In the dense, fluorescent glow of a cheap desk lamp, Elias leaned close to his monitor. His apartment room was a typical habitat for a hyper-focused analyst: cold pizza boxes, energy drink cans, and the hum of a powerful PC that felt more like a fighter jet about to take off than a machine.
"Hmmm. Okay, nice, nice," he murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching into a tired smile. He maximized the write-up he was preparing. Time to report the bug, claim the hefty bounty, and finally pay that overdue rent.
He took a slow sip of lukewarm coffee. Life was good. Predictable. Safe.
As he turned his to glance towards the window suddenly his skin turned cold eyes widend but before he could even do anything suddenly there was an huge blast as most of the things turned into dust and smell of burnt petrol was everywhere
He didn't register the heat, the pressure, or the smell of burnt petrol; his consciousness was yanked, not thrown, from the fluorescent glow and the familiar hum of his PC. It wasn't a transition; it was an abrupt, violent tear.
One moment he was a hyper-focused analyst staring at a screen; the next, he was a jolt of raw agony.
...
Elias gasped, but the air that rushed into his lungs was thick, humid, and smelled sharply of dust, cut grass, and something vaguely metallic. His eyes snapped open—or rather, they rolled open, straining against a sudden, unbearable pressure behind the sockets.
His first coherent thought was: "My head is splitting. Did the blast concuss me? Am I blind?"
He wasn't blind, but the world was a wash of blindingly pale, almost silvery-white light, with veins of faint blue and lavender crisscrossing his vision. Everything was hyper-detailed, unsettlingly close, and vibrating. The cheap desk lamp and pizza boxes were gone, replaced by a low, wooden ceiling and a blur of deep indigo fabric.
He tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea hit him. He was lying on a thin futon. A teenage boy's voice—thin, breathy, and definitely not his own—came out of his throat.
"Ugh... what in the..."
He brought a hand up to his face. The skin was smooth, unfamiliar. His fingers felt delicate, almost fragile. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the pain.
He forced himself to look down at his hands. They were small, smooth, and had the distinctive, pale tone of someone who hadn't spent a lot of time outside—but what really made his stomach drop was the spiderweb of thin, blue-green veins visible just beneath the skin. They pulsed faintly.
This isn't my body. This isn't my room. The blast... what the hell happened?
He pushed himself up onto his elbows. The sudden change in perspective felt like shifting a mismatched puzzle piece. The familiar mental landmarks of 'Elias's body'—his height, the slight ache in his lower back, the weight of his limbs—were utterly absent. He was piloting a new machine, and the controls were alien.
His eyes—the silver, veiny ones—darted around the room. It was sparse: wooden walls, paper-covered sliding doors, a simple chest of drawers. Above him, the low, distant rumble of thunder seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.
Just as the overwhelming confusion threatened to send him spiraling, a fresh, raw wave of unbidden memories slammed into his mind. They weren't his; they were someone else's.
Training sessions. A cold, stern-faced father. The intricate movements of the Gentle Fist. The clan symbol on a high wall.
Hyuga. Itsuki.
The name hit him with the force of a physical blow. He wasn't Elias anymore. He was Hyuga Itsuki, a very stressed-out, very average-talented young man from the Hyuga Clan in the Village Hidden in the Leaves. The sheer absurdity of the realization—transmigration into a fictional world, into a secondary character—was staggering.
But there was no time for existential dread. The borrowed memories gave him a vital, terrifying piece of information:
Itsuki had been sick, running a high fever, and had collapsed just minutes before Elias's consciousness had forcibly taken the helm.
He looked down at his hands again, focusing. He tried to think 'close eyes,' and the veins in his temples throbbed in response.
Itsuki's eyes. The Byakugan...the sheer visual processing power—was already straining his brain.
Naruto. A ninja world. The sheer absurdity should have been paralyzing, but the survival instincts of a hyper-focused analyst immediately took over. Analysis was the priority; panic was deferred.
Get up. Assess. Find the exit.
He pushed off his elbows, forcing the frail legs beneath him. The world tilted violently. The surge of silver-white vision—Itsuki's Byakugan—transformed the wooden floor into a dizzying, three-dimensional blueprint of fibers and dust. His eyes felt hot, tight, and painfully strained.
"Just... stand," he gritted out, the thin, unfamiliar tenor of the boy's voice a final, horrifying confirmation.
The sliding shoji door rattled and smoothly opened.
Standing there was a tall, imposing figure. His traditional robes were impeccable, and his expression was a study in cold, reserved disappointment. This was Itsuki's Father—a Branch Family elder, his eyes already narrowed with keen observation.
"Itsuki," the man's voice was a low, dry rumble. "You are awake. Good."
Itsuki bowed stiffly from the waist, a perfect 45-degree angle. He even managed to get the hand placement right, relying entirely on the residual muscle memory in his new limbs.
"Father," Itsuki replied, his voice just slightly rough, echoing the lingering effects of the fever. He kept his eyes lowered, a sign of respect and, more importantly, a way to hide the shock of his recent awakening.
"You collapsed after training yesterday. Your fever was concerning," his father stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "It reflects poorly on the family's standards. Are you well enough for a report?"
Itsuki's heart hammered against his fragile ribs. A report. He had no idea what training Itsuki had been doing.
Protocol: Defer and Misdirect. Keep it vague, emphasize compliance, and buy time.
"My apologies, Father," Itsuki said, his voice measured, almost clinical. "The residual exhaustion from the fever has not fully cleared, but it is manageable. I am well enough to continue my duties."
He paused, then added the one thing a good Hyuga Branch member should say: "I regret my performance brought dishonor to the main house. I will redouble my efforts on the basic chakra flow exercises and form practice today."
His father's gaze was sharp, dissecting. He stepped into the room, and Itsuki could feel the invisible pressure of an elite ninja.
"See that you do," the elder said, his eyes momentarily flicking down to Itsuki's hands. "The fever has made your skin pale. Do not neglect your health. The clan expects discipline, not frailty. Rest only until noon. Then, you will go directly to the compound's rear training grounds. You will practice the Eight Trigrams Palms until sunset."
Eight Trigrams Palms. The memories provided a hazy, terrifying image of the complex, deadly form. But it was a directive.
"Understood, Father. I will not fail to meet the clan's expectation," Itsuki stated, maintaining his rigid posture.
The elder gave a curt, almost dismissive nod. "Good. Do not waste the morning." He turned and slid the door shut, the sound final and absolute.
Itsuki waited until his father's footsteps were completely gone. Then, he let out a long, shaky sigh. It felt like the air came from a stranger's body. The edges of his vision kept flashing. With every heartbeat, a sharp pain shot through his head.
He pressed his hands hard against his temples and flinched. This was more than a regular headache. It felt like something in his head was actively stretching or changing. His special eyes, the Byakugan, kept turning on and off quickly. Each flash filled his mind with extreme detail: the wood in the wall, tiny energy lines under his skin, even a candle flickering in a room far away.
"Stop," he hissed through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into his hair. "Just... turn off."
It didn't listen. The intense vision flared once more, then finally switched off. It left a painful ringing in his ears and a metallic taste in his mouth.
He fell back onto the cushion, breathing hard. His borrowed body was shaking with a strange, weak rhythm, like a fever coming and going. His logical mind screamed that he couldn't keep going like this. He needed fresh air and a quiet place before he had to face another Hyuga duty.
As the sun climbed higher, signaling noon, Itsuki decided. Training could wait. He needed to clear his mind first.
He dressed slowly in simple robes and sandals. He slipped out of the compound using a side path, making sure to avoid the main training areas where other Hyuga practiced in silence. The farther he walked, the better he felt. The wooden paths soon turned to soft dirt, then to grass.
The bad headache softened, turning into a deep ache at the back of his neck.
He walked until he reached the quiet part of the river, which ran between the Hyuga and Uchiha areas. By the time he got there, his thin robe was soaked with sweat. The village sounds were distant and calm: the tap of shoes, the hum of insects, and the gentle splash of water.
He dropped to his knees at the bank and plunged his hands into the cool water. The sudden cold hit him hard, making him feel real and grounded for the first time since the blast that changed everything.
Itsuki kept his hands submerged in the cold river. The freezing water was a simple. He wasn't fully recovered; the low ache in his skull was a constant, dull companion, and his limbs still felt heavy and unresponsive.
He was only just well enough to avoid total collapse. He definitely wasn't ready to do training or anything.
The silence here, broken only by the natural sounds of the water, was the best medicine he had.
Just as the mental fog began to lift, a sound shattered the quiet.
It was a faint snap.
The sound came from the dense line of thick, humid bushes and bamboo across the riverbank, marking the unofficial border with the Uchiha district.