Chapter 6: Just Mouths to Feed
The camp was tense. It always was when supplies ran low, but this time felt worse. Rain was coming again—Ren could smell it in the air—and the storage tent had been half-empty for days. Meals were smaller, tempers shorter. Even the younger kids had stopped playing.
Ren sat with Taro and Haru in the shadow of the storage shed, gnawing on a stale rice ball. It was barely a mouthful, but he didn't complain. He'd gotten used to hunger.
Taro, on the other hand, was muttering under his breath, eyes locked on a group of older boys huddled around a pot of soup near the firepit.
"They took extra," he said. "That's their third bowl. I saw it."
Haru rolled his eyes. "Don't start. It's not worth it."
Ren said nothing. He was watching too.
Taro stood up.
"Taro," Ren warned, but it was already too late. Taro stormed over to the group, fists clenched.
"You think you're special? That soup's for everyone!" he shouted.
One of the older boys—a tall, skinny kid with a broken nose—stood up and shoved Taro hard. "Go cry somewhere else, runt."
Taro came swinging.
The camp erupted.
Children scattered as Taro and the older boy tumbled into the dirt, fists flying. Others joined in—some trying to break it up, others jumping in just to release days of pent-up frustration. Haru cursed and ran in to pull Taro back.
Ren stayed still, heart pounding. He could feel it again—that strange hum beneath his skin. That instinct, urging him to move, to react. But he forced it down.
Then came the voice.
"What the hell is going on here?!"
The fight froze.
A tall figure stomped into the middle of the chaos, flak jacket soaked with sweat and dirt. Chunin Yuza—the one who patrolled the northern edge of the camp. He was younger than most chunin but already had the dead-eyed stare of someone who'd seen too much.
He looked around, eyes landing on the soup, the bruised faces, the broken pot.
And then he snapped.
"You think this is a game? You think we're feeding you so you can beat each other like animals?" His voice cut through the camp like a blade. "You're not even ninja. You're nothing but rats."
No one moved.
Yuza stepped closer, looming over Taro, who was still on the ground, breathing hard.
"You little shits don't get it. We're wasting food on you. Time. Space. You think we wouldn't be better off if you were all dead?"
Gasps. Silence.
Ren felt his blood run cold.
Haru had gone pale. Taro stared up at the chunin, defiant but shaking.
"You want to fight? Go do it on the front lines. Maybe you'll die fast and save us the trouble."
Then he turned and walked off without another word.
No one said anything for a long time.
Later that night, Ren sat outside the barracks, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. The wind had picked up. It would rain soon.
Taro hadn't spoken since the fight. Haru had a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his palm. Everyone was quiet.
Ren stared at the dirt, jaw clenched.
He knew what war did to people. He understood that the camp wasn't a home—it was a place to keep bodies warm until they were needed or forgotten. But hearing it like that… feeling it in the air...
It settled deep in his gut.
He wasn't safe. None of them were.
And there was no one coming to save them.
He closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath. Not to meditate—just to focus. To stay still. To stay calm. That flicker of chakra from earlier was still there, like a twitch under his skin. But it wouldn't help now.
He wasn't strong. Not yet. He didn't even know what strength meant in this world.
But he knew he wanted to live.
And that meant keeping his head down. Watching. Learning. Waiting.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky.
The first raindrop landed on his forehead.
War was everywhere.
But so was he.
The next morning, hunger gnawed at him sharper than ever. The memory of Yuza's words still echoed in his ears. "We're wasting food on you." It wasn't just anger—it was a warning. If things got worse, the kids would be the first to go.
So Ren made a decision.
He slipped out of the camp early, while the others were still half-asleep, and wandered into the trees that bordered the area. The forest was dense but quiet. He remembered something from his old life—about traps, about hunting.
He gathered a few twigs, sharpened one to a crude point, and crouched by a patch of brush where he thought he saw movement. Birds chirped high above. A squirrel darted through the leaves, and Ren flinched.
He waited. And waited.
Hours passed.
His stomach growled. His legs ached.
He tried pouncing once—missed completely.
Another time he threw his stick like a spear. It hit a tree.
By midday, he gave up and slumped against a stump, breathing hard, ashamed.
"I'm not a hunter," he muttered. "Not yet."
But he wasn't nothing either. Not anymore. He had to try. Had to learn.
Next time, he told himself, brushing the dirt off his hands. Next time.