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Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 21:20:43 +0000 UTCIzuma Uchiha
May 30, 1 bNb
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The rain started again around midday.
It wasn’t heavy—just enough to soak the hem of his cloak, and turn the dirt road beneath his boots from hard and packed to wet and soft.
He kept walking anyway.
The black fabric of his cloak clung to his shoulders, wet. The hood was drawn forward, shadowing his face from any eyes that might care to look. Not that anyone did.
He had removed the Uchiha symbol on his clock—as nice as the symbol was, it also practically screamed: “Hey, I’m right here! I’m an Uchiha for the pickings! Take my eyes!”
So yeah, no thank you.
He glanced around him. There weren’t many travelers on the road anymore. Some had chosen to go east toward the capital, while others opted to go west, closer to Fire Country. What was left were wagons that couldn’t be wheeled because of the mud, fruit carts split down the middle, broken shoes, and complete silence.
It was unnerving. Just a couple of days ago, all he could hear were the constant rattling of distant and nearby explosions. Now, there wasn’t even the buzz of a mosquito nor the croak of a frog.
He continued on his way, passing a farmhouse with its roof torn off, one side burned black. A rusted hoe lay in the mud. There was nothing else, no crops, no livestock, not even scurrying rats.
He shifted the strap of his tanto slightly on his back and adjusted the cloak, pulling it tighter.
The trees thinned about half an hour later, and then he saw it—Udon Town.
Because, of course, there was a town called Udon in the Land of the Noodles—Kishimoto really was a creative genius.
It sat in a valley, just beyond a river that was now swollen with runoff. Half the buildings were intact. The other half leaned sideways, or had collapsed inward from water weight. Some had wood that was completely charred—undoubtedly from a fire-style jutsu.
He counted a dozen tents pitched on the high ground above the town—the Leaf insignia was on one or two. Relief units, probably, but no shinobi visible. Just townspeople moving slowly in the drizzle, faces turned downward, shoulders hunched.
No one looked up when he entered.
Not even the kids.
A little girl sat in the dirt near the gate, holding a broken broom; her feet were bare. She held the broom above her head to try and block the rain. She kept it like that for a moment longer before her arms gave way to fatigue and collapsed by her sides, broom clittering against the ground uselessly.
A man nearby—old, most of his teeth missing, and the remaining few were a muddy yellow—stood beneath the awning of a shack that used to be a bar. He smoked a cigarette that was quickly doused by the rain, which had filtered through the awning.
He rumaged through his surroundings, likely to search for a lighter, to no avail. Finally, when it became all too clear that he would not get his smoke, he threw the cigarette down and stamped on it with a sneer.
Izuma passed both without a word.
No one asked who he was. No one stopped him—not a single soul cared.
He stepped through the open market square, at least, what was left of it. A vendor’s stand had collapsed, its wood half-blackened from fire. Someone had tried to nail a cloth tarp over it to make a roof. It was torn now, fluttering in the wind like a lazy surrender flag.
That seemed fitting. The whole town—every person, even animals—had an air of surrender. He couldn’t blame them: their homes, shops, and crops had all been destroyed due to a squabble they had no say in.
The smell of smoke and damp rice mixed with wet hay. Not a pleasant smell, but he had smelled worse—namely, barefoot ninja.
He paused near the center of town, where a stone well stood unused, moss crusting its edges.
Then he sighed.
This place didn’t need a shinobi.
It needed a builder. A cook. A medic. Everything but a certified killer.
He looked down at his hands.
“Guess it’s a good thing I passed through,” he muttered.
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The first thing he did was lift a wall off a trapped goat.
It was pinned beneath a broken beam behind what used to be someone’s home. The animal was weak but alive, bleating softly under the weight of debris. He knelt beside it, ran one hand along the splintered edge.
Then his fingers moved quietly, performing a simple earth-style technique he was somewhat familiar with.
The stone shifted upward in one clean arc, he slid his shoulder under the weight and pushed the rest aside manually, just enough for the goat to scramble out with a stagger and a confused bleat.
It faced him and then gently nuzzled his palm before bolting into the mist.
He stood slowly, wiped his hands on his cloak with a slight smile, and moved on.
No one thanked him, but that was fine—he wasn’t here for that.
.
The next few hours passed like that.
He found a child with a twisted ankle trying to haul water from a near-dry barrel. He waved the kid away, pulled the bucket up himself, then knelt.
His hands hovered just above the ankle, fingers glowing faint green.
The healing was crude, but it did the job here. It usually did as long as he wasn’t dealing with anything more than a minor bruising, cut, or scrape.
The child blinked at him. “How did you do that?” he asked, his voice filled with awe.
He patted the child’s head. “Magic,” he had whispered.
.
Later, he gathered kindling from the outskirts and used a basic fire-style jutsu to light stoves that hadn’t been warmed in days. He rationed two of his soldier pills to a family with four children and no adults. He cooked thin rice porridge with dry fish pulled from someone’s emergency cache.
He boiled water until it steamed clean.
He helped a blind woman move what little she had out of a half-collapsed shed. When she asked who he was, he just said, “Passing through.”
And when he caught two boys trying to steal from a relief wagon, he didn’t scold them; instead, he gave each a loaf of bread.
One ran and the other stayed. The one who stayed told him where the sick were hiding.
.
At some point, a man approached him.
He was bald, had a distinct scar on his head, and was an elderly gentleman. He had the air of a former shinobi.
“Yer from the Leaf, ain’t ya?” the man said, his eyes flicking to his forehead, where he sported his leaf headband.
His voice had a heavy, coarse drawl, and if Izuma’s memory served correctly, it was a dialect common on the southern coast—more specifically, in the border region around the Mist. They tended to curl vowels and speak with clipped consonants.
It reminded him of the stereotypical pirates that the media had shown in his past life.
He finally gave a nod.
“Why’re ya doin’ this, boy?”
Izuma studied the man. There was no threat he presented—not in his words nor his posture. If anything, his words were filled with disbelief, like he was genuinely confused at what was happening.
Still, better safe than sorry—so he shifted slightly, positioning his hand closer to his kunai pouch.
"Ain’t no need t’ reach for steel, boy," he said gruffly, squintin’ through the drizzle. "Ain’t got the spine nor the will to go killin’ nobody no more. And if I did, I’d pick someone worth the effort."
Izuma let his fingers ease away from his kunai pouch.
The old man eyed him. "You’re from the Leaf, that much’s plain. Walkin’ through this mudhole helpin’ kids and lightin’ fires like some saint—it don’t sit right with me."
That was new—never had someone been mad at him for helping people.
So he raised a brow and questioned: “Why?”
"’Cause I been 'round too long t’ believe a Leaf-nin does anything outta the goodness of his heart. Hell, any shinobi, truth be told. You all kill for coin or cause. Ain’t nothin’ in between."
He pointed toward the well, then toward the tents scattered up the hill. "You see that? This town? Just another grave that ain’t got the decency to lie down. And you... you walk in here, fixin’ it piece by piece. Makes a man like me uneasy."
Izuma didn’t answer.
The old man sat down heavily on the edge of a broken crate. Rain pattered against his shoulders. He didn’t bother brushing it off.
"I was Mist, once, durin’ the Second war. Got pulled in when I was just sproutin’ a bit o’ chin fuzz. Didn’t matter if you could fight—only mattered if you could bleed."
His fingers curled into his coat.
"There was this op, right? Big one. Orders came down from up high—headin' into Rain country. Objective was simple: knock out a filtration hub. Didn’t look like much, but it kept water clean for five, maybe six acres. Dirty water makes people sick. Sick folks can’t fight. That was the thinkin’."
Izuma remained quiet—fortunately, he had never been tasked with a mission like that. But even then, that feeling of dread that came when you were sent off to do something so morally wrong it would make people look at you differently was something he was familiar with.
"So we did it. Took three days to crawl in, less than three hours to wreck the place. We poisoned half of it, lit the other half on fire. Didn’t just get soldiers—we got everyone. Didn’t know how bad it’d be ‘til the screams started."
He paused, staring at Izuma with a hollow look.
"I didn’t kill anyone with my own hands. Jus’ laid the tags and ran. My brother… he stayed behind to make sure the job got done. Last I saw of him, he was smilin’ like it mattered."
Izuma’s throat felt tight—his thoughts went to his own brothers.
He knew what was coming. Had seen it in the show, many times over—memories that were, and by all means, should have remained, just fiction. But they weren’t.
And because of that, he knew who would be asked to take the fall, like the old man’s brother, told that their sacrifice meant something.
He knew better—it didn’t.
Izuma clenched his fists. Rain ran down his wrist and dripped off his knuckle, and he reigned in his emotions.
If the old man had noticed his plight, he chose to ignore it, continuing his recount.
"By the time I got back, I was the only one from our cell still breathin’. They gave me a ribbon and called me brave. Even allowed me to shake the Mizukage’s hand. Then a week later, Mist signed the treaty."
The old man spat into the mud.
"That ribbon’s somewhere at the bottom of a well. Jus’ like the people we left behind."
He looked up at Izuma now, eyes sharp despite the years.
"Left the Mist after that. Been hidin’ in holes and ditches since, watchin’ shinobi pass through, leavin’ bodies in their wake. Never once seen one stop to help. Not Stone, not Cloud, sure as hell not Leaf. So yeah, I’m askin’ again—what’re you doin’, really?"
Izuma looked at the man, eyes unreadable beneath his hood. He thought of all the real reasons—the ones he could never say.
He couldn’t tell this man he’d been born in another world. That he remembered this one as lines of animation and that he’d watched the people around him live—and die—from the safety of a screen. And now he was here.
He couldn’t say that without being called insane and delusional. Typical for an Uchiha, but still.
So he told the truth, just not the whole of it.
"Because I can,” he said.
The old man raised a brow but said nothing.
He folded his arms loosely, ignoring the damp sensation. “I mean, helping them doesn’t harm me in any way. And it’s not like I can’t do so either. These people are suffering because of me in a way, and so if I can help them get back on their feet in any way, then I think I should do so. That’s all there is to it.”
"That really is all," he finished. "I’m not a hero—I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help someone else.”
The man stared at him for a long time, then finally gave a slow nod.
"Hmph," he snorted. "I guess you ain’t too bad for a Leaf.”
He pulled on his coat and stood.
.
By sundown, his hands were blistered.
He’d spent more time out here rebuilding than he’d meant to. Earth Style to repair a wall. Water to clear a flooded alley. The glow of healing chakra flickering briefly across a child’s cheek.
This wasn’t the kind of mission he was trained for.
At least, the rain had stopped, finally.
He stood, rolled his sleeves back down, and turned toward what was left of the town center.
Somewhere, behind a sheet of worn canvas, children were laughing.
.
The stars came out after the rain.
Izuma sat on the edge of an old water tower just outside town, legs dangling, cloak still damp from the day’s work.
He chewed slowly on a portion of rationed beans. They tasted horrible.
His eyes drifted upward.
Somewhere out there was Konoha. Somewhere beyond that—the next warfront.
He closed his eyes.
Memories—good and bad—cycled through his mind. The death that led to him losing his first life. A time when he watched a man explode into red fog six feet from him. Even his first “failed mission”, when he learned that the consequences were far worse than a simple stamp.
Then, this very town played in his head.
Because they didn’t deserve this.
And deep down, part of him knew—just like he told the old man—some of this was his fault.
Not him, personally. But what he was part of and what he fought for.
Konoha wins, so they suffer. That was the math.
He looked down at his hands, still calloused.
And yet despite it all, he kept going.
Then, his thoughts wandered back—not to this land, not to the warfronts he was stationed at, but to the rooftops of Konoha.
To two voices chasing him through the Uchiha district.
He remembered one of them falling into a koi pond trying to copy his water-walking. The other was pretending he hadn’t laughed.
Not brothers by blood.
He was an orphan in this world, too, but he certainly didn’t feel like it.
One old shinobi had given him a room.
And eventually, two boys gave him a brotherhood.
Now, one was still yet to enter the academy, and the other was due to graduate later this year.
He smiled a little.
That’s why, he thought.
That’s why he had to fight.
Because someone had to keep the koi ponds clean and the stupid brothers alive.
And it wasn’t just them.
There were his old genin teammates, who would, surprisingly, make the best rice balls around, and would even occasionally call him “Red-eyes”.
There was the kind old lady in the market who made him sit for tea. The kids who clung to his legs during festivals. The shopkeeper who gave him discounts.
He leaned back on his palms, looking at the stars again. The food lay forgotten beside him.
.
They found him the next morning, just past dawn.
He was crouched by the riverbank, sleeves rolled, cloak folded beside him.
Five children stood a few feet back, watching him work. No shoes, thin clothes, and gaunt eyes.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes still half-lidded. “You’re either about to try robbing me, or you want something.”
The smallest girl, probably six, stepped forward. She had hair like a bird’s nest and gripped a stick tightly in one hand like it would offer protection.
It was kind of cute.
“Are you a shinobi?”
He scooped another stone from the water and placed it carefully on the circle he was building, before offering a shrug. “I’m lots of things.”
Another boy stepped forward. Slightly older, maybe ten. “Can you teach us jutsu?”
Instead of answering, he knelt and struck flint against steel.
Sparks caught.
“Do you know what happens when you teach a child to make fire before they understand what it can do?” he asked.
The kids looked at each other. One shrugged.
“You get that,” he pointed to a building in the distance. The children turned to see and were met with a burned-down building. “That and corpses.”
That shut them up.
He sat down fully, knees bent, and started unpacking a wrapped bundle of dried meat and rice.
“I’m not going to show you jutsu,” he said at last. “But I’ll show you this.”
He held up the rice. “Food.”
Then the meat. “Preservation.”
He opened a pouch. “Salt.”
He reached into the fire, channeling just enough chakra into his palm to generate heat.
They watched in fascination as the pot over the stones began to bubble.
He glanced up. “And after we eat? I’ll show you how not to die from drinking river water.”
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By midday, they were washing their hands in the cleanest streambed he could find. The water was cold and clear, running over smooth stones and tiny flecks of mica.
Afterward, he’d fashioned fishing poles from the sturdiest branches he could find, twine scavenged from the edges of town, and a few bent nails for makeshift hooks. It wasn’t great, but it would do.
“You can’t learn without understanding what your body’s telling you,” he said as he handed each of the children a pole. “Balance, grip, tension—it all starts there. You skip those, and you’ll never catch a fish.”
The oldest boy—a lanky kid with bruised shins, Izuma had healed—tried to mimic his form. He squared his shoulders, bent his knees, and cast the line with exaggerated swagger.
“Like this?” he asked, brow furrowed in focus.
Izuma stepped behind him and gently nudged his elbow, then shifted his wrist slightly. "Better," he said. "But relax your grip. You’re strangling the pole like it owes you money."
That got a snort.
And some had the gall to say his jokes never landed.
“Focus,” he said, both to the kids and himself.
He was the wise ol’ mentor, so he couldn’t be seen cracking a smile—it would ruin the image.
A few meters down the stream, one of the younger girls had her line tangled in a branch already. Another was just smacking the surface of the water with her stick, completely ignoring the bait.
To his own surprise, he managed to hold back a groan and a facepalm, and instead moved between them patiently, guiding hands, untangling string, and pointing out ripples in the water that meant fish.
“Slow down,” he told them. “If you’re in a rush, you’ll pull too early and won’t catch anything. Don’t force it. Let it speak to you.”
One of the boys raised an eyebrow. “Speak? Like... talking fish?”
Izuma stared at him a second, then shook his head, “If your fish starts talking, don’t catch it—apologize instead. Clearly, it’s reached enlightenment and is wiser than both of us.”
That got a few laughs.
The lesson continued, and about an hour later, the youngest girl caught a small fish. She held it up like it was a gift from the gods. He showed her how to gut it, then handed her a sharpened stick to cook it with.
“You sure you weren’t a teacher before?” one of the children asked him as they chewed on salted fish around the fire.
He waved him off.
“No.”
But the question stuck with him longer than the taste of the fish, which was a pretty big deal because the fish was delicious.
The question had brought his thoughts to Nagato. Teach someone the wrong thing too soon, and you don’t just risk hurting them, but you risk creating something that can hurt others.
Man, he sounded wise today—maybe he should have been a teacher.
He looked around at the kids, now laughing as they tried (and failed) to climb the nearest boulder.
There were no jutsu here.
Just mud, dirt, and laughter.
And it felt good, certainly better than war.
He left before the sun cleared the trees.
The town was still quiet. Tents were closed, smoke curled lazily from half-dead campfires, and most people were still asleep.
He liked it that way.
Fewer eyes. Fewer questions.
Made him feel less paranoid.
He made rounds before going.
Slipped a sealed pouch of rations into the half-rebuilt medical tent. Left a clean roll of bandages beside the cot of the old man with the shaking hands. Propped three kunai and a knife—the dullest ones he owned, lest they harm someone—on a crate next to the boys who'd been caught stealing.
One of them would figure out how to sharpen them. Hopefully, not too well.
He gave the rest of his salt and most of his dried meat to the woman with the five children. She’d tried to give him her last cooking pot in return.
He refused.
She’d cried anyway.
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The children found him just as he reached the hilltop outside town.
He didn’t hear them until the youngest one shouted, “Wait!”
He turned.
The five of them stood in the road, barely awake, eyes still bleary from too little sleep. They were carrying a bundle of wildflowers—badly arranged, mostly stems and weeds.
The oldest boy ran to the front and offered it with both hands, like it was a scroll from the Hokage himself.
Izuma was taken aback for a moment, but took it a second later.
“You leaving?” the girl with the crow’s nest hair asked.
He nodded. “Time to go.”
“Will you come back?”
The question hit harder than it should’ve.
He looked down at the flowers.
“If I can,” he said.
That was all.
He didn’t wait for a response.
He just turned, hoisted his travel pack over his shoulder, and started down the road.
The mist was rising again behind him. The sun hadn't tapered off yet.
The dirt path ahead was long and empty, but it led back to Konoha.
Back to the village that raised him.
The wind behind him carried voices—laughing, arguing, one of them shrieking that she had actually caught a fish, shut up!
This time, he let a smile grace his face.
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A/N: Udon Town doesn’t really exist, no bashing to Kishimoto there, just thought the sentence was funny, lol.
This chapter was inspired by Zuko Alone, so hopefully this chapter lived up to peak at least somewhat.
