Darkness gave way to light in literally a second. Anatoly didn't even have time to be frightened. He couldn't understand what was happening around him. Some noises, blurs, a flurry of motion. The man didn't feel his own body either, only knowing that it existed.
And then he fell asleep, and he slept for a long time.
The dreams seemed delirious to the teacher. In them, he saw himself from the side, at the moment he was struck on the head with a stone. At the same time, a clear realization came to him that he would have died from such a blow.
Or did he really die?
Odd… — the thought beat like an alarm. Or was it someone's voice?
Dreams came and went. They carried no new information; they simply… were. The man watched them, participated in them, sometimes just existed within them. The dreams blended into one large, long kaleidoscope in which the simple mathematician understood nothing.
At least, this wasn't hell.
Sometimes the dreams would recede, leaving him to blurry spots and muffled, indistinct sounds. When something was first brought to his mouth, which he could clearly feel, the man's mind rebelled against the incomprehensible actions, but his body yielded to them on its own.
That's how he began to eat.
After some more time of dreams and their retreats, Anatoly realized that he had become… an infant!
It was hard to believe, but the fact remained — the forty-three-year-old man had suddenly become a tiny baby, and the strange "something" offered to his mouth was none other than a woman's breast!
In a state of mild culture shock, the teacher spent some more time in the flurry of dreams and the blurs that followed.
Then his vision and hearing began to improve. Then he could fully feel his body, confirming that he had indeed become small.
Uninterested in religion, he nonetheless understood that what had happened was the so-called "Rebirth" that Buddhists spoke of. The mathematician's sharp mind suggested that the word he had heard almost immediately after his "death" was somehow involved in his rebirth with memories of his past life.
Odd… An odd death? An odd rebirth? Or an odd soul? There were no answers, which made him want to shake his head violently in the hope that he would wake up. That he would break free from all this nonsense and find himself back on the path to his home, lying with a smashed head and bleeding out. But even shaking his head violently was impossible.
Then apathy set in, and the "man" simply observed everything, as if from the outside.
His sight and hearing improved, and he realized he had been born into a small, traditional family — a father and a mother. The surroundings were somewhat… outdated. As if he had been transported to the past. There was also a certain "Japanese" spirit in the air. However, the appearance of his "parents" suggested otherwise.
His mother was a pleasant-looking woman of about thirty with a completely normal eye shape. Loose clothing, a melodic voice, and short hair — that's how he remembered his mother.
His father was a tall (though now everyone was tall to him) young man, who looked much younger than his mother. His standard attire was dusty and, in places, patched gray robes with armor thrown over them. This man somewhat resembled the samurai from pictures on the internet, but he carried no sword — only strangely shaped knives and classic "throwing stars," like a ninja's. They were also called shuriken.
The house (the part the child could see) turned out to be small but cozy. The small wooden structure, nevertheless, easily accommodated three residents without feeling cramped. When guests came, personal space became a bit of an issue. Especially for the "teacher," whom everyone and anyone tried to cuddle as if he were a soft toy or a cat.
"I'll make a note of that..." the reborn man thought lazily, wriggling his arms and legs. "...in my next life, I want to be big right away. Now I think I understand why kids want to grow up so fast..."
"Sensoma! Sensoma…" his mother called him.
The former Anatoly thought that they could have given their only son a more decent name, but he didn't protest openly because he couldn't. He also constantly reminded himself that he was no longer Anatoly. Now he was Sensoma Tomura — a little boy in a small family. The firstborn and long-awaited son.
The firstborn and long-awaited son of the Tomura family was unaware of what was happening in the world around him, and in that world, a war was raging…
The Sengoku Jidai — an era of battles and wars between small states and the clans they hired. In the world the "teacher" had fallen into, power ruled, and that power was on the side of the shinobi.
Shinobi, or ninja, were outstanding warriors who excelled in all areas of combat. Their distinguishing feature was the ability to use their special internal energy, which they called chakra. Chakra was a special kind of energy that appeared in most people inconspicuously and was not pronounced, connecting the body and spirit of its owner. The lucky ones whose chakra was more pronounced than most became shinobi.
They were capable of amazing things! Shooting fire from their mouths, destroying mountains with their fists, walking on walls and water… Skilled shinobi could be compared to demons, and the greatest — to Gods.
Sensoma's father, Shiro Tomura, was one of these shinobi. The Tomura clan was a small village of seven houses. They didn't have the same lineage as the Senju or Uchiha — clans considered the strongest — so shinobi appeared very rarely among the Tomura. Besides Shiro, there were only three other chakra users in the clan at the time, and all of them were much weaker than average warriors.
But even the weakest shinobi could fight hundreds of ordinary people, and so the Tomura clan was still hired by various countries or larger clans to carry out "missions."
Espionage, assassinations, sabotage. The fate of small clans in such a world was unenviable, because to live, you had to take on jobs, but in doing so, you could cross someone much bigger. And that's what happened when little Sensoma turned two years old.
The "teacher" didn't know how much time he had spent in his new body, but it was definitely more than a year. His little legs had already started to support his body, and his overall functionality had become more serious. The language, however, was not coming along…
During his entire "childhood," Sensoma progressed very quickly physically but couldn't start speaking, which worried his parents. However, the problem wasn't the baby's underdevelopment, but the fact that the reborn man constantly thought in Russian, so he found it harder to accept the new language than a normal infant. This local language was difficult, and the teacher had never been good with foreign languages. He only knew English, like any self-respecting intellectual of the twenty-first century.
But by the age of two, the boy could communicate tolerably well with his parents, who had gotten used to their child's way of speaking. It was distinguished by the fact that Sensoma used a strictly limited vocabulary but could explain almost anything with it. The neighbors marveled at this strange aspect of the child but didn't meddle with advice for the young mother — it was useless, as the child was stubborn.
During all this time, so as not to go mad from boredom, besides studying the local language, the "teacher" played chess against himself, solved simple calculus problems, and simply thought. Judging by his father's remarks (which he could understand) — a war was going on in the world. A long and brutal one, but one that people had grown accustomed to. It worried Sensoma, but…
For some reason, he felt a sense of anticipation. In his past life, he had loved to fight, and now, after two years, his appetite for it had not disappeared. It was clear that he couldn't do much in a two-year-old's body, but that didn't diminish his "desires." War… in his previous world, that word was terrifying and in no way associated with the fights he enjoyed. The war of "his world" was dirty, unfair to the nature that gave man fists and feet.
The war here, however, was exactly what he loved. Except for the incomprehensible "ninjutsu, taijutsu, and genjutsu" that his father had mentioned. His father was also a warrior, but he kept his son far away from it, although it was clear he was waiting for something. Every month, Sensoma was given a special piece of paper for a few minutes and then it was taken back, and so far, his father had not gotten the result he wanted.
And one day, an explosion thundered…
"Sensoma!" his mother burst into his little room, which his father had recently built. "Under the bed! Quickly!"
The man in the boy's body obediently complied with his mother's request. Absolutely silent. He understood they were under attack and needed to hide. He'd seen it in movies, and besides — it was obvious. Though hiding under the bed wasn't very reliable.
"Whatever happens, Sensoma, don't come out from under there! Understood?!" his agitated and frightened mother bent down to see her son.
He was stone-faced calm, having made himself comfortable under the bed and taking up surprisingly little space.
"There's enough room for you here," he patted the floor with his small hand. "Go."
The woman smiled through her tears. Her son was a kind soul and a very smart boy. He would surely survive and become a happy person. For that, she could die.
"Goodbye, my son," the mother whispered and ran out the door.
From there came her screams, his father's roar, the clang of iron, and the rustle of clothes. Someone shouted, "Fire Style!" or "Jutsu of…"
To sit under the bed while your parents are being killed… The teacher didn't consider his "mom" and "dad" to be his real family, and his parting with his real family in the past world hadn't been very happy — he had buried his mother a couple of years before his own death, and he had fought with his father and never saw him again right after the funeral. But, be that as it may, these people had raised him and treated him like a son!
Rushing to the door, the boy froze right in front of it. If he opened it, he could die. And for what? The Tomura clan, it seemed, was already dead. Was there any point? There were definitely warriors on the other side of that door. He didn't know their goals, but he assumed they were enemies.
And enemies are to be fought.
Dashing back to the bed, the boy climbed onto it and ran across it to the balcony. His father hadn't had time to install a window, so sturdy boards blocked the path to escape, but he didn't need that. On the balcony, Shiro Tomura had left a hammer and a hunting knife when he was fixing the boards in his son's room. That's what the boy had come for.
Now they wouldn't kill him right away. Maybe they wouldn't even get close. Sure, he was a little kid, but he could still successfully stab an enemy if they let their guard down!
Something bubbled and boiled inside his body, and then it was filled with some incomprehensible energy, the likes of which the teacher had only felt in street fights. What was this? Was he so eager to fight? But no — this energy was different from that one, though not by much. And today it was overflowing his entire body, threatening to break free!
Twice as fast as usual, the boy rushed to the door. His sharpened hearing caught footsteps behind it, so when the handle turned, he was ready.
A powerful and incredibly high jump for a small child threw the reborn man right into the face of the surprised warrior. He was very young — about twenty — but his dark clothes were stained with blood, and it seemed to the teacher that even his eyes were burning crimson. A swing! His father's knife quickly approached one of the killer's truly red eyes!
But then from the darkness of the hall, where the bodies of his parents were visible, flew a similar strange knife to the one his father had. Shiro called them "kunai."
The accurately thrown piece of iron knocked the weapon out of the boy's hand, and he himself, with a cry, was thrown back to the bed, hitting it painfully on landing.
"The chakra coil has ignited," the one he had attacked said thoughtfully. "And so fiercely — I've never seen so much chakra in someone this young. My Sharingan saw his attack, but an ordinary ninja would have died."
Sensoma didn't understand the last sentence, as he got stuck trying to translate the word "Sharingan." He didn't know it. He had only heard it a couple of times.
"Hey, Izuna! Do I have to do everything for you?" a second warrior, who looked very much like the first, burst into the small room.
Aristocratic features — the guys were very handsome, young, flexible, and slender. They wore long black hair and cloaks to match. The one who entered later had a huge fan of unknown purpose on his back, and the first (who looked a little younger) had a sword.
"Don't be so loud, older brother," the one called Izuna smiled. "I knew you would help me."
"He knew," the second one grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "What are we going to do with the boy? Leave him, or…"
The first one crouched down right in front of the little boy and asked with interest, "Do you want to live, Tomura?"
The teacher calmly nodded, understanding that nothing much depended on him here anymore. It wasn't the first time he'd died.
"Do you know that your chakra has awakened?"
"N-no," Sensoma answered uncertainly. "This feeling in my chest? Chakura?"
"It's pronounced 'chakra'," Izuna chuckled, standing up. "The Uchiha won't kill capable children. We'll give him to the orphanage near the clan, and we'll see — if the Coil develops, we'll take him for training. If not — let him stay in the orphanage."
"He almost killed you," the older of the assassins threw, looking at the boy with dislike.
"Ex-act-ly!" the younger one smiled and flicked his serious comrade on the forehead. "It would be foolish to waste such talent. He has as much power in him now as a four-year-old Uzumaki, or your friend — the Senju."
"He's not my friend," the other one frowned even more. "Whatever, fine. We're taking him."
The teacher definitely didn't want to be a toy in the hands of these warriors, and his gaze kept falling on his parents' bodies. He didn't feel sorry, but wasn't that bad? That they were killed, and that he didn't feel sorry? Or was it normal? But to resist the decisions of the people who had killed his family in this world… was foolish.
"Hey, kid, move it!" the older one snapped irritably.
"Calm down," his brother replied. "He won't keep up with our pace anyway, so."
Stepping softly, he instantly appeared behind the teacher, who had only had time to blink! Another moment, and his consciousness faded as his body felt a light but skillful chop to the neck.
He woke up in the orphanage. In a bed, in a shared dormitory.
What had happened was so unexpected and spontaneous that Sensoma needed time to think. He didn't close his eyes all night.
The next morning, the matron — a portly woman in her forties — introduced him to his new family. From her, the boy learned that he had been brought in the arms of two young heads of a powerful clan living not far away. They had instructed her to watch over him, but without fanaticism, and to report when anything unusual happened.
Sensoma liked the new environment better. Even though the constantly noisy, chattering children could infuriate even a Buddha, in their company, the former teacher felt less lonely. The death of his family hadn't touched him deeply, but grief for the good people still gnawed at him. The children helped him to distract himself.
In his first year at the orphanage, Sensoma managed to become famous among all the orphans. The thing was, they found out about his chakra. And this event was more important than many holidays! Though… in a different way.
"A shinobi's son!" the older kids would hiss, kicking the boy when the matron wasn't looking. "A monster!"
"You'd better die here! You'll die in the war anyway!"
"You should have died with your parents!"
However, they never managed to kill him. Even though he was only three, he could already fight on equal terms with the seven-year-old "louts." Thanks to his chakra, of course. A couple of times the kids managed to beat him up badly, but shinobi recover much, much faster than ordinary people.
Sensoma himself felt like a mutant among these orphans. A monster. An adult in a child's body and with chakra that, according to Izuna, exceeded the usual amount for his age by almost six times!
The Uchiha visited the orphanage twice a year — to check on Sensoma and the other kids. But there were no results — the Coil had stopped flaring up and was now growing like a normal "gifted" child's. According to the clan's scholars' estimates, his chakra level by the age of fourteen would be below average. His physical energy was growing, that was undeniable, but only like a normal child's, even a little worse. With his spiritual energy, things were very tight. It wasn't growing at all.
Only Sensoma himself, who had overheard the conversations (and had finally learned to speak normally), had a rough idea of the root of the problem. His chakra had appeared when the spiritual energy of a forty-three-year-old man merged with the body of a two-year-old boy. Obviously, his "spirit" wasn't growing — it was already too high, but the boy had never specifically developed his body. He didn't really need to, with the chakra.
After these conclusions, young Sensoma began to remember the training from his past life, thankfully he had never complained about his memory and hadn't forgotten anything in four years. Yes, exactly four years — the Uchiha clan had given up on the boy after the second year since his family's death. The boy himself was soon to turn five, but no one knew about it, not even he himself. After all, he celebrated his birthdays with his family without a calendar in hand. And even then — he had only celebrated once.
The orphan life didn't oppress the former teacher. The only inconvenience was his own age! Even now, the boy could fight on equal terms with the oldest children in the orphanage (ten-year-old boys), thanks to his chakra, but he couldn't develop in any other way.
He had heard that clan children's training began at six, or even earlier. Orphanage children were simply thrown into the big world at ten. But he wanted to act already at four.
"He eats like everyone else, sleeps like everyone else, but he doesn't play at all," the matron reported to a tall man with a tired face. He could have had that expression after a hard journey, but the experienced woman knew that all the men in the Nara clan walked around with such a look, as if they were about to fall down and fall asleep from boredom. "He barely talks to the other children either. In the first six months, he did somehow, but then, when they found out he was a shinobi's son, that was it," she clapped her hands. "Hostility. The kids beat him up badly. A couple of times almost to death. You can't keep an eye on everyone…"
"And what did he do?" Shikogeru Nara asked, almost indifferently.
This experienced shinobi had been brought here by the winds of a mission, and the fact that the Uchiha clan was nearby didn't bother him. The Nara clan got along well with all the other clans, giving special place to the Akimichi and Yamanaka. This trio was rightly considered a formidable force, so no one would mess with them without need. And Shikogeru, as the head of his clan, also had political immunity (quite fragile, true, but still…)
"He fought back," the matron stated, a little surprised. "And not weakly. You can see the boy is a shinobi's son, and he knows some techniques. You know, he usually walks around with a face like he's bored with everything, but in fights, he really comes alive. He's strange. He even invented his own game…"
"What kind?" Shikogeru's intuition told him the game wasn't simple.
"Shvakhmaty," the woman said uncertainly. "Or Khakhmaty… Anyway — some kind of Maty."
"What's the point?"
"Well, look over there," she pointed to the nearest door, slightly ajar. "He's sitting there, playing. As always, when no one bothers him. Lately, it's been often."
Shikogeru peeked into the room, concealing his presence as much as possible, and then entered altogether, without attracting the child's attention. The boy was alone in the room and sat with his back to Nara.
In front of Sensoma was a large board, clearly once a Shogi board, and there were Shogi pieces on it, but he wasn't playing with them. The boy moved the "King" forward, and it ended up next to his "opponent's" "Gold." Nara blinked in surprise — the boy was playing alone, but it was definitely a game for two.
The child, meanwhile, calmly stood up and walked to the opposite chair. He sat down, cast an interested glance at the shinobi, who was shocked at being discovered, and made a move on behalf of his opponent.
"What is this game?" Shikogeru inquired when the boy finished the game.
"This is," the boy sighed and brought his index finger to the bridge of his nose. "Please don't mispronounce the word. Chess-ma-ty."
"Chess-ma-ty," Shikogeru obediently repeated, pleased that he had done better than the matron on the first try. Well, he was a shinobi. It was expected of him. "And what are the rules?"
"Do you want to play?" the boy gave the warrior a disinterested look, which greatly offended him. "It's a difficult game."
"If you beat me ten times after I explain the rules, I'll grant you any wish," the smartest of his clan, famous for its analytical abilities, snorted.
The child smiled broadly, set up the pieces, and began to explain.
Shikogeru lost the first three games solely because he wasn't used to the game and was learning the rules. He was prepared for that. He lost another four games simply because the boy was much more experienced than him in his own game. He was also okay with that. But the last three losses were the most humiliating of his life! Sensoma, it seemed, only warmed up by the eighth game, starting to play with maximum seriousness. Along with this, another side of the boy was revealed — sarcastic comments when Shikogeru made a mistake.
"Well, you could have kept the knight," he would say with feigned indifference and a smile that didn't match it. "On the other hand — shinobi don't care much for horses."
"There are no shinobi in this game," the head of the Nara clan gritted his teeth.
"Here's your shinobi," the child's finger pointed to his "Dragon," which Sensoma called the queen. "Only," a outstretched hand picked up Shikogeru's "shinobi" and replaced it with his own knight. "He's not really in your game."
Having lost ten games, Nara didn't stop, gnawing at the child's defense until late in the evening. The boy, it seemed, was also enjoying the game with a good opponent, and when Shikogeru won for the first time… In short, in a day, these two intellectuals from different worlds became quite close, largely thanks to Sensoma's sarcastic wit.
"Alright," the shinobi leaned back in his chair. "I lost the first ten. And fifteen too… Ask for whatever you want. And then I'll go."
"I want to go with you," the boy stated calmly.
"Say that again," the warrior, ready for this, chuckled.
"I want to become a shinobi. But you have to study for that, right?" Shikogeru nodded. "So I want to study. As a clan member — it's too early."
Nara fell silent thoughtfully, calculating something in his mind, and then rummaged in his bag.
"Here," he handed him a piece of paper, similar to the one Sensoma used to get from his father as a child. "Try to channel chakra through it."
The child turned the "paper" over in his hands, examining it from all sides, and did as he was asked.
The chakra-conducting paper became soft, and then began to crumble, completely rotting away.
"Earth," the man drawled thoughtfully. "Get ready, we're leaving in an hour."