Chapter 2 — The Night My Memories Awoke
For eleven years, I lived as an ordinary orphan in the Hidden Leaf Village — Konoha.
No clan.
No kekkei genkai.
Just another civilian-born boy trying to survive among children destined for greatness.
My mother died of illness when I was six.
My father, Yuto Hiwatari — a Chūnin-level swordsman — died on a mission when I was seven.
He left behind a small house, a little money, and his sword hanging quietly on the wall.
Yuva was a warrior from another old world, not a Naruto fan or transmigrator with knowledge of the series,
then he shouldn't know names like "Naruto," "Sasuke," or "Itachi."
He's just a person born in this world as Yuva Hiwatari, with the memories of his past life unlocking later.
So—he can know about Konoha, the Five Nations, or chakra from growing up here, but not from meta knowledge.
He wouldn't know those people exist unless he's met or heard of them in-world.
I grew up with that sword watching me.
At the Academy, I wasn't a genius, but among civilian students, I was the best.
My chakra control was good, my body steady, my endurance strong.
The teachers said I had potential.
But potential meant little in a world where bloodlines and destiny ruled.
That was my life — quiet and forgettable.
Until the night my soul remembered who I was.
---
It started with a whisper in the dark.
The village slept under the silver moon, but my eyes were drawn to my father's sword.
Something inside my chest pulsed — a strange ache, deep and familiar.
When I touched the handle, pain exploded in my head.
The world spun, and the air burned in my lungs.
Then came the visions—
Blood. Steel. Screams.
The feel of mud under my feet.
The rhythm of a sword cutting through flesh.
And at the end of it all… death.
I wasn't dreaming.
I wasn't seeing someone else's life.
I was remembering mine.
---
It wasn't reincarnation.
I hadn't stolen anyone's body.
I was born in this world as Yuva Hiwatari.
But deep within my soul slept an older life — a warrior's spirit that had lain silent for eleven years.
Now, it was awake.
When the pain faded, I was left trembling on the floor, gasping.
The room was the same, but I was not.
A farmer.
A soldier.
A bandit.
A swordsman who died standing.
That man — that life — was me.
---
Morning light crept through the window.
I sat up slowly, staring at my hands.
Soft. Small. Weak.
Nothing like the scarred, iron-hard hands I once had.
I lifted my father's sword.
The blade felt heavier than memory.
After a few swings, my muscles burned and my breath ran short.
> "So this is the body of an eleven-year-old…"
I muttered. "What a downgrade."
In my old world, I could cut trees, crush stone, and fight for hours.
Here, even a child with chakra could do that.
---
This was the world of chakra — the fusion of physical and spiritual energy.
It flowed through every living being, like blood within the soul.
When molded and released, it became power — jutsu, the miracles of this world.
The more chakra one had, the larger and stronger their jutsu could be.
It was both life and weapon.
The foundation of this entire world.
I learned that there were Five Great Nations, each ruled by a Kage, the strongest shinobi of their land:
The Land of Fire, protected by the Hokage.
The Land of Lightning, ruled by the Raikage, who commanded thunder.
The Land of Earth, led by the Tsuchikage, master of mountains.
The Land of Water, ruled by the Mizukage, hidden within endless mist.
The Land of Wind, led by the Kazekage, who commanded the desert itself.
Each Kage could fight entire armies alone.
Their power was something beyond human comprehension.
But there was one land that defied them all — a place that didn't rely on jutsu or bloodlines.
The Land of Iron.
---
The Land of Iron stood in the frozen north, surrounded by mountains and snow.
They had no ninja — only samurai.
Warriors who used chakra not for flashy jutsu, but to strengthen their swords and bodies.
Their art was called chakra flow — the ability to channel chakra into steel, giving it cutting power beyond any weapon.
The samurai were strong enough to stand against shinobi.
Their leader, Mifune, was a man said to rival even the Kage.
He wielded no jutsu — only sword and discipline.
Hearing of that place stirred something inside me.
In my past life, I had lived and died by the blade.
Here, in this world of chakra and jutsu, there was still a place where men lived by the sword alone.
Even Konoha had once honored swordsmen.
Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang of the Leaf — a man whose swordsmanship rivaled the Sannin.
He was said to be Kage-level in strength, a legend of his time.
But even he fell, not in battle, but to the cruelty of whispers and shame.
He died by his own hand, a tragedy that burned deep into the soul of every swordsman.
If even men like Mifune and Sakumo could carve their names among monsters who spat fire and summoned storms —
then perhaps there was still a path for the sword.
He was six years older than Naruto Uzumaki and Sasuke Uchiha.
The same age as Itachi Uchiha.
While they were just beginning to live, I had already lived and died once.