Ninja Academy
Kaito Shiranami.
That was his name now—Kaito, meaning sky or soar, and Shiranami, meaning white waves. A poetic title, if a bit ironic for someone who kept his emotions locked down beneath still waters, a surface so calm it betrayed nothing of the churning depths within.
It had been six years since his bewildering rebirth into this world. Six quiet, meticulously calculated years.
He had learned the truth early on: his parents, lost to him in a memory that wasn't his own, were killed during the Nine-Tails' rampage. Tragic, perhaps, to most. But not to him. He had never known them. No faces to remember. No warmth to yearn for. Just an empty, perfectly symmetrical space where something like love should have lived. But it didn't. Not really.
By the time he was three, he understood the full, bewildering extent of the truth: this world wasn't his.
This was Naruto—a universe of chakra, of flamboyant jutsu, and of sudden, colorful death. He recognized the name of the Fourth Hokage. The distinctive red spiral on flak jackets. The symbol of Konoha carved into forehead protectors.
And the realization had almost made him laugh, a dry, bitter sound that never quite escaped his lips.
Of course. Of course the one time he was isekai'd, it would be into a world he barely knew. He'd only watched about ten episodes of the anime before life—his old life—had swept the rest away.
Grades. Expectations. That desperate, ugly ache to make his parents proud by erasing everything he loved. He'd given up drawing. Quit gaming. Traded joy for neatness and hand sanitizer. He scrubbed imperfections off everything—his test scores, his bedroom floor, his very skin.
But nothing was ever enough. Not for them.
"...Tch. Why am I thinking about this?" he muttered, dragging himself back from the persistent, unwelcome memory.
Steam curled around him as he stepped out of the shower, the warmth a fleeting comfort against the cold precision of his thoughts. Droplets traced thin lines down pale, unblemished skin. He wiped the mirror with a clean towel and stared into the glass.
Black hair clung to his face, wet and unruly, a rare moment of disorder. His eyes—dark enough to feel bottomless, reflecting no light—stared back at him with cold, clinical precision. Some people, based on looks alone, had mistaken him for an Uchiha.
He never corrected them.
Let them assume.
He stepped off the small steel stool beneath the sink and wandered back to his room, dressing quickly in his usual black attire. Dark colors didn't show stains.
Efficient.
A year ago, everything had changed. He'd discovered the inheritance left behind by his parents—10 million ryō. A staggering sum, far more than he had ever expected.
And that was all he needed.
He left the orphanage behind—the noise, the lingering filth, the children who chewed on half-eaten food like scavenging animals. He still remembered one boy gnawing on a leftover burger someone else had licked, the image turning his stomach.
So he did what he always did best.
He calculated.
Apartments in the Hidden Leaf ran around 10,000 ryō per month. Multiply by twelve months, add in food—Ichiraku Ramen was cheap, a reliable 350 ryō per bowl—plus clothes, hygiene products, necessary ninja tools, and books for self-study... the math was simple, precise, and reassuring.
By the time he turned eighteen, he'd barely burn through 6 million of it.
Plenty left for emergencies. Once he became a genin, mission pay would cover the rest, making him entirely self-sufficient.
With numbers to back him, an unassailable fortress of logic, he did the unthinkable for a child his age.
He requested a private audience with the Hokage.
Most kids would've been terrified, intimidated by the Sandaime's legendary presence. But Hiruzen Sarutobi had visited the orphanage often, a kindly, if distant, figure. Kaito remembered the old man once calling him "sharp beyond your years." It wasn't much—but it was enough of an opening.
He still remembered the way the Hokage had looked at him, one ancient brow raised in surprise.
"You want to live alone?"
"Yes," Kaito replied, his posture ramrod straight, every line of his small body conveying unwavering resolve.
"Oh?" A flicker of genuine curiosity in the man's wise gaze. "And how is that so, young Kaito?"
"My parents left me ten million ryō," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I've planned it out. Rent, food, necessities. I won't run out. And once I'm a genin, I'll earn income to sustain myself."
He recited the plan like a well-prepared report. Clinical. Unfeeling. A perfectly reasoned argument, delivered without a hint of childhood longing or fear.
The Hokage had watched him in silence for a long moment, a gaze that seemed to penetrate his carefully constructed facade.
Then, a soft sigh, not of defeat, but of weary acceptance. "Fine. You have permission. But ANBU will check in occasionally. For your safety. No arguments."
Kaito bowed, murmured his thanks, and left, the permission granted without a single emotional appeal.
That was a year ago.
Now, his apartment was spotless, every surface gleaming, every item precisely placed. He trained daily, a relentless pursuit of physical perfection. Studied nightly, devouring every book on chakra theory, jutsu, and Konoha history he could get his hands on. Ate exactly two bowls of Ichiraku ramen every evening, a precise and unchanging ritual. It was a life of structure. Quiet. Control.
After cooking breakfast—a simple, neatly portioned meal—he placed the plate on the table with deliberate care. He chewed in silence, his eyes sweeping the pristine kitchen. Chairs aligned perfectly. Counters gleaming. Every item in its rightful place.
Order was peace. Cleanliness, control.
He scrubbed the dishes clean when he finished—not just rinsed, but cleaned down to a molecular shine, an invisible film of purity. Plate, pan, sink. All gleaming.
Only then did he nod to himself, a small, internal acknowledgment of perfection achieved.
Today was important.
He had just turned six.
Today was the first day of the Ninja Academy.
He checked his appearance one last time: long-sleeved black shirt, fitted ninja pants that allowed for swift movement, light gloves. Not for combat. He simply couldn't stand accidental contact. Being touched felt like oil on skin, a microscopic violation he couldn't tolerate.
Outside, the village buzzed with a vibrant energy that always felt alien to him. Parents and children moved through the streets, voices light and full of excitement, a symphony of family connection.
He passed them like a shadow, careful not to brush too close, maintaining his invisible bubble of personal space. Eyes took him in. Some curious. Some dismissive. All, ultimately, ignored.
He arrived at the imposing gates of the Academy, still and composed, watching the other children gather, their youthful exuberance a stark contrast to his own quiet intensity.
Laughter. Hugs. Parental goodbyes that were both tearful and reassuring. He watched it all with the same cold detachment he always did, an anthropologist observing an unfamiliar species.
Then—
"Hey, child."
A woman's voice, soft and reaching, touched him, not physically, but with an unexpected warmth.
He turned slightly, his head tilting just enough to acknowledge her.
She stood nearby, holding the hand of a small boy. Beside her stood a tall man, arms folded, his expression stoic.
The woman's hair was straight and black, cut just below the shoulders, framing a face etched with gentle concern. She wore a dark purple blouse beneath a pristine white apron. Her eyes—soft and full of a kindness he didn't know what to do with, a warmth he hadn't experienced—rested on him with an unnerving tenderness.
Beside her, holding her hand, was a boy with spiky hair and dark eyes that held a nascent intensity.
Sasuke Uchiha.
And the man behind them—stoic, stern, proud, radiating an aura of quiet power—could only be Fugaku Uchiha.
"Yes?" Kaito said, his voice level, carefully neutral.
The woman, Mikoto Uchiha, stepped forward, hesitant but warm, a gentle light in her gaze. "Where are your parents? Are you here alone, little one?"
He hesitated only a second. The truth was simple, factual. "They're dead."
She gasped softly, a hand rising to her mouth. "Oh… I'm so sor—"
He raised a hand, palm forward, a universal sign of cessation.
"It's fine. I never knew them."
Her expression cracked, pure sorrow shining through her features. Her hand, instinctively, moved slowly toward his head, a comforting gesture, a desire to offer solace.
He stepped back instantly, his body tensing, every nerve screaming in protest. Her hand froze mid-air, caught between intention and his abrupt refusal.
"I have an aversion to touch," he said flatly, his voice devoid of apology or explanation. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
He turned without waiting for a response and walked toward the Academy gates, the buzzing crowd parting slightly around his solitary figure.
But he glanced back once.
Just once.
The woman looked stricken, her gentle features twisted in a mixture of sympathy and bewilderment.
The man, Fugaku, said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Kaito a beat too long, a hint of something complex in his dark eyes.
And Sasuke… Sasuke stared at him with quiet curiosity. Not judgment, not pity, but a raw, unadulterated interest that felt strangely, unexpectedly, like being seen.
Kaito turned away and entered the Academy.
Alone.
As always.