Leaving the Uchiha compound was like stepping from a cage of familiar pressures into a vast, open-air abattoir. For Indra, whose world had been defined by clan politics, strategic battles, and the immense, personal power he wielded, the world outside was a brutal, unfiltered education in the true cost of the shinobi system.
His journey began with a purpose: to find a secluded place of immense natural energy to hatch the cosmic egg and train in Sage Mode. But the path itself became his real training ground.
The first village he came upon wasn't a village anymore. It was a smoldering ruin. The air was thick with the smell of charred wood and something far worse—the sweet, cloying scent of burnt flesh. His Six Eyes, which could see the flow of chakra, were instead assaulted by the stagnant, black pools of Cursed Energy that clung to the place like a shroud. There were no combatants left, only the aftermath. An old man, his eyes hollow, sifted through the ashes of what was once his home. A child, no older than Rai, sat weeping silently beside the body of her mother, a victim of a stray fireball jutsu meant for a rival shinobi who had long since moved on.
Indra stood at the edge of the devastation, his white hair a stark contrast to the grey ash falling around him like snow. He was a shinobi. He was part of this system. The power he cherished, the skills he honed, were the very same that had created this scene of absolute desolation. A cold knot tightened in his stomach.
He moved on, and the scenes repeated, each one a fresh brand on his soul. He saw fields salted by earth-style jutsu, ensuring famine for the coming winter. He saw wells poisoned by rogue ninja to deny resources to enemies, killing civilians who had no part in the conflict. He saw a small trading post where a minor dispute between two merchant clans had escalated, both sides hiring low-level shinobi who turned the streets into a charnel house.
The hatred for shinobi was palpable. In the eyes of the surviving civilians, he saw not awe or respect, but pure, undiluted fear and loathing. When he approached a hamlet to ask for directions, the doors were slammed in his face. Children were hurried inside. He was a predator in their eyes, a bringer of death, no different from the ones who had destroyed their neighbors.
One evening, as he took shelter in the shell of a bombed-out temple, the words of a movie from his previous life echoed in his mind with the force of a divine revelation. 'With great power comes great responsibility.'
Uncle Ben's simple, profound advice to Peter Parker. Here, in this world drenched in blood, it felt less like a moral guideline and more like a damning indictment.
Power without responsibility, he thought, staring at his own hands—hands that could split the earth and resurrect the dead. That is what we have become. We shinobi wield the power of demigods, but our morality is that of rabid dogs. We use this absolute power not for productivity, not for protection, but as the simplest tool to solve our hatreds, to continue our endless cycles of vengeance. We are killing the world, and in doing so, we are killing ourselves.
He thought of the main storyline of Naruto. The Child of Prophecy. The dream of peace. It was a beautiful dream, but looking at the scale of the hatred festering in the land, he saw its fatal flaw: it took too long. It required generations of suffering, immense personal sacrifice, and a near-apocalyptic event to even begin. And even then, in the Boruto era, the hatred persisted, mutated, and new, cosmic threats emerged that they were barely equipped to handle.
Masashi Kishimoto was right, Indra mused, a bitter taste in his mouth. The answer does come from understanding, not fear. But the price for that understanding is paid in oceans of blood. And I… I am not his creation. I am not bound by his narrative. I am a living soul, reincarnated, with foresight he never intended. My destiny is in my own hands.
This realization sparked a shift in his journey. His goal of finding a training ground remained, but his path became meandering. He could not simply walk past the suffering.
When he found a village being terrorized by bandits—former shinobi who used their skills to prey on the weak—he did not turn away. He didn't announce himself as an Uchiha. He was simply a wanderer. He moved among them like a ghost, his movements a blur. The bandits, boasting and drunk on their own cruelty, found their throats slit, their hearts pierced, their bodies disintegrated by precise applications of Fire Style, before they even knew they were under attack. There was no glory in it. It was pest control.
He then stayed. He used his immense chakra and mastery of Earth and Water Styles to help rebuild shattered walls. He used his knowledge, gleaned from simulations and his Six Eyes' analysis, to teach them better farming techniques, to purify their water. The villagers, initially terrified of him, slowly saw that his power was a tool for creation, not just destruction. They saw him heal their sick with a touch, using a refined version of the mystical palm technique that felt more like a blessing than a jutsu.
He didn't stay long. A week, sometimes two. But in each place, he left behind not a legend of a fearsome warrior, but a story of a silent, white-haired helper. A phantom of mercy in an era of demons.
He killed, yes. He hunted down missing-nin who used genjutsu to enslave entire communities. He eradicated a cell of shinobi who were kidnapping children for unspeakable experiments. Each life he took was a cold, calculated decision. He felt no pleasure, only a grim necessity. He was pruning the rotten branches so the tree might live.
Weeks turned into months. The constant exposure to the world's raw, unfiltered agony was a grinding weight on his spirit. The cosmic egg, constantly fed by the Cursed Energy he purified, pulsed warmly against his chest, a counterpoint to the coldness settling in his heart.
One day, deep within an ancient, silent forest untouched by war, he found a small clearing bathed in a pillar of sunlight. The natural energy here was thick and vibrant. It felt… clean. He sat in the lotus position, the egg placed before him, and finally allowed himself to meditate not for training, but for solace.
He let the images flow through him. The burning villages. The hollow eyes. The children he had saved, and the ones he had arrived too late for. The bandits he had erased. The grateful smiles of the people he had helped.
And then, it happened. Not a flash of light, not a thunderous voice. It was a quiet, profound settling. An enlightenment.
It wasn't the esoteric, cultivation-style enlightenment of ascending to a higher plane. It was a brutal, honest understanding of his own existence, his place in the world, and the nature of the power he held.
Who am I? The question echoed in the stillness of his mind. I am Indra Uchiha. I am John Pendragon. I am a man who has known love and loss across lifetimes. I am a being of immense power in a world drowning in weakness.
What do I want to do?
The answer came, not as a shout, but as a quiet, unshakable truth.
I will change this world for the better.
He opened his eyes, looking at his hands, hands that had dealt both life and death.
Maybe I can never wash the blood from these hands. Not now, not in the future. The path to peace is paved with the bodies of those who would destroy it. But on my deathbed, in my last moment, my only wish will be this: that the number of people I saved is greater than the number I killed.
A profound acceptance washed over him. I am not Hitler, seeking to purge the world. But I am also not Jesus, turning the other cheek. I will bring peace, but it will be a peace forged in fire and defended with steel. It will be a heavy burden, the heaviest one can bear. But I will bear it.
Leaving the insulated world of the Uchiha had shown him the truth. Death was easy. A quick release. But living? Truly living in this world, with your eyes open to all its beauty and all its horror? That was the toughest challenge of all.
I took the coward's way out in my first life, he admitted to himself, the memory of John's suicide no longer a source of shame, but a lesson. I gave up. But life, in this world or any other, is precious. It is a flickering flame in an infinite darkness, and its brief, brilliant burn is what gives the universe meaning.
A new resolve, warmer and more enduring than the cold fury of the War God, filled him.
So, I will enjoy this life. I will help others to the utmost of my ability. And when I receive help, I will not grow lazy or entitled. Because time waits for no one. We cannot sit and wait for a messiah to save us. We are the ones who must push ourselves to change the world.
He looked around the sun-drenched clearing, at the vibrant, pulsing life around him.
Humanity… it is a beautiful creation. Whether by god or cosmic coincidence, we possess something unique: the ability to reflect, to empathize, to envision a better tomorrow. We have a sixth sense that other creatures lack—the sense of potential, of morality. And we must use that sense not to oppress, but to help. To move forward, not alone, but together.
With this enlightenment solidifying his core, Indra Uchiha knew his path with absolute clarity. He would continue his journey. He would hatch the egg. He would master Sage Mode. He would return to Tōka, to his clan, not just as a more powerful weapon, but as a true leader, a philosopher-general armed with a vision forged in the crucible of the real world. He would build a peace that understood the price of violence, a future that honored the sanctity of every single, precious life. The weight of his power was immense, but he now shouldered it not as a curse, but as a sacred responsibility. The game had begun, and he was no longer just a player; he was re-writing the rules.
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