Naruto : The Ghost Bone

Ken woke up before dawn, the sky outside still a pale grey as he sat up quietly on his mat. He'd gone to bed late, yet woke with a strange energy—determined to resume his chakra control exercises. But as he stood up and stretched, he paused. His body felt... off. Not in pain, not sick—but heavier, as though it hadn't fully recovered overnight. There was a lingering ache in his limbs, a stiffness that wasn't there the day before.

He frowned slightly but said nothing to himself. He had expected a certain level of fatigue after beginning chakra flow work, but this was an early sign—clear and direct—that his body lacked the reserves to recover properly. Still, he made his way outside, heading to the familiar patch of secluded clearing near the coast, where the mist was always thinner and the sea wind carried a kind of quiet clarity.

Once there, he crouched, touching the ground lightly. The morning dew was still clinging to the blades of grass. He focused. Chakra flow, control—those were today's goals. He plucked a blade of grass, held it on the back of his hand, and tried to guide a steady flow of chakra to keep it balanced.

It slipped off before a minute had passed.

He sighed, tried again. And again. Each time, the same result. Either his control wavered or the chakra didn't sustain evenly. His mind wasn't calm enough, and more than that—his body was clearly low on energy. There was a subtle tremor in his hand, barely perceptible, but enough to confirm what he already suspected.

"I'm starving," he muttered quietly. It wasn't just hunger. It was depletion.

Sitting back, Ken folded his arms and analyzed the situation. Chakra work consumed stamina. That much was clear from every shinobi training method he remembered from his past life. Chakra was made from both spiritual and physical energy, and right now, he was short on the latter.

"I need better food before I can train properly," he thought. "Without it, chakra practice will just wear me out. And with food being the way it is here… I'll have to find it myself."

And that's when the idea from yesterday fully formed in his mind.

Fishing.

He had some simple survival knowledge from his previous life—things he never thought would be useful but were now proving invaluable. A basic fish trap came to mind: an inward funnel made of sticks and stones, placed in a spot where fish naturally swam through. From his earlier exploration, he knew of a narrow stream that met the sea. Fish often gathered there, drawn by the current bringing in food.

Ken gathered sticks, reeds, and flat stones, and headed toward that spot again. Along the way, he tested the grass, dropped pieces to see the direction of wind and water flow, and noted the stream's natural pull. Then, crouched near the mouth of the stream, he began building the trap.

It was a crude cone-shaped structure, reinforced with small rocks and weighed down by stones at the base. The funnel narrowed inward, allowing fish to swim in but making it difficult for them to escape. He placed it carefully in the water and adjusted the angle so the current helped carry scent and bait into the funnel.

"Now I just need bait," he muttered.

But that was a problem for later. For now, he returned to the orphanage, noting the feeling of satisfaction at having done something practical. His first hunt had begun.

Back at the orphanage, he passed through the small work area near the back, where Miss Suiren and four of the older children were already busy. They were sewing, their small hands nimble with needles and cloth. Simple clothing—plain tunics, sturdy pants—meant to be sold in the market.

Ken slowed and watched for a moment. They weren't much older than him, seven or maybe eight at most, yet they worked with quiet discipline. It was impressive—not just the effort, but the intent. They were doing what they could to help. There was no praise involved, no reward. Just survival.

"Mio," he said, walking over to one of the girls.

She looked up from her stitching. She had short black hair and a serious expression, her eyes steady and calm.

"What is it?"

"I wanted to ask you something. Can you make a net?" he asked, crouching beside her.

"A net?" She blinked. "What's that?"

"Something for catching fish. It's like… a web of ropes or threads, you throw it in water, and when fish swim into it, they get stuck."

Mio tilted her head slightly. "I could try… but this cloth—" she held up a patch of the thin, worn fabric "—this would rip if the fish struggle. And if they have sharp teeth, it might get torn easily."

Ken nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah… I figured. I'll see if I can find something tougher. But if I do, would you be able to make one?"

"If it's not like this stuff, sure. Just show me how it's supposed to look."

"Alright. Thanks, Mio."

With that settled in his mind, Ken made his way toward the market area.

The trading district was the only part of the island with any real liveliness. The stalls were crowded with cloth merchants, food vendors, fishmongers, and pottery sellers. No shinobi gear in sight. Ken wandered quietly through the area, observing closely. No shops sold kunai or scrolls, and he figured those items were probably restricted to inside the village itself. There were barely any shinobi on this edge of the island.

Eventually, he reached a meat stall—his main objective. He eyed the hanging cuts of dried meat, the strips of preserved fish, and the jars of salted organs. The man behind the stall, a thick-armed vendor with a stained apron, noticed him immediately and frowned.

"What do you want, kid?"

Ken looked up. "How much for a kilo of meat?"

"Hundred ryo. Now move along. No strays hanging around here."

Ken didn't react. That price was steep. Miss Suiren and the kids sold clothes for less than that per piece. Meat was a luxury well outside their budget. He wanted to ask who the vendor's butcher was—to find out where the meat came from—but the man's tone and expression made it clear he wasn't about to entertain questions from a child, especially one dressed like an orphan.

Without a word, Ken stepped away. He circled around the back alley of the stall and waited there, hoping the butcher might make a delivery. Hours passed, but no one came. Eventually, in the mid-afternoon heat, the shopkeeper stepped out briefly and tossed a bucket into a pile behind the building.

Rotten meat scraps. Some offal. Skin, intestines, and spoiled pieces.

Ken wrinkled his nose but walked over. This was waste to the butcher, but it might serve as bait. As he sifted through the pile, he spotted wriggling worms in the muck—perfect. He gathered a small handful, tied them in a scrap of cloth, and quietly slipped away.

By the time he reached the stream again, the sun was starting to dip. With care, he placed the worms and scraps into the trap as bait. Then he froze.

There—inside the trap—was a fish.

Caught.

His heart skipped. It wasn't large, but it was fresh and edible. He reached in, pulled it out carefully, and stared at it in wonder. His first successful hunt.

He tucked the fish into the cloth and adjusted the trap again for the next day. With the bait now in place, more would likely follow.

As he made his way back to the orphanage, hiding the fish under his tunic, his steps felt lighter than they had in days. This wasn't just food—it was progress. Something tangible he could do to help everyone here. He didn't know the last time he'd eaten fish, but he knew he'd never enjoyed it this much.

Tomorrow, they'd eat better.