This work was inspired by great many things, and I forgot most of their names so we would be rolling with it.

The focus would be mostly on shinobi world, missions and so on.

The story is bloody and sad and trauma inducing, you have been warned.

It is Semi OC-insert. Yuuki will remember his past life in confusing sort of dreams matter.

I do not own any other character except my OCs. Crossposted from Ao3, if you want to read any additional notes I have written, then you can check it there. I was too lazy to do it here.

If you find any mistakes, please tell me. I have tendency to skip words.

Criticism is always welcome. My nonexistent heart can take anything you flung at me. Be my guest.

Enjoy reading~

Chapter 1

People have weird and sickening way of romanticising the death. For them it was mysterious and enthralling — no one knew what was going to happen after death. The unknown always fascinated humans as much as it scared them.

As long as they didn't know - they could believe whatever they wanted to: being sent to their next great journey, being with their loved ones who passed away before them - watching together over those who remained in the land of the living, being in heaven with their soul free of suffering - forever in bliss. If they couldn't avoid it – they might as well think of it as something positive, something beautiful. That's why people started to romanticise it, but-

Real death wasn't glorious or peaceful — it was cruel, devastating, and repulsive most of the time. Ugly. It felt like bitter regrets and crushed dreams, tasted like salty tears and the blood at the back of one's throat, smelled like rot and decaying flesh, heard like hopeless prayers and wailing of the living.

The death was ugly.

Death was inevitable part of our life; it happened equally to everyone — old and young, rich and poor, those who wanted to die and those who wanted to continue the living. The death did not discriminate - it was as merciless as it was fair.

The humans throughout the ages - throughout the counties and cultures had various religions and beliefs, different opinions and principles — the humans as the group as a whole were never meant to agree on anything. Nonetheless the only thing that all people knew at the back of their minds – there was no coming back from the dead.

Whatever happened in their next life -if it even existed- their life now has come to an end. The inevitable finale. The final destination.

There never was a creature who could outwit the death.

In the movies the drowning was always depicted as something splashy and loud — the unfortunate person flailing their arms and legs around and hitting the surface of the water in a showy manner, people panicking and screaming on the shore, someone jumping into the waters to rescue the person.

As many other things the reality was different — it was crueler, more unsettling.

The drowning was quiet. Chilly night. Dark waters. Moon looked peaceful. Sudden sharp pain in his calf. The man didn't have the time to scream until he was submerged under the surface. The cramp in his legs. Lungs burning. It hurt. Panic, fear and more panic. His hair floating upwards even if he couldn't see it. His body losing strength.

The darkness swallowing him deeper into its deadly embrace. As far as death goes- his was lonely and scary and pathetic. The moment he felt coldness creeping into his body… he knew — he knew he was going to die.

All of the sudden, there was a hand in front of him, he didn't hesitate and clutched at it - with all the desperation of a dying man. The sharp gasp the man sucked in once he broke through the surface of the waters felt like molten lava sliding all the way to the back of his throat. What a painfully sweet relief.

Another chilly night crept upon the house. The trees were constantly scratching the outer walls of the shack, swung by a howling wind that sneaked into the darkness of his room through various holes in the walls and the roof.

The child gasped awake, hands clutching at his throat — the fingernails dug deep into fragile skin leaving ugly red trails in their wake. With every desperate cough he felt like he could force the water out of his chest. He knew none of that was real, but the phantom pain in his lungs made it difficult to distinguish between reality and the dream.

'It happened again.'

Once again, it was the middle of the night and he was drenched with sweat gasping for the air, and once again, it took him quite some time to realise he was not where his nightmares had taken him, that he wasn't in merciless waters anymore, that he was not in danger.

Those nightmares weren't as recurrent as they used to be, but they were still there. He didn't think they'll ever be completely gone. It has been three months since that day, where he almost lost his life - where his uncle saved him. It has been three months since that day, and he still couldn't touch the waters without hyperventilating.

The child of the fisherman village that was afraid of water was the same as the child of the forrest scared of trees. It was utterly ridiculous.

The three children of different ages and two teenagers were laying side by side on a single worn-out futon patched from various rags. "Dammit! Yuuki, shut it already!" said the angry voice of eight years old boy. The irritation of being woken up in the middle of the night once again was getting the better of him.

The boy panted, disoriented, for a few seconds, before the scrawny girl twice his age came to his side. "Don't listen to Makabaka. You know he is grouchy all day long." "Am not!" She started gentle patting his back making soothing circles up and down and didn't stop until he calmed down. "Better now?" That's why Haruka was his favourite sibling, way nicer than stupid Makoto.

"Thank you," he didn't answer the question. It came out like a croak, his throat hurt. He wanted to drink water, but he would wake up every single person in their home - if his coughs already didn't do it. The boy slumped back from where he had apparently shot up and fell back down to the old futon.

While Yuuki Okihara was laying down in a daze unable to fall asleep, he noticed that there was a new hole in the half-collapsed thatched roof made of straw - right in the leftmost corner, just above his head. Fortunately for him, it didn't rain that day, still the weather left much to be desired.

The coldness of the air that settled around him made him curl into a small ball, the corner of the thin sheet – the only thing that he managed to get back from Makoto's deathly clutch - did nothing to keep him warm. In retaliation for his previous comment, he put his ice-cold feet onto Makoto's warm legs. The kick to his sheens didn't feel fair.

Their house was pitiful and humble, with mud clumps falling down like raindrops whenever it rained, crowded with family members, it was always cramped and filled with a stuffy fishy smell. There was only one big room -four simple mud walls. This room was separated into two segments by the old cloth that was constantly flapping around: the kitchen where children huddled together and the bedroom, where grownups and his newborn cousin slept together.

The house lacked even a single small window and didn't have a proper floor. Still, he liked it - after all it was his home - the place where his family lived – the only thing that he had ever known.

The voice in the back of his head always made him confused. It told him that no human should ever live like that. But everyone in their fisherman village lived the same way – some better, some worse, but still all the same. He didn't understand why he would ever think that way.

The members of his family were good people. His uncle and aunt who treated him as their own flesh and blood even though he was just their nephew. His grandma who was strict but never unkind. His two older cousins who spent their whole days working on a boat but never forgot to bring him something tasty from time to time. Grouchy Makabaka who was mean with his words but never with his actions. And even his newborn cousin who constantly cried and couldn't talk yet.

The members of his family were good people - that's what he kept telling himself as he and Haruka were grabbed in the middle of the night by the strange man and stuffed into the cart that transported the cattle, their mouth filled with cloth.

That's what he kept telling himself as Haruka screamed that she would behave, that she would be a good girl and work as hard as her elder brothers, and pl-please…- do not abandon her — while being carried away, as he saw that strange man manhandling her into the cart, as he saw Makoto trying to break free from the hold of his two elder brothers.

That's what he kept telling himself as he saw the stubborn set of his uncle's jaw, the guilty look in the eyes of his aunt as she clutched her newborn close to her chest, the immovable body of his grandmother who didn't bid them farewell for the last time.

Yuuki didn't yell, didn't make a fuss. He knew when to pick his battles. This one wasn't one of them. If they could let go of their own daughter, then he as their nephew didn't stand a chance. He bowed down to them, thanked them for their care and willingly walked out of the door.

Five minutes later Yuuki and Haruka hugged each other and shed silent tears as the carriage led them into the unknown.

In his dream that day he remembered the details that went unnoticed: the chest of his grandmother that didn't rise and fall – her stil- too still body; his aunt, whose eyes were filled with guilt as she looked at his cousins who were left with them instead of Haruka and him; the red dots splattered across the skin of his uncle's hands; the increasing appearance of coughing people in their village; the mask and the gloves that the strange man wore.

Epidemic.

There was an epidemic in their village. He didn't know how he knew it, he didn't know what it meant, but instinctively he felt that it was nothing good.

'What would happen to his family and others in the village?,' he anxiously thought, the cold hand squeezed his heart.

'You should worry about yourself first,' the voice in his head said emotionlessly. 'You might die faster than them.'