War—a plague, a reminder of humanity's truest self: malice, cruelty.
The peace dreamed of and wished for by all was nothing more than a prelude to conflict. After all, war was inevitable—an inherent part of what it meant to be human.
And in one such war—one of many, to be precise—the Third Great Shinobi World War, nations clashed like titans. But the cost? Paid in full by the minor lands.
One such land was the Land of Grass: the stage for the bloodiest conflict Konohagakure and Iwagakure had ever known.
Tucked away within a forest of towering trees, their trunks overrun by illogically massive mushrooms that loomed like natural shields, sat a small encampment.
Its many tents, half-hidden beneath woven foliage, marked the perimeter—a patrol zone scarcely secured.
Inside one such tent lay a youth, likely a genin, given the absence of a flak jacket. Instead, he wore a black compression shirt clinging tightly to his frame and a pair of shorts.
His face, which might've once been alabaster-smooth and cold with indifference, was now smeared with grime and dirt—souvenirs from late-night patrols. His expression twisted into a grimace, full of anguish.
"Fuuuck... why me, man? And in this world? What the hell, man..." he whispered to himself, barely audible.
"Oy, Osamu! Get ready—we're heading out on patrol in five. Meet me at the front of the camp."
"Yes,sir!"
"If putting me in this shitty world wasn't enough... why give me that cursed name?" he muttered again under his breath.
He stood up from his little sleeping corner—just a thin cushion laid over tarp and dirt, barely worth calling a bed. Sleep had been more suggestion than reality.
Osamu grabbed his pouch and the utility belt, hooking them together with a practiced hand. He popped open the pouch and did a quick inventory check.
"Kunai, ten. Shuriken, five. Military pills—low grade, two. Explosion tags, six. Smoke bombs, two. Yep, everything's in order. But damn, why's the camp so stingy with supplies? This is a goddamn battlefield! Give me something to work with, come on!"
His complaints faded into the stale morning air, witnessed only by the flicker of his shadow.
He threw on a cheap leather vest over his compression shirt—barely armor, but better than nothing—and made his way to the camp's front gate.
"Just my luck to end up in Naruto… a world full of literal assassins and alien gods. And to top it off, I'm stuck as some no-name genin in the middle of the Third Great Shinobi War."
His thoughts spiraled, words tumbling in his head faster than he could contain them.
"Man, why are there always 'world wars' on Earth? We only had two. Even we weren't this selfish. Land ain't worth that much. Alright, alright—calm down, Kai. Think it through. You can't die here. Not yet."
He tried to ground himself, reciting the facts.
"Okay, so… me and Wyatt were heading to uni. Normal day. Then bam, some drunk asshole crashes into us. Now I'm here. And… I've got Osamu's memories and instincts. Thank God for that. I can fight, I know the basics—but this name, man…"
He grimaced.
"Why name me after Dazai? Like yeah, his work's famous, it's good, I get it—it made me feel less alone back then. But still. Being named after a suicidal author in a war-torn ninja world? That's gotta be a bad omen."
Lost in his rant, he barely noticed when he reached the front gate.
"Alright. Today's the eastern patrol," said a voice, gruff but calm. The chūnin overseeing their squad stood waiting, a tall man with a face carved by old scars and hard years. His expression was stern, but his voice... gentle.
It made Osamu sick. He hated that tone—the kindness behind authority. It felt fake.
****
Swahh. Swahh.
The wind warped with the sound of movement, chakra-laced bodies cutting through the air. The chūnin led from the front, two genin behind, while Osamu and one other brought up the rear. Formation protocol.
That other genin was Shui. His parents had moved to Konoha after the Second Ninja War. His clan hailed from a long line of hunters—and with that came their kekkei genkai: Shikogan , a dōjutsu that enhanced vision and field of view. Not quite Byakugan, but close.
According to Kai—no, Osamu—it was like seeing chakra the way Karin could feel it.
"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."
Shui—Shuichi, technically—was probably the closest thing the original Osamu had to a friend. Overly talkative, sure, but his dōjutsu might just save their lives one day.
Then, without warning, the chūnin landed on a tree branch. Normal-looking. Unremarkable. But the moment his feet touched down—
Ssshhk.
A faint hiss. A trigger. And in the next instant, he was gone—nothing left but blood, viscera, and shredded cloth.
"SHIT! We're under attack!"
From the trees dropped three figures—two chūnin and a genin, clad in red. Red flak vests. Red forehead protectors. The symbol of Iwagakure gleamed on their bands.
They moved fast.
Two of Osamu's fellow genin went down in seconds.
Only he and Shui remained.
The Iwa-nin didn't waste time.
The chūnins barked orders in clipped syllables—too fast to catch, but clear in their intent: kill the kids.
Osamu's body tensed. His instincts screamed at him to run, to hide, to survive. But Shui moved first.
With a fierce shout, the boy dashed forward—eyes glowing faintly, irises stretched into something inhuman more cat then human . The Shikogan activated fully, veins around his temples bulging from strain.
The Iwa chūnin lunged, but Shui met him mid-air with a flurry of kunai and precise footwork. For a second—just a second—he looked like a blur.
The clash rang out like a bell. Steel on steel. Flesh tearing. Chakra flaring.
"What the hell—he's holding him off?" Osamu blinked, stunned.
No—not just holding off. He was pushing him back.
Shui dipped low, slid beneath a horizontal slash, and drove a kunai straight into the Iwa-nin's thigh. The chūnin stumbled—but Shui didn't stop. He twisted the kunai, ducked another punch, then leapt up—and buried a second blade deep into the enemy's throat.
The chūnin gurgled. Then fell.
One down.
The genin from Iwa screamed and charged Shui, but the boy didn't flinch.
Osamu finally broke from his paralysis, reaching for his own pouch.
"Shit—okay, time to—"
But the world spun.
A sharp, cold pressure spread across his neck. His legs gave out.
His vision tilted sideways.
Sky. Trees. Shui. Blood.
And then—himself. His own body.
Standing there.
No.
Laying there.
No—no no no—
He could see it.
The headless body. His. Neck sheared clean. Blood pooling.
What...?
The ground felt like water beneath him. Reality warped, edges bending inward. His last thoughts weren't fear, but confusion. Rage. Disbelief.
"Wait—was that me? That's not— That's—"
Darkness surged like a wave, heavy and absolute.
His mind faded to black.
The cold embrace of death was... comforting.
But Kai hated it.
He wanted to breathe. To blink. To move. His soul thrashed in the void, hungry for sensation, desperate to scream.
"Stop your struggling."
The voice cut through the silence like ice cracking under pressure. It wasn't loud, but it pressed against Osamu's mind, heavier than gravity. Inhuman. Timeless.
"Your life is meaningless. The wall you face cannot be climbed. You are not the one who breaks fate. You are the one it breaks."
The spiral of panic in Osamu's thoughts halted. That voice didn't just speak—it settled into his bones.
Eyes he didn't remember having opened to a pitch-dark void.
A step back—and he saw it.
A towering figure, still as stone, standing where the void thickened into shadow. Its form bled contradiction—massive and still, robed in white that shimmered faintly against skin the color of bruised night. Purple. Almost soft. Almost warm. But the air around it froze.
A small knife glinted in one hand. Prayer beads wrapped around the other like shackles. Its eyes were closed, but it saw him.
The Shinigami.
A god, yes—but not one of mercy. More like water.
Not cruel. Not kind.
Just inevitable.
"No," Osamu growled, voice cracking with pain and fear and something deeper. "No. I want to live. I can't die. I won't die!"
The void didn't move.
The god did not flinch.
"Death has not broken you?"
A moment of stillness passed. Then a whisper—not mockery, not approval. Just observation.
"If your stubborn soul chooses to drown in despair, flailing at the wall you cannot cross... so be it."
There was no judgment in the words.
Just the tide pulling back.
Then—
Nothing.
And everything.
He gasped awake.
Same bed. Same stale air. Same camp.
Same sweat cooling on his skin like he'd never left.
"Oy, Osamu! Get ready—we're heading out on patrol in five. Meet me at the front of the camp."
"...Huh?"
His heart was racing.
But the world moved on like nothing had changed.