Dawn crept slowly over the rooftops of Konohagakure, painting the village in a soft golden hue. The morning mist still clung stubbornly to the cobbled paths, the earth damp and glistening under the rising sun. Birds chirped with restrained enthusiasm, their songs swallowed slightly by the dense morning fog. But within the walls of the Konoha Orphanage, serenity was short-lived.
"Clap!"
The sharp sound of hands slapping together cut through the dormitory like a kunai through paper.
"Alright, up! All of you!" came the stern voice of Akari, one of the orphanage caretakers.
Her hair was tied tightly into a no-nonsense bun, and her eyes swept over the room like a hawk tracking prey. Children groaned in protest as they squirmed under the thin futon covers, shielding their eyes from the diffused sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows. Some sat up with heavy sighs, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Others, more sluggish, had to be nudged awake by their bunkmates.
"Matsuda! Fold your blanket properly. Hana! That's not how we stack pillows," Akari snapped, already moving briskly between beds like a general in her barracks.
In the midst of the commotion, a young girl with curly brown hair blinked up from her futon, her blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. Her name was Mina, a precocious five-year-old with an ever-curious gaze and a sweet, slightly hesitant voice.
She shuffled over to Akari, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. "Aunt Akari," she began, "why doesn't Satoru have to do chores with us?"
Akari didn't look up from adjusting a crooked bedsheet. "He's still sick, Mina," she replied curtly. "He needs more rest."
Mina furrowed her brow. "But Nono-sama, sorry Mother, looked at him yesterday, right?"
"She did," Akari, happy at the young girl's correction, affirmed this time with a gentler tone. "She said he still needs a little more time to recover."
Mina nodded seriously, taking the words as sacred. She turned and tiptoed across the room, approaching the corner where Satoru lay. He was curled up beneath a faded beige blanket, motionless save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
She crouched beside him, tiny fingers tugging at the hem of her oversized nightshirt. "Get better soon, Satoru," she whispered. "You're missing the good porridge."
No reply.
She tilted her head. "Satoru?"
Still nothing.
"Maybe he's still sleeping," Akari said gently from behind her. "Come along now, breakfast first. Then we have floors to scrub."
With one final glance, Mina trotted off after the others.
A few more seconds passed.
Then—
Snap.
Satoru's eyes opened.
He released a slow, measured breath from his lungs. Not fear. Not even fatigue. Just tension. Tension that had coiled inside him like a spring ever since he realized the truth of his situation.
'I'm fucked,' he thought, the bluntness of the word a small comfort in a world rapidly spinning into the unfamiliar.
He waited in silence, listening to the last of the footsteps fade. Only then did he allow his muscles to relax. A thin beam of sunlight peeked through the window, painting golden bars across the dusty floorboards. He squinted up at the ceiling—rough-hewn timber darkened by age and neglect.
Three days had passed since Akari had deemed him "recovered" from his fall. Three days of playing the part of a frail orphan boy while quietly, constantly gathering every piece of information he could find.
And in those three days, he'd confirmed the essentials.
'The only good news… is that I transmigrated right after the Third Shinobi War,' he mused grimly, throwing an arm over his eyes.
The village still bore the scars of the war—shinobi patrolling in higher numbers than peace would normally allow, hushed conversations about losses and memorials. It was the tense, uneasy calm of a village still licking its wounds.
But it was calm nonetheless.
'The bad news? I'm in an orphanage.'
He exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway between resignation and frustration.
But not just any orphanage.
One run by Nono Yakushi.
"That Nono," he muttered under his breath.
The same woman who once belonged to ROOT. Who had, according to fan speculation and side material from the anime, played a role—however unwillingly—in Danzo's infamous underground child soldier program.
The weight of that knowledge pressed on his chest like a stone.
'I don't mind being an orphan. Not really. But living under the same roof as someone with ties to ROOT?' He clenched his jaw.
'That's dangerous.'
ROOT didn't just scout orphans. They recruited them. Moulded them into weapons. If Satoru showed too little promise, he'd be discarded by the world's cruel mechanics. But if he showed too much?
If he displayed no talent, he'd be ignored. Discarded. Unimportant. Which would ultimately hinder his development and survival chances in this cruel world as he would not get the necessary strength to protect himself.
'Danzo's men might still come knocking,' he thought, stomach-turning. 'And I don't care how much I liked the Naruto franchise back on Earth—I'm not ending up in the Foundation basement with a seal on my tongue.'
Satoru turned over on the thin mattress, pressing his forehead against the pillow. The air smelled faintly of mould and tatami. He exhaled again.
'Life was simpler three days ago when I found out I had the Sharingan.'
The memory of that day washed over him, vivid and hot.
He had pushed his chakra for the first time, experimenting blindly. No hand signs, no proper technique. Just intent.
And then—the surge.
Pain behind his eyes. A burning, unearthly pain. Then—flashes of a different life.
A frail woman with skin like parchment, lying on a futon, struggling to breathe.
Her death.
A small, lonely funeral. No one attending except a child and the old groundskeeper.
Then the boy—Satoru's body—returning to an empty house. Crying himself to sleep. Then—heat. Blinding pain. The boy had looked into a mirror as his tear-streaked face twisted—
And red.
His eyes, crimson and spinning with a single tomoe.
'The Sharingan.'
'How ironic,' Satoru thought now. 'Not all full-blooded Uchiha awaken the Sharingan. Yet here I am—a half-blood—unlocking it through grief.'
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. His joints cracked like dry twigs. The air still held the morning chill.
'My mother…' He sifted through the inherited memories. Apparently what he saw jumpstarted something in him that he inherited more of Satoru's memories.
Satoru's mother had been an Uchiha, that much was clear. But not a kunoichi. She had no Sharingan. No shinobi rank. Just a woman relegated to civilian life.
'My father… Yamanaka. A shinobi. Died in the early years of the third shinobi war.'
It had just been the two of them after that.
Until the sickness.
Until he was alone.
Satoru's brow furrowed.
'What I don't understand is why I'm here. Why an orphanage?' His lips thinned into a line. 'Why didn't either clan take me in?'
He could understand the Uchiha's indifference. Their pride. Their rigid hierarchy. His mother, a failure in their eyes, might've been disowned.
But the Yamanaka? They were fewer in number, and more community-driven. His father had been a shinobi.
'Did they not know? Or did they not care?'
The bitterness tasted sour in his mouth.
He stared at the ceiling. Cracks ran like veins through the plaster.
'The Sharingan is a gift. But it's also a flashing target on my back.'
If he revealed it, the Uchiha would demand him. Blood ties or not, the prestige of having another Sharingan user—especially in a time of low numbers—would be too much for them to ignore.
But then again, he knew how that story ended.
'Itachi's massacre.' He swallowed thickly.
He didn't know the exact year. But it was coming.
'If I show the Sharingan, I'm dragged into the clan's politics. If I don't, I stay here… and ROOT will come for me.'
His thoughts turned to the Yamanaka again.
'Maybe they're my only hope. If they even acknowledge me.' He barked a dry laugh.
"Why am I even overestimating my importance?" he said aloud, shaking his head. "It's not like I'm the protagonist of some novel where two noble clans will fight over me."
He gave a hollow chuckle.
"I'm just an orphan… with a Sharingan."
He reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a small green leaf. Just an ordinary leaf. Smooth and slightly curled.
But it was more than that now. It was a test.
A beginning.
"Let's see if this thing can help me work on my chakra control," he muttered.
He raised the leaf toward his forehead, balancing it carefully. But before he could place it—
Creeeak.
The door opened.
His spine stiffened. The leaf trembled in his fingers.
Then came the voice, soft and unmistakably feminine:
"Satoru?"
He froze.
=====
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