Mizuhara Yuta learned early what happened to people who lacked intent and hard work. Those who lacked it, nine times out of ten, got buried pretty early.
Not that those things would save you—it just made it easier to live in this world.
Funerals were common in this world. Especially for lower ranks, and for lower ranks that lived a near full life… or so some would say.
Because shinobi don't live long. In fact, Yuta would most likely die at the age of five—not because he wanted to, but because that's what this world forced upon him.
Funerals were common here. So common that even children like Yuta got used to them. The worst part was that some would bow their heads, then keep moving. Life didn't stop.
Life didn't stop. Shinobi died. Civilians died. The rain simply washed away the blood, and everything continued.
But it was different when the one who died meant the world to you—or more so, was the only one who cared for you.
Yuta stood motionless as the sun set low in the sky, barely visible as clouds and rain blocked the light from ever truly blessing the land.
The rain sometimes stopped, but the mist never did—not here. Not for a child like him… another number meant to be used by the system.
Even so, the scenery was beautiful. The small amount of light that broke through shone so brightly that Yuta could've sworn the entire sky was clear.
But that was only for that day. Every day after, the light never shone through again. Nothing to support him. Nothing to hold onto.
His mother was gone.
She died protecting the village she loved—the village she loved most.
Kirigakure wasn't a good village by any means. Yuta wasn't even sure a "good village" existed. Every village trained its children to fight. To kill. They raised them, then sent them out to murder strangers for missions they couldn't truly understand—at least, not at his age.
And even if you survived those missions, you'd be replaced by someone younger. Stronger. That was natural evolution.
Training.
Slaughter.
Death.
A cycle so normal that nobody questioned it.
Not that it mattered. Individual lives didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. A single shinobi meant nothing.
Nothing.
His mother meant something to him. But to the village? She was nothing more than a name on a list—a chunin who did her job, completed her mission, and died during war.
And Yuta would be another number soon enough.
That was a very difficult thing for a child to understand—that you could be everything to someone and absolutely nothing to the world that raised you. That the system you were born into would one day take your life without hesitation.
The tears weren't stopping.
Bodies were stretched everywhere. For a five-year-old, standing on a battlefield with a kunai in his hand, everything was lost.
A memory struck him without warning.
His mother had tucked him in a few weeks ago. "You want to be a ninja, son?" She looked more tired than usual, but her eyes stayed gentle.
Yuta nodded without hesitation.
She nodded back and kissed his forehead. He went to sleep. She turned and left.
Only to return as a body wrapped in cloth.
Yuta barely had time to grieve. The ninja took him quickly—the idea of losing his mother was considered too great a risk. She possessed a powerful kekkei genkai, and it had appeared in Yuta as well… or at least, they believed it soon would.
Yuta knew this was only the beginning.