Boruto, now fifteen, set out on what was supposed to be a routine mission. Nothing special, nothing flashy—just the kind of errand that barely got his blood pumping. But halfway along the route, he froze. His hand patted down his pouch, his pockets, even inside his jacket.

No map.

“Great. Just great,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. He turned in slow circles, scanning the trees and paths, hoping for some landmark to trigger his memory. Nothing looked familiar. Every pine, every boulder, every winding stretch of dirt blurred together until he realized the truth: he was lost.

With a frustrated sigh, he picked what he thought was east and trudged forward, muttering to himself about how ridiculous this was. Minutes stretched into hours, the forest swallowing him up, until at last, a break appeared between the trees. A cabin stood there, old but sturdy, smoke curling faintly from its chimney.

Boruto blinked. Relief, suspicion, and curiosity tangled inside him. He approached the door and rapped his knuckles against the wood.

After a moment, it creaked open.

Standing in the doorway was a boy—about Boruto’s age, maybe a little older, though definitely taller. His frame carried the quiet strength of someone used to work or training, and his shadow fell across Boruto in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, eyes steady and cold, lips set in a firm line as if emotions were foreign to him.

He looked down at Boruto, silent, almost calculating.