corner, surrounded by scraps of paper and a single inkstone. The bed was little more than a thin futon laid out on the floor, its fabric worn and patched in several places. A small window offered a view of the distant Hokage Monument, the faces of the village's leaders etched into the mountain watching over him like silent guardians.

Akari shut the door behind him, the faint scent of mildew greeting him as he tossed his shawl onto the futon. He stared at the low table, his thoughts racing.

---

"What can I even write?" he murmured to himself, sitting cross-legged in front of the table. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the inkstone. "This world doesn't need another story about guts and glory. There's already enough of that outside these walls."

The weight of his decision settled on him. He was no stranger to literature; in his past life, he had devoured countless books, each one offering a glimpse into worlds far removed from his own mundane existence. Some had inspired him, others had broken him, but one in particular had stayed with him long after the final page had turned: No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai.

It was a story that mirrored his own sense of alienation, his inability to connect with the world around him. It wasn't a tale of heroes or redemption—it was raw, painful, and unrelentingly human. And in this world of shinobi, where strength defined worth and emotions were buried beneath masks of duty, it felt more relevant than ever.

"I'll write that," he decided, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll write No Longer Human. But it won't just be a copy of what I remember. It'll be my own. My own pain, my own truth. That's all I can give to this world."

---

Akari dipped his brush into the ink, the rich black liquid pooling at the tip as he brought it to the blank sheet of paper before him. He took a deep breath, letting the silence of the room envelop him, and began to write.

"The first notebook," he wrote, the characters flowing across the page in steady, deliberate strokes.

The words came slowly at first, each one pulling memories and emotions from the depths of his mind. He wrote about alienation, about the masks people wore to hide their true selves, about the quiet despair of feeling disconnected from the world. He wrote about himself, though he disguised it as fiction, crafting a protagonist whose pain mirrored his own.

The hours slipped by unnoticed. The moon climbed higher into the sky, its pale light spilling through the window and casting a silvery glow over the room. Akari's hand ached, his fingers smudged with ink, but he didn't stop.

By the time dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, the first part of the novel was complete. Akari leaned back, his vision blurring as exhaustion finally caught up to him. He placed the finished manuscript into a makeshift folder and set it aside, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

---

Later that morning, Akari stood outside a modest publishing house in the heart of the village. The building was small but well-kept, with a sign above the door that read Leaf Press. It was one of the few places in the village that handled the publication of books, most of which were instructional guides for shinobi or romantic escapism.

Taking a deep breath, Akari pushed the door open and stepped inside. The interior was cramped, with shelves stacked high with scrolls and books. Behind a cluttered desk sat an older man, his glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed a stack of papers.

"Excuse me," Akari began, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest.

The man looked up, his tired eyes narrowing as they took in the sight of the boy before him. "What do you want, kid? If you're here to browse, we don't have time for window shopping."

"I'm not here to browse," Akari replied, holding up the folder containing his manuscript. "I've written a book, and I want you to publish it."

The man raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "You? A book? Don't waste my time, boy. Writing isn't something just anyone can do."

"I understand your skepticism," Akari said, keeping his tone calm. "But I'm not asking you to take my word for it. Read it. Then decide if it's worth publishing."

The man frowned, clearly unconvinced. "Why should I? Do you have any idea how many people come in here claiming to have written the next big thing? Most of it's garbage."

"Then read it," Akari pressed, his eyes meeting the man's with quiet determination. "If it's garbage, throw it away. But if it's not… If it's not, you might just find something worth publishing."

The man sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Leave it here, and I'll take a look when I have time."

"Thank you," Akari said, bowing slightly as he handed over the manuscript.

As he turned to leave, the man muttered under his breath, "Crazy kids these days…"

---

That night, the publisher returned home, tossing the folder onto his desk without a second thought. His mind was preoccupied with deadlines and paperwork, and the idea of reading a manuscript from some random boy wasn't a priority.

But fate had other plans.

His son, a young chunin named Daichi, was preparing for an early mission when he noticed the folder on the desk. Curious, he picked it up and flipped through the pages.

At first, he only skimmed the text, but soon, the words began to pull him in. The story was unlike anything he'd ever read—a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the mind of someone struggling to find their place in the world.

Daichi couldn't put it down. By the time the sun rose, he had read the entire first part, and his hands trembled as he set the manuscript aside.

"This… This is something else," he murmured, his mind racing with thoughts and emotions he didn't yet know how to process.

---