Ryusei Nishida rushed in fast, the cold air cutting across his face.

Somewhere ahead, past the low ridges and thinning trees, he could feel them, around a dozen, faint pulses in the background flow of chakra, each one marking a living presence.

Most were still at a greater distance, but one lay between him and his target depot.

He rushed in alone now. The team had already split earlier without wasting a word, each heading for their pre-determined assigned target.

Their captain, Okabe-sensei, and Renjiro Hatake were already pulling the main force toward the hidden camp’s center.

Kanae had gone around to the far side to cut down the remaining scouts before they could potentially give a warning to anyone else about their mission.

Ryusei’s route was straight to the enemy hideout’s weak side, the breach Kanae had marked effortlessly with a glance from her Byakugan before.

He could feel the presence of shinobi-quality chakra there at his target location ahead.

Not through sight or sound, but in the steady pulse of chakra that marked every living presence nearby in great detail and up to many kilometers in a slightly less detail.

The largest cluster was further off, near the center, where the others were already at work.

The flow of the mission was quickly shifting toward contact.

A lone unlucky scout now stood directly ahead on his way, at a glance, seemingly still unaware. Ryusei neither slowed nor tensed.

His stride stayed even, his posture calm, his face expressionless, the kind of relaxed control that came from countless repetitions.

A flick of steel, one clean motion, and the man dropped down without a sound, as if never standing a chance.

Ryusei kept moving, breathing steady, eyes forward.

At 12, he was tall for his age, shoulders broad, and frame built for speed and force. His body carried lean muscle in perfect balance, each line shaped for efficiency in a fight.

It was the kind of physique that looked born, not built – the work of bloodline, not just the training.

His face was also strikingly good-looking, balanced between a slight youthful masculine sharpness and a softer aesthetic symmetry, and harmony that gave it an edge of elegance. 

Messy dark brown hair framed similar almond-shaped eyes, narrowed into fox-like slits, as if by design. A few silky bangs fell on top of his Konoha forehead protector metal.

But, it was also the way he carried himself – quiet, certain, aware – that gave him presence.

Even with his gaze forward, his focus stretched far beyond it. Each signature he was sensing carried a unique feel, like a pattern only he could read.

He could tell which ones belonged to his teammates and which ones didn’t. The faint, steady pulses told him where the scattered scouts Kanae was currently pursuing were, for example.

Years of training on top of natural gifts had turned this into second nature, letting him track positions and gauge distance without relying on sight.

The depot, his target this time, slowly came into eye view past the last stretch of trees.

Several wooden huts sat close to the ridge, their walls darkened by age and weather.

Rough palisades closed off the clearing, and stacks of crates broke up the open ground.

Above, the sky hung low and grey, washing the color from everything.

Inside the perimeter, movement shifted. The scattered chakra signatures inside began pulling together, and their steps fell into a rhythm.

They had finally noticed him, and they were preparing to meet him.

Sensory-type shinobi, or those who had unlocked/learned the ability as a side skill like Ryusei, could do more than passively feel chakra like ordinary shinobi, through the so-called ‘sensory mode’.

They could actively search for others, projecting their chakra outward to read the area, and just as easily, they could suppress it to hide themselves.

That was why it caught him off guard when the group ahead noticed him at the last moment before he could give a surprise attack.

The reason became clear almost instantly.

One of his sharper sensory gifts let him gauge a shinobi’s general power level, and within that dozen, he felt the presence of what he dubbed a ‘mid-level chunin’.

It had to be that man who sensed him and warned the others in time.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re all still going to die anyway.’

The thought slid through his mind without a hint of doubt as the group, composed mainly of much older genin shinobi, in his assessment, reacted.

A few sharp calls were exchanged between them, and their movements shifted into order.

These weren’t ordinary fresh genin, but high-level ones indeed on that spectrum.

They were the old wolves of the underworld, mainly from nearby Kusagakure and Takigakure rebels and deserters who had outlived their villages’ reach over time.

Their headbands were long gone, replaced by scraps of cloth, worn armor, and whatever mismatched gear they had scavenged.

Most had the wiry builds of men who had been fighting for decades, some with hair already grey, their faces lined from years of work in the shadows.

Even with their fractured histories, they moved with practiced discipline.

They moved to box him in, three on the left, two on the right, the rest in a staggered line ahead.

The chunin stayed behind them, eyes fixed on Ryusei, likely the one who had sensed him before the ambush.

Ryusei’s eyes locked onto the ‘chunin’.

Remove him first quickly, and the rest would fall apart.

Chakra surged through Ryusei’s coils, sharp and hot.

He slid a hand into a tiger seal, lightning flickering to life around him.

He slammed his hand into the earth – summoning his most potent attack technique.

‘Lightning Release: Thunder Fang Burst!’

It first went into the ground, splitting it into two high-voltage arcs that erupted upward in a pincer pattern.

The arcs curved toward the target from both sides like fangs closing in.

The first closest man caught between them convulsed, a sharp cry dying in his throat as the current ripped through him. 

Two others barely rolled free, their armor scorched and smoking. The formation faltered for just a heartbeat – enough.

Ryusei’s hands blurred through the next set of seals. Heat roared in his chest.

‘Fire Release: Flame Ring Roar!’

A wide ring of fire exploded outward before collapsing inward.

Three of the enemy were caught on the edge, forced back with burns, scoring their arms and legs.

It’s especially dangerous when used right after a lightning technique because the heat and smoke obscure the user’s next move.

Both of them required large enough chakra output as well as decently high chakra control, making them the only two offensive B-level jutsu within Ryusei’s current shinobi ninjutsu arsenal.

They work best in combination and as a decisive prompt shock factor thanks to their overwhelming potency and unpredictability.

The collapsing flames drove the rest straight toward Ryusei’s path, and the chunin was now within striking distance.

The ‘chunin’ had to meet him head-on, steel clashing with a sharp crack.

Sparks scattered between them as they pushed, each testing the other’s strength next, neither giving an inch.

“You’re no ordinary brat… but you’re still going to bleed here.”

The much older, fierce ‘chunin’ mercenary’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and steady.

Ryusei met the gaze without a word, pressing forward with the weight of his entire body, testing the man’s guard.

Around them, the surviving mercenaries were scrambling to recover. That was a bad signal for Ryusei.

His fighting style lived and died by overwhelming superiority in the opening moments in all domains, the shock, the burst, the crushing pressure of both ninjutsu and taijutsu chained together so fast and powerful the enemy never caught their balance.

If they had time to tighten ranks, the advantage would slip away.

They clashed a few more times, steel ringing between them.

The chunin was strong, and despite the years between them, Ryusei found him harder to break than expected.

The man’s older frame carried the experience and conditioning of decades, enough to match Ryusei’s own bloodline-forged physique and rigorous formal training.

Finishing him quickly, in the time that he preferred, was proving harder than planned.

So Ryusei made the decision – a trade of injury for injury.

He let a strike through to open his path, his kunai driving into the man’s guard in the same heartbeat.

Surprise flashed in the chunin’s eyes, but by then, both were bleeding, Ryusei’s wound less deep but still dangerous.

They stepped back almost in unison, red staining the dirt between them.

Then Ryusei’s right hand began to glow – a deep orange chakra, rich and dense, gathering at his palm. Another B-rank technique of his, albeit a defensive one this time around. 

He pressed it directly onto the wound. It wasn’t a normal medical jutsu; it was a rare self-administered version usable during battles.

It was his only self-created technique, born from a desperate need to survive and months spent studying medical ninjutsu research left behind by his late mother.

The jutsu’s principle was simple in theory, brutal in practice: flooding the injury site with raw yang release chakra, not to heal, but to force the body into an artificial, temporary state of “uninjured” function.

Pain dulled, bleeding slowed to nothing, and muscle response returned instantly. The price was steep – tissue strain, aggravated damage, and a longer recovery time, eventually, once the battle ended.

He’d named it “Yang Pulse Override Palm”; it was a promise – a refusal to die on someone else’s schedule.

The chunin’s eyes flickered with surprise at the sight, but by then, Ryusei’s pressure intensified.

His speed rose again, his strikes pressed harder, and his focus locked entirely on the man before him.

This time, it was the rebel who began to give ground as he was bleeding quite profusely.

The next exchange was going to break him soon- and Ryusei’s blade was already poised for the finishing blow.

Then, a flicker at the edge of his vision.

A small brown-furred shape, low to the ground, darted between a cluster of rocks – a mountain hare, its chakra faint enough to vanish into the natural background.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but something in Ryusei’s mind caught on it. His steps slowed. His stance loosened.

The animal paused mid-hop, head turning toward him with a tilt too precise to be natural.

Its black eyes fixed on his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to dim, as if the air had thickened.

The hare’s nose twitched once. A ripple passed through Ryusei’s vision, distorting the chunin before him into a wavering silhouette.

Somewhere deep inside, a wrongness took root – a slow, invasive pressure that felt like fingers prying into the edges of his thoughts.

The fight bled away from his mind, leaving only the hare and that unblinking stare.

The chunin in front didn’t understand it; he didn’t notice the strange, eerie animal, but he saw the change in his life and death opponent first-hand immediately.

The killing intent that had been pressing on him moments ago just… dissolved.

The crushing pressure he’d been exerting evaporated. His strike lost nearly all momentum and even looked quite goofy at the moment.

His gaze went unfocused, lips parting slightly as if listening to something far away.

His young opponent stood there, posture half-open, eyes unfocused, as if he’d been pulled into some distant thought.

The rebel’s pulse quickened.

He feinted a thrust to test him to the right – yet nothing. Not even a blink.

No reaction to a following sharp feint to the left that came next, either.

No parry. No counter. Just bizarre stillness.

The older man’s lips slowly pulled into a grin.

Whatever god watched over him had just turned the tide.

There was no other explanation.

No warrior at this level would simply abandon a very sure kill on such a valuable follow-through unless something had gone very wrong.

He stepped in without hesitation, angling his blade for Ryusei’s throat – a single, decisive stroke of his own, to end it.

Yet at this moment, an indignant voice, of another soul, buried deep in the core of Ryusei’s body and mind, for a while, suddenly roared inside. 

“Damn it… Am I really about to be the first transmigrator to die before I even officially take over?”

The thought wasn’t Ryusei’s. It struck like a foreign spark, sharp and alive, ripping through the haze smothering his senses.

The pressure on his mind wavered for the first time, replaced by the sickening sensation of being outside his own body.

His limbs still felt heavy, but now it was as if the strings that moved them were in someone else’s hands.

“No… calm down. This is exactly the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’ll take the body now, ride out this attack, and it’ll be mine for good. If it dies before I do, who knows where I’ll end up – some dark void again, or worse, trapped in that ghostly Pure Land, standing in line with the rest of the dead fools. Not happening. This body is strong, warm, alive… and it’s going to stay that way, with me in it. I have to give it my all.”

Just then, deep inside, the other soul moved even more vigorously. It wasn’t a gentle nudge, but a slow, deliberate shove like a hand pressing through wet paper, tearing at the seams.

Its presence coiled upward, spreading tendrils through nerves and muscle, reaching for the strings that held the body together.

Somewhere behind the fog, Ryusei’s own awareness strained, but the intruder’s push was hungry, and it did not stop.

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A/N: Alternative Chapter Title — “The Enemy I Didn’t See, and the One I Couldn’t”

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Real MC’s quote: “I have no intention of gambling on where my soul lands next.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep