Living

Year 47 of the Leaf.

The Third Shinobi World War had broken out in full force.

The Third Kazekage had been assassinated by Sasori of the Red Sand and gone missing. The Hidden Sand Village was scouring the world like madmen, and the front lines of the five great shinobi villages had opened up overnight.

The Leaf had deployed everyone they could, not even sparing those who had no business being on the battlefield.

Like genin.

Like cannon fodder.

Border of the Land of Fire.

Drip.

A drop of warm liquid splashed onto Kitahara Kaede's face, trickling down his cheekbone.

He did not move, not even twitching an eyelid.

He kept his breathing at its lowest, deliberately slowed his heartbeat, and disguised himself as a genuine corpse.

No one had taught him this skill.

After his teammates were wiped out in two previous missions, he had crawled out from piles of the dead and learned it by instinct.

He squinted through a narrow slit in his eyes and saw the source of the blood—the captain.

To be precise, it was flowing from the captain's severed face.

Half an hour ago, this man had patted his shoulder, saying he would go home to find a wife after this battle. "I'm already twenty-six. If I don't get married soon, my mother is going to strike me from the family register."

Now, his lower half had been blown away by an explosive tag, and his upper half lay crooked beside Kitahara Kaede, the hand that had patted his shoulder still resting on his arm.

Not far away, footsteps were closing in; it was the Sand shinobi cleaning up the battlefield.

Every dozen seconds or so, a dull thud could be heard, followed by the sound of something being dragged away.

Kitahara Kaede bit his lip, remaining motionless.

The footsteps drew closer.

Someone stopped beside him for two seconds.

Only one thought crossed his mind: Don't look down, don't look at my face.

The person walked away.

Another twenty minutes passed until the area for several hundred meters was completely silent; even the birds had stopped calling.

Only then did he dare to gently move the captain's hand from his side, roll over, and lie flat on his back.

He gasped for air, looking down at his hands—they were shaking.

"Third time."

The corners of his mouth twitched; he didn't know if it counted as a smile.

He had transmigrated into this world fifteen years ago.

No bloodline limit, no Sharingan, no Byakugan.

His parents were ordinary chunin who had died in the line of duty before he could even remember them, leaving behind a dilapidated apartment and a little savings.

Six years at the Ninja Academy, sitting in the furthest corner, with below-average grades and a barely passing graduation exam.

When the war started, genin like him, with no background, were the first to be pushed to the front lines.

He had survived until today by relying on three things: be fast at playing dead, be convincing at playing dead, and don't have terrible luck.

He turned his head to look at the captain's half-frozen face.

"Captain, the matchmaking is off the table," he whispered. "I'll take your ninja tools; you... won't be needing them anymore."

He opened the tool pouch.

Two military ration pills, three explosive tags.

He chewed the ration pills and stuffed the explosive tags into his pocket.

After a simple bandage on the shuriken wound on his left leg, he limped toward the direction of the camp.

Over two hours later.

Temporary camp on the Leaf border.

The moment Kitahara Kaede lifted the tent flap, the chatter inside cut off.

Everyone turned to look at him simultaneously, then deliberately looked away.

He was all too familiar with this reaction.

The special jonin in charge of registration looked up, saw him, and his brows knitted into a knot.

The expression wasn't relief; it was annoyance.

"Kitahara... you're the only one again?"

"The squad was ambushed by the Sand, everyone was killed," Kitahara Kaede said, head bowed. "The captain covered for me, and I was lucky—"

"Lucky?"

The jonin slammed a hand on the table, his voice rising sharply:

"Three missions! Three full squads! Twelve people! And you're the only one alive—Kitahara, are you a natural-born teammate killer?!"

The tent went completely silent.

Several resting shinobi shifted their butts unobtrusively, moving half a seat away from him.

No one spoke, but he understood those looks.

They were looking at him like he was the source of a plague.

No one wanted to be the next unlucky soul assigned to his squad.

Kitahara Kaede didn't say a word.

What could he say? That he didn't survive on purpose? That he was just better at playing dead than others?

A coin purse was tossed to the corner of the table; the jonin couldn't even be bothered to hand it to him.

"Your pay. Seven days of leave, then you'll be reassigned. Get out."

Kitahara Kaede picked up the purse and weighed it.

"Thank you, sir."

As he walked out of the tent, the hushed discussions started up again behind him.

"That's the third time, right... this guy is cursed."

"Don't put me in a group with him, whoever is in a group with him is doomed..."

The curtain fell, blocking those voices behind him.

Being treated like a jinx—the first time, he felt wronged; the second time, he felt angry.

By the third time, Kitahara Kaede gripped the purse and tucked it into his clothes.

Staying alive was more important than face.

It was dusk by the time he returned to the Leaf Village.

People were coming and going on the streets, lines were forming at the dango shop, and girls were laughing as they left the dessert house.

Kitahara Kaede looked down at himself, covered in blood and filth, like a rat crawling out of a sewer.

He didn't linger on the street and went straight back to his apartment.

He emptied all his belongings onto the table and counted them twice.

The pay from three missions, plus the foundation his parents left behind, plus the scraps hidden under the bed frame—

Fourteen thousand eight hundred ryo.

On the way back, he had asked about the prices at the ninja tool shop.

Chainmail made in the Land of Iron, the kind that could block shuriken, cost one hundred and twenty thousand ryo.

He was short by nearly ten times the amount.

And in four days, he would be reassigned to the front lines.

This time wouldn't be any better than the last three.

His reputation had already spread; not only did his teammates despise him, but even the jonin in charge of assignments wished he would die out there and never return.

Next time, he would likely be assigned to the most dangerous sector.

What was worse, if he ran into a sensory-type ninja, his trick of playing dead would be completely useless.

He could suppress his heartbeat and hide his breathing, but he couldn't hide the chakra inside his body from a sensor.

When that time came, he wouldn't even be able to fake it.

He would just be dead.

Kitahara Kaede stared at the ceiling.

Fifteen years.

No bloodline limit, no miraculous encounters, no golden finger.

None of the good things that a transmigrator was supposed to have had fallen to him.

He closed his eyes.

A sound suddenly rang in his mind.

[Ding—]

[Host's extreme desire for survival detected.]

[White Moonlight Simulator has been activated.]

Kitahara Kaede's eyes snapped open.

A translucent panel appeared before him, with text scrolling down line by line—

[White Moonlight Simulator]

[Core Rule: The host will enter a special instance to experience a completely different life. In the instance, you must conquer the target character and become an unforgettable, undying presence in their heart—the "White Moonlight."]

[Settlement Rewards: After the simulation ends, the host can inherit abilities gained during the simulation based on the evaluation grade, including but not limited to: physical enhancement, bloodline limits, ninjutsu, and chakra reserves.]

[Evaluations are divided into C, B, A, and S grades. The higher the evaluation, the greater the inheritance ratio and the more generous the extra rewards.]

[Core Evaluation Standard—The weight you hold in the other person's heart.]

[Current gift: 1 free simulation attempt. Subsequent simulations will require the consumption of corresponding currency.]

Kitahara Kaede read every line twice.

His hands were still shaking.

But this time, it wasn't because of fear.

It was something he had almost forgotten, like a drowning man suddenly touching the shore.

A simulator that could inherit abilities.

Evaluation standard: The weight you hold in the other person's heart.

He was stunned for a few seconds.

White Moonlight.

He knew exactly what those three words meant.

It wasn't a sweet romance, nor was it about lovers finally getting married.

A White Moonlight is something yearned for but never attained.

It is the person the other party can never forget or let go of in this lifetime.

It is the name that still brings tears in the middle of the night.

It is the shadow that every future relationship is compared against.

In other words—

It has to be tragic.

It has to be bone-deep, agonizingly tragic.

The more heroic and miserable the death, the more heart-wrenching it is for the other person, and the higher the evaluation.

Kitahara Kaede was quiet for a few seconds.

Then he smiled.

In reality, he was timid and lived with his tail between his legs.

He had no choice; in reality, death was final, and there was no second life.

But in the simulator?

It didn't matter if he died.

He could come back with rewards after dying.

He stared at the panel, his eyes shining with an alarming intensity.

Good heavens.

Wasn't this tailor-made for him?