The Hodgepodge Shinobi: A Gacha-Gone-Wrong Adventure

I'd barely finished asking "What the hell is a Konoha?" when the glowing mess of gears and sparkles in front of me dinged like a casino machine having a stroke.

SYNAPSE SPARK ACTIVATED!

Fusion Concept Detected:

– "Mismatched Socks"

– "Dust Bunny"Creating…

"Insubstantial Sneakiness: Unlaundered Edition"

"What? No. No no no no—"

There was a flash of light, a faint poof that smelled like dryer sheets and shame, and suddenly, I was… invisible?

Mostly.

Kind of.

Okay, just a little bit see-through and covered in lint.

I looked down at myself. My legs were still visible, but my torso looked like someone had tried to render me on a graphics card from 1996. My arms were 80% transparency, and every time I moved, I kicked up a small puff of dust.

"Oh great," I muttered, already itchy. "I'm a haunted Swiffer. Fear me."

Before I could properly complain to the system—or scream again—a voice shouted from outside.

"Oi! Wake up, you little brat!"

I flinched, then remembered I was technically a child now, and possibly a brat. A door slammed open with ninja-level aggression, and in walked a grizzled old man in a green flak vest, furrowed brow, and the patience of someone who'd already given up on life.

He squinted at me—or at where he thought I was—and frowned. "...Huh. Gone already? Kid moves fast for someone with a concussion."

I shuffled awkwardly to the side, trying to be silent, which was hard because apparently my new jutsu made a soft whump-whump sound every time I stepped. Like someone flipping pancakes underwater.

The man sighed. "Lazy good-for-nothing… Bah. I'll check the training field. Probably crying under a tree again."

He stomped off.

"Training field?" I whispered. "Why would I be under a tree? Why would I train? I'm eight! I should be eating cereal and playing Pokémon, not—wait. I don't even have Pokémon."

A horror dawned on me: this world had no TV. No phone. No internet. No oat milk.

I collapsed onto the futon, which now felt like it smelled faintly of betrayal, and tried to mentally sort my situation. I had:

Died. Spectacularly.

Been dog-murdered. Rude.

Reincarnated into a child's body.

Gained a glitchy, eldritch system with the personality of a broken vending machine.

Been dropped into some place called Konoha that smelled like grass, wood smoke, and the overwhelming stench of plot.

Also, apparently I had a roommate. Or dad. Or angry neighbor? Whatever he was, he clearly hated me.

"New Memory Fragment Unlocked," the system chirped cheerfully."Summary: This body previously belonged to a child named Kenji. He was weak, untalented, and deeply forgettable. You are now legally and emotionally him. Good luck!"

"Oh, well that's just fan-freaking-tastic," I said, slapping the side of my own head. "What's next, a ninja landlord?"

The door creaked again.

This time it wasn't the angry man—it was a child, maybe a few years older than me. Tall-ish. Sharp eyes. Silver hair that looked like it had been styled by fighting a lawnmower. He stood in the doorway with the air of someone who'd just won a middle school war crime.

He glanced at me. Or through me. It was hard to tell with the partial invisibility and the dust cloud I was shedding like a moldy cat.

"...You're late," he said coldly.

"Late for what?"

He squinted. "Wait. Are you using a jutsu?"

"I—what is that?" I asked, instantly suspicious. "Is it like a social disease?"

He frowned.

"Who are you?" I asked. "Why are your eyebrows judging me?"

More frowning. "We're teammates," he said slowly. "Team 14. You know. Squad training. You were supposed to meet us behind the academy thirty minutes ago."

"Squad? Like… for sports?"

He blinked. "For ninja training."

I stared at him. He stared at me. The room buzzed with my complete ignorance.

Then, I burst out laughing.

"Ninja? Wait—actual ninja? Is this some weird village LARP thing? Are we gonna throw marshmallows at each other and talk about the 'ancient ways' of sneaky camping?"

Now it was his turn to stare like I'd grown a second head.

"You're weirder than usual today," he muttered. "Come on. We're already late. Sensei's gonna yell again."

I hesitated. "Are you legally allowed to carry weapons?"

He pulled a kunai from his pouch with deadpan precision.

"Okay. Yeah. You are. Cool. Totally normal. Everything is fine."

The boy turned and walked off. I had no idea who he was, where I was going, or what in the name of flaming shurikens a "sensei" even did, but I had a bad feeling I was about to find out.

As I stepped outside—still vaguely translucent and shedding dust like a magic dandruff dispenser—I looked up at the sky and asked, sincerely:

"Am I in feudal Japan, or did Hot Topic open a village?"