The rough, uncomfortable cloth still prickled against his skin. The air in the tent was stale, laced with the scent of dirt and sweat.
He rushed to check his equipment—same number of kunai, same tags. Everything was exactly as it should be.
"Did I… die? No, no way. Just a nightmare. Nothing's changed. And that line… yeah, from Osamu's memories. That's how all the chūnin call for him, right?"
He quickly got dressed, pulling on his worn leather vest and strapping his pouch into place. Stepping out, he waited, as always, for the other genin.
"All right. Today's the eastern patrol," said a voice—gruff, but calm. The chūnin assigned to their squad stood waiting: a tall man, his face carved by old scars and harder years. His expression was stern, but his voice… gentle.
Exactly like the dream. He hated it.
They set off in formation—same as before. Same old nonsense Shui was spotting.
Minutes passed. They were halfway through the route, nearing the turnaround point that would send them back to camp.
"Yo, Osamu! You won't believe this, man—I think Aira actually likes me. She finally noticed me! I've been trying so hard!"
"Yeah, yeah. Good for you."
"What, you jealous? You'll find someone too, buddy. For sure."
SSSHHK.
A faint hiss. A trigger.
And in the next instant, the chūnin was gone—nothing left but blood, viscera, and shredded cloth.
Two Iwa chūnin and a genin appeared once again—silent shadows breaking through the treeline—and once again, Shui held his own.
Osamu, teeth grit and heart pounding, pulled a kunai from his belt—one laced with an explosive tag. In his other hand, a plain one. He yanked a smoke bomb free, then hurled the whole mess toward the enemy genin crouched along the upper branches.
The smoke erupted mid-air, billowing out in a thick cloud that cloaked the branches and the ones adjacent to them in a gray, hissing fog. The genin leapt, narrowly dodging the kunai trailing smoke—the whistle of the tag would have given away its trajectory.
But that was the point.
There—just barely visible—a shimmer in the haze. The smoke twisted unnaturally, parted by something fast and precise. A moment later, the genin's body erupted in a spray of blood. His mistake had been simple—he assumed the first kunai whistled because of the tag. But the real threat trailed just behind. He hadn't realized the second kunai—hidden like a predator trailing close behind—was the real threat. The aligned trajectories, the fake out sound, it had all disoriented him just enough.
"Take that!" Osamu grinned, starting to throw up a middle finger—
Or he would have, if his head hadn't just been cut clean from his shoulders.
He didn't feel pain. Or rather, that's what he thought being decapitated would feel like. Instead, he felt everything—every inch of his flesh parting as the Iwa chūnin's blade carved through his neck.
The world spun.
And once more, he found himself cradled in death's embrace.
The void welcomed him again. Standing in its center, silent and still, was the figure of the Shinigami—watching. Always watching.
Then, in an instant, he woke up.
Definitely not a dream.
He sat up abruptly, lungs burning, and began to collect his thoughts.
Regression. I'm regressing.
"Fuck, man," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Okay, calm down. Think. How can I avoid getting killed? I could run… no, too slow. A chūnin would catch me. Hell, I just died because I didn't account for a chūnin. Maybe I skip the patrol? But how?"
"Oy, Osamu! Get ready—we're heading out on patrol in five. Meet me at the front of the camp."
His mind clicked.
Wait. I could fake being sick.
A liability like that wouldn't be sent on a patrol, especially a safe-route one.
Without hesitation, he jammed two fingers down his throat. He gagged, stomach convulsing. Heat surged up his throat. He forced it down, held it.
Stumbling to the tent's flap, he pushed outside, his face pale and sweat-slicked.
He bent forward and vomited.
"Ahh, Osamu! Clean that up. You think you can still perform your duty?"
"Urrgh—sorry, sir! I don't think so. I've been vomiting since last night's patrol. Can't keep anything down."
The chūnin squinted at him. Average-looking. Nothing suspicious. He looked like a middle-aged salaryman, really.
"Hmm. Alright, you can skip today—but tomorrow, you're taking double."
He turned and walked away.
Osamu didn't breathe until the man was gone.
***
That night—
"AHHHH!"
Screams tore through the camp. Fire licked the sky, swallowing tents and trees alike. The air reeked of blood and burning cloth. Chaos surged like a tidal wave.
"What the hell—don't tell me it's those Iwa shinobi again! They're attacking—"
Before Osamu could even finish his sentence, a kunai buried itself in his skull.
Darkness fell.
Again.