Naruto : The Ghost Bone

Ken woke to the sound of rain tapping against the wooden roof. A dull ache bloomed in the back of his skull, slow and pulsing like the memory of a scream. His breath came out in a mist—cold, damp air filled the small room. He blinked at the shadowed ceiling, his mind cloudy, like a fog had settled behind his eyes.

Then it hit him.

He wasn't home.

Not that he even remembered what "home" was anymore. Images flickered—glass windows, artificial lights, a soft bed, and the steady hum of something electric. Then silence. Darkness. A weightless feeling. And now this.

He sat up slowly. The blanket was thin and patched. His small body shivered from the chill. He looked around. Three beds crammed into a cramped room. Two were empty, and the door was cracked open just enough to let voices drift in—laughter, the slap of bare feet on wet stone.

This body... it's mine now, but it wasn't always.

Memories not entirely his own settled in his mind. His name was still Ken—strangely convenient. But this Ken was five. An orphan. A nobody. Living in a country constantly at war, in a hidden village known for its blood-soaked traditions.

Kirigakure.

A cold dread gripped his chest. Out of every possible world, he'd landed in this one? The Bloody Mist? Where even the genin exams ended in death matches? He swallowed dryly. The memory of the Naruto world was faint but enough. He didn't know everything. Just fragments—major characters, vague history, what happened to certain clans.

But even if he didn't remember all the plot points, he remembered one thing very clearly: being weak in this world meant being forgotten. Or worse, being used.

He got out of bed slowly, testing his balance. His limbs felt light—too light. This body was healthy enough but clearly underfed. His stomach growled as if to agree.

He stepped outside the room, and two boys immediately noticed him.

"Ken!" one of them shouted. "You're awake!"

The voice belonged to a lanky, sharp-eyed boy with a wide grin—Sato. The younger one beside him was quieter, round-faced with large brown eyes—Renji.

They ran up to him, eyes full of concern.

"You okay now?" Renji asked, tugging at his sleeve. "You were screaming earlier."

Ken nodded. "Yeah. Headache. I think it's over."

Sato tilted his head. "You didn't cry."

"Of course not," Ken said, forcing a smile. "Crying's for babies."

They grinned, and Sato elbowed him playfully. "Well, let's eat. Miss Suiren said food's almost ready."

As they walked across the courtyard—if it could be called that—Ken finally took in the full state of the orphanage.

The place was old. Stone and wood made up most of the structure, warped from moisture and time. Cracks spread across walls like veins. The fog in the air seemed permanent, soaking into everything—clothes, skin, even thoughts.

About fifteen or so children lived here, from what he could recall from the body's memories. Most of them were younger than him. Toddlers, some barely able to walk, clung to each other in pairs or sat alone in the corners of the wide common room.

They looked tired. Thin. Their clothes were simple and patched. The room itself was barely lit, and a fireplace in the corner flickered low with what little wood could be found.

A single woman moved between the tables, arranging chipped bowls. She had graying hair tied into a knot and wore a worn shawl around her shoulders.

Miss Suiren.

Not just a caretaker. The only adult here.

Ken's memories of her were vague but kind. She was strict, yes, but also fair. She never raised her hand. She shared her food when they ran low. And from the looks of it, they were always running low.

When she spotted him, her expression immediately softened.

"Ken, child. You're finally awake." Her voice was raspy, yet gentle.

"I'm fine now," Ken said. "Sorry I scared everyone."

Suiren sighed and touched his forehead briefly. "You were burning up earlier. I was about to call someone from the outer quarters." She didn't say "medic," probably because they couldn't afford one. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

She smiled and ladled something thick into a bowl. It was a watery stew with bits of root vegetables and rice floating in it. Not much in the way of meat. The scent was bland, but it was warm, and right now, Ken needed that more than anything.

He sat with the others and started eating, listening quietly as the younger kids chattered about their day. Apparently, Sato had dared Renji to run barefoot in the cold stream near the rocks. He slipped and fell in. Everyone had laughed. The mood, despite the setting, wasn't entirely grim.

Ken finished the last of his stew and sat back, watching them.

They were just kids.

Too small, too fragile, too trusting. In another year or two, some of them might be taken to the Academy. Or the mines. Or worse—drafted early if another war broke out.

He clenched his fingers under the table.

This world didn't care about orphans. It used them.

He had to survive.

That was the first and only goal.

Plans would come later.