The Next Day.
I don't remember how I got home. Collapsed onto the bed—still dressed, still dirty, unfed. Just blacked out. The sleep was heavy, like my body had entered a deep reboot. I didn't wake up until nearly noon the next day—not rested, but at least alive.
The room was dim. The curtain fabric swayed gently from the midday breeze. My whole body ached, but it was different now—not from pain, but from built-up tension that was finally starting to release.
I sat up and stretched. The weights were still strapped to my legs. I absentmindedly flexed my foot—a dull metallic clang confirmed it: I hadn't even taken them off in my sleep.
"Need to eat… and finally wash up," I muttered to myself, yawning and stretching again.
I peeled off my shirt—the fabric was dark with sweat and caked dust. It hit the floor with a rough rustle. The pants followed, equally filthy and soaked through. My skin beneath was sticky, but I barely noticed—I'd gotten too used to it, worn them too long. My hands reached instinctively for the weights. I paused for a couple of seconds.
Take them off or not?
But in the end, I unfastened the locks. They dropped with a dull thud, and I could almost physically feel my body getting lighter. Not by much—but enough to notice how freely my knees could move.
Turning, I headed for the bathroom. The water in the basin was cool, and when I splashed it onto my face, my body shuddered as if finally waking up. I washed away the last of the battle, the road, the exhaustion.
It wasn't over—there were still more trainings ahead—but for now, this moment of calm was completely mine.
I dried off with a coarse towel, blotting the drops from my shoulders and back. My muscles ached pleasantly—not from pain, but from returning strength. Passing the mirror, I paused. The reflection stared back a little warily—hair tousled, eyes shadowed with fatigue, but...
I adjusted my bangs a bit, smoothed down the side strands.
"Hm… If I trim this a little… do I kinda look like Sasuke?" I muttered, frowning. "Well, we do look alike…"
Everyone always said Sasuke was good-looking, right? So that means… I might be too?
I gave a crooked smirk.
"Now that's logic," I snorted, still staring at myself. "A real heartthrob, huh…"
The thought—dumb as it was—lifted my mood. After a week of dust, sweat, battles, and sleeping on the ground, even something this silly felt nice. Suddenly, I laughed out loud. A real, loud laugh, head thrown back:
"HAHAHAHA! I'm handsome! A true hero fresh from the fight! What a disaster!" I said to myself, still grinning.
But my proud tirade was cut off by a loud growl from my stomach.
"Yeah… Got it. Pretty boys or not, food comes first," I mumbled, already heading for the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I threw together something simple: rice, a couple leftover eggs, dried veggies from a jar—straight into the pan, no ceremony. The smell of frying filled the room, and my stomach clenched again, impatient. While it sizzled, I automatically checked the shelves: grains, spices, some noodles...
And realized: half of it was already useless. The bag of rice in the corner was damp—smelled weird. A couple of fruits in the basket had turned to mush, even the bread was stale. There was just a splash of soy sauce left at the bottom of the bottle—like a symbolic farewell.
"Damn…" I exhaled, closing the pantry door. "And here I thought I could relax for at least a couple of days."
While the food cooled, I pulled out a list and ran through it in my head: rice, noodles, fresh vegetables, some meat, oil, sauce, tea… A basic set, but vital—especially after a week of dry rations and flask water.
After eating, I quickly rinsed the dishes.
"Yeah, but first I need to put these shackles back on," I glanced at the weights. Those twenty minutes without them had been amazing, and I really didn't want to wear them again.
If I don't wear them, I'll stay a mediocre ninja, the thought crossed my mind. Only intense training and forging the body could help me climb out of this pit—to become stronger.
Sighing, I carefully lifted the weights and strapped them back on. The heaviness made itself known instantly—a reminder that there was still a long road of work and struggle ahead.
I left, pulling on my jacket. A light breeze carried the scents of the street: wood smoke, fried dough from the stalls in the square, fresh fruits at the market stands. The village's hum slowly pulled me back into the rhythm of peaceful life.
"Shopping, then rest. Maybe a training session later…" I said aloud, adjusting the headband on my forehead.
The bags in my hands were already pulling at my shoulders, but I decided to go to the last stall anyway—to grab some spices and extra rice. All in all, shopping took about half an hour. And honestly? Not enjoyable. Crowds, chaos, people stepping on your feet or bumping your shoulder. Heavy bags, heat, dust—not the best after a week-long mission.
Man, if only someone could bring all this home for me… I thought, hoisting the last bag onto my shoulder. Now that would be convenient.
And then it clicked: Back in my old world, that was a thing. Food delivery. You ordered—it came.
"Hm…" I mused aloud. "Not a bad idea…"
As I walked home, the thought kept turning in my mind. If only food delivery could exist here… But how? No phones, no apps, no bike couriers. Half the time people don't even get letters on time, and a hot meal on schedule? Forget it.
Still, the idea wouldn't let go. People love convenience. Merchants, shinobi, families—they'd all love to spend less time running errands. Maybe via hawks? No, too bulky… What if I set up a delivery service under the village administration? Hm…
"Alright, later," I chuckled to myself, already feeling a whole system forming in my mind—people, schedules, orders.
After putting everything in its place—rice in the container, veggies in the wooden box by the window, sauces and spices on the shelf by the stove—I finally let out a relieved breath.
"Well then… time for a relaxing training," I muttered, eyes half-closing.
Some might find it strange—to call something that requires focus, patience, and silence "relaxing." But for me, working with fuinjutsu had long since become more than just a duty. It was a kind of therapy. There was something meditative in it: neat lines, strict geometry of formulas, precise symbols that demanded you be fully present.
Right now, I was studying a storage scroll.
It looked simple at first glance, but it held far more than just the "seal and store" technique. I spread the scroll out on the floor in front of me, smoothing the fabric with my palm. The lines of the seals, the swirls of symbols, the dense kanji anchoring it to space—it all required close attention.
"Seems like a basic scroll…" I murmured, leaning in closer, "but the structure inside is dense."
Fuinjutsu was like a labyrinth—on the surface, it looked simple. But go deeper, and you're faced with dozens of paths: how to redistribute chakra, which kanji to swap, where to strengthen the flow and where to slow it down to avoid overload.
I traced one section with my finger—the part responsible for stabilizing and locking the item inside the seal.
"If I tweak the chakra flow here a bit…" I said thoughtfully, "maybe I can reduce energy consumption during activation."
This wasn't just theory. In the future, it could lead to developing my own scrolls—not just for storage, but also specialized traps.
Of course, that's still a long way off, but everything starts with the basics. I took a brush, dipped it gently in ink, and began copying one section of the diagram onto a separate sheet—for analysis. When working with fuinjutsu, drafts were essential. A mistake in practice could cost you—literally.