Fanficbased on Naruto (by Masashi Kishimoto) and Bleach (by Tite Kubo). This is a fan-made story with no official affiliation. The content is shared as part of the creative rewards on my Patreon.
sorry for the delay, things came up, I will be writing chapter 19 for patreon after such a long time, and thanks to those who continue to support.
-------
Previous Chapter
Not long after, her eyelids grew heavy.
Sleep and exhaustion slowly wrapped around her.
And just before drifting off, one last thought passed through her mind like a whisper:
"I'm sorry… Mom."
--------
The sun had yet to fully rise when the cool Kumogakure breeze brushed across the slate rooftops, carrying with it the soft murmur of morning.
Yoruichi slowly opened her eyes, brushing off the last traces of sleep. She stretched like a cat, arms reaching toward the sky, a long yawn slipping from her lips.
She had slept well. Her body was grateful after the intense training from the day before.
Turning to her side, she saw Denji fast asleep next to her, mouth slightly open, mumbling unintelligible words in his dreams. With a soft smile, Yoruichi gently ran her fingers through his hair and pulled the blanket back over him.
With quiet movements, she slipped out of bed. She wore her bunny pajamas—a little baggy, but comfortable.
She crossed the room with light steps until she reached the bathroom.
Climbing onto a small stool in front of the sink, she leaned forward to reach the mirror. She splashed cold water on her face and began brushing her teeth.
"Today... is my first day at the Academy," she whispered to herself, watching her reflection closely.
She said she wasn't nervous—but that was a lie. She was. Much more than she wanted to admit.
This wasn't just any day. It was the beginning of her true ninja path. A turning point. A before and after.
She dried her face with a towel and looked into the mirror again.
She was changing.
Every day, she felt a little more like herself… like the real Yoruichi. Though not identical—more like a younger version of the younger version of Yoruichi Shihōin.
Her dark violet hair hung messily just above her shoulders, a few wild strands refusing to stay in place.
But her eyes were the most striking.
Large, golden like carved gemstones, with perfectly round pupils. But if you looked closely, near the feline iris, there was a faint reddish hue—like a heartbeat of fire.
They weren't quite the same as her namesake's. No. If anything, they looked more like Makima's.
Eyes that didn't just see—but analyzed. That observed with an almost unsettling calm.
She leaned in, nose to nose with her reflection.
"Do I have a power?" she wondered for the tenth time.
She'd tried everything: chakra flow exercises, concentration drills, even techniques she'd found in her father's scrolls.
Nothing.
She'd even asked him directly.
She asked if there was any history of dōjutsu in their family. If maybe there was a trace of ocular abilities in their bloodline.
But Denji only shook his head.
"No, Yoru... Most likely, it's just a mutation. A lot of jinchūriki children have them, from exposure to the bijū's chakra."
Even he had gone quiet for a moment, with a doubt she hadn't caught at the time.
"Maybe it's how your brain connects to your pupils... and how they, in turn, connect to the Two-Tails' chakra. But hey... it doesn't seem to be a problem. Aside from maybe being a little intimidating."
"Though your eyes are beautiful, sweetheart..."
Shaking off her thoughts, Yoruichi climbed down from the stool and headed back to her room to get dressed.
-----
As Yoruichi finished getting dressed, Denji began to stir beneath the sheets. Half-asleep, he reached a hand into the air, like he was trying to catch a thought still slipping through his dreams.
"Mmm… Yoru?" he mumbled groggily, voice thick with sleep. "You're up already?"
"Yeah, Dad," she called from the hallway, zipping up her jacket. "Today's the big day, remember?"
Denji sat up in bed, still caught between dream and reality.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a mix of tenderness and nostalgia—the kind of look only a parent can give, when they realize time is quietly stealing their little one away.
"Of course I remember. How are you gonna start your Academy life without your champion's breakfast?"
"You don't have to, Dad. I can just grab something on the way…"
"No way!" he said, raising an eyebrow like it was a military order.
"Your first ninja meal has to be made by your father. That's the rule."
He got up fast, and in the blink of an eye, he was already wearing a kitchen apron.
Yoruichi rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling.
Seeing her dad in an apron, hair a mess, cooking like it was a battlefield reminded her of a certain yakuza-turned-househusband from a manga she'd read in her past life.
While Denji moved between pots and pans, she watched him fondly.
"Nervous?" he asked, not turning around, stirring something with a wooden spoon.
"A little," she admitted. "Everything's so new… but I'm excited too."
"That's good. Fear keeps you alert. Excitement keeps you alive. With both, you'll go far," he said as he plated a couple of onigiri and an omelet.
A simple meal—but made with love.
Yoruichi watched him quietly for a few moments.
What she admired most about her father wasn't his strength, or the war stories carved into his back.
It was his way of always making her feel present.
Seen. Protected. Heard.
It might've been embarrassing for any reincarnated soul to admit it—but Yoruichi couldn't help it. This childhood—so new, so warm—was soaking her in emotions she thought she'd buried long ago.
And even though that old voice inside her—that hardened, disciplined part—kept saying not to get attached, that attachment was weakness… she couldn't help it.
She loved him.
And it was okay to love.
Even if sometimes she felt ashamed of crying, of being fragile, of acting like the little girl she now was. Even if her old soul demanded logic and stoicism, in this moment, she was just a beloved daughter.
And he—who cared for her so deeply—didn't deserve a daughter who hid behind a mask of toughness out of pride.
"Thanks for being here, Dad," she said suddenly, with a quiet smile.
Denji froze. His hands hovered over the pan, as if her words had frozen time.
Then he smiled, ruffled her hair gently, and replied:
"Always. Until you don't need me to be."
They ate together in a comfortable silence.
Outside, the village began to stir.
Sunlight painted the clouds and rooftops orange, as the distant hum of Kumogakure came to life.
When she was done, Yoruichi slung her backpack over her shoulder, checked for the fifth time that she had everything, and walked toward the door with a determined stride.
"Yoru!" Denji called out before she crossed the threshold. "Are you sure you want to go down this path?"
She turned slowly. She knew exactly what he meant, even before he said it.
"Yes, Dad… I'm sure."
Denji hesitated. Silence crept in between them like a tense shadow, until finally, in a rare moment where his voice trembled with honesty, he spoke:
"You don't have to, you know?" he said softly. "I can protect you. You don't need to risk your life to be worth something. You could open a shop… study art… fall in love… live in peace. Be happy. Be free."
Yoruichi lowered her gaze for a moment, as if his words had touched something deep inside her.
Then she looked up, straight at him. Her golden eyes—so much like her mother's—shone with a mix of fire and tenderness.
"Dad…"
She stepped toward him. She didn't need to explain everything. He already knew.
But even so, she said it—clear, steady, without a tremble:
"I'm going to be a shinobi. That decision isn't going to change. It's who I am."
Denji clenched his fists, battling something stronger than fear: a father's instinct.
He wanted to shout. To beg her not to do it. To tell her that the shinobi life wasn't a dream—it was a sentence.
Missions that distort the soul.
Decisions that break the heart.
Loneliness. Death. Rain. Blood.
He wanted to tell her he had walked that path, and he knew the cost all too well. That talent wouldn't make her invincible.
That even prodigies bleed.
That even heroes cry in silence.
He knew she was one in a million.
A star born to shine.
But before she was a kunoichi… she was his daughter.
And he—before being a shinobi—was her father.
And so, because of that unconditional love, because of the pain he swallowed like slow poison, Denji didn't forbid her.
He didn't shout.
He didn't hold her back.
He just looked at her, eyes full of everything he couldn't say, and replied in a soft voice:
"All right."
Yoruichi looked at him for another second, as if burning his image into memory.
Then she smiled—one of those smiles that comes from the soul—and shouted as she ran out the door:
"Love you, Dad!"
Denji was left alone in the silence. And though his chest burned and his eyes ached, he didn't cry.
Because his daughter had just chosen her path.
And he… had just let her fly.
----------
POV: Yoruichi
The morning wind brushed against her face the moment she stepped outside.
It was cool, laced with the pure breath of the mountains and full of life: the sound of the village waking up, the scrape of brooms on the sidewalks, the soft murmur of shops just beginning to open.
Yoruichi took a deep breath.
Her heart was racing—not from exertion, not from the cold.
From excitement.
Every step brought her closer to the Academy.
To that gate marking the threshold between who she'd been… and who she was about to become.
The true beginning.
She knew what was coming.
She had read it. She had lived it. She had felt it in another life… through a screen.
She knew of wars that hadn't yet begun. Names that weren't legends—yet. She knew of the Hidden, from that grotesque being Black Sperm, to a millennia-old "Monk."
She knew that a certain toad had trained three orphans, and that two years ago, he had let them go. She also knew that those same orphans, each carrying their own pain, would one day change the ninja world forever.
She knew that not even the strongest of them, nor the brightest, could stand against He-Who-Is-Not-Named. The one with many eyes. The one whose very presence unraveled the illusion of the Divine.
In front of him, they were what they had always been: mere mortals.
She even knew the non-canon. Menma Uzumaki. Mecha Naruto.
She saw beyond the veil so many claimed to understand. Where others found fantasy, she found truth.
Raw. Undeniable. Hidden in plain sight.
And with all that knowledge on her shoulders, she understood something deeper: the life of a shinobi wasn't a glorious epic. It was a constant battle against oblivion, against trauma, against oneself.
And still—she smiled.
She leapt over a puddle with the ease of someone who had made movement an art form. Her steps were agile, almost choreographed, as the first market stalls stirred to life around her.
She bowed respectfully to an old man sweeping the sidewalk. She answered with a smile to the children calling her name, their laughter bouncing like happy echoes through the morning.
Her purple hair danced in the wind.
Short. Defiant. Free.
Like her.
Like a small, stubborn flag that refuses to bow to the weight of fate.
Not even her own brain—that intimate traitor, full of doubts and shadows—could stop her.
Because her deepest truth was simple: she didn't fear the future.
And not because she didn't know its darkness. She did. She had studied it. Walked its halls and come out scarred. It wasn't numbness. It was choice.
For the first time—in years, maybe in her whole life?—she walked by her own will.
And she was full of hope.
Not that naive hope of someone who's never lost.
Not the blind faith of someone who's never been broken.
This was conscious hope. Chosen. Forged from rubble. Polished with tears. An inner fire that burned even when the world turned to ice.
Every step, every silence, every detour… was hers.
It didn't matter if the sky turned red.
Or if the moon grinned with an empty smile.
Or if a tree tried to devour the earth.
Or if "they" were watching from the stars.
Not even if a savior came to rescue them.
She would keep walking.
Because she was Yoruichi.
And she was ready to shine.
Even if no one saw her.
Even if she had to do it alone, in the dark.
"Let's go…" she whispered, lips barely curved, as the silhouette of the Academy rose before her, framed against a clear, blue sky.
Her fingers closed tightly around the pendant hanging from her neck. A relic. A memory. One of the few traces she had left of her mother.
She stepped through the gate without looking back.
And in that instant, without witnesses or ceremony, his journey began.
The real
--------------------------------
End of chapter 14- Arc 1
--------------------------------
We have officially just finished arc 1, kicking off the third Shinobi world war arc, which will last until the end of the war and the birth of naruto.
I decided to change the end of arc 1 so that this is the end. It is better. Now, without further ado, officially begins the arc of the third Ninja World War, and I am grateful to all who joined during these days. I sincerely thank you.