Another Boring Uchiha Power Fantasy.

Mikoto had grown used to the hospital smell. Two years of battlefield medicine had burned the squeamishness out of her a long time ago. She walked the ward in the early morning, before most of the staff arrived, reading charts and laying her hands on the worst of the cases the front had sent home.

These were the ones the field hospitals had given up on. Too damaged to keep fighting, too damaged for the overworked camp medics to spend chakra on when there were savable soldiers stacking up beside them. They got shipped back to Konoha to either recover slowly or not at all. Most hospitals would have managed their pain and waited to see which way they fell.

Mikoto didn’t wait. She fixed them.

[Ding!]

[Weekly Sign-in available!]

[Signing in…]

[Obtained: Mystical Healing Field Jutsu!]

Name: Mikoto Uchiha

Age: 15

Rank: Jonin

Affinity: Lightning Affinity, Fire Affinity, Yin Affinity, Water Affinity, Earth Affinity

Unique: Immense Chakra Reserves, Sharingan (Three Tomoe), Advanced Growth Rate

Skills: Fire Style Mastery, Water Style Mastery, Lightning Style Mastery, Yin Style Mastery, Earth Style Mastery, Shurikenjutsu, Elite Taijutsu (Ninja Art: Bare-Handed Blade Block), Superb Genjutsu, Ninjutsu (Body Flicker, Clone Jutsu, Substitution Jutsu, Transformation Jutsu, Ninja Art: Shuriken Shadow Clone Jutsu, Amplified Summoning Jutsu, Shadow Clone Jutsu), Perfect Chakra Control (Chakra Enhanced Strength), Uchiha Style: Kenjutsu, Stealth, Survival Knowledge, Cooking, Medical Ninjutsu (Mystical Palm, Chakra Scalpel, Poison Extraction Jutsu, Body Pathway Derangement Jutsu, Regenerative Healing Jutsu, Mystical Healing Field Jutsu), Fūinjutsu Mastery (Sealing Jutsu: Release), Pedagogy Mastery, Space-Time Ninjutsu Mastery, Seven Heavens Breathing Method, Musical Talent, Craftsmanship Aptitude, Needle Mastery

Equipment: Kunai, Shuriken, Senbon, Smoke Bomb, Explosive Tags, Poison Gas Bomb, Flash Bomb, Gas/Sleep Bomb, Food Pills x84, Wire Strings, Shark Skin, Gunbai, Bingo Book, Fūma Shuriken x74, Hero Water x4, Superior Frying Pan

This jutsu was rather dangerous… An ordinary medical-nin would not be capable of performing this jutsu. Not only would they have to carefully control their healing chakra into healing multiple patients at once, they would also need the necessary chakra reserves to do so. Which is why Mikoto understood why this jutsu had yet to be invented yet… Perhaps only someone like herself or Tsunade could perform this jutsu.

She tested it that morning on a ward of light cases, shinobi with cracked ribs and shallow cuts. A green dome of chakra spread from Mikoto’s feet after she wove through hand signs. The dome encased herself and the patients. It cost far more than healing one person and the work was shallower, less exact; it would never close a severed artery or knit a shattered bone. 

But for a room of minor wounds, or a squad lightly hurt in the field, it did in a single motion what would take more time going from bed to bed. A battlefield tool, not an operating-table one. The deep work would always be done with the regular Healing jutsu. However, Mikoto had a hard time trying to think of a way this would be beneficial to learn to an average shinobi. It was too limited and too dangerous for the average medical-nin.

She moved on with her day in Konoha Hospital after writing down the jutsu and submitting it to the current Head of the Medical Corps. 

One of her first patients was a kunoichi named Hana, twenty-two, who’d taken an earth-spike through the gut. The camp medics had stopped the bleeding and kept her alive, but the damage to her intestines had festered for three weeks and the infection was eating her from the inside. By the time she reached Mikoto she was grey and sweating and counting her breaths.

Mikoto laid both hands on her abdomen and let her three-tomoe Sharingan show her everything. The cellular sight rendered the woman’s insides in full, the perforated bowel, the spreading rot, the blood gone thick with sepsis. She mapped it all in seconds.

Then she went to work.

Green chakra sank into the wound. She burned out the infected tissue first, cooking the bacteria where they fed, then knit the healthy edges back together cell by cell, coaxing the bowel to close and seal and remember its own shape. She flushed the poisoned blood, cleaned the lymph, rebuilt the muscle wall the spike had torn through. It took forty minutes and most of a morning’s chakra and when she lifted her hands the woman’s color had come back and her breathing had eased into something a lot better.

Hana wept when she woke. Took Mikoto’s hands and pressed them to her forehead and wept and said thank you, thank you, over and over, and asked how she could ever repay it.

Mikoto told her, ”Just keep living your life, please.”

The next one was a bit different. His name was Botan. A jonin, older, missing his left arm at the shoulder and most of the vision in one eye, the stump long since healed over by camp medics and the eye scarred white. He’d come in hoping she could regrow what he’d lost. He’d heard the stories. The Red-Eyed Angel could rebuild a man from the bone out.

She couldn’t ever do that. She wasn’t exactly sure where that rumor even came from. Not even Tsunade could regrow limbs. The man’s arm was gone, taken weeks ago, the nerve roots dead and reabsorbed. The eye was scar tissue all the way through. The healing jutsu and other medical ninjutsu similar to it had limits. And his body had already reached that limit when he first lost it. Maybe if she was there at the time and still had access to the arm, but now…

She sat on the edge of his bed and looked him in his one good eye and told him the truth, that she could ease the phantom pain and clean up the scarring and make sure the stump never troubled him again, but that the arm was not coming back, and neither was the eye.

He was quiet for a long time.

”I figured,” he said finally. ”Figured the stories were stories. Just hoped.” He looked at the ceiling. ”Got a wife. Two kids. Was a swordsman my whole life and now I’ve got no sword arm.” A breath. ”What’s a one-armed jonin good for?”

”Plenty! You could teach. Train the next generation. The academy needs instructors who’ve actually been to the war front. You could also serve as a jonin-sensei for some genin! Going on D-ranks and C-rank missions.” Mikoto rambled.

She did what she could and made him as whole as he was going to get. This was the part of the work nobody talked about. The wounds you couldn’t fix, and the conversations that came after.

Takeru was in the last bed by the window.

She’d read his chart: Eighteen years old. Chunin. Brought in nine days ago from the war, the sole survivor of a four-man squad caught in an ambush in the wetlands.

His body was a mess.

The right side of him had caught the worst of an explosive trap. The skin from his ribs to his hip was burned to a black-and-red crust that wept fluid through the dressings. Two ribs had punched inward and one had nicked a lung, which the camp medics had patched just well enough to keep him breathing. His right leg was shattered in four places, set crooked because there’d been no time to do it right. Wooden shrapnel still sat buried in the muscle of his thigh, too deep and too numerous for a field medic to dig out. Infection had set into the burns. He was running a fever that came and went.

And he was awake. Staring at the ceiling with eyes that didn’t track her when she pulled the chair to his bedside.

”Takeru,” she said. ”I’m Mikoto Uchiha. I’m going to help you.”

His eyes moved to her slowly. They took in her face, her youth, the red of her Sharingan.

”You’re the angel…” He noticed. His voice was a dry rasp. ”They were talking about you. The other beds. Said you put people back together.”

”The rumors exaggerate...”

”Don’t do it.”

She paused. ”Don’t?”

”Don’t fix me.” He swallowed. The motion looked painful. ”Leave it. Leave all of it. The leg, the burns, all of it. I don’t want it fixed.”

Mikoto set the chart down on the blanket. She didn’t reach for him yet.

”Can you tell me why?” she asked.

”Because if you fix me, I go back.” His jaw worked. ”That’s how it goes. They patch you up, they send you back to the war. And I can’t. I can’t go back there. I can’t.” The words came faster now, cracking. ”You fix this leg and in a month I’m standing in another forest watching another squad get torn apart and this time maybe it’s me, and you know what, maybe that’d be better, maybe I should’ve been the one who-”

He stopped. His good hand had clenched in the blanket.

”What happened out there, Takeru-san?”

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then it came out of him like a flood.

The ambush. Iwa shinobi waiting in the reeds. His squad caught in the open with nowhere to go. The squad leader, a man named Genta who’d taught Takeru everything, who’d had a daughter back home Takeru had met at festivals, screaming at him to run while the three of them fought. Takeru running. Takeru looking back. The explosive tags going off. Genta and the others swallowed by fire and mud so that Takeru could escape. He’d felt the heat of it on his back as he ran. The same blast that took the right side of his body had taken all three of their lives, and it had bought him the seconds he’d needed to live.

”They died so I could run…” Takeru said. The tears were sliding sideways down his temples into the pillow. ”Three of them. For me. And I’m nobody. A loser who can only run away... They had families. Genta had a daughter. And they’re ash in a swamp and I’m here in a clean bed and you want to fix me up so I can go do it again.” His voice broke completely. ”I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t deserve to be fixed. Let me keep it. The leg. Let me keep something that hurts. It’s the only thing that feels right.”

Mikoto listened carefully.

She knew this. Survivor’s guilt… Something she herself experienced before… She knew the weight of being the one who walked away.

”I’m not going to sit here and tell you it doesn’t matter, or that it wasn’t your fault, or that they’d want you to move on…” Mikoto said. ”Here’s what I’ll tell you instead. Genta and the others didn’t trade their lives for the version of you that’s lying in this bed wishing he’d died with them. They traded their lives for the man you could still become. That’s the only thing that makes it not a waste. Not whether you go back to the line. Whether you do something with the years they bought you. Anything. It doesn’t have to be war.”

Takeru was crying openly now. It shook his broken ribs and made him gasp.

”I’m going to heal you,” Mikoto said. ”All the way. The leg, the burns, the lung, everything. I won’t leave you broken, because leaving you broken would be me agreeing that you should be punished, and you shouldn’t. Carrying them is not the same as deserving to suffer.” She reached out and, gently, laid her hand over his clenched fist. ”But I’m not going to send you back to the line. Not like this. I’m going to write you up as unfit for active duty, and I’m going to send you to someone who can help with the part of you I can’t reach with chakra. A Yamanaka. They work with shinobi whose minds got hurt the way yours did. It’s real injury, Takeru. Same as the leg. It just doesn’t show on a chart often.”

”And then what…” He whispered.

”And then it’s up to you. After they’ve helped you, after you can breathe again, you decide. Stay a shinobi or don’t. Go back to the line or never pick up a kunai again. Nobody gets to make that choice but you. I’m just making sure you’re whole enough to make it freely, instead of having it made for you by a body too broken to argue.”

He turned his hand over under hers and gripped it hard.

”Okay…” He managed. ”Okay.”

”Okay.” She nodded.

Then she went to work, putting him under a peaceful genjutsu.

She started with the lung, because that was what would kill him first. The Sharingan showed her the nicked tissue, the slow seep of air and blood into the chest cavity, and she sank chakra in and sealed it, drew the fluid out, set the lung breathing properly again. He gasped as the pressure released, his first full breath in nine days.

The ribs next. She eased the inward-punched bone back out, regrew the cracked sections, felt them knit under her palms.

Then the leg, and the leg was the worst. She had to break it again to set it right. The camp medics had let it heal crooked and she could not mend it straight over a bad union, so she used the Chakra Scalpel jutsu for the old fractures and had the bone come apart again. She drew the shrapnel out of his thigh one piece at a time, twelve fragments of wood, each one tearing a fresh thread of blood as it came free. She pulled muscle back together over the cleaned wounds. She set the bone straight and grew it solid.

The burns were last and they were the longest. Black crust and weeping red, the skin cooked through to the fat in places. She burned away the dead tissue first, what was already lost, and the dead flesh sloughed under her chakra and the new smell was worse than the old one. Then she rebuilt it from underneath, layer by layer, dermis and then skin, coaxing his own body to grow what the fire had taken, until the black-and-red ruin of his right side was pink new skin, tender and raw but whole.

It took three hours. By the end, there was blood and dead tissue up to her elbows. She released the genjutsu, waking him to a body that worked again.

Takeru lay in the clean bed, breathing deep and steadily, his body returned to him in full. The wounds that would have crippled him gone. The years his squad had bought him no longer leaking out through burns and broken bone.

He looked at his own hand. Flexed it. Looked at the leg that worked. And he looked at her, and tears pooled around his eyes.

”Thank you…” he said.

”You’re welcome.” Mikoto told him, same as the first one. ”Talk to the Yamanaka. And keep living.”

She wrote the note before she left his bedside. Unfit for active duty until cleared by a qualified Yamanaka specialist in mental health. She signed it with her full name.

She washed the blood off her arms in the ward basin and went to teach.

…

The teaching room was full of medics, and every one of them was older than her.

Two dozen of them, ranging from fresh chunin to seasoned field medics who’d come in off rotation to sharpen their skills. They’d heard about the class and Mikoto’s reputation. They wanted to know what this little prodigy could teach them.

”Most of what you’ve been taught is technique,” Mikoto said, sitting on the edge of the desk at the front because standing made the height difference more comical than it already was. ”How to mold chakra for a healing jutsu. How to shape a chakra scalpel. How to draw poison. That’s the easy part. You can drill technique until your hands know it in your sleep.” She looked across the room. ”The hard part is the thirty seconds in the field when three people are bleeding and you have chakra for one and a half of them. Technique doesn’t tell you who to save. Judgment does. And judgment is what gets people killed when medics don’t have it.”

The room had gone quiet and attentive. A child telling grown shinobi things they hadn’t heard from their teachers.

”So we’re not drilling technique today. We’re drilling judgment. I’m going to give you situations I actually faced. Real ones, from the war. And you’re going to tell me what you’d do.” She let her eyes move over them. ”There are no trick answers. But your answer changes depending on what you can do. Some of you can extract poison, cut with a chakra scalpel, and heal. Some of you can do two of the three. Some only one. Some of you can’t do any of the three yet and you’re working with your hands and a field kit. All of those medics exist on a battlefield. All of them have to make the call. So when you answer, tell me which one you are first.”

She laid out the first scenario.

”Mixed squad, four shinobi, pinned at a collapsed bridge. Two wounded. The first took a poisoned senbon to the neck, paralytic, spreading toward the brain stem, he has maybe four minutes. The second has a severed artery in the thigh, bleeding out, he has maybe two. There’s still one enemy active, suppressed but not down, fifty meters out. You have moderate chakra, enough for perhaps two significant jutsu. The squad leader is screaming at you to do something. Go.”

Hands went up.

She pointed to a wide-shouldered man near the back, a field medic with some grey in his head who had to be three times her age. He didn’t seem to find it strange to be called on by a girl. The Red-Eyed Angel’s reputation had stripped the awkwardness out of the room before she’d said a word.

”I know all three medical ninjutsu.” He said. ”Artery first. He’s the two-minute clock. Clamp it with a scalpel cut and a tie to stop the bleed. Then the poison, extract it, that’s the bigger chakra cost but I’ve still got it. Enemy I leave to the squad.”

”Good,” Mikoto said. ”That’s the textbook answer and it’s right, with one thing to keep in your head. Extracting a neurotoxin that’s already in the brain stem is not the same as pulling it from a limb. By the time it’s near the stem, even a clean extraction can leave damage. So you stabilize the artery, yes, but when you go for the poison every second of hesitation is nerve tissue you don’t get back. You were right. Just know the second patient might not walk away the same even if you do everything perfectly. That’s not failure. That’s the poison.”

She pointed to a young kunoichi with her hand half up.

”Two of three. Healing and scalpel, no poison extraction.” The woman bit her lip. ”So I can’t pull the poison at all. I’d... clamp the artery, same as him. And then for the poison guy, I can’t extract it, so I’d cut. Open the wound at the senbon site with the scalpel and bleed it, try to flush the poison out the way it came before it spreads.”

”Better than freezing,” Mikoto said. ”And on a limb that might even work. But this one’s in the neck, near the spine, and cutting deep there to bleed a paralytic is as likely to kill him as the poison is. So here’s the judgment call you actually have. You can’t save the poisoned man. Not with your skill set, not with this poison, not in this spot. The honest answer is you save the artery, because you can, and you make the dying man comfortable and you do not throw away the chakra you need for someone you can actually save chasing someone you can’t.” She let that sit. ”That’s the hardest thing I’m going to teach you. Sometimes the right call is to let go of the one you can’t reach so the one you can reach lives. A medic who tries to save everyone usually saves no one.”

The room was dead silent now.

”None of the three,” came a quiet voice. A very young chunin, barely older than Nawaki. ”I can’t do any of it yet. Still working on my chakra control for the Healing Jutsu. Just a field kit.”

”Then you are the most important person in this room,” Mikoto said, ”because you’re the most common medic on any battlefield, and most of you will be this medic before you’re the other ones. So. No jutsu. What do you do?”

The boy swallowed. ”Tourniquet on the thigh. High and tight, above the artery. That stops the bleed without any chakra, just pressure and a strap. For the poison... I can’t do anything about the poison. So I’d tourniquet the one I can save and stay with him and keep the enemy off both of them however I can until someone with more skill arrives or we extract.”

”Yes.” Mikoto’s voice was warm. ”That’s exactly right, and don’t ever let anyone tell you the medic without medical ninjutsu is useless. A tourniquet has saved more lives in the history of war than every healing jutsu ever had. You don’t need chakra to be the reason someone goes home. You need to know what to do with your hands and the nerve to do it while everything is on fire around you.” She looked at the whole room. ”Skill changes your options. It does not change the job. The job is always the same. Save who you can, in the order you can save them, and carry the ones you can’t.”

She ran them through scenario after scenario. A cave-in with crush injuries and no light. A comrade impaled on a stake where pulling him off would kill him faster than leaving him on it. A poison you’d never seen before, and the brutal trial-and-error of building an antidote in the field while people died waiting for it. Each time, the same drill. Tell me what you can do. Now tell me what you’d do. She corrected the ones who reached past their skill into make-believe. She praised the ones who knew their limits and worked inside them. She told the truth every time about the gap between what she could pull off and what an average medic could, and she never once let them think her answers were theirs to copy.

Hours passed. The light through the windows went gold and then grey.

When she finally let them go, they filed out quieter than they’d come in, carrying something heavier and more useful than another jutsu. A handful lingered to thank her. One older woman took her hand and said she’d been a medic for eleven years and had never once had someone explain the triage of it, the choosing, and that she’d lost people because of it, and that she wouldn’t again.

Mikoto stayed after they’d gone, alone in the empty room, and was a little satisfied and tired at the same time.