The sun had not yet risen over the hills of the Land of Fire when the first caws of the crows pierced the gloom of dawn. In the forest's depths, among twisted roots and evergreen leaves, stood the ancient stronghold of the Nara Clan: a cluster of dark wooden structures rising like silent shadows amidst the mist. There, in a modest room with rice paper walls and a still-smoking brazier, a child barely a year old opened his eyes with a lucidity unbefitting his age.
"Where... am I?" he asked—not a baby's vague impression, but a complete, adult, and unsettling thought.
He had died. He remembered it with overwhelming clarity. In his previous life, he had been a young man from the modern world, obsessed with battle anime—especially Naruto. He could recite every arc, every jutsu, every Shinobi war. Ironically, his death was pathetic: an electric shock caused by a storm while gaming. Then, only darkness. Until now.
When he raised his small, trembling hands, he knew he had been reborn. Not as an Uchiha or a Senju, but as a Nara. He knew it because the servants whispered it every day: "The third son of Lord Shigemori-sama, Shikaku-sama."
A name that, in his former world, belonged to the brilliant father of Shikamaru. But this was not the same Shikaku. He was a child—an old soul trapped in an age of iron and blood: the Sengoku era.
Here, the ninja villages did not yet exist. Clans fought endlessly, and betrayal was daily bread. At that age, he had already witnessed the funeral of two cousins who had died in an Uchiha ambush.
But he did not cry. Because he was no longer a child.
The years passed, and little Shikaku grew like a shadow among the clan's trees. Quiet, observant, always in the background of his brothers. His father, Shigemori, was a stern leader who believed only the strong deserved to live. "The weak are the forest's compost," he often said.
Kenji, the eldest, was the ideal shinobi: talented, disciplined, a genius of shadow arts. The second, Hotaru, was charismatic, a natural diplomat who united clans with words more than strength.
Shikaku, on the other hand, was the "unnecessary" son.
"Don't expect to inherit anything," his father told him at age five. "But if you manage to survive... then maybe, just maybe, you'll be a useful tool."
It wasn't cruelty. It was the reality of a world where a child without talent was simply a corpse in waiting.
But Shikaku didn't give up. Because though he had no natural talent for ninjutsu, his mind was different. He remembered strategies, chakra theories, abilities that didn't yet exist in this era. He knew about Madara, Hashirama, the wars to come. He knew how the villages would be formed, which clans would perish and which would prosper.
Above all, he knew he had to survive.
So while his brothers trained with seasoned jonin, he asked the servants to teach him to read basic sealing scrolls. He copied techniques he saw from afar. He observed animals, hunting, and the clan's internal politics. He became a specter among his people—always present, never the protagonist.
One of those nights of secret reading led him to a forgotten scroll in the clan archives. It was old, moldy, almost illegible. It spoke of an ancient legend—an "Eclipse of Shadows" that would appear every century to consume the world's will. It claimed that only a "child born without destiny" could contain it.
Shikaku chuckled quietly.
"As if it were that easy..."
At eight, he received his first mission: to escort a Yamanaka clan herbalist through a bandit-infested zone. A veteran chunin, two genin, and himself went.
Only he returned alive.
The bandits weren't normal. They were... something else. Their eyes were empty, as if not human. One muttered before dying:
"You... are the Herald of the Void..."
From then on, Shikaku began to have nightmares. In them, creatures made of black smoke spoke in non-existent tongues. One had eyes covered by bandages. Another was a boy playing a bone flute. A woman with a twisted smile offered him a mirror that reflected nothing.
In every dream, a figure loomed in the background: a man of black fire with a cruel gaze. "Free me," he said. "Your shadow belongs to me."
By age ten, Shikaku learned to use the shadow possession technique. Not like his brothers, who used standard hand seals. He shaped it differently—his chakra responded better to silence, intent, instinct. One night, without any seals, he stopped a wild boar's heart just by staring and extending his shadow to its throat.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered.
He began to fear himself. His techniques didn't need hand signs. He could absorb other people's shadows. He even began to notice that the shadows he took... whispered to him.
He started avoiding them. Sleeping with lights on. Walking only under the sun.
And so came the night of his twelfth birthday.
The clan celebrated modestly. Not out of love, but because one of its most "useless" sons had managed to survive past ten. His father looked at him from a distance. His mother offered him sake for the first time. His brothers barely acknowledged him.
But Shikaku wasn't interested in celebrations. That night, he slipped away from the main hall and entered the forest.
Something was calling him.
It wasn't a voice. It was a feeling—an echo from the earth. His steps led him to an ancient sacred cave, hidden beneath the roots of a millenary oak.
There, at the center, was a broken mirror. It had no reflection.
He touched it.
And the world changed.
An explosion of darkness enveloped him. But it wasn't evil. It was familiar. As if a thousand voices from other worlds whispered into his ear at once. He saw fragments of other warriors—one with a black cloak that devoured all in his path; another with a dragon of black fire; another who summoned shadow beasts with a flick of his fingers.
He felt something unlock inside him. As if a door sealed since birth had finally opened.
A voice echoed within him:
[DIMENSIONAL SHADOW SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Welcome, Bearer of the Eclipse.
Multiverse Shadow Synchronization: 1%... 5%... 15%...
Shikaku dropped to his knees.
"What... are you...?"
Your heritage. Your curse. Your only chance to survive.
The shadow beneath his feet rose—not as a silhouette, but as a living creature. With eyes. With fangs. With promises.
Shikaku, for the first time in this life… smiled.
Because he understood he was no longer just a Nara. He was a bridge between worlds. A living anomaly.
And the ninja world would never be the same again.