Kenji's life, if it could be called that, had become a strange balance between light and shadow.
By day, he was Kaito, the diligent (if mediocre) student, the occasional helper. He had discovered that doing small favors for the merchants and elderly people of Konoha not only earned him a few coins (crucial, since theft was still too risky with the ANBU on the prowl), but also wove a web of normalcy around him. The quiet boy who helped old Takeru with his mill. The one who gathered herbs for Lady Yumi. A useful ghost, fading into the landscape with a shy smile and no past.
Pure theater, he sometimes thought, as he carried sacks of grain or repaired a fence. But a necessary theater. Each grateful smile was another brick in the wall of his facade.
Today it was the old mill on the outskirts, near the edge of the forest. The sun beat down. Kenji, in simple, dust-stained work clothes, carried a heavy bucket of river water. Sweat trickled down his back, mingling with the dust. He took a deep breath, savoring for a moment the honest physical exhaustion, not the kind that comes from a beating or brutal training.
It was in that moment of distraction, his mind on the task at hand and not on survival, that they passed.
There was no noise. No display of chakra. It was a silent glide at the edge of his perception, like three long shadows cast by a sun that wasn't there.
Kenji froze in the middle of the dusty path, the bucket weighing a ton in his hand. A primal feeling, older than his yakuza instincts, raised the hairs on his arms and chilled his blood. Danger. Pure, absolute, lethal.
Three figures were walking along the parallel path, about twenty meters to his right, moving away from Konoha. Their gait was carefree, like casual strollers. But the cloaks…
Red clouds against black.
Akatsuki.
The word exploded in his brain like a bomb. What the hell were they doing here? So close to the village? In the anime, their appearance was later, more strategic, always shrouded in fog, rain, or sand. Not on a dusty road in broad daylight.
Instinct screamed: DON'T LOOK! DON'T DRAW ATTENTION! He kept walking, his eyes fixed on the dust at his feet, forcing every muscle to move normally. But his peripheral vision, honed by years of paranoia and training, caught the details.
Two were recognizable, though he'd never seen them in person. The one with long blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, strands partially obscuring his face. Deidara. The explosive artist. And the hunched, almost robotic figure, shrouded in a dark brown cloak that concealed its true puppet form. Sasori, the Red Puppeteer, inside his Hiruko shell. His mere presence here, now, was a complete aberration of the canon.
But it was the third one who chilled him to the bone.
A boy. Perhaps his same age, maybe a little older. He walked with carefree ease, a wide, playful smile on his face. He held a stalk of grass, nibbling at the corner of his mouth. His hands were clasped behind his neck. And across his back, casually slung, was a broadsword, almost as big as he was, with a simple hilt but one that radiated an aura of constant use.
The boy laughed, a clear, youthful sound that cut through the tense air. He said something, and Deidara, with that theatrical tone Kenji remembered from the scenes, responded with a gesture of annoyance. Sasori (or Hiruko) let out a mechanical grunt.
Who is he? Who the hell is that kid? His mind, his vast store of anime knowledge, yielded no results. Akatsuki didn't have recruits that young. Never. Unless… unless something had changed. Terribly.
Butterfly effect.
The phrase, a cliché from the isekai forums he used to read with a chuckle, now weighed on him like a coffin. He was here. A ghost from another reality, an undead Uchiha. Had his mere existence, however passive, altered anything? Had he diverted these monsters' attention to Konoha prematurely? Or was that kid… a direct consequence of his intrusion into this timeline?
Logic rebelled. How? Why? It was impossible. He was nobody. A grain of sand. But fear, that visceral, predatory fear, wouldn't listen to reason. Those three, on a bad day, could wipe this part of the map off the map without breaking a sweat. And him, in the blink of an eye.
He kept his head down until the oppressive aura faded, absorbed by the distance and the trees. Only then did he dare to stop, leaning against a tree trunk, his legs trembling. He took a deep breath; the air burned his lungs.
He left the bucket where it was. Old Takeru's task could wait. He returned to Konoha at a pace that was neither running nor walking, a speed that betrayed urgency without panic. His eyes, now constantly moving, scanned every rooftop, every shadow. Were they inside already? Was this a prelude to an attack?
As he crossed the main gate, he saw the Chunin guards yawning, completely oblivious. The village breathed the peace of a normal workday. No one knew. No one had any idea that three of the world's most wanted criminals had just strolled outside as if nothing were amiss.
That night, in his hideout, Kenji couldn't train. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, and let reality hit him.
He had been playing at being a spy, a clever survivor. Planning his promotion to genin, worrying about ANBU and Guy. But the world, the true shinobi world, was far larger, darker, and more indifferent than he had reckoned on. Out there, forces existed that reduced Konoha, and him within it, to the insignificance of an anthill.
The boy with the sword and the carefree smile wouldn't leave his mind. A new variable. An unknown danger. And proof that his understanding of the future was now an incomplete map, possibly obsolete.
He looked at his hands. They were stronger than they had been a few months ago, yes. He could fight a genin, perhaps, escape a chunin with luck. But against this…
A cold spark ignited in his eyes, replacing the initial fear. It wasn't heroic determination. It was the cold calculator of the Hawk reassessing the chessboard.
It wasn't just about surviving Konoha, Danzo, or the system anymore. It was about surviving a world that had unleashed its most terrifying pawns prematurely. His plan to become a genin, to gain some freedom and power within the system, was no longer a goal. It was an emergency necessity.
He had to become stronger. Faster. And he had to find out who that kid was and why the Akatsuki were lurking around. Because if a storm of red clouds was approaching, he needed to stop being a grain of sand.
He needed to become, at the very least, a rock. A sharp, hidden rock, ready for impact.