The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not the warmth of blankets or fire, but of arms cradling me close. My vision was blurry, the world too bright, but even in my confusion I knew something was wrong. I wasn't supposed to be here.
I was a child again.
At first, the days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and wonder. A simple wooden home. The smell of rice cooking. The gentle laughter of the woman who called herself my mother. Her hair was dark, her smile tired but kind. She called me Arato.
My body was weak, uncoordinated, but my mind — my memories — weren't gone. I knew stories of shinobi, of chakra, of wars fought in the shadows. Somehow, impossibly, I had been reborn in the world of Naruto.
I didn't understand why. Not then.
⸻
The Night of Fire
Four years passed in a blink. I grew into my small legs, learned to run through the alleys, to laugh like the other children. But I never stopped watching. Every ninja who leapt across the rooftops reminded me of the stories I once read. Every whisper of jutsu confirmed what I already knew — this world was real, and dangerous.
And then, one night, danger came to us.
The Nine-Tails.
Its roar shattered the quiet of Konoha, shaking the walls of our home. Fire lit the night sky as if the world itself had split apart. I remember my mother clutching me tight, whispering my name, her breath ragged with fear.
"Arato… Arato, stay with me. Don't let go."
We ran with the others, the streets filled with panic, when the ground heaved beneath us. A tail — impossibly huge — swept across the district, smashing stone and timber like twigs. The shockwave threw us off our feet.
The building beside us groaned, cracked, and collapsed.
My mother shoved me beneath her, her arms wrapped around my small body. The world went black beneath falling beams and choking dust.
Her voice was the last thing I heard.
"Arato!"
⸻
Buried in Silence
When I woke, the air was thick with dust. My chest hurt. My head spun. I tried to call out, but only a whimper escaped.
My mother's arms still encircled me, limp now, heavy. I shook her weakly, my small hands useless against the weight of fallen timber. No response.
Fear clawed at my throat. I wasn't supposed to die again. Not like this.
And then — voices.
"Over here! There's chakra under the rubble!"
The debris shifted, light breaking through. A masked shinobi crouched above me, flanked by medic-nin. Hands glowing with green chakra pressed against my mother, but the look that passed between them told me everything.
She was gone.
But me… I was pulled free, coughing, eyes streaming. The medic lifted me gently, his voice low but firm.
"This one's alive. Get him to the safe zone."
I looked back only once, as they carried me through the ruined streets. The flames still raged. The fox still roared. And beneath the rubble, my mother remained, her final act etched into my memory.
She had given her life for mine.
⸻
The Scar of Survival
I don't remember how long it took before the battle ended. Only that, when dawn came, the Nine-Tails was gone — sealed away, the Hokage said — but Konoha was broken. Families mourned, entire clans crippled, and children like me left behind in the wreckage.
I was placed with others who had lost parents in the attack. Fed, clothed, cared for in the way the village could manage. But nothing filled the silence where my mother's voice had been.
Still, her last words lingered in my mind, carved deep like a scar: Arato.
I swore I would make that name mean something in this world.
⸻
A Chance Meeting
Weeks later, I wandered near the marketplace ruins when I first saw Itachi Uchiha.
He was my age, but carried himself like someone older, walking beside his mother with quiet grace. A baby swaddled in her arms — his little brother.
Our eyes met briefly. He didn't look away.
"You lost someone, didn't you?" he asked softly.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
For a moment, there was no judgment, no pity — only understanding. Then his mother called, and he turned away, leaving me with the realization that I wasn't alone in carrying scars too heavy for a child.
⸻
Time Skip – Two Years Later
By the time I turned six, the village had begun to heal. New buildings rose where rubble once lay, though the scars of fire still marked the stones. The Academy filled with children of clans and civilians alike, all training to defend what had almost been lost.
And I, Arato Hayashi, walked among them — no longer just an observer, but a participant.
That was where my story truly began.