Corpse Collector of Konoha

Chapter 58: Home Sweet Morgue

The journey back to Konoha felt like the world's most anticlimactic victory lap. Qifeng trudged alongside the convoy of wounded soldiers and body bags, half-expecting an ambush that never came. Apparently, Ohnoki had decided to play the waiting game—how refreshingly predictable of him.

The old Tsuchikage had positioned his forces in the Land of Waterfalls like chess pieces on a board, content to let the other villages make the first move. Smart, Qifeng thought grimly. Let everyone else bloody their noses first.

Back in Konoha, the familiar routine beckoned. First, the obligatory debrief with Nara Chuuichi and the other survivors in the Hokage's office—where he'd undoubtedly downplay just how close they'd all come to becoming fertilizer. Then, blissfully alone, he returned to his sanctuary: the morgue.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Most people found comfort in their homes, their families, their beds. He found it among the dead. At least corpses don't stab you in the back while you're sleeping.

The morgue had become crowded during his absence—a macabre game of Tetris with human remains. War had a way of streamlining bureaucracy, even the burial kind. Gone were the elaborate funeral rites; in came efficiency. Most of the dead would find their final rest in Konoha's Heroes' Garden, their names etched into stone for posterity.

How touching, Qifeng mused, watching relatives weep over flag-draped bodies. Nothing says 'your sacrifice mattered' like budget-friendly group burials.

The families seemed to buy into it, though. Through their tears, he could see that stubborn pride, that conviction that their loved ones had died for something greater. It was almost enough to make him believe in the propaganda himself. Almost.

A week later, under cover of darkness, Qifeng's latest creation emerged from Konoha's undergrowth. The human puppet moved with unmatched grace, its lifeless eyes the only betrayal of its artificial nature. No headband, no unnecessary emotion—just a tool perfectly suited for unsavory tasks.

The puppet's destination: the abandoned Senju compound, where weeds now grew through the cracks of what was once Konoha's most prestigious clan grounds.

From gods among men to forgotten ruins in two generations, the puppet observed with clinical detachment. Impressive speedrun, really.

The Senju clan's integration into Konoha had been their masterstroke and their doom. While the Uchiha maintained their prideful separation, the Senju had dissolved completely into the village's fabric. Now, with Tsunade carrying diluted blood and no surname, and Nawaki rotting in some unmarked grave, they were effectively extinct.

Hashirama's grand vision: equality through erasure.

Qifeng had read the conspiracy theories about Sarutobi Hiruzen orchestrating Nawaki's death, but he'd dismissed them as the paranoid ramblings of internet theorists. The Third Hokage might have been many things, but he wasn't stupid enough to murder his own student's brother. That would require a special kind of sociopathic calculation that came later in life, after power had properly corrupted.

Still, someone had certainly benefited from the Senju clan's convenient disappearance.

The puppet's earth-style jutsu made short work of the compound's underground defenses. What security remained was laughably inadequate—wartime had stretched Konoha's resources thin, and who would bother guarding empty ruins?

Besides, Qifeng rationalized, it's not like grave robbing is unprecedented in this world. Between the Edo Tensei and various resurrection techniques, corpses get more action than some living people.

The search proved frustrating. No convenient burial plots, no obvious graveyards. Just as he was about to call it a failed experiment, inspiration struck.

Of course. Why bury your most important dead when you can build them a shrine?

Deep within the compound's heart, past stone tablets chronicling generations of Senju-Uchiha violence, the puppet found what it was looking for: a sealed stone coffin radiating that distinctive black aura only super-kage-level corpses possessed.

Senju Tobirama, the man who'd invented half the jutsu that made modern warfare possible, was apparently taking a very long nap behind several tons of rock.

Well, Qifeng thought as his puppet prepared to desecrate one of Konoha's most revered figures, there goes another moral boundary. At this rate, I'll be completely amoral by Thursday.

He'd told himself he had principles once. They'd been dropping like flies ever since he'd arrived in this world. First the "no killing" rule, then "no experimenting on people," and now "no grave robbing."

Principles are like underwear, he mused darkly. Once you start changing them regularly, you realize how arbitrary they were in the first place.

The puppet's hands moved to break the seals, and Qifeng couldn't help but laugh at his own hypocrisy. Here he was, about to violate the eternal rest of a legendary shinobi, and his biggest concern was the philosophical implications.

At least I'm self-aware about being a terrible person. That has to count for something, right?

Right?