The days after my first birthday blurred together in a strange tapestry of warmth, discipline, and frustration. Life in the Uchiha compound was a mixture of splendor and suffocating expectation. I could feel the weight of my Six Eyes even when I was too young to crawl properly—tiny muscles trembling as my vision picked apart the subtle energy flows of everyone around me, even in the simplest of family routines.
The first major change was the arrival of Izuna. My baby brother, born just after I had begun grasping the rhythm of my own existence, was everything a Uchiha child should be: small, fierce, and impossibly stubborn. My mother—stepmother in the human sense but the closest thing I had to a nurturer here—handled him with a grace I could barely comprehend. Yet even in those early days, my gaze would flicker to the cradle, assessing every heartbeat and subtle movement through my Six Eyes.
"Indra, stop staring at him like he's an enemy," my stepmother scolded one morning, adjusting the folds of Izuna's blanket. Her tone carried affection, though I knew she worried about the intensity of my gaze. I was, after all, a child capable of seeing too much too soon.
I had to suppress the snort of laughter bubbling inside me. If only she knew, I thought. I've seen worlds where men fly like birds and punch mountains to dust, and here I am being told not to 'stare' at my brother.
Even as the Uchiha and Senju clans remained locked in a cautious stalemate, the world outside my crib-aged perspective was unraveling in ways I could already sense. The great-grand elder of the Uchiha had fallen in battle, a casualty that rippled through the ranks. News came in hushed tones, the kind that made the adults stiffen and whisper conspiracies under their breath. And my father—Tajima Uchiha—awakened the Mangekyō Sharingan, a milestone that altered the family dynamics entirely. His gaze, once merely formidable, now carried an almost unbearable intensity, a weight that pressed into the room even when he wasn't near.
I watched him from my low perch on the mat, tiny fists clutching at the folds of the rug. If Dad can wield that, then surely I can reach the strength I need.
It was during these months that I first unlocked the Life Simulation system. I had eighteen chances—eighteen separate excursions into worlds that would challenge, inspire, and mock me.
At first, my excitement was boundless. Dragon Ball, One Piece, even realms of martial prowess like the Wing Chun world—I could sense the raw potential there, feel it through the Six Eyes. But the thrill faded almost immediately. My body, my skills, my cursed energy control—everything was too weak. The Life Simulation spat me into low-level versions of these universes, the challenge becoming not one of defeating titans or pirates, but of surviving with nothing but wits, perception, and the tiny sliver of power I possessed.
Even so, I didn't waste a moment. Every system, every universe, every simulation became a tool to sharpen my mind. The Six Eyes accelerated my learning beyond normal limits. I devoured techniques, memorized movements, and practiced endlessly. If there was a sword style, I mastered it; if there was a musical instrument, I learned it until I could coax a melody out as if I had been born with it.
Music was my refuge, I thought in quiet nights, humming along as my tiny hands mimicked piano keys I didn't yet have the reach for. Even in a world of war and blood, beauty can exist—and I will carry it with me.
And then there was the kunai.
A small, seemingly insignificant gift from my first birthday—placed high on a shelf by my stepmother.
His true, most brutal work, however, was done in the dark. The tiny, silver kunai, a gift on his first birthday, was his key. It had taken a month of painful, clumsy practice, converting the raw, chaotic power of Cursed Energy into a subtle, telekinetic tug—a delicate art, like pulling a thread from a tapestry without tearing it—just to retrieve it from the shelf.
Now, he trained with it every night.
A low, guttural grunt escaped him as he pressed the cool, sharp edge against the sole of his body. No pain. He pressed harder, a thin line of blood welling up. Still no pain. The regenerative abilities of his body, combined with the constant micro-healing cycle spurred by the solar energy he diligently soaked up during the day, had been honed.
Ding: adaptable body Level upgrade to Level 2
Metal Immunity: Obtain.
It hadn't been easy. The first few days had been a symphony of agony, tears he had to swallow to avoid waking Izuna. But three days turned to four, and the pain subsided, replaced by a dull pressure, then nothing at all. He was now nearly immune to a blade's thrust, a crucial defense in a world where a kunai could end a life in an instant.
Yet strength alone was not enough. I began to train secretly in techniques I had only observed from my Life Simulation worlds: crafting weapons, manipulating rudimentary electricity, and even the beginnings of chakra control. My cursed energy, though weak, became a telekinetic tool, a medium through which I could experiment with my environment.
But I am not safe, he reminded himself, looking out the window at the distant mountains. The tingling sensation—the feeling that someone, strong and ill-willed, was watching him—had become a constant companion. It wasn't the benevolent gaze of his parents; this was cold, calculating.
"I have three and a half more years until true adolescence," he whispered, wiping the blood clean with a piece of cloth. "Fire and lightning immunity are next. I won't be caught by a sudden fireball or a poorly aimed lightening Jutsu: Chidori."
He stood up, his small muscles coiling with power that belied his age. He didn't just want strength for survival. He wanted it for his vision. To stop the "cycle of hatred," he needed followers, and people only followed the truly strong. Hashirama and Madara's legend was in the future; his time was now.
His eyes narrowed, the blue light of the Six Eyes flaring intensely. His immediate goals were set: train his body to be a fortress, and then, he would begin the search for the one thing he needed more than any jutsu or skill.
Imagine a world where everyone fears the strong, I thought, observing a minor skirmish outside the compound. Then, if I am to end the cycle of hatred, I must be strong enough for people to follow me—not just for survival, but to lead.
The realization settled heavily. The world of the Naruto era demanded more than skill; it demanded influence, decisiveness, and presence. Even as a child, I understood that leadership was not given, it was earned—and it was earned through struggle that few could endure.
Family bonds anchored me amidst this relentless personal evolution. Tajima's proud gaze, once merely intimidating, became a guide. Madara, my younger half-brother, observed me with a mix of curiosity and competitive fire. Izuna, still too small to speak, became a silent anchor, a reminder of the innocence I fought to preserve. And my stepmother, often patient beyond reason, offered small gestures of warmth that reminded me there was still love in the world—love worth protecting, love worth striving for.
Even in the midst of cosmic simulations and impossible training, I found laughter. Madara would tug at my robes, babble nonsense, and sometimes even mimic the movements I was practicing. My stepmother would scold him, but the tiny interludes of familial chaos grounded me. The world outside could burn, but here, life persisted.
And yet, always, there was the sense of being watched. Not by the kind, omniscient voice that had guided me once, but by someone calculating, hidden, and decidedly not benevolent.
Who are you? I would think, eyes narrowing even as a baby's hands clutched at cloth toys. If you're strong, show yourself. If not… stay hidden. I will find you, as I will find everything else lost to me.
This quiet vigilance became part of my routine. Every simulation, every exercise, every moment of play or study carried with it an awareness: the world was not safe, and strength alone would not suffice. It had to be honed, sharpened, tempered.
By the end of this period, I had learned the first principles of survival, power, and influence:
Patience and observation could equal brute strength if applied correctly.
Knowledge was as deadly a weapon as any blade.
Love and bonds were not weaknesses—they were reasons to endure, to grow, and to fight.
Even in solitude, progress could be made if discipline was absolute.
And so, as the first one and a half years faded behind me, I made a decision:
I will endure. I will grow. I will protect what is mine, and I will discover what I have lost.
Tomorrow, my focus would turn to a new challenge: mastering resistance to fire and lightning, the elemental threats that could destroy even the strongest Uchiha in this world.
I curled into my small mat, the glow of my Six Eyes dimming to a gentle pulse. Madara slept beside me, Izuna nestled safely in the arms of my stepmother, and the world outside the compound rumbled with the unceasing machinations of war.
And I, Indra Uchiha, felt a spark of anticipation ignite within me—a fire that would never be quenched.
The cycle of hatred will end… I whispered in my mind. And I will find her.
I will find Vidya.I will break the cycle of hatred.I will lead and protect those who follow me, no matter the cost.