In the vast and mountainous Land of Earth, nestled among jagged cliffs and winding dirt paths, sat a quiet, forgotten city—its population barely exceeding a thousand souls. The city was small, unimpressive to outsiders, and yet within its cracked streets and worn stone alleys, a man wandered.
Clad in tattered robes that once bore the insignia of honor, now dulled by time and shame, a middle-aged man stumbled down the dusty roads. His face was weathered, his eyes distant. This man—Ogami—once held the rank of Chūnin, a skilled shinobi of Iwagakure. But those days were long gone, buried beneath years of poor choices and the relentless grip of addiction.
When the night fell, casting long shadows over the crooked rooftops, Ogami curled up in a narrow alleyway, shivering against the cold stone. Sleep found him quickly, though it was more of a temporary blackout than true rest.
By dawn, the cycle began anew.
With coins given out of pity by passersby, Ogami bought several bottles of sake from a nearby shop. He wandered until he found a quiet corner of the town—an alley shielded from view—and sat cross-legged on the ground. He drank in silence, his bloodshot eyes flicking left and right to ensure he was alone.
He liked the solitude. It was the only thing that didn't judge him.
Once the final drops of sake vanished down his throat, he slumped backward and passed out.
The next morning? He was back on the streets, begging once more.
This was the life Ogami had resigned himself to. Once a proud shinobi of Iwa, he had fallen during the aftermath of the Second Great Ninja War. His service dismissed due to his growing dependence on alcohol, his name removed from mission logs and forgotten by comrades, Ogami simply... vanished.
Yet fate has a cruel sense of humor. On one particularly cold night, as Ogami drowned himself in another liter of cheap alcohol at a rundown bar, something shifted.
The bartender, wiping down the counter with a greasy rag, approached him.
"We're closing soon. You'll have to leave."
Ogami grunted and downed the last of his drink before stumbling out into the night, lurching aimlessly through the streets until he found another alley to collapse in.
But this time, others were watching.
On the rooftops above, cloaked in shadows, three masked figures observed the drunkard with cold, calculating eyes.
"Is that our target?" one whispered.
"Yes. That's him," replied the leader.
"I don't get it... Why kidnap someone like him? He doesn't even look like he remembers ninjutsu."
"It's not our concern," the leader replied flatly. "Orders are to collect anyone with a shinobi background. Ogami may be broken, but he's perfect for the experiments."
Without hesitation, the three moved in. One weaved a Genjutsu, placing Ogami into an even deeper unconscious state. The strongest of the group hoisted him over his shoulder with ease, and the trio vanished into the night.
They left no trace behind.
For days, the disguised shinobi sprinted through forests, across barren wastelands, and over icy mountain passes. They traveled in silence, leaping from tree to tree, until finally arriving at a secluded part of the mountains—dense with trees and nearly impenetrable to the untrained eye.
Hidden among the roots of the cliffs was a heavy metal door embedded into the mountainside.
They knocked.
After a pause, the door creaked open. A man in a white laboratory coat—his eyes sharp behind circular glasses—stepped forward.
"Follow me."
The group descended deep underground. They passed long hallways lined with metallic walls, humming with chakra-powered generators. After several minutes, they arrived in a dark corridor filled with rows of iron-barred cells.
"Place him in Cell 07," the scientist instructed. "Once that's done, your mission is complete. You may leave."
The shinobi obeyed, laying Ogami's still body on a cold metal slab inside the cell. The door shut with a heavy clang, and without another word, the operatives vanished into the tunnels.
Deep within another wing of the facility, a team of scientists huddled around holographic monitors and data scrolls. The head researcher—a man known only as Head—oversaw their work with quiet intensity.
"Prepare the chamber," he ordered. "Project: Rebirth is ready for another trial."
The chamber was prepared. Inside, a man—Subject 242—was strapped to an operating table. His face was calm, sedated. Machines beeped quietly as three masked researchers surrounded him.
Dr.Head approached with a small vial, glowing faintly.
"This compound is designed to enhance regenerative ability on a cellular level," he muttered. "Let's begin."
He poured the liquid down the man's throat.
For a moment—nothing.
Then, a tremor.
The man's body twitched.
A scientist stepped forward with a surgical knife and cut a shallow gash across the chest. They waited.
Moments passed.
And then... the wound began to close.
"Regeneration initiated…" whispered one of the assistants.
But then, alarms blared.
The subject convulsed violently. His heartbeat spiked—then dropped.
Silence.
Dr.Head frowned. "Heart failure. Another death."
"Subject 242 is deceased," reported one of the scientists coldly.
"This setback will cost us," said another. "What do we tell the Tsuchikage?"
Dr.Head adjusted his glasses. "He already knows. He said money isn't a concern—only results. We increase trials. Effective immediately."
"But we don't have enough subjects."
"We will," Dr.Head said. "The Tsuchikage has promised more."
Iwagakure – Tsuchikage's Office
Far away from facility, Arano, the Second Tsuchikage, sat in his stone tower. Reports littered his desk, most of them routine. But one caught his eye—an Anbu report detailing robberies and murders in outlying towns, despite increased patrols.
He frowned.
"Still... someone eludes us."
He stood, walked into the records chamber, and spent hours poring over mission logs and surveillance data. It was then he realized the pattern—an elusive organization operating beyond normal detection.
"They're not just thugs… They're organized," Arano muttered.
He called for a subordinate. "Form a special unit. Task them with finding this group. Quietly."
Later that day, Arano joined a council meeting with Ōnoki and several clan leaders. The room was tense.
Concerns over Arano's excessive funding of secret projects were rising.
"Nobody even knows what these secret programs are," one elder barked. "And even your public initiatives drain our treasury!"
"Our spending exceeds our income," said another. "We may need to borrow to keep the Village running!"
But Arano simply waved his hand.
"Debt is a tool. What matters is the strength and progress of the Land of Earth. We will deal with the rest later."
The room fell silent. No one dared challenge him openly—not yet.
Autor note
Like always you can rate my fanfic it help me to continue writing. I hope you like the chapter , if you find any error fell free to inform me.
Also thanks to this chapter the fanfic had now +15.000 word.
Euhh actually i need a few more word to attain 15.000 word so i will just write here the description of Dust release :D
Dust Release (Particle Style) is an advanced nature kekkei tōta, an advanced version of kekkei genkai, which is created through simultaneous use of the earth, wind, and fire natures. The techniques of this nature initially form as a small three-dimensional object (e.g. a cube, a cone, etc.) composed of chakra that forms between the user's hands. When the technique is released, the form expands and surrounds the target. This nature allows the user to manipulate molecules, giving them the ability to disintegrate anything on a molecular level within the boundaries of the three-dimensional form.
Dust Release techniques seem to require a certain amount of time when preparing the three-dimensional object, making it possible to prematurely halt the technique before it is completed, but once it's finished, the technique can be fired with astonishing speed. The hands also play a crucial role in preparation of techniques, interfering with the user's arms can hinder the technique. Dust Release techniques seem to be rather chakra-taxing.