Chapter 33: I Got Caught
"WHAT THE HELL?!"
Obito's voice cracked across the morgue like a whip, a perfect symphony of disbelief and wounded pride that could probably be heard three blocks away.
"Senior Qifeng, you're actually a *Chunin*?! How is that even possible?!"
He stared at the ninja certificate Qi Feng had casually tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper, the word "Chunin" practically burning holes in his retinas.
"I mean, seriously? You're the guy who sleeps until noon, spends his afternoons sunbathing like a lizard, and treats training like it's some kind of contagious disease. How did 'you' get promoted?" Each word climbed higher in pitch until Obito sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point.
The unfairness of it all made his eye twitch. Here he was, busting his ass every single day—"training seriously" (okay, maybe not that seriously), helping old ladies cross streets they probably didn't even want to cross, and shouting challenges at Kakashi that mostly went ignored. And he hadn't even graduated early from the Academy yet.
Meanwhile, this walking embodiment of workplace mediocrity had somehow sleepwalked his way to Chunin rank. The look of pure disgust on Qifeng's face just made it worse.
What was that expression supposed to mean? *Oh no, they made me a Chunin, how terrible for me.*
The audacity was suffocating.
"This is what's wrong with the world," Obito muttered, throwing his hands up. "The whole system's gone to hell!"
"CHUNIN! As expected of Senior Qifeng!" Guy's voice boomed through the morgue like he was announcing the second coming. "A true inspiration to all of us ordinary shinobi! I must train even harder! Clean even more thoroughly!"
And with that declaration, Guy launched into what could only be described as a cleaning frenzy, moving through the corpse-filled room like a green-clad tornado of enthusiasm. Dust and debris fled before his righteous fury.
Qifeng watched this display with the weary resignation of someone who'd long ago given up on understanding the universe's sense of humor. He pulled out one of Asuma's cigarettes—because if you're going to have an existential crisis, you might as well do it in style—and lit it with practiced ease.
The two of them inhaled in perfect synchronization, exhaling smoke rings that hung in the air like question marks made of nicotine and regret.
"I have to admit, I didn't see this coming," Asuma said, squinting through the haze.
Qifeng shot him a look that could've curdled milk. "Go ask your old man."
Because really, just because everyone else was dying to climb the career ladder didn't mean he wanted any part of it. Did they have any idea how much more dangerous it was to be a Chunin? You either got stuck babysitting three subordinates who'd probably get themselves killed, or you got assigned to follow some Jonin into increasingly creative ways to die. The mission difficulty ramped up exponentially.
Sure, being undead gave him certain advantages in avoiding the worst assignments, but once you were on an actual battlefield, Chunin couldn't hide in the back like Genin. They expected you to actually do things.
The thought made him want to chain-smoke the entire pack.
"You don't seem thrilled about this," Asuma observed with the keen insight of someone stating the obvious.
Qi Feng didn't even dignify that with a verbal response—just an eye roll that conveyed volumes about his current state of mind.
Kids like Asuma and Obito wouldn't get it. They were still young enough to think ambition was something to aspire to rather than avoid. They'd learn eventually that all the fame, fortune, and fancy titles in the world weren't worth a damn compared to a quiet, comfortable life where people left you alone.
It was the eternal gap between men who'd seen some shit and boys who still thought seeing shit would be exciting. Like how older students always told you to study hard, and you never understood why until life grabbed you by the throat and explained it in terms you couldn't ignore.
He took another drag and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. There wasn't much he could do about it now. Whatever Orochimaru saw in him that made this promotion seem like a good idea was beyond his comprehension.
"By the way," he said, glancing around at his unexpected visitors, "are you all just incredibly bored, or did you coordinate this invasion? Because I'm starting to think someone's spreading rumors that this place has good food or something."
"It's vacation. Nowhere else to go," Asuma said with a shrug.
"So your brilliant solution was to hang out in a morgue? What happened to spending time with Kurenai?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Qifeng knew he'd stepped on a landmine. Asuma's expression shifted to something that belonged in a horror movie.
"Don't you dare!!"
The mention of Yuhi Kurenai was apparently Asuma's emotional equivalent of poking a bear with a stick. If it weren't for a certain someone ratting him out to Kurenai's father, resulting in the man keeping his daughter under house arrest for the entire vacation, Asuma wouldn't be reduced to haunting morgues for entertainment.
"Hehe." Qifeng's laugh was about as convincing as a politician's campaign promises.
He'd admit it—that one was on him. But Yuhi Shinku had been breathing down his neck at the time, and sometimes you had to throw someone else under the bus to save your own skin. It was nothing personal.
Well, mostly nothing personal.
"Whatever. I'm too old for this drama." He shifted into what could only be called the international pose of giving up—a slouch so profound it should've been carved into monuments.
This was the life. If he just had a bottle of soda right now, existence might actually approach perfection.
---
**One Week Later**
The week had been a parade of corpses, each one processed through his system like some kind of morbid assembly line. The basic attribute gains were steadily building his strength, drop by drop, but the real prize was a single Jonin experience card that had emerged from the pile.
**[Konoha Jonin Nakagami Ryo Experience Card (Rare)]**
An illusion-type Jonin—not exactly his wheelhouse, considering his own abilities leaned more toward the "hit things until they stop moving" school of combat. But hey, a trump card was a trump card, even if it wasn't a perfect fit.
Having another ace up his sleeve made him feel marginally less like he was walking into a meat grinder wearing nothing but hope and denial.
He found himself standing in front of Nara Shikaku's office in the Hokage building, holding the mission appointment letter like it was a court summons. Which, considering how much he wanted to be there, wasn't far from the truth.
The Nara, Yamanaka, and Akimichi clans might not have been the flashiest families in Konoha, but their alliance had been rock-solid since the Warring States period. Together, they wielded influence that could make or break careers. And Nara Shikaku—clan head, Hokage advisor, and overseer of the Jonin class—was about as high up the food chain as it got without actually wearing the hat.
"Mr. Shikaku," Qi Feng said, putting on his best "respectful subordinate" voice.
Shikaku looked up from his paperwork with the mildly confused expression of someone trying to place a face. But instead of the dismissive attitude Qifeng had expected, the man smiled warmly.
"What can I do for you?"
Qifeng stepped forward and placed the appointment letter on the desk like he was delivering evidence at a crime scene.
Shikaku glanced at it, and his expression shifted to something that made Qifeng's stomach drop. "You're Maruyama Qifeng?"
"Yeah." He tried to look as harmless and forgettable as possible.
Am I famous for something terrible? The man's initial confusion suggested he didn't know him personally, so why the sudden recognition?
"Lord Orochimaru personally recommended you for promotion to Chunin," Shikaku explained, his tone taking on the reverent quality people used when discussing legends. "He also recommended you as an examiner for the upcoming Chunin Exams."
Then came the look—the meaningful, weighted stare that suggested hidden depths and unspoken expectations. "Lord Orochimaru is one of the legendary Sannin. You should consider yourself fortunate to learn from him. Work hard, and you could become a pillar of Konoha's strength."
"???"
The words hit Qifeng like a brick to the face.
Oh. Shit.
He'd gotten caught. Completely, utterly, irrevocably caught.
When Orochimaru had asked if he wanted to be his subordinate, Qifeng thought he'd dodged that bullet with some tactful deflection. Apparently, the question had been purely rhetorical. The recommendation alone was as good as a signed contract in blood, announcing to everyone who mattered that Qifeng was Orochimaru's man now.
The taste in his mouth was worse than anything the morgue had ever thrown at him.
He desperately wanted nothing to do with Orochimaru. Sure, to everyone else, the Sannin was practically the next Hokage, a war hero, a symbol of everything great about Konoha. Getting his attention was supposed to be a golden ticket to success.
But Qifeng knew better. Orochimaru was a walking disaster waiting to happen, his mind already twisting down paths that would make normal people wake up screaming. The only things keeping him in line were Hiruzen's expectations and his public image. Remove those constraints, and the man would make history—the kind written in blood and screaming.
And Qifeng had secrets that would make Orochimaru's eyes light up like Christmas morning. The Sharingan, the Shikotsumyaku—if either of those came to light, he'd find himself on a dissection table faster than you could say "scientific curiosity."
But he couldn't exactly explain any of that to Shikaku.
So instead, he had to stand there and smile like he'd just won the lottery, when really it felt like someone had forced him to swallow a live grenade.
He took a breath that felt like it was made of broken glass and arranged his face into what he hoped looked like gratitude rather than the grimace of someone contemplating their own mortality.
"Please, Mr. Shikaku. Give me my assignment."
Shikaku nodded approvingly and flipped through a thick book on his desk—the master plan for the Chunin Exams, full of schedules and assignments and probably a dozen different ways for everything to go horribly wrong.
"Here we go," he said after a moment. "You'll serve as assistant examiner for the first exam. For the second exam, you'll handle what you do best—body collection."
He handed over a scroll containing all the details, protocols, and procedures. Everything Qifeng needed to know about his new role in what was shaping up to be the most dangerous game of his career.
"Yes, sir."
The word came out sounding almost steady. Almost.
I'm so screwed.
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