Shira sat in the carriage, his fists clenching involuntarily, his nails digging deep into his palms.
Was this the reality of the ninja world?
Was this the path trampled out by the law that placed power above all else?
Those lofty Kage, those powerful figures who wielded Ninjutsu and decided national policy-while they plotted, schemed, and fought over power and profit, had they ever, for even a moment, looked down at the land beneath their feet, plowed over again and again by the fires of war?
Had they ever looked at the ordinary people whose homes had been destroyed, whose loved ones had been taken from them, and who had been driven from their homes like so much trampled grass in the aftermath of clashing Ninjutsu?
What had they done wrong?!
Fine. In this world, having no power did indeed put them at the very bottom of the food chain...
But they only wanted to live. They only wanted a piece of land where they could grow food and raise their children in peace...
Was it just because they were born in a small country? Born where the interests of great nations intersected? Born at a time when some ninja village needed to "flex its muscles" or needed funding for missions?
Did they deserve to become sacrifices to the will of the powerful?! Did they deserve to become cold entries for "necessary losses" and "collateral damage" in mission reports?!
What kind of bullshit was that?!
A cold fury, mingled with helpless sorrow, churned in Shira's chest.
He had lived in a time of peace in his previous life. Though his studies had been demanding, his surroundings had been stable. He had seen wars in other countries online, but when had he ever witnessed such a human tragedy firsthand?
Compared with the silent despair before him, the rejection and cold looks he had suffered in Sunagakure since transmigrating were utterly insignificant!
The pinnacle of Taijutsu he pursued, the "value" he wanted to prove, suddenly seemed both pale and ironic against this cruel backdrop.
Prove it to whom? To those higher-ups who disregarded life and plundered and killed in the name of the "village's interests"?
What was he getting stronger for? Just so he would no longer be mocked? Just so he could be friends with Gaara without being eliminated?
Or so that one day he could become one of the "powerful" who brought about tragedies like the one before him?!
No!
A voice cried out fiercely in his heart.
Never!
He looked at the refugees, at the light extinguished in their eyes. He thought of Gaara, the child whom his own father regarded as a weapon and the entire village feared.
He thought of himself, someone deemed "useless" and struggling to survive.
This world was twisted to its very roots!
The "power" it revered and the "rules" by which it operated were a bloody totem built upon the bones of countless weak people.
The "strength" he sought should never be anything like that.
The carriage creaked as its wheels rolled over the bumpy road, as if it were groaning.
Shira slowly raised his head and looked toward the sky, thick with windblown sand, and toward Sunagakure. Deep in his eyes, something immature was being stripped away, and something colder and firmer was taking root.
He would still grow stronger, grow stronger like mad.
But the path he meant to take seemed, at that moment, to take on an entirely different hue.
At the end of that road, it was no longer merely about proving himself or surviving.
Perhaps it was also about gaining enough power to smash certain things. About having enough of a say to keep the misery before him from happening again.
He didn't know the answer.
But he knew that the suffering flowing before him would be seared deep into his soul like a brand, never to be erased.
The caravan moved forward in silence, slowly leaving that silent despair behind.