Life is just the coding of the universe. Everything that flies, walks, and squats in the mud is a scripted entity.
I woke with a headache that felt like an overeager intern had been practicing drum solos on my temples. The ceiling above me wasn't the popcorn-textured one from my apartment, but wooden beams, aged and slightly warped. Something was wrong with my body—it felt too light, too small, like I'd been compressed into a fraction of myself. When I lifted my hands to rub my eyes, I froze. These weren't my hands. They were tiny, unblemished by the papercuts and the sensation of carpal tunnel in my wrist that I'd earned over years of coding.
"What the hell?" I whispered, then flinched at the high-pitched voice that emerged from my throat.
I sat up too quickly, sending a fresh wave of pain through my skull. The bed beneath me was narrow and firm, the sheets thin but clean. Around me stretched a room with several other small beds, some empty, others containing sleeping forms that were disturbingly child-sized. A window to my left let in the soft glow of early morning, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air.
Looking down at myself, I saw a small body dressed in simple blue pajamas. I flexed my fingers, watching as the tiny digits responded to my commands. My arms were short, my legs barely long enough to reach halfway down the bed. I pressed my hands against my face, feeling soft, rounded cheeks instead of the stubble I was accustomed to shaving each morning.
"This isn't possible," I muttered, but the evidence was undeniable. I was in a child's body.
Fragments of memory flashed through my mind—sitting at my desk, debugging a particularly stubborn piece of code for our new 40K AA game "Cadia Stands", the smell of cold coffee, the harsh glare of my monitor at 2 AM. I remembered the product meeting where my team lead had praised my work on the new game interface. I remembered my cramped studio apartment, bills piled on the counter, takeout containers in the trash. I remembered being twenty-eight years old, not... five? Six?
The wooden floor creaked as I carefully lowered myself from the bed. My balance was off, center of gravity all wrong. I stumbled, catching myself against the bed frame. My muscles responded differently, weaker but somehow more elastic, as if they hadn't yet been trained into efficiency.
Another fragment surfaced—a manga open on my tablet, bright colors and dramatic poses, a story about ninjas with supernatural powers. Naruto. I knew that name, knew that world. But that was fiction, entertainment for my off-hours when code had fried my brain and I needed escape.
The floor was cold against my bare feet as I padded to a small, cloudy mirror hanging on the wall. The face that looked back at me was a stranger's—round cheeks, dark eyes too serious for a child, short black hair sticking up at odd angles. I touched my reflection, tracing the unfamiliar contours.
"Akira," I whispered, the name coming to me from somewhere deep in my new memories. "Akira Sato."
From downstairs came the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of something cooking. The smell of miso and rice wafted up, simple but mouthwatering. My stomach growled, this child's body apparently unconcerned with existential crises when breakfast was on offer.
I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. I was Akira Sato, an orphan in what appeared to be Konoha, the Hidden Leaf Village from the Naruto series. I had the mind and memories of an adult software developer from another world, somehow transplanted or reincarnated into this body. And if this truly was the world I thought it was, then chakra, ninja techniques, and devastating wars were all real here.
Just outside the room, children's voices echoed up a stairwell—some laughing, some arguing, the normal sounds of a shared living space. The orphanage. That's where I was. My new memories provided the label, though they were hazy on details.
I walked stiffly to the window, peering out at what I could see of the village. Buildings with curved, tiled roofs stretched into the distance, and carved into a mountainside were three enormous faces—the Hokage Monument. I counted them carefully. Three faces. That meant... I was sometime after the Third Hokage had been appointed.
My mind whirred with implications. If my fragments of memory from this body were correct, and my parents had died in the Second Shinobi War, then I was living in a particular window of Konoha's history. A dangerous time.
The door creaked open behind me, and I spun around, my heart hammering. An older boy stuck his head in, looking annoyed.
"Hey, you're up already? Hana-san says breakfast is ready. Better hurry before Takeo eats it all." He disappeared without waiting for a response.
I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as anxiety. Here I was, an adult mind trapped in a child's body, in a world where children were trained as soldiers, where supernatural battles could level mountains, where eyes could be weapons and foxes could destroy villages.
And I had no idea why I was here or what I was supposed to do.
I tugged on a simple set of clothes I found folded at the foot of my bed—dark blue shorts, a gray t-shirt, sandals that were clearly well-worn. As I dressed, I continued my mental inventory. If this was real—and everything from the cool floor beneath my feet to the distant sounds of village life outside suggested it was—then I had knowledge that could change the course of this world's history. Potential future tragedies I might prevent, lives I might save.
Or I could make things infinitely worse by interfering with events I only partially understood.
Another child ran past the open door, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. The smell of breakfast grew stronger, joined now by the sound of an elderly woman's voice calling everyone to eat.
I squared my shoulders, which felt ridiculous given how narrow they were, and took a step toward the door. Whatever had brought me here, whatever purpose I might serve, I wouldn't figure it out standing alone in this room.
"One step at a time," I muttered to myself, a mantra from my coding days when projects seemed overwhelming. "Debug as you go."
With that small comfort, I headed downstairs to face this new, impossible world.
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The kitchen was warm and smelled of miso soup and steamed rice, a homey contrast to the existential crisis churning in my mind. Children of various ages clustered around worn wooden tables, some sleepy-eyed, others already chattering with morning energy. Behind a long counter stood an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a practical bun. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, each line suggesting years of both smiles and sorrows. When she turned to set down a bowl, I noticed how she winced slightly, her movements betraying the arthritis that likely plagued her joints.
I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly conscious of how to behave. Should I line up like the other children? Sit down first? In my old life, I'd been confident navigating social protocols, but here, I was adrift.
The elderly woman spotted me and her eyes crinkled warmly. "Akira-kun, good morning. Did you sleep well?" Her voice was melodic despite its age, like a well-loved instrument that had lost some range but gained character.
"Yes," I answered reflexively, then added a small bow, which seemed to amuse her.
"Always so formal," she said, gesturing me forward. "Come get your breakfast. You're looking thoughtful today."
I approached the counter where she was ladling soup into small bowls. Her hands were gnarled but steady, marked with age spots and old scars. The apron she wore was faded blue, scrubbed clean but bearing the shadows of years of meals prepared.
"Thank you," I said, accepting the bowl she offered. Up close, I could smell a faint scent of herbal medicine beneath the cooking aromas.
"Hana-san," I ventured, testing the name that had surfaced from my new memories, "may I ask you something?"
The woman—Hana—paused, studying me with eyes that were surprisingly sharp given her age. "Of course, child. What's troubling you?"
I swallowed, trying to frame my question in a way a five-year-old might. "I was thinking about my parents this morning. I... don't remember them very well."
Hana's expression softened. She looked around at the busy kitchen, then gestured to a quieter corner. "Bring your breakfast. We can talk while I prepare the rice balls for lunch."
I followed her to a smaller preparation area, where a large bowl of rice waited. Hana began shaping onigiri with practiced motions, her fingers moving almost automatically.
"Your parents were shinobi," she began, her voice low enough that the other children couldn't overhear. "They served Konoha with distinction.
"They died during the Second Shinobi War," Hana continued, her fingers still methodically shaping rice balls. "It was about two years ago now. They were part of a squad defending our borders against enemy infiltrators." Her voice carried the weight of someone who had delivered such news too many times, the words practiced but not impersonal. "They were brave, your parents. They protected many people."
I nodded slowly, trying to process information that was simultaneously new and yet somehow familiar. The Second Shinobi War. My brain immediately tried to organize this fact into the timeline I remembered from my past life—a timeline that shouldn't exist as memory for a five-year-old orphan.
"Did they—" My voice caught, and I forced myself to continue, "Did they suffer?"
Hana's hands paused briefly in their work. Her eyes, when they met mine, held surprise at such a mature question, quickly masked by compassion.
"No, child. It was quick. They died as shinobi often do—protecting their teammates." She pressed a small indent into a rice ball, her weathered thumb leaving a perfect dimple for the pickled plum. "Your father was a sensor type, quite talented at detecting chakra signatures. Your mother specialized in earth-style jutsu. Together, they could find and neutralize enemy traps better than almost anyone."
My throat tightened unexpectedly. These people were strangers to me—and yet they weren't. Their blood ran in my veins, their genes had shaped this body I now inhabited. I felt an unexpected ache of loss for people I had never known.
"Do you remember them at all, Akira-kun?" Hana asked gently.
I shook my head. "Just... impressions. A laugh, maybe. The smell of earth after rain." I wasn't sure if these were actual memories or things my mind had conjured to fill the void.
The Second Shinobi War. If that had ended about two years ago, and I was approximately five years old now... My mind whirred with calculations. This would place me roughly in the period shortly after the war, when Konoha was recovering but before the Third Shinobi War erupted. Which meant the Nine-Tails attack was still years away. Minato wasn't yet Hokage—that would be Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third.
My pulse quickened. I was existing in a very specific window of Konoha's history. A dangerous time, but also one filled with possibility.
"Were they from Konoha originally?" I asked, picking at my bowl of rice.
"Your father was," Hana replied, setting completed onigiri in a neat row. "Your mother came from a small village near the border with the Land of Rivers. They met during a mission, or so the story goes." She smiled faintly. "They weren't famous shinobi, Akira-kun, but they were respected. Reliable. The kind every village needs."
Reliable. The kind of shinobi who didn't make it into the history books but kept the village functioning. Who died in a war that was just a background note in the story I knew.
My hands were steady as I ate, but I felt a heaviness in my chest, an uncomfortable weight that I recognized as grief—not just for my parents, but for all the countless lives that were mere footnotes in the grand narrative I remembered.
"You have your father's eyes," Hana observed softly. "Always thinking, always watching. He was like that too—quiet, observant."
I looked up, startled. "Did I... take after my mother in any way?"
Hana tilted her head, studying me. "Her determination, perhaps. She wasn't one to give up easily. And her kindness, though you hide it better than she did." She chuckled. "She wore her heart on her sleeve, that one. Your father used to say she had no poker face whatsoever."
The details made them real in a way that facts and dates couldn't. I tried to imagine them—a quiet, observant father and a warm, expressive mother. People who had created this body, who had hoped for my future before war claimed them.
"What would they have wanted for me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Hana's expression softened. "They wanted you to be safe and happy, Akira-kun. Like all parents do." She sighed. "Your father once told me he hoped you'd find work that challenged your mind. Your mother said she just wanted you to find people to love who would love you in return."
Simple wishes. Universal ones.
"Will I become a shinobi too?" I asked, though I already knew the likely answer in this world.
"That will be your choice when you're old enough for the Academy," Hana said, though something in her eyes suggested she knew what path most orphans took. The village supported those who served it. "You have time yet to be a child."
Time to be a child. The irony wasn't lost on me—a thirty-year-old mind trapped in a five-year-old body, being told to enjoy childhood.
A crash from across the kitchen drew Hana's attention. A small boy had dropped his bowl, soup spreading across the wooden floor.
"I should attend to that," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Finish your breakfast, Akira-kun. You can explore the grounds today if you'd like. Just stay within the walls."
As she moved away, I sat with my half-eaten meal, my mind racing with implications. The knowledge I possessed could change countless lives, prevent tragedies, reshape this world's future. But interfering could just as easily make things worse, create new problems, new suffering.
I stared at my small hands, these unfamiliar tools I now possessed. In my past life, I'd manipulated code, created software that made tasks easier. In this life, I might learn to manipulate chakra, to heal or to harm.
The Second Shinobi War was over, but the Third loomed in the future I remembered. The Nine-Tails attack, the Uchiha massacre, the rise of Akatsuki—all of it waiting like dominoes ready to fall.
And here I sat, a child with a bowl of miso soup, trying to decide if I had the right to tip the first domino in a different direction.
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After breakfast, I set out to explore my new home, moving through the orphanage with deliberate steps. The building revealed itself as a weathered three-story structure that had clearly seen better decades. Wooden floors, scratched and polished by countless small feet, creaked under my weight as I navigated hallways lined with faded paintings of pastoral scenes. I cataloged everything—the number of rooms on each floor, the locations of stairwells and washrooms, the patches where repairs had been made to walls and ceilings. Old habits from my developer days, breaking down environments into their component parts.
The first floor housed communal spaces—the kitchen I'd just left, a dining area, a modest library with books showing well-loved spines, and what appeared to be a classroom with low tables and cushions. The second floor contained dormitories, segregated by age and gender, while the third seemed reserved for staff quarters and storage. Everything was clean but worn, maintained with care despite limited resources.
Children populated these spaces like variable data filling predetermined functions. Younger ones played simple games of tag or pretend, their movements chaotic and purpose-shifting. Older children gathered in tight social clusters, their hierarchies evident in posture and speaking order. Some sat alone in corners with books or toys, their isolation either self-imposed or the result of subtle exclusion.
I watched it all with an intensity that felt out of place in my five-year-old body. Where other children moved through the world experiencing it, I dissected it, layering my observations against the backdrop of knowledge no child should possess. The caretakers noticed—I caught their curious glances, their whispered exchanges when they thought I wasn't looking.
"That Sato boy is strange, isn't he?" I overheard one say to another. "So quiet and watchful."
"Trauma affects children differently," came the response. "Some get loud, some retreat. Give him time."
They weren't wrong about the trauma, just its nature. How do you process being ripped from one existence and dropped into another? How do you reconcile an adult's understanding with a child's limitations?
I found my way to a side door that led to a courtyard—a generous rectangular space bordered by the orphanage on one side and a high stone wall on the others. A few trees offered patches of shade, their lower branches showing the wear of children who'd used them as climbing challenges. A sandbox occupied one corner, wooden play structures another. The ground was packed earth mixed with sparse grass—natural landscaping born of necessity rather than design.
The space hummed with activity. A group of girls played a clapping game near the sandbox, their hands moving in practiced patterns as they chanted a rhyme about kunai and shuriken—the militarized nursery rhymes of a shinobi village. Boys kicked a ball near the far wall, their game having no obvious rules beyond keeping the ball moving. Caretakers sat on benches, supervising while mending clothes or preparing teaching materials.
I moved to a quiet spot beneath one of the trees, leaning against its trunk and continuing my silent inventory. The wall surrounding the courtyard stood approximately twelve feet high—tall enough to keep children in but not designed for serious security. Beyond it, I could see the rooftops of neighboring buildings and, in the distance, the Hokage Monument with its three carved faces overlooking the village.
My attention shifted as a commotion erupted near the eastern corner of the courtyard. Voices raised in the universal tones of childhood conflict—taunting, defensive, angry. I straightened, focusing on the source.
Three children stood in a loose triangle—two boys, perhaps eight or nine years old, facing a girl whose back was to me. What captured my attention, what made my heart stutter in my chest, was her hair—a brilliant, vibrant red that seemed to catch and amplify the sunlight. It hung to her mid-back, straight and sleek except at the ends where it kinked and curled with a mind of its own.
"Tomato face! Tomato face!" one of the boys chanted, his face twisted in the particular cruelty children reserve for those who are different.
"Bet that hair's how enemy ninja spot your clan so easily," the other added with a sneer. "Like a target painted on your head."
The girl's shoulders tensed, her fists clenching at her sides. "Take it back," she demanded, her voice carrying across the courtyard with surprising force for her small frame. "Take it back or I'll make you sorry!"
I couldn't see her face yet, but I didn't need to. I knew exactly who she was. Kushina Uzumaki. Future wife of the Fourth Hokage. Mother of the series protagonist. Former jinchūriki of the Nine-Tailed Fox. A central figure in the story I remembered, standing here, alive and breathing and very, very angry.
My legs moved before my brain could catch up, carrying me closer as if pulled by gravity. My pulse pounded in my ears, my mouth gone dry. This wasn't like recognizing a location or a cultural practice from my memories of the story. This was a person—someone whose entire life arc I knew, whose future joys and tragedies I could foresee.
"What's wrong, tomato? Gonna cry?" The first boy reached out, tugging a lock of her hair.
That was his mistake.
Kushina whirled, and I finally saw her face—round with childhood softness but already showing the distinctive Uzumaki features. Her eyes were a striking violet, currently narrowed in rage. Her cheeks flushed crimson, nearly matching her hair, which seemed to lift slightly around her shoulders as if charged with static electricity.
"I SAID TAKE IT BACK!" she shouted, and then she moved.
For a girl her age—seven, maybe eight years old—she moved with surprising speed and aggression. She didn't slap or pull hair as girls in my old world might have done. She tackled the boy who'd touched her hair, taking him down with a form that would have impressed a rugby coach. They hit the ground with a thud, kicking up dust, the boy's surprised yelp cut short as the breath was knocked from his lungs.
Her hair seemed to float around her like living flames as she straddled his chest, one small fist raised. "My hair is red because Uzumakis are special! We're not 'easy targets'—we're the ones enemies should be afraid of!"
The second boy stood frozen, clearly reassessing his life choices as his friend squirmed beneath the furious redhead.
I stared, transfixed. The manga and anime had depicted Kushina's temper, her "Red Hot-Blooded Habanero" nickname, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. She was fierce and unapologetic, refusing to be diminished by their taunts.
The boy beneath her raised his hands in surrender. "Okay! Okay! I take it back! Your hair's not stupid!"
"Say it's pretty!" Kushina demanded, not relaxing her posture one bit.
"It's... it's pretty!" the boy stammered, his face red with humiliation.
"And say Uzumakis are awesome!"
"Uzumakis are awesome! Now get off me, you crazy girl!"
Kushina considered for a moment, then stood, brushing dirt from her knees with dignity that would have impressed a queen. "Remember that next time you think about making fun of someone," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
The boys scrambled away, trying to salvage their pride with muttered comments that they were careful to keep just out of her hearing range.
I realized I was staring, mouth slightly open, and quickly composed myself. But my mind was racing. Kushina Uzumaki was here, visiting my orphanage - at least for today. She'd come to visit her friend Hana, though her real home was with her Aunt Mito - another Uzumaki badass. If she was here, that meant Uzushiogakure, the Village Hidden in the Whirlpools, had already fallen in the war. It meant she was soon to be a jinchūriki, though few would know it. It meant I was standing in the presence of someone who would shape the entire future of this world.
And she had just noticed me watching her.
Kushina's violet eyes narrowed as she marched toward me, her earlier victory over the bullies doing nothing to soften her suspicious expression. She stopped barely an arm's length away, close enough that I could see the dirt smudge on her cheek from the scuffle. Her fiery hair tumbled over her shoulders, no longer defying gravity now that her anger had subsided.
"What do you want?" she demanded, hands planted on her hips. "Gonna make fun of my hair, too?"
I shook my head quickly. "No. I...I thought it was awesome how you stood up to those boys."
My voice sounded odd to my ears—too high, too soft—but I was getting used to it. The real challenge was sounding like a five-year-old while my thirty-year-old mind scrambled for the right words.
She studied me skeptically. "You're the new kid, right? The quiet one who just sits and watches everyone?"
"Akira," I offered. "Akira Sato."
"Kushina Uzumaki," she replied, lifting her chin when she said her clan name—a small gesture of pride that spoke volumes.
Kushina's gaze lingered on me, her skepticism slowly giving way to curiosity. The afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the schoolyard as we stood there, two unlikely allies in a world of chaos and childish antics. Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she quickly masked it with a defiant glare.
"Well, Akira," she finally said, a hint of warmth creeping into her voice, "if you're going to hang around, you better not be boring."
I nodded, a small grin spreading across my face. "Deal."
With a final nod of approval, Kushina turned and began to walk away, her fiery hair swaying like a living flame. I watched her go, feeling a sense of relief and exhilaration. Maybe, just maybe, I had found a friend in this strange new world.
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A/N: This is my first story that I am trying to properly proof and produce! Please let me know your thoughts or suggestions below! If you enjoy your read - leave a stone!! ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶
Release Tempo: 2 Chapters daily.
D-Cord: 65z8w4snys