Konoha Year 47.
The Third Shinobi World War had erupted in full force.
With the assassination and disappearance of the Third Kazekage by Sasori of the Red Sands, the Hidden Sand Village had gone frantic in their search for him. Overnight, the front lines of the Five Great Shinobi Villages were fully drawn.
Konoha deployed every available asset, sparing not even those who should never have seen a battlefield.
Such as Genin.
Such as cannon fodder.
***
The border of the Land of Fire.
*Drip.*
A drop of warm liquid splashed onto Kitahara Kaede's face, trickling down his cheekbone.
He didn't move. He didn't even flutter an eyelid.
He suppressed his breathing to the absolute minimum and deliberately slowed his heartbeat, disguising himself as a genuine corpse.
He hadn't been taught this skill by anyone.
After his teammates were wiped out in two previous missions and he had crawled out from piles of the dead, it had beco a survival instinct.
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he saw the source of the blood—his captain.
More accurately, it was leaking from what remained of the captain's face.
Half an hour ago, this man had been clapping him on the shoulder, saying that once this battle was over, they'd head back to the village for so matchmaking. "I'm twenty-six already. If I don't get a wife soon, my mother's going to scrub from the family tree."
Now, the lower half of his body had been blown away by explosive tags. His upper torso lay slumped beside Kaede, that sa hand that had patted his shoulder still resting on his arm.
Not far off, the sound of footsteps was closing in. The Sand shinobi were sweeping the battlefield.
Every dozen seconds or so, a muffled thud echoed, followed by the sound of sothing being dragged away.
Kaede bit his lip, remaining motionless.
The footsteps grew closer.
Soone stopped beside him for two seconds.
Only one thought raced through his mind: *Don't look down. Don't look at my face.*
The person moved on.
About twenty minutes passed before the surrounding several hundred ters fell completely silent; not even a bird sang.
Only then did he dare to gently push the captain's hand off his arm, roll over, and stare up at the sky.
He gasped for air, looking down at his hands—they were shaking.
"The third ti."
His lips quirked; he wasn't sure if it was a smile.
He had been transmigrated into this world fifteen years ago.
He had no Bloodline Limit, no Sharingan, no Byakugan.
His parents had been ordinary Chunin who both died in the line of duty before he could even rember them, leaving behind a dilapidated apartnt and a small amount of savings.
Six years at the Ninja Academy, sitting in the furthest corner, with grades that were diocre at best. He had barely passed the graduation exam.
When the war broke out, background-less Genin like him were the first to be pushed to the front lines.
He had survived until today thanks to three things: playing dead quickly, playing dead convincingly, and not having terrible luck.
He turned to look at the frozen half-face of his captain.
"Captain, the matchmaking is off the table," he whispered. "I'll take your gear... you won't be needing it."
He opened the tool pouch.
Two food pills, three explosive tags.
He chewed the food pills and stuffed the tags into his pocket.
After crudely bandaging a cut on his left leg from a shuriken, he limped toward the camp.
***
Two hours later.
Konoha's temporary border camp.
The mont Kaede pushed aside the tent flap, the noisy chatter inside cut off abruptly.
Everyone turned to look at him, then pointedly looked away.
He was all too familiar with this reaction.
The Special Jonin in charge of registration looked up and saw him, his brow furrowing into a knot.
The expression wasn't one of relief, but of disgust, as if he were looking at sothing ominous.
"Kitahara... you're the only one again?"
"The squad was ambushed by the Sand; all mbers were killed in action," Kaede said, head lowered. "The captain covered my retreat, and I was luck—"
"Lucky?"
The Jonin slamd a palm onto the table, his voice suddenly rising.
"Three missions! Three full squads! Twelve people! And you're the only survivor—Kitahara, are you born to curse your teammates?!"
The tent fell into absolute silence.
Several resting shinobi subtly shifted their positions, moving half a body's length away from him.
No one spoke, but he understood their stares.
It was the way people looked at the source of a plague.
No one wanted to be the next unlucky soul assigned to his team.
Kaede remained silent.
What could he say? That he didn't survive on purpose? That he was simply better at playing dead than the others?
A coin purse was tossed onto the corner of the table; the Jonin didn't even bother to hand it to him.
"Your paynt. Seven days' leave. You'll be reassigned to a new squad in seven days. Now get out."
Kaede picked up the purse and weighed it in his hand.
"Thank you, sir."
As he walked out of the tent, the hushed whispers resud behind him.
"The third ti already... this guy is eerie."
"Don't put in a group with him. Whoever teams up with him is dood..."
The curtain fell, blocking out those voices.
Being treated like a jinx is hurtful the first ti and infuriating the second.
By the third ti, Kaede simply gripped the purse and tucked it into his shirt.
Living was more important than pride.
***
It was dusk by the ti he returned to Konoha Village.
People thronged the streets; there were lines at the dango shops, and a few girls erged from a dessert house, chatting and laughing.
Kaede looked down at himself—covered in blood and filth, looking like a rat that had crawled out of a sewer.
He didn't linger in the streets and went straight back to his apartnt.
He laid out all his belongings on the table and counted them twice.
Three missions' worth of pay, plus the seed money his parents left, plus the scraps hidden under his bedboards—
14,800 ryo.
On his way back, he had checked the prices at the tool shop.
A penetration-resistant chainmail vest made by the Takumi, the kind that could stop shuriken, cost 120,000 ryo.
He was short by nearly ten tis.
And in four days, he would be reassigned to the front lines.
This ti wouldn't be any better than the last three.
His reputation had already spread; not only did his teammates despise him, but even the Jonin in charge of assignnts probably wished he'd just die out there and not co back.
Next ti, he would likely be sent in the most dangerous direction.
Worse still, if he encountered a sensory ninja, his trick of playing dead would be completely useless.
He could suppress his heartbeat and hide his breath, but he couldn't fool a sensory type with the chakra inside his body.
When that happened, he wouldn't even be able to pretend.
He would actually die.
Kaede stared at the ceiling.
Fifteen years.
No Bloodline Limit, no fortuitous encounters, no golden finger.
None of the good things that usually happen in transmigration novels had fallen into his lap.
He closed his eyes.
Suddenly, a sound echoed in his mind.
[Ding—]
[Host's extrely strong desire for survival detected.]
[White Moonlight Simulator activated.]
Kaede snapped his eyes open.
A semi-transparent panel appeared before him, text scrolling down line by line—
[White Moonlight Simulator]
[Core Rule: The host will enter special instances to experience completely different lives. Within the instance, you must capture the heart of the target character and beco an unforgettable, indelible existence in their heart—a "White Moonlight."]
[Settlent Reward: After the simulation ends, the host can inherit abilities obtained during the simulation based on the evaluation grade, including but not limited to: physical enhancent, Bloodline Limits, ninjutsu, and chakra reserves.]
[Evaluations are graded as C, B, A, and S. The higher the grade, the higher the inheritance percentage and the more generous the additional rewards.]
[Core Evaluation Standard: Your weight in the target's heart.]
[Current Gift: x1 Free Simulation Opportunity. Subsequent simulations require corresponding monetary costs to activate.]
Kaede read every line twice.
His hands were shaking again.
But this ti, it wasn't from fear.
It was sothing he had almost forgotten, like a drowning man suddenly feeling the shore beneath his fingers.
A simulator that could inherit abilities.
Evaluation standard: your weight in the target's heart.
He froze for a few seconds.
"White Moonlight."
He knew exactly what those words ant.
It wasn't about sweet romance or lovers finally uniting.
A White Moonlight is the one who is desired but unattainable.
The person the other party can never forget and never let go of for the rest of their life.
Tailor-Made for Tragedy
A na that brings tears even in the dead of night.
A shadow that every future love would be compared to for the rest of their lives.
In other words—
It had to be tragic.
Deeply, agonizingly tragic.
The more heroic, more miserable, and more heart-wrenching the death, the higher the evaluation.
Kitahara Kaede remained silent for a few seconds.
Then, he smiled.
In reality, he was timid, always keeping his head down and playing it safe. He had no choice; in the real world, death was final. There were no second chances.
But in the simulator?
Death didn't matter.
In fact, he could return with rewards after he died.
He stared at the interface, his eyes gleaming with sudden intensity.
Good God.
Wasn't this practically tailor-made for him?
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