第11章 回家

The return journey took only two days.

Chubei coughed occasionally, and the caravan workers kept their heads down as they hurried along. Aoba Yamashiro led the group, blood seeping through the bandage on his left arm, his right hand gripping a kunai as he scanned the surroundings. Takuma brought up the rear, responsible for covering their tracks.

They had left as four, but only two remained.

Takuma suddenly realized what he had been thinking. Background characters.

That was the label he had slapped onto Yamada Kenta and Sato Jiro. Two extras whose names never even appeared in the original story, randomly grouped with him. From the very beginning, Takuma had never truly considered them his comrades.

Since they were just extras, there was no need to invest too much emotion. Since they were just extras, he wouldn't feel sad when they parted ways.

That was how he had always thought.

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

Takuma's footsteps faltered, and he snapped a dead branch under his heel. Aoba Yamashiro glanced back without asking, then turned away to continue walking.

Now, they were truly dead.

Takuma clenched his hands, his nails digging into his palms. His healing factor made the stinging sensation vanish in an instant, but he kept his fists tightly balled.

He remembered. Sato, pinned to the cart, his hand still trembling, fingers hooked over the edge of a shuriken, trying to throw it. He hadn't given up on that shuriken he could never throw straight, not even in death.

He remembered. Yamada, his abdomen pierced by a kunai, using his final strength to stick an explosive tag onto the enemy.

They were not extras. They were living, breathing people.

And he—Mori Takuma—this transmigrator, this person who had read the script, had treated them like NPCs that could be replaced at any time from start to finish.

"Your breathing is erratic," Aoba Yamashiro's voice drifted from the front, his head not turning. "Keep your rhythm."

Takuma took a deep breath, forcing down the rising tide of emotion.

"...Yes."

The gates of Konoha appeared in his field of vision on the evening of the second day.

The two Chunin guarding the gate recognized Aoba Yamashiro, and when they saw the bandage on his left arm, the relaxed expressions on their faces vanished instantly.

"Aoba-jonin, the mission—"

"Mission failed. Two Genin KIA." Aoba Yamashiro handed over the crumpled mission report. "I need to report to the Hokage in person."

The gate guards' gazes drifted past Aoba Yamashiro and landed on Takuma. His clothes were tattered, and fresh skin was visible through a hole in his left shoulder. They asked nothing, stepping aside to clear the path.

Takuma followed Aoba Yamashiro through the main street of Konoha. Shops on both sides of the street were lighting their lamps, the aroma of a barbecue restaurant wafted out, and the fabric curtain of Ichiraku Ramen swayed gently in the evening breeze. Everything was normal. The village had no idea that two Genin had died in the dense forest outside its borders.

Third Hokage Hiruzen Sarutobi sat behind his desk with the mission report spread out before him. His gaze lingered on the line "Two Genin KIA," the tobacco in his pipe burning quietly.

Aoba Yamashiro stood before the desk, maintaining his reporting posture. Takuma stood half a step behind him, head bowed, staring at the tips of his shoes.

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

"My left shoulder was pierced. It has already healed."

The Third nodded. "The mission report says you killed two enemies head-on during the battle and assisted in the killing of two others. Your performance in your first real combat far exceeded expectations."

Takuma did not speak. He knew what the Third was doing—using "excellent performance" to give him a way out, so he wouldn't sink too deep into the blow of losing his teammates.

"Lord Third," he suddenly spoke, his voice calmer than he had expected. "My teammates are dead."

The Third's gaze tightened slightly.

"Yamada Kenta, Sato Jiro." Takuma recited the names one by one. "They were my teammates. They are dead. I even..." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I even never truly considered them my teammates."

When these words were spoken, even Aoba Yamashiro turned to look at him.

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

Takuma looked down at his hands. The white mark on the web of his thumb had completely vanished; his healing factor hadn't left a single trace.

"Now I want to consider them my teammates. But it's too late."

The office remained quiet for a long time. The Third stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of Takuma. The old man reached out and placed something in Takuma's palm.

It was Takuma's forehead protector. It had been wiped clean; the blood and dirt were gone.

"If it's too late, then remember," the Third said, his voice carrying the old man's characteristic slow, leisurely tone. "Remember who they were, and remember why it is too late. This is not a punishment; it is something you must carry with you. Every ninja who survives must carry such things."

Takuma gripped the forehead protector tightly. The cold metal was warmed by his palm.

"...Yes."

When he walked out of the Hokage building, the sky had turned completely dark.

Takuma turned into the alley leading to the bookstore. The alley was much darker than the main street, with only two lonely streetlights glowing at the end. He walked halfway before stopping.

A person stood under the streetlight.

A sky-blue qipao, dark brown hair tied into two buns, and a massive ninja tool scroll strapped to her back. Tenten stood there, holding a greenish-blue oil-paper umbrella, with another unused umbrella in her other hand.

He suddenly remembered that when he had first transmigrated, even Tenten was just an "original character"—a ninja tool user with a Chinese-style outfit, a member of Guy's team, positioned as a lively and cute background element that didn't affect the main plot. When he first saw her in front of the ninja tool shop, her encyclopedia entry had automatically popped up in his mind: Tenten, one of the Konoha 11, skilled in ninja tool throwing.

Now, she was his neighbor. She was his childhood friend who had grown up with him. She was the person who would stand under a streetlight holding an umbrella, waiting for him to come home.

She was not an encyclopedia entry.

Takuma stepped forward. 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. The two walked side by side into the depths of the alley.

The ninja tool shop and the bookstore were right next to each other, separated only by a wall. The signs of both shops glowed with a warm yellow light in the rain. Takuma stopped in front of that wall.

"Tenten."

"Hmm?"

"I used to be... quite a jerk."

Tenten turned to look at him, tilting her head. "In what way, specifically?"

"In many ways." Takuma looked down at the handle of the umbrella, which was carved with a small flower. "Thinking everyone else was just an extra, thinking I was the most clear-headed, thinking that as long as I didn't invest any emotion, I wouldn't get hurt."

Tenten was silent for a while. The rain tapped against the umbrella, patter, patter.

"And what about now?"

Takuma didn't answer directly. He took the three forehead protectors out of his ninja tool pouch—Yamada's had a scratch, Sato's was missing a corner, and his own had been wiped clean by the Third. He stacked the three together, aligning the Konoha symbols.

"I will remember them," he said, his voice very soft, as if speaking to himself. "From now on, I will remember them seriously."

Tenten looked at the three forehead protectors, not saying any words of comfort.

"Yeah. Let's go in."

Takuma put the forehead protectors away and pushed open the door to the bookstore.

The main lights in the shop weren't on; only a small desk lamp on the counter glowed with a warm yellow light. His mother sat behind the counter with a bowl of tea that had already gone cold in front of her. Seeing Takuma enter, she stood up, her movements steady, though the chair made a harsh, grating sound as she pushed it back.

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

"...Yeah."

"Dinner is in the pot. Go serve yourself."

Takuma stood in the entryway, watching his mother's back as she turned and walked into the kitchen.

His father walked in from the backyard holding an old, worn scroll. He paused slightly when he saw Takuma, then walked over.

He asked nothing. He simply patted his son's shoulder with hands stained by the scent of ink.

"You're back."

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

Takuma watched his mother's back, then looked at his father, who was leaning against the bookshelf. There were several fresh, tiny cuts on his father's knuckles, likely left behind while practicing family-secret ninjutsu.

These people were not extras.

They never were.

He would remember. From now on, he would seriously remember the name of every single person.