Shinji: The Disastrous

A spider descended from the rafters on a near-invisible strand and landed on Shinji's fingertip as if it, too, had spent two weeks waiting for him to wake. He shifted on the futon in the healers hut, his skin prickling where the blanket no longer covered ribs that looked like someone had stolen the rice right out of him.

He watched the spider pace across his knuckles, eight legs flicking like tiny brushes, and whispered, "Welcome to the grand reunion tour: Shinji's brand-new life—same ravishing good looks, same dead father."

The words sounded horrible and hilarious at once, which felt about right. Two weeks earlier he had collapsed in front of the whole village after that wild burst of heat, then slept through his own funeral season.

While he drifted in the dark, pieces of another existence surfaced. At first he thought the images were fever tricks, but the flashes gathered weight until they settled like stones, memories from a life he could no longer name precisely yet knew he had lived. He had read plenty of webnovels back in that half-remembered world, enough to mutter, "Reincarnation? Sure, why not.

But couldn't the memo have arrived sooner? Most protagonists get their cheat sheet on day one." An imaginary narrator offered no reply, so he flicked the spider puff of chakra, he could feel it now, warm and coiled, nothing like the burst that had knocked him out but steady and glowing soft.

Sumi chose that exact moment to barge in, her long gray braid swinging, a bowl of miso so thin he could count the grain at the bottom. She murmured, "Drink," the same way she'd murmured it every dawn since his eyes opened.

She then checked his pulse with her fingers that smelled of herbs and cedar smoke. He gulped the soup, grimaced at the salt, and asked, "Any chance the next incarnation comes with thicker porridge?" She responded with the faintest quirk of an eyebrow, her version of a full belly laugh. She then pointed at the mat and left him to humor himself.

When the door closed, Shinji let the thoughts he'd been collecting spill out. Two weeks ago he'd been a scrawny farm kid who barely knew how kids were made. Now he was still a scrawny farm kid, but lugging around with odd scraps of future knowledge from what he guessed was the Naruto world. None of the famous landmarks were in sight, but the faint hum of chakra and shinobi he heard made him about ninety percent sure.

The knowledge felt like finding a toolkit under the bed, useful, intriguing, but completely unrelated to the hole in his roof. He pressed a palm to his chest, and felt the slow throb of that energy, and told himself not to panic. Small steps. No rush to master Rasengan yet.

Outside, morning fog hung low, wrapping the village in the same gray shawl that had shrouded the night his father died. Shinji let the ache come, nodded to it, and let it pass. "New universe, same dead father," he muttered. 

A soft knock snapped him from the spiral. Hana slipped in with a tray of apple slices and the first grin he'd seen since the funeral. "You're playing with spiders now?" she asked, eyeing the windowsill. "Recruiting an army," he said. "Figure if I can't lift a hoe yet, I'll command insects."

She rolled her eyes, but relief eased her shoulders. Setting the tray near his knee, she poked his arm. "All bones," she declared. "Honestly, Shinji, Sumi says you lost seven kilos. I think you lost nine." "Feels like twelve," he answered, then devoured two slices so fast juice dripped down his chin. While he chewed, Hana studied him, worry flickering like candlelight. "I'm here," he said gently. "Really here." "You were gone," she whispered. "And then you kept muttering strange words in your sleep. Something about fortnite and football?"

He swallowed hard. "Dreams. Weird ones." No point dumping the reincarnation rant on her. She nodded, though curiosity lingered. Before she could push, their mother entered carrying fresh linens and the stern face she used to bargain for seed.

Shadows beneath her eyes told more then enough. The moment she spotted him upright her expression cracked into relief so bright it burned. "You wake when the weeding season starts," she said, setting the linens down. "Convenient child." "Can't break tradition, Mom." The joke wobbled at the edges.

He still hated the empty space where his father should have answered with a grunt and a pat on Hana's head. Mother ran a thumb across his cheek. "You scared us."

"Sorry," he murmured. "But I'm back, and starving." "Eat," she ordered. "Then we talk about how long Sumi keeps you chained to that futon." They shared easy chatter: roof leaks, seed prices, the rooster that crowed at shadows. With each ordinary detail the room warmed, grief stepping back to let life breathe.

Shinji polished off the apple tray, licked his thumb, and leaned against the wall, strangely content despite the twigs he called limbs. A sudden thought struck, ridiculous yet urgent. "Mother?"

"Yes?"

"What… what is your name?" Silence fell. Hana tilted her head. Mother's eyebrows lifted. "You jest," she said slowly. Shinji's face went hot.

"I don't. I always called you Mom. Everyone calls you 'your mother' or 'Farmer Jiro's wife.' I just realized I never heard your actual name." Mother's mouth rounded, then curved into a smile he would remember forever. "Sada," she said at last.

"Sada," he repeated, tasting the syllables like a new spice. Hana burst into giggles. "Feels strange, right?"

"Very," he admitted, returning the smile. "But good." He offered Mother Sada a small bow. "Thank you for looking after me, Sada."

She brushed his hair back. "You may still call me Mom."

"I will," he promised. "But I like knowing the woman behind the title."

The spider chose that moment to descend again, dangling between them like a punctuation mark. Shinji guided it to the sill with a fingertip, murmuring, "Go weave something grand," then settled back yawning so wide his jaw cracked. He got a new life, but still no father.

Figures." Hana flicked his forehead. "Rest, broomstick." He closed his eyes, and drifted back into sleep.