Ash and Thread
He had learned that stealing in the morning was easier. Adults were busy, markets flooded with quick footsteps, and no one looked twice at a boy in ragged clothes if he moved like he belonged there.
The trick was to meet their eyes just once. Then look down. Fast. Silent.
Kael had no last name. He didn't remember where he came from. All he knew was that one day, he woke up by a stream, covered in mud, wrapped in a silence that didn't belong to him. No one claimed him. No one searched. They let him live on the edge of town, between crumbling ruins and nameless dogs. From there, he sometimes saw the carved faces on the mountain. But today, he wasn't admiring the view.
He was twelve. He didn't play. He didn't laugh. His eyes were far too dim for someone his age.
While other children dreamed, Kael thought only of his next meal.
That morning, the bread had more mold than flour, but now wasn't the time to complain. He walked through the market stalls with a stolen basket and a rotten apple under his shirt. No one noticed.
Or so he thought.
A voice cut into his mind. No echo. No direction.
[Biological unit stabilized.]
Kael froze. He blinked.
No one was looking at him. The vegetable vendor hadn't even noticed his presence. The world went on as usual.
[Emotional state: null. Spiritual fluctuation: latent.]
He didn't understand the words. Didn't know if they were real. But they didn't feel imagined. They felt like… something else, like a system.
He crawled beneath a broken stall, hiding in the damp shade of a forgotten alley, and ate in silence. The apple tasted of dirt and time. He threw the core at the wall.
Nearby, a dead rat stared at him. Or so he thought, for a moment.
It wasn't the smell. Not the corpse. It was… the echo.
Kael shivered, as if something unseen walked down his spine. As if the air had suddenly turned cold.
[Thread of Death: 3.4% receptive. Vital analysis: conclusive.]
He didn't know what it meant. But he couldn't look away from the rat. There was something about it that called to him — like a half-open door in the middle of a dream.
He stood. Took two steps back. Nothing had changed.
But unknowingly, he had taken his first step off the path.
Hours later, he sat in front of a fire that wasn't his. He had lit it without permission and stolen enough wood to survive the night. He didn't fear being discovered. Fear, to him, was just a word without meaning.
[Synchronization incomplete. Personality: unintegrated. Name: Kael. Status: active.]
For the first time, the voice didn't sound cold. It sounded… curious. As if it, too, was trying to understand who he was.
Kael lay down beside the fire, eyes open toward an invisible sky. The warmth on his skin was faint — but enough. And for the first time in a long while, he fell asleep without hunger.
The days that followed were no different from the ones before. He ate what he could, slept wherever he wasn't chased off, and spoke only when absolutely necessary.
Other kids — the ones at the orphanage — played together. Some invited him. Most ignored him. Kael never joined in. He just watched, distant, as if he didn't quite understand the rules of their games. Or as if he had already learned not to expect anything from anyone.
One afternoon, walking near the forest's edge, he found a small offering: stones stacked beside a hollow trunk, and beneath a leaf… a dead bird. Small, untouched. As if merely asleep.
Kael stared at it for a long time. Then sat down before it.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. The sun had shifted.
And for some reason he didn't fully understand, he spoke to it:
If you're still there… don't stay silent.
He didn't expect a response. But something… eased. As if the air around the bird had grown lighter.
There was no voice. No system. Just a different kind of stillness.
Kael stood. Gently placed another leaf over the bird. Then walked away.
That night, the voice did not return.
Instead, he dreamed.
And in that dream, a faceless figure stood atop a stone tower, watching him in silence. It didn't speak. But it held glowing threads in its hands, tangled and shifting. One of them, black as ink, had been cut. And it drifted… toward him.
The following week, a woman from the Shinobi Welfare Office arrived at the orphanage. She carried a list in hand, wore her hair in a tight bun, and spoke with a voice too firm to be addressing children.
—All unregistered minors, come with me. You'll be listed for academic evaluation. If you meet the requirements, you'll be eligible to apply to the Leaf Academy.
Kael stood up among the last. Some children were excited. Others, scared. One boy cried because he didn't want to be separated from his sister.
No one spoke to Kael. No one took his hand.
In line, others glanced at him. There was something in the way he stood. In his eyes. As if he had already learned not to expect anything from anyone.
The woman read the names. When she reached his, she paused slightly longer than normal.
—Kael… no surname?
—Yes.
—Any family?
He shook his head.
—Do you remember where you're from?
Silence. Then:
—No.
She wrote something down without looking up.
—Very well. If everything checks out, you'll be allowed to take the entrance test in a few days.
Kael nodded. He didn't ask when. Didn't ask what the test would be. He just kept walking, as if he already knew the path — despite never having seen it.
That night, he slept in the woods, far from the orphanage. He knew no one would miss him.
He was hungry, as usual. But this time, he wanted more than scraps. He wanted to hunt something of his own.
He had seen rabbits before. They came out at dawn. So that morning, he waited still, stones in hand.
He missed the first throw. The second hit its leg. The rabbit shrieked and tried to flee, but Kael lunged like a predator with old hunger.
He caught it. Held it firm until stillness took over.
That night, he lit a small fire in a natural cave. He skinned the animal clumsily. His fingers trembled — but not from fear.
As it cooked, he sat cross-legged, smoke twisting through stone, and thought:
Twelve years in this world… and I live like a weathered vagabond.
He bit into the meat. The flavor was sharp. Real.
And then… his past life surfaced.
He had no idea how he died. A car? A heart attack from overwork? He didn't know.
Back then, he'd been an office worker. Lived in a gray city. Worked fourteen hours a day. His only breaks were between unread emails and cold dinners. Now it all felt like a distant dream.
And then... this world. War-torn. Blood-soaked. And he didn't reincarnate as a chosen hero. Not even a prodigy.
Just a forgotten orphan from a forgotten war.
They look at me like I'm some damn ghost, he muttered with a dry smile. Truth is… I just don't sleep well.
He ate another bite. Only the stillness of the forest answered back.
Afterwards, he practiced. Threw some wooden shuriken he had carved himself. Some bounced. Some barely stuck. He kicked the air, mimicking what he'd seen during formal training.
He sweated. His body ached. But he didn't stop.
By the time he paused, the sky had turned red.
Then he saw it.
A dead dove, lying among the branches.
He approached. Didn't think. Just reached out to grab it — maybe cook it too.
As his hand neared, something tugged. Dry. Invisible.
His arm froze. His breath slowed. Something vibrated inside his chest.
He looked at his palm — and saw it:
A thin black thread, almost invisible, winding around his fingers like a web suspended in the air.
[Death Thread Sensitivity: +0.01]
The voice returned. Cold. Mechanical. Distant. But alive.
He stepped back. The thread dissolved. The dove remained. But something within him had shifted.
He said nothing. But deep inside… something had ignited.
And it wasn't fear. It was recognition.
He didn't know what it was — but he knew this was the kind of darkness he needed to climb out of the pit.
And for the first time in a long while, a faint smile appeared on his face.