"Mom, I want to change my name."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
My mother, standing by the stove with her sleeves rolled up, didn't even glance my way. The smell of miso soup drifted through the small kitchen as she calmly stirred the pot, the morning light catching in her long black hair. She looked too young to be a widow, still only in her twenties, yet her eyes carried the weight of years no one her age should have to bear.
"Go wash up," she said evenly. "You'll be late for the Academy if you keep wasting time."
I frowned, puffing out my cheeks in frustration. She wasn't taking me seriously again.
"Mom, I'm not joking! I really want to change my name!" I shouted louder this time, hoping to break through her usual wall of indifference.
She sighed then, finally putting down the ladle. For a moment she looked at me—really looked at me—her sharp eyes softening just a fraction. But instead of scolding me like she usually did, she simply said, "Fine."
"…Eh?"
My brain froze. I blinked at her, convinced I'd misheard.
When her words registered, I leapt up from my stool like I'd been struck by lightning. "Mom! You—you actually agreed?"
Since I'd learned to talk, I'd fought this battle with her countless times. Every time I brought up changing my name, she shut me down instantly. Usually, it ended with her grabbing the nearest slipper to smack me with. But this time? She agreed. Just like that.
Something was wrong. Way too wrong.
Sure enough, her lips curled into a small smile as she said, "I'll allow it… if your father agrees."
The excitement drained out of me all at once. I stared at her, slack-jawed. "My—my father?"
She nodded calmly, returning to her cooking like the matter was settled.
My heart sank. Father? How in the world was I supposed to ask him? I had only ever seen his face in photographs. He'd died on a mission before I was even born. What was I supposed to do—dig through the afterlife and drag him back just to sign off on my name change?
I slumped in defeat, muttering, "Mom… you're cruel."
She didn't even flinch. She never did.
My name is Lock.
A short, simple name. And to me, a curse.
Who in their right mind names their son Lock? It sounded like something out of a bad joke. Back in my previous life—yeah, that's right, my previous life—I used to play games where a hero named "Lock" was my favorite pick. I scammed and trash-talked more players than I could count with that character. Maybe the gods decided to punish me, sticking me with the name in this world.
If I'd known I'd get reincarnated into the Naruto world, maybe I'd have picked a better name online. Something cool. Something that didn't make me sound like the punchline of a joke.
"Don't just sit there sulking," Mom's voice cut through my thoughts. "Go wash your face. Breakfast will be ready soon."
I trudged off like a rooster who'd just lost a fight.
At the table, she set down a plate of fried eggs and a cup of milk in front of me.
"Eat."
"Yes, ma'am."
I chewed slowly, already sensing she was about to start her daily lecture. Sure enough, she spoke as she sat across from me.
"Lock, you're already in your second semester at the Academy. You'd better take it seriously. If you keep scoring like you did last term, then forget about being a shinobi. You'll quit next year and help me run the shop instead."
I nearly choked on my milk.
"What do you mean? I am taking it seriously!" I protested.
Mom didn't even blink. She just laughed—sharp and merciless. "Seriously? Then why were you second-to-last in your class? Don't think I don't know. Your father was a chūnin. How did we end up with a son this hopeless?"
Her words pierced straight through my chest. Ouch. No mercy, not even at breakfast.
I wanted to argue back, to explain that it wasn't as bad as it looked. Sure, my grades in practical combat were awful, but I wasn't dumb. I topped the class in theory. The problem was… everything else.
Most of my classmates were from shinobi clans. They'd been training since they could walk, sparring with real kunai and shuriken while I was stuck practicing with wooden sticks and smooth river stones. Weapons were expensive, way too expensive for us. Mom ran a small dango shop with the pension she received after my father's death, but every sen was precious.
So yeah, I came in second-to-last. But it wasn't because I lacked brains or effort. It was because the system itself was stacked against kids like me.
Well… not all kids like me.
At least I wasn't dead last. That honor went to a poor Uchiha kid whose name I hadn't even bothered to remember. Even Might Guy, the eternal dead-last, ranked higher than us. That was how pathetic things were.
Still, my mother wasn't wrong. If things kept going this way, I'd never graduate.
I sighed, staring down at my half-eaten eggs.
Becoming a ninja was the only real way out.
The Second Shinobi World War had just ended. The village was still recovering, scars of the conflict visible everywhere. For commoners, life was hard—unforgivingly hard. My mother had raised me alone since I was born. She was only twenty-four, yet she bore the responsibilities of two parents.
Sometimes, when I looked at her hands—calloused from long hours making dango and cleaning—I felt guilt twist in my chest. She deserved a better life.
And I would give it to her.
In this world, power was everything. Without it, you were just another civilian, powerless to control your own fate. Becoming a shinobi wasn't just my dream—it was survival.
"Mom, I'm heading out!" I called after finishing my breakfast, slinging my worn bag over my shoulder.
She only waved me off with a tired smile, already cleaning the table.
I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag.
No matter what it took—no matter how pathetic I looked now—I'd carve a place for myself in this village. Even if my name was Lock.
For now.