His grandmother's voice called from downstairs, interrupting his thoughts. "Ryota! Dinner!"
Ryota moved to the door and opened it carefully. The hallway was dim, lit only by the fading daylight coming through his room's window. The stairs creaked as he descended them, each step solid under his feet despite the old wood. The house smelled of miso soup and steamed rice, underlaid with something sweeter—grilled fish, probably, and the sharp tang of pickled vegetables.
The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, heat radiating from the stove where Sachiko had been cooking. She stood at the counter now, transferring food from pots to serving dishes. Takeshi sat at the table already, still wearing his leather work apron though he'd washed the coal dust and ash from his hands and face. Three places were set with bowls and chopsticks arranged neatly on the worn wooden surface.
"Feeling better?" Sachiko asked without turning around.
"Yes," Ryota said. "The dizziness is gone."
She turned and studied him for a moment, her expression softening with relief, then gestured to his seat. "Good. Sit and eat. You need your strength back."
Ryota sat in his usual spot across from Takeshi. The chair was the same one he'd used for years according to his memories, positioned so he could see both the door and the window. Sachiko brought the food to the table, it was a large bowl of miso soup, a plate of grilled mackerel, steamed rice, and pickled radishes that she made in large batches every season.
Takeshi was already reaching for the rice when Ryota picked up his chopsticks. He held them the way the original Ryota always had, fingers positioned naturally from years of practice. The soup was hot and salty, the fish perfectly cooked with crispy skin that flaked away easily.
His grandfather ate in silence for a few moments, but his eyes kept flicking to Ryota's hands between bites. Watching them move, checking the way his fingers gripped the chopsticks, looking for burns or blisters.
"Let me see your hands," Takeshi said suddenly.
Ryota paused, chopsticks halfway to his bowl. "What?"
"Your hands. Put them on the table."
Ryota set down his chopsticks and placed both hands palm-up on the wooden surface. Takeshi leaned forward, examining them with the careful attention he usually reserved for checking steel for stress fractures. His calloused fingers touched Ryota's wrists, turning them slightly to catch the light from the kitchen lamp.
"No burns," Takeshi said, more to himself than anyone else. "No blisters. Skin looks fine."
"I caught the tongs before he could grab the hot end," Takeshi continued, still examining Ryota's palms. "But the way you dropped them… I thought maybe you'd touched the metal without realizing. "
"I'm fine, Grandfather," Ryota said. "It was just the dizziness. My hands are okay."
Takeshi grunted and released Ryota's hands, sitting back in his chair. "You scared me this afternoon. One moment you were doing fine, the next you were stumbling like someone had hit you in the head."
"The fever came back suddenly," Sachiko said, reaching over to pat Takeshi's arm. "It happens sometimes with these things. He's better now."
They ate in silence for several minutes after that. Ryota could still feel his grandfather's interest in him, but it was different now, it was not scrutinizing for injuries, just the worried observation of someone who'd seen an accident nearly happen and couldn't quite shake the image.
"Academy tomorrow," Takeshi said eventually. "You think you're up for it?"
Ryota nodded. "Yes, I feel better and the dizziness is completely gone now."
"Mm." Takeshi took another bite of fish. "You've only been back a few days since the last fever. Maybe take it slow for a while."
The original Ryota had been sick the week before with a fever that had kept him home from the Academy for three days. He'd recovered, or seemed to, and had just returned to classes when this new episode hit. According to the memories, his instructors had told him to rest as much as he needed, that missing a few days wouldn't put him too far behind in the curriculum.
"I can handle it," Ryota said. "I don't want to fall behind."
"You won't fall behind," Sachiko said, her voice gentle. "You're doing fine at the Academy. Your teachers said you're keeping up with the other students."
Keeping up was generous. The original Ryota had been average at best, struggling with most of the practical exercises. But his grandmother's reassurance was kind even if it wasn't entirely accurate.
"Academy in the mornings, forge work in the afternoons," Takeshi said. "Same as always. That routine work for you?"
"Yes, Grandfather."
Takeshi's expression shifted slightly, tension creeping into the lines around his mouth before settling back into its usual stoic cast. "Good. The forge needs attention, and I could use the help. Got three orders backed up that need finishing before the end of the week."
The edge in his voice wasn't directed at Ryota, but it was there nonetheless—a hint of frustration inserted through the words. Sachiko's hand found her husband's arm, a light touch that seemed more grounding than anything else.
"He's six years old, Takeshi," she said quietly. "Let him learn at his own pace."
"I am letting him learn." But Takeshi's jaw was tight. "I'm teaching him a real trade. Useful skills. Not just..." He trailed off, seeming to catch himself.
"Not just what?" Ryota asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
Takeshi set down his chopsticks and looked at Ryota properly for the first time since the meal started. His expression wasn't angry, exactly, but there was weight of concern mixed with resignation. "The Academy teaches you to fight, to follow orders and to become part of the village's military system. That's what it's for."
"It teaches other things too," Sachiko said. "Reading, writing, mathematics—"
"Things I could teach him myself if we had the time." Takeshi picked up his tea and took a slow sip before continuing. "But everyone sends their children to the Academy now. It's expected. You don't, and people look at you sideways, wondering why you're trying to hold your kid back from serving the village."
Ryota stayed quiet, letting his grandfather talk. The original Ryota had heard variations of this speech before, but never quite like this, never with this much weight behind the words.
"I'm not against the Academy entirely," Takeshi said, setting his cup down carefully. "You need to know how to read and write. Need to understand numbers, history, and how the village works. Those things are important. But the rest of it..." He shook his head. "Training children to kill before they're old enough to understand what that means. That's what bothers me."
"The village needs shinobi," Sachiko said, though her voice carried its own note of hesitation.
"The village needs a lot of things. Doesn't mean I have to like sending my grandson to learn them." Takeshi's gaze fixed on Ryota again. "My brother died in the Second Shinobi War. Twenty-three years old. Chunin rank, good at what he did, followed orders like he was supposed to. He died on a mission that should have been routine. They were escorting supplies through territory we controlled but then bandits ambushed the convoy. Resulting in four shinobi dead, including him."
Sachiko's expression softened with old grief. "Takeshi—"
"He should know." Takeshi's voice was firm but not harsh. "Should understand what the Academy is actually preparing him for. It's not just learning to throw kunai at targets. It's learning to throw them at people. And then, if you're good enough, if you're talented enough to graduate and become a genin, you go out into the world and people try to kill you. Sometimes they succeed."
Ryota absorbed this carefully, filing it away with everything else he was learning about his new family. The original Ryota had known about his great-uncle's death in abstract terms—a story told once or twice, a name mentioned during conversations about the war—but the significance of it hadn't fully registered. The grief was old for Takeshi, worn smooth by decades, but still present.
"I'll be careful," Ryota said, knowing it was inadequate but not knowing what else to offer.
Takeshi's expression shifted into a tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'll try to be careful. That's all anyone can do." He picked up his chopsticks again and returned to his meal. "Just remember that the forge is dangerous too, but it's honest danger. You respect the heat, follow the rules, pay attention to what you're doing, and you'll keep all your fingers. But the shinobi world doesn't work that way. You can do everything right and still end up dead because someone else made a mistake, or because you were unlucky, or because some clan decided they needed whatever territory you were standing in."
They finished the meal in quieter silence after that, though the tension had shifted into less sharp territory. Takeshi's concerns weren't about the Academy itself so much as what lay beyond it—the years of missions and combat that followed graduation. He wasn't trying to discourage Ryota from learning, just making sure he understood the reality of what that learning would lead to.
When his bowl was empty, Ryota reached for the teapot to pour himself more water. His hand bumped against a spoon lying beside the pickled radish plate, it was bent at an odd angle, probably from being left too close to the stove's heat.
The moment his fingers touched the metal, the world tilted sideways again.
His skin went numb where it contacted the spoon, then beyond numb, it was like his hand had disappeared and been replaced with an awareness that extended into the metal itself. He could feel the spoon's shape not from the outside but from within, the way the bend disrupted the flow of... something. Energy. Structure. He didn't have words for it. Was it Chakra? The sensation lasted maybe half a second before he jerked his hand back, pulse hammering in his ears.
The spoon sat there. Bent. Ordinary. Like nothing had happened.
Ryota stared at it, his hand still tingling.
"Something wrong?" Takeshi asked.
"No." Ryota poured his water carefully, keeping his hand away from the spoon. "Thought I felt heat."
Sachiko reached over and touched the spoon, then picked it up and examined it. "It's room temperature. Must have been your imagination." She set it back down. "That fever probably has you feeling things that aren't there. Give it another day or two and you'll be back to normal."
"Probably," Ryota agreed, though his heart was still beating too fast.
Whatever had just happened didn't feel like imagination. It had felt real, more real than the wooden table under his other hand or the taste of fish still in his mouth. His fingers had gone into the metal somehow, or the metal had come into him, and for that moment he'd known its shape from the inside out.
That surely wasn't normal. That wasn't part of the Academy curriculum, at least not according to the original Ryota's memories. Most six-year-olds couldn't even properly feel their chakra yet, let alone do... whatever that had been.
Ryota pushed the thought away and focused on finishing his water. Probably nothing. Had to be nothing. Just his nervous system adjusting to a new body, creating phantom sensations that felt meaningful but weren't.
Sachiko started clearing dishes from the table, and Ryota stood to help automatically. The original Ryota had done this every night—clearing, washing, drying, putting things away. Muscle memory took over, his hands knowing where each dish belonged without conscious thought. Stack the bowls here. Chopsticks in the drawer. Cups on the shelf above the washing basin.
Sachiko washed while Ryota dried, working in comfortable silence. Outside, the village was settling into evening routines. Lights appeared in windows across the street. Someone walked past with a lantern, its glow briefly illuminating the yard before fading into darkness.
Takeshi had retreated to the workshop while they cleaned. Through the window, Ryota could see the forge's orange glow and his grandfather's silhouette moving in front of it, working on the plow blade he'd mentioned earlier. The rhythmic sound of hammer on metal carried across the yard—steady, the pattern of someone who'd been doing this for decades and could probably do it in his sleep.
"He worries about you," Sachiko said quietly, breaking the silence. "And it's not because he doesn't think you can handle the Academy. He knows you can. He just worries about what comes after."
Ryota dried another bowl and set it in its place. "I know."
"His brother's death changed him. I never knew Takeshi before the war, but his parents told me he used to be different…more open, less worried about everything." She scrubbed at a stubborn spot on one of the plates. "Losing family like that, it leaves marks that don't heal properly."
The original Ryota's parents had died of disease, not in combat, but the loss had still shaped Takeshi's worldview. Two family members gone, one to the shinobi system and one to simple bad luck. Now he had a grandson who wanted to become a shinobi himself, walking toward the same danger that had killed his brother.
"I'll be careful," Ryota said again, still not knowing what else to offer.
"I know you will." Sachiko smiled, and this time it almost reached her eyes. "Just remember—he's hard on you sometimes because he cares, not because he's angry. He wants you to be strong enough to survive whatever comes."
They finished the dishes together, working through the last of the bowls and cups until everything was clean and put away. Sachiko wiped down the table and counters while Ryota dried his hands on a cloth. The kitchen was ready for tomorrow's meals, everything in its place.
"Go to bed," Sachiko said. "You need rest if you're going back to the Academy tomorrow."
"What about Grandfather?"
"He'll come in when he's finished." She shooed him toward the stairs. "Go on. I'll check on you before I go to sleep."
Ryota climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door behind him. The window showed full darkness now, stars scattered across the sky in patterns he didn't recognize from his previous life. The Hokage Monument was barely visible, just a darker mass against the hillside, the carved faces lost in shadow.
He lay down on the futon without bothering to change clothes. His body was tired, truly tired now, not just the lingering effects of fever. The physical testing earlier had drained what little stamina he had, and the strange sensation with the spoon had left him unsettled in ways he couldn't quite articulate.
The sound of hammer on metal continued from the workshop. Each strike rang clear in the evening air, a familiar sound that the original Ryota had fallen asleep to countless times.
Ryota closed his eyes and tried to let that rhythm lull him toward sleep, but his mind wouldn't settle. His grandfather's warnings about the shinobi system kept circling back. The Academy tomorrow and whatever he'd find there. The spoon and that brief moment where his hand had disappeared into metal, feeling its shape from within.
The hammer strikes continued for what felt like an hour, though it was probably less. Eventually the rhythm stopped entirely. The forge's glow, visible through Ryota's window as an orange reflection on the yard below, dimmed as his grandfather banked the coals.
A few minutes later, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Heavy. Takeshi's tread. They came down the hallway and paused outside Ryota's door for a long moment, long enough that Ryota wondered if his grandfather was going to come in and say more.
But then the voice came through the wood, quiet but clear. "Forge work tomorrow afternoon. You can't afford anymore distractions."
Ryota didn't answer. Kept his breathing slow and even, pretending to be asleep.
The footsteps moved away, continuing down the hall to his grandparents' room. A door opened and closed. The house settled into full silence, nothing but the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cooling evening air.
Ryota lay in the dark, staring at ceiling beams he couldn't see, and tried not to think about what had happened with the spoon or the fact that he was six years old in a world that killed children.
Tomorrow he'd go back to the Academy. See what the other students could do. Figure out where he actually stood compared to them. Start building a real plan instead of vague intentions to get stronger.
Tomorrow.
For now, he just needed to sleep.