Michael, who was immersed in a deep sleep, felt an abnormally pulsating pain in his abdomen, as if someone were trying to run him through with a dagger. No, it was more like hundreds of needles were stabbing his liver.
Ugh... In his stupor, Michael tried to turn over, open his eyes, and sit up; however, a terrible pain shot through his entire body.
It feels like I ate something expired. I should turn over so I don't choke on my own vomit. Was it the fish?
Michael, who was no stranger to food poisoning, did his best to gather some strength to turn onto his side.
However, he was still muddled; he couldn't muster even an ounce of willpower. His thoughts felt like stagnant, chaotic currents.
He opened his mouth, hoping to draw in some air. But he felt a knot form in his throat. For the first time since waking, he managed to open his eyes.
Ripples. Ripples were moving across the ceiling of his room. His vision was blurry, and his eyes were watering.
The next thing he felt was bile rising in his throat. He barely managed to turn his head, avoiding splashing himself with his own vomit.
The incorporeal bonds that had incapacitated him were released. The pain in his abdomen slowly subsided, allowing him to gather some strength to get up.
However, when he managed to stand, the world around him began to spin. Unable to keep his balance, he collapsed back onto the bed.
Accepting his helplessness, he remained seated, waiting for his world to stabilize. The whitish light of the moon illuminated the room, but he felt a strange sense of disorientation.
He looked at the old-fashioned television, which reminded him of the one his grandfather had, especially the knobs he used to play with, changing the channels at random.
His gaze slowly shifted to the right, where there was a wooden shelf. On it sat a rectangular radio, its antenna retracted.
Did I come to visit my grandfather?
Michael couldn't remember if he had traveled the day before. But that might explain his nausea and vertigo.
Next to the bed, there was a nightstand. On it, he could see a red clock with two bells on top. The long hand pointed to the six, while the shorter one was between the three and the four.
He ran his finger across the nightstand; inspecting it, he found it was covered in dust. That was strange. His grandfather lived with his aunt, and she was a very tidy person, bordering on obsessive about cleanliness.
Why are my hands so small? Were they always this way?
Looking at them closely, he noticed they were smaller and paler than he remembered; meanwhile, his knuckles were more swollen and had a reddish tint.
He got up from the bed, his legs barely able to support his weight. They were like jelly, wobbling and on the verge of collapsing.
He needed to hydrate; he felt very disoriented. The world was spinning, and all he wanted to do was throw himself back in bed, but he refused to succumb to the temptation and walked to the door.
He skirted his vomit and reached the red door. Opening it, he saw a small hallway. In it were two doors: the one in front of him, he knew, led to the kitchen, while the one on his right was the bathroom.
He entered the bathroom. In front of him, he could see a window that didn't allow a view of the outside. To the left of the door was the sink, and on it was a glass with a disheveled red toothbrush stained with toothpaste.
Before his gaze could rise to the mirror, his body slumped over the sink. He turned on the tap and drank water as if it were a divine gift.
He wiped his mouth with his arm, his world seeming to stabilize little by little. He supported his weight with his palms resting on the sink and slowly lifted his head toward the mirror.
The reflection he saw was not the one he expected. A boy with blond hair and blue eyes stared back at him. He had the feeling of seeing his reflection, but he knew that wasn't him. But the most worrying parts were his purple lips, pale skin, and bloodshot eyes.
"This must be a dream," he said in a low voice. He tried to console himself, but everything felt too vivid and realistic to be a dream.
How can a person end up like this? Did he suffocate in his sleep?
The skin that was as pale as a ghost began to regain its color, his lips recovered their red hue, and his eyes returned to their natural color.
Astonished by the sudden recovery, he stepped back in fright; however, he forgot that his legs were still weak.
He fell to the bathroom floor with a dull thud, leaving his backside sore from the impact. It took some effort to get back up; however, when he finally managed, the boy's reflection was still there.
Michael couldn't help but frown as he inspected the reflection; it was abnormally familiar. The spiky blond hair, the sea-blue eyes, and the round-featured face.
He felt like he had the pieces of the puzzle; however, he was unable to find the pattern to solve it.
Unable to solve the mystery, he decided to explore the apartment. He wanted to go back to bed and wake up in his bed and his apartment, but he was all too aware that he wouldn't be able to sleep no matter how much he wanted to.
To his misfortune, the entire apartment was terribly dirty. As a university student, he had already seen all kinds of filth in his classmates' apartments, but this... this was undoubtedly the worst.
It wasn't just the dust on the furniture or the vomit in the bedroom. The kitchen floor was sticky, a disgusting rotten smell came from the refrigerator, there was a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, and the plants were dry and almost dead.
The bathroom was, all things considered, clean; there were only some leftover stains from soap use.
However, the bedroom was the worst area; it wasn't just the nauseating smell of vomit. The sheets had sweat stains from repeated use. Mountains of clothes could be seen scattered throughout the room.
There was a door that led to the balcony, which was quite clean compared to the rest of the apartment. Only the floor was dirty from accumulated dirt.
Under the bed, he found three boxes. He put his hand into one of them. However, he quickly withdrew it upon feeling a sharp object. Looking at his finger, he saw a small, shallow cut.
With nothing to disinfect the wound, he limited himself to washing his hands and applying firm pressure to the cut on his finger.
He continued searching, only in areas where he could see clearly, learning from his past mistake. Fortunately, he found a wallet. Opening it, he came across an identification document.
The document was rectangular and rigid. On it, he could see a photo of the boy. He had a side-to-side grin, and his eyes practically sparkled. To the right of the photo, the boy's details were written in what he believed to be Japanese; he could see numbers that he thought were the identification number and date of birth.
However, the characters that were previously incomprehensible began to make sense in his head. Unwilling to lose this unexpected gift, he hurried to read the boy's name aloud:
"Naruto Hakaze."
The document, which he had been holding firmly just a moment ago, slipped from his hands as if it were liquid.
The face, the hair, the eyes, the apartment, and the name... Everything he had seen but couldn't connect, joined together, forming the border of the puzzle. However, he still couldn't complete it; he knew who Naruto was, but he didn't know where the last name Hakaze came from.
C-could I have transmigrated?
Michael had read web novels and fantasized about the subject. However, he found it difficult to accept the situation when he was living it.
A shiver ran through his entire body, from head to toe, followed by a string of curses that, if either of his parents heard, they would wash his mouth out with bleach.
He was well aware of who Naruto Uzumaki was: the son of the Fourth Hokage, the jinchuriki of the Kyubi, and the child of prophecy. However, he also knew that Naruto's father had made enemies in every hidden village, there was an organization of Kage-level ninjas looking for him, and he did not have the damned "Talk-no-Jutsu."
But none of that mattered. His biggest problem was that he was Naruto Hakaze. He didn't know if that implied the same level of danger... or an even greater one.
"There is no greater fear than the unknown." The quote jumped directly into Michael's mind.