Going Home

The return trip took only two days.

Chubei coughed now and then as the caravan hands trudged along with their heads down. Namiashi Raidō walked at the front of the group, the bandage on his left arm seeping blood, a Kunai in his right hand as he watched their surroundings. Takuma brought up the rear, guarding their backs.

Four had set out. Only two were returning.

Takuma suddenly realized what he was thinking. The random teammates.

That was the label he'd given Yamada Kenta and Sato Jiro. Two nobodies whose names had never even appeared in the original story, randomly assigned to his team. From the very beginning, Takuma had never treated them as real teammates.

If they were nobodies, there was no need to get too attached. If they were nobodies, parting ways wouldn't hurt.

That was what he'd always thought.

Until the moment Sato was pinned to the sideboard of the ox cart.

Takuma's steps faltered, and his foot snapped a dry twig. Namiashi Raidō glanced back but didn't ask anything. He turned forward again and kept walking.

Now they really were dead.

Takuma clenched his hand, digging his nails into his palm. His Healing Factor made the sting vanish at once, but he kept his fist clenched all the same.

He remembered. Sato was pinned to the sideboard, his hand still trembling, his fingers gripping the edge of a Shuriken as he tried to throw it. Even at the very end, he hadn't given up on the Shuriken he could never throw straight.

He remembered. A Kunai had pierced Yamada's abdomen, and with the last of his strength, he'd slapped an Explosive Tag onto the enemy.

They weren't nobodies. They were living, breathing people.

And he—Mori Takuma, the one who'd crossed over, the one who'd read the script—had treated them like NPCs who could be replaced at any time, from beginning to end.

"Your breathing's uneven." Namiashi Raidō's voice drifted back from up ahead. He didn't turn around. "Keep your rhythm."

Takuma took a deep breath and forced down the feelings surging inside him.

"...Yes."

The Konoha Gate came into view at dusk the next day.

The two Chunin guarding the gate recognized Namiashi Raidō. When they saw the bandage on his left arm, the easy expressions on their faces vanished.

"Jonin Namiashi, the mission—"

"Failed. Two Genin were killed." Namiashi Raidō handed over the crumpled mission report. "I need to report to Lord Hokage in person."

The gate guard's eyes passed over Namiashi Raidō and settled on Takuma. His clothes were in tatters, and new skin showed through a hole in his left shoulder. They asked nothing, simply stepping aside to let them through.

Takuma followed Namiashi Raidō down Konoha's main street. The shops on either side were beginning to light their lanterns, the scent of grilled meat wafted from a barbecue restaurant, and the curtain at Ichiraku Ramen swayed gently in the evening breeze. Everything was perfectly normal. The village had no idea that two Genin had died in the woods outside its walls.

The Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, sat behind his desk, the mission report spread out in front of him. His gaze rested on the words "Two Genin were killed," while the tobacco in his pipe burned quietly.

Namiashi Raidō stood before the desk in a formal reporting stance. Takuma stood half a step behind him, head bowed, eyes on the tips of his shoes.

"Mori Takuma," the Third Hokage said. "Are you injured?"

"My left shoulder was pierced. It's healed now."

The Third Hokage nodded. "The report says you killed two enemies head-on during the battle and helped kill two more. Your first combat mission went far beyond expectations."

Takuma said nothing. He knew what the Third Hokage was doing—using praise to give him something to hold on to, so he wouldn't sink too deeply under the blow of losing his teammates.

"Lord Hokage." He suddenly spoke, his voice calmer than he'd expected. "My teammates are dead."

The Third Hokage's gaze tightened slightly.

"Yamada Kenta. Sato Jiro." Takuma spoke their names one by one. "They were my teammates. They're dead. And I even—" He paused, his throat bobbing. "I never even really treated them as teammates."

At that, even Namiashi Raidō turned to look at him.

The Third Hokage was silent for a moment, then set his pipe on the edge of the ashtray. "And now?"

Takuma lowered his eyes to his hands. The white mark on the web between his thumb and forefinger had vanished completely. His Healing Factor hadn't even left a trace.

"Now I want to treat them as teammates. But it's too late."

The office was silent for a long time. The Third Hokage stood, walked around his desk, and came to stand in front of Takuma. The old man held out his hand and placed something in Takuma's palm.

It was Takuma's Forehead Protector. It had been wiped clean; not a trace of blood or dirt remained.

"What's too late can still be remembered." The Third Hokage spoke in his characteristically slow, unhurried drawl. "Remember who they were. Remember why you were too late. This isn't a punishment. It's something you'll have to carry with you. Every shinobi who survives has to carry something like this."

Takuma clenched the Forehead Protector in his fist. The cold metal warmed in his palm.

"...Yes."

By the time he left the Hokage Building, it was completely dark.

Takuma turned into the narrow alley leading to the bookstore. It was much darker than the main street, with only two lonely streetlamps glowing at the far end. Halfway down, he stopped.

Someone stood beneath one of the lamps.

She wore a sky-blue qipao, her dark brown hair tied into two buns. A huge ninja tool scroll was strapped to her back. Tenten stood there holding a teal-green oil-paper umbrella, another, unused umbrella in her other hand.

He suddenly remembered that when he'd first crossed over, even Tenten had been nothing more than an "original character" to him—a ninja tool user in Chinese-style clothing, a member of Team Guy, a cheerful and adorable background character who had no impact on the main plot. The first time he'd seen her outside the ninja tool shop, her encyclopedia entry had automatically popped into his head: Tenten, one of the Konoha 12, skilled at throwing ninja tools.

Now she was his neighbor. His childhood friend, who'd grown up with him. Someone who would wait for him to come home beneath a streetlamp, holding an umbrella.

She wasn't an encyclopedia entry.

Takuma walked up to her. Tenten handed him the unused umbrella.

"Let's go," Tenten said. "Your mom made dinner and asked me to come get you."

Takuma took the umbrella and opened it. They walked side by side deeper into the alley.

The ninja tool shop and the bookstore stood side by side, separated only by a wall. Their signs glowed a warm yellow through the rain. Takuma stopped in front of the wall.

"Tenten."

"Yeah?"

"I've been... kind of a jerk."

Tenten turned to look at him and tilted her head. "In what way?"

"In a lot of ways." Takuma looked down at the umbrella handle, where a little flower had been carved. "I thought everyone else was just a nobody. I thought I was the only one who saw things clearly. I thought I wouldn't get hurt as long as I didn't get attached."

Tenten was quiet for a moment. Rain pattered against the umbrella.

"And what about now?"

Takuma didn't answer directly. He took three Forehead Protectors out of his ninja tool pouch. There was a scratch on Yamada's, a corner was missing from Sato's, and his own had been wiped completely clean by the Third Hokage. He stacked them together, the Konoha symbols aligned.

"I'll remember them," he said softly, as if speaking to himself. "From now on, I'll remember them properly."

Tenten looked at the three Forehead Protectors but didn't offer any words of comfort.

"Okay. Let's go inside."

Takuma put the Forehead Protectors away and pushed open the bookstore door.

The main lights were off. Only a small desk lamp on the counter cast a warm yellow glow. His mother sat behind the counter, a cup of tea gone cold in front of her. When she saw Takuma enter, she stood up, her movements steady, but the chair scraped harshly across the floor as she pushed it back.

"You're back." His mother's voice was calm, just as it always was.

"...Yeah."

"Dinner's in the pot. Serve yourself."

Takuma stood in the entryway, watching his mother turn and walk into the kitchen.

His father came in from the back courtyard, holding an old scroll. When he saw Takuma, he paused for a moment, then walked over.

He didn't ask anything. He simply patted his son on the shoulder with hands that smelled of ink.

"You're back."

"...Yeah. I'm back."

Takuma watched her disappear into the kitchen, then glanced at his father leaning against the bookshelf. A few fresh little cuts marked his father's knuckles, probably from practicing the family Ninjutsu.

These people weren't nobodies.

They never had been.

He would remember. From now on, he would remember every person's name. properly.