Naruto : The Ghost Bone

The morning mist hadn't yet lifted when I slipped out of the orphanage again. My steps were quiet, habitual by now. I moved past creaky floorboards and the thin sliding door, careful not to wake anyone—not even the little ones in the corner.

The familiar damp rocks greeted me like old companions. I settled into the same flat surface where I had tried yesterday. The sun hadn't risen yet, but I liked it that way—less light, less attention.

I sat down and closed my eyes, slow breathing helping me ease into the process. Just like yesterday.

I tried to pull the warmth into motion, the same pulse I had sensed before. But nothing happened.

Again.

I shifted focus, tried to visualize the energy flowing like I had felt before. Still nothing. It was there—I could feel the chakra like a dormant current—but I couldn't move it. Couldn't control it.

My brows furrowed. This wasn't a matter of willpower. It wasn't like pushing a muscle harder and expecting a result. There was something that I was missing. I exhaled sharply, frustrated but not panicked. As I again started to concentrate the chakra on my hand a sudden, sharp and familiar pain flared in my wrist before I could even brace. My left forearm spasmed, muscles locking as something pushed outward from beneath the skin.

Again.

I grit my teeth and watched as a thin, jagged shard of bone emerged just a few inches long this time, angled like a needle and wet with blood. My pulse didn't spike this time, but my gaze lingered on it longer than yesterday.

It was... refined. Not random. The bone seemed formed for piercing or stabbing. Even its edge looked deliberate. I touched it lightly—dense, cold, solid.

"This isn't just some random mutation," I thought. "It's a weapon. Designed that way, however bones aren't supposed to this sharp"

With a soft exhale, I concentrated. The bone trembled slightly, then began to withdraw—agonizingly slow, like pulling a splinter back into skin. When it was done, the hole sealed itself more quickly than it should've.

My healing was accelerating. My body was adapting.

"Regeneration, enhanced muscle tone, excessive hunger, and this—Shikotsumyaku," I whispered. "A Kekkei Genkai that feeds on vitality. Use it, and you trade life for strength."

A dangerous bargain.

I cleaned the area quickly and rewrapped my arm. No time for reflection now. I needed to move before the others started waking up.

By the time I returned, the orphanage had shifted into its daily rhythm. Children wandered to the central area where breakfast was served, bowls of rice gruel being handed out with care and caution. Miss Suiren was serving with her usual practiced movements—smile small but steady.

That's when I saw the change.

A shinobi stood just inside the open entrance, talking to her. His hitai-ate gleamed in the light, and his voice was low but firm. He wasn't shouting. He didn't need to. The air in the room shifted the moment he arrived—heaviness layered over tired children and brittle walls.

A girl—maybe eight years old—stood nearby. Her hands were clenched, her shoulders trembling.

"I don't want to go," she said, her voice cracking. "Please, Lady Suiren... please don't let him take me."

She looked up at the old caretaker with wide, terrified eyes. But Suiren's gaze didn't meet hers. She kept her head low, her hands wringing the edge of her apron.

She didn't speak. Didn't resist.

The shinobi placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. She shrank from it, shaking her head.

"No, please! I'll be good! I'll help more—I'll even train if I have to, just don't take me—!"

But the man didn't respond. He simply turned, forcefully guiding her toward the exit. No one stopped him. No one even looked him in the eye.

The room remained silent. Children stared at their bowls. No one cried. No one asked where she was going.

Except for the three smallest ones.

I felt them before I saw them—soft hands tugging at my sleeve. Haruto. Mika. Little Ren.

They clung to me, half-hiding behind my legs.

"Ken," Haruto whispered, "Where's she going?"

"Why is she crying?" Mika added, her voice small.

"She doesn't wanna go," Ren murmured, burying his face in my pants.

I didn't answer at first.

What could I say? That the world we were in didn't care what we wanted? That power dictated everything?

I glanced down at the three of them and gently placed a hand on each of their heads.

"Don't worry," I said quietly. "She'll be okay."

But even I didn't believe that.

By nightfall, the orphanage had settled into uneasy quiet.

The dinner was the same as usual — simple rice and thin soup. No one spoke much. Even the younger children didn't play like they usually did. The girl's absence hung over the room like fog.

No one mentioned her. Not even Miss Suiren.

I kept my head down and finished eating in silence. I'd lived long enough to know when to speak and when to keep quiet. Still, I watched Miss Suiren. Her hands trembled just slightly as she cleaned up the bowls. She wasn't unaffected. Just... unable to do anything.

She met my eyes once across the room. There was something like apology in her expression. But also helplessness. She looked away quickly.

Later, after the lights were dimmed and most of the children were tucked in, I lay on my thin mattress, staring at the ceiling.

The murmurs of small voices faded one by one, but I knew most of them weren't sleeping. Just lying still. Like me.

In my past life, I would've called this a crime. A child dragged away by a shinobi, and no one raised a voice? No one stepped in?

But here... this wasn't strange. It was expected.

This was Kirigakure. Blood and silence were normal here.

I clenched the blanket loosely in my fist and sighed.

From what I'd gathered so far, there were about fifteen or so children here. Most of them younger than me—just four, some even younger. Haruto was barely three, Mika maybe four. There were no other caretakers. Just Suiren.

I couldn't blame her for not fighting back. She probably didn't even have the choice.

Still, watching that happen… it stirred something in me. A slow burn, buried under layers of logic and restraint.

If that had been one of the younger kids… if they had come for Haruto or Mika instead… would I have stood there too?

I closed my eyes and took a breath.

No. I wouldn't.

This place didn't reward good intentions. It rewarded strength. Without it, even Miss Suiren could only bow her head and stay quiet.

That girl was gone now. And maybe she'd survive. Maybe she'd be used. Maybe she'd never return.

And all we could do was hope it wouldn't be one of us next time.

My mind drifted to earlier in the day. That moment when I had tried chakra again, only to fail. The disappointment, the irritation. How trivial that frustration seemed now compared to what I'd just witnessed.

Still, it mattered.

If I couldn't even control chakra, how was I supposed to do anything? How would I stop the next shinobi that came through that door?

I replayed the failed attempt in my head.

No flow. No control. Only a flicker of awareness.

That's when it hit me.

I had been assuming chakra control was instinctual—something natural to those who had it. But clearly, that wasn't the case. From what I remembered in the anime, chakra wasn't just felt—it had to be focused. Directed.

Characters always sat in meditation. Focused. Controlled their breath. Practiced exercises for years to improve control. It wasn't random. It was a technique.

I didn't know the exact method, but I had enough to start recreating it.

Just focusing blindly wouldn't get me anywhere. I needed to develop a proper foundation. Step by step.

And as for the bones... Shikotsumyaku wasn't going away. Whether I liked it or not, it was mine now. I couldn't use it freely—not yet, not while the orphanage barely had enough food to sustain us. But once I was able to hunt for myself, once I wasn't a drain on Miss Suiren or the others, I'd start experimenting with it.

I wouldn't let it control me. I'd learn to control it.

The moonlight filtered in through the window, pale and quiet. Haruto had rolled over in his sleep and was curled up near my side. Mika was mumbling softly, clutching her ragged blanket.

I looked at them. So small. So unaware of the world waiting beyond these paper-thin walls.

In my last life, I had no power, but I had comfort, peace. Rights. Laws. Here, none of that mattered. Only strength decided your worth.

And I was still weak.

I turned on my side and muttered softly to myself.

"Not for long."

I would grow stronger. Slowly, carefully, and on my own terms.

No one would drag these kids away again without a fight.

Not if I could help it.