The city tonight seemed determined to rub my face in it. Neon signs bled red and blue across wet pavement, their glow pooling in rain puddles. Exhaust fumes mixed with the char of grilled yakitori drifted from some distant izakaya. A train clattered past on elevated tracks, screeching like it was personally offended by the concept of smooth rail travel.
I slouched on a wooden bench beneath a streetlamp having an existential crisis, flickering on and off like it couldn't decide whether life was worth the electrical bill. My shirt stuck to my back despite the evening breeze. The orange juice can in my hand had gone lukewarm an hour ago, but I lifted it anyway and took a sip.
And, it tasted like a disappointment.
"Another rejection" I muttered.
Seven. That was the magic number burning a hole in my brain. Seven companies. Seven polite bows that translated to "get lost". Seven variations of "we'll definitely contact you" that we both knew meant "please never return on our doorstep again"
I sighed, enough to fog up the air in front of me. The bench groaned in sympathy. If this kept up, I'd be crawling back to the village in about three months, tail between my legs, ready to hear Dad's "I told you so" speech for the ten thousandth time. Mom would smile that sad smile. The neighbors would whisper just loud enough for me to hear.
Yeah, no. Not happening. I'd eat ramen for a year straight before I gave them that satisfaction.
"Rejections ain't shit unless you give in to it"
The words came out with more conviction than I felt, but saying them helped. I shoved myself upright, joints popping like bubble wrap. How long had I been sitting here? My ass had gone numb. I stretched, felt my spine crack in three places, rolled my neck until something loosened.
The evening air carried jasmine from somewhere, which was nice until another wave of exhaust killed it.
My gaze drifted up to the glass tower across the street. Zenith Technologies. Where I'd walked out an hour ago with rejection number seven weighing on my shoulders like a particularly spiteful backpack. The lobby lights still burned, mocking me through the windows.
I bent down for my bag. My stomach growled, reminding me I'd skipped lunch to make it to that interview on time. Fat lot of good that did. Maybe I could hit up that convenience store near the station, grab something cheap.
"Excuse me"
I turned. An old man stood near the sidewalk's edge, half enveloped by the dying streetlamp's shadow. When the hell did he get there? I hadn't heard footsteps, hadn't noticed anyone approaching. He leaned heavy on a cane, his frame so thin his gray robes hung off him like a coat on a rack. The fabric was torn at the hem, stained with god knows what.
"Sorry, old man. No change" I started turning away.
"I'm not asking for money"
Something in his voice made me pause. Not the usual desperate pitch of street beggars. Just this flat certainty, like he knew something I didn't. Against my better judgment, I looked back.
He stepped forward into the flickering light. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, eyes clouded white with cataracts. Wisps of white hair clung to his scalp like cobwebs. But those blind eyes locked onto me with unnerving precision. Not past me. Not vaguely in my direction. Directly. At. Me.
"You must be tired of getting rejected again and again. This makes seventh, right?" he said.
"How the fuck do you know that?"
He tapped his cane once. The sound echoed off the empty street "The weight on your shoulders. The way you stare at that building like it insulted your intellect"
I took a step back "Look, old man, I'm really not in the mood for the fortune teller routine. Or whatever cult you're recruiting for."
"I'm not selling anything" He moved closer. Each tap of that cane sent a little shiver down my spine "I'm here to offer something."
"Yeah? What, eternal salvation? A chance to be my own boss? Let me guess, you've got some miracle supplements that'll change my life"
"Nothing so mundane" He stopped a few feet away. Those milky eyes bored into me "Tell me something. Are you tired of losing?"
The question hit like a sucker punch. I swallowed the automatic "fuck you" response "Everyone gets tired of losing"
"But not everyone keeps trying after so many losses" His lips pulled back. Gaps showed between yellowed teeth.
He nodded slowly, like I'd just confirmed his entire worldview "Good. You would be the perfect candidate"
"Candidate for what? Human sacrifice? Pyramid schemes? Because I gotta tell you, my credit's terrible"
"A second chance." He shifted his weight "I offer an opportunity to the ones who cling to hope even when everything's gone to shit." He lifted one gnarled finger and pointed it at my chest. "You're one of them."
"Right. Okay. So what's the pitch? You got a job opportunity? Maybe you know a guy who knows a guy? Or wait, let me guess—special lottery ticket?"
"Nothing so mundane."
"Then what?"
"A genuine opportunity to change your fate." His voice dropped. He gestured at me, the bench, the cold glass tower looming behind us.
The words should've sounded insane. They should've sent me speed walking toward the nearest police box. But something in his tone, in the way he stood there absolutely certain, made me hesitate.
Probably a bad sign.
"And what's the catch?" I asked.
"There's always a cost" he agreed. "The question is whether you're willing to pay for it."
Every functioning brain cell I had left screamed at me to leave. This was wrong. This was some elaborate scam or I was about to get mugged or both. Street hustlers came in all shapes and sizes. The mystical homeless sage act was probably just a new way for them.
I needed to get somewhere with people. Witnesses. Cameras.
"Yeah, thanks but no thanks." I grabbed my bag and turned toward the lit street.
"You'll go back to your apartment tonight." His voice carried across the distance. "You'll eat instant ramen because that's all you can afford. Tomorrow you'll send out more applications. And the day after. And the day after that. In three months, you'll be on a train back to your village, wondering where it all went wrong."
My feet stopped moving. My hand gripped the bag strap hard enough to leave marks.
"Or" he continued "you can turn around and take a leap of faith"
I should've kept walking. Should've ignored him. Should've done literally anything except what I did next.
But I turned around.
He stood in the same spot, cane planted, those blind eyes fixed on me. Waiting. He raised the cane and pointed it directly at my face.
"What are you—"
The world went white.
Not bright. White. Like someone had erased color from existence. No sound. No sensation. No breath. I tried to scream but couldn't tell if anything came out. My body felt distant, like I was falling through an infinite void of absolutely nothing.
Then the pain hit.
My knees cracked against the pavement.
Oh. I've been shot.
The realization came with weird clarity. City sounds crashed back. Car horns, distant voices, trains. But already fading, growing hollow and far away. My cheek hit cold concrete. The orange juice can lay inches from my face, liquid trickling into the drain.
Then nothing.
---
I woke up drowning.
My eyes snapped open. Hand flew to my chest where the bullet should've punched through. Found only smooth skin under soft fabric. No wound. No blood. No pain.
I'm alive.
The relief hit so hard it made the room spin. Wait. Room? I jerked upright. Bad idea. The world tilted sideways. My palms pressed down, expecting concrete or hospital sheets, found something soft and warm instead.
A futon?
My breath caught in my throat.
My hands looked wrong. Too small. Fingers shorter, knuckles less prominent, skin smooth and unmarked. No scar from the broken glass incident two years ago. I held them up, turned them over like they belonged to someone else.
Because they did.
These weren't my hands.
Panic clawed up on me. I scrambled off the futon, and looked down.
A kid?
"What the hell?"
I swept the room frantically. Small. Undeniably Japanese. Tatami mats lined the floor. Low table in one corner.
Everything was clean and ordered.
Where am I? What happened? Is this real? Am I dead? Is this hell?
I took a step. This had to be a dream. Some dying hallucination my brain cooked up. Maybe I was in a coma somewhere while my neurons fired their last hurrah.
Blue light exploded in front of my face.
I yelped and jumped back, nearly tripping over the futon. Floating in the air, glowing soft azure, was a rectangular screen. It looked ripped straight from a video game. Floating text with an interface that screamed "this is not possible" while simultaneously being right there in front of me.
I rubbed my eyes with small fists until I saw the screen still there, pulsing gently.
Trembling, I reached out. My fingertip touched the surface and felt it like an iPad made of light and broken physics.
The display rippled. A information appeared:
*[[ The User has been successfully registered to the Gacha Life System ]]*
A Gacha Life System.
But the screen just waited there giving exactly zero fucks about my existential crisis. I pressed my palms to my face.
Okay. Think. Process. I died. Pretty sure about that part. The old man definitely shot me. Then I woke up in a kid's body. In what looks like a Japanese home. And now there's a floating screen talking about a Gacha Life System like I'm the protagonist of some web novel.
I forced myself to breathe slowly. Panic wouldn't help. Logic. I needed logic. Even if logic had apparently taken a vacation.
So either I've reincarnated—actually honest to god reincarnated into a kid's body—or I'm in the most elaborate, detailed, convincing coma dream ever conceived by the human brain.
The screen pulsed once. Impatient.
I let out a shaky laugh "Right. Sure. Why not? Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes."
I touched the screen again. Pressed more deliberately. Text shimmered and scrolled:
*[[ Gacha Life System grants User with rewards. But to earn that, User must complete quests assigned to him. The time limit of completion depends on situation, and as for penalties for failure—there are none. Yes, you heard it right. So take it easy and choose to either go along with the quest or you can simply decline. ]]*
*[[ Depending on difficulties of quests, the gacha rewards are assigned as such. They are ranked from Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum tiers. ]]*
*[[ Do you accept? YES / NO ]]*
I stared at the options. No penalties? That seemed suspiciously convenient. Then again, I'd just died and reincarnated into a child's body with a game system, so my suspicious-o-meter had pretty much shattered.
"What've I got to lose at this point?"
I pressed YES.
Pain detonated in my skull like a flashbang going off inside my brain. My hands flew to my temples. I collapsed on my knees on the tatami. The room spun like I'd been shoved into a washing machine.
Memories crashed in.
Birthday party. Strawberry cake, woman smiling, dark hair in a bun.
Joining the Ninja Academy.
Dad in a Konoha flak jacket, ruffling my hair before leaving.
Mom laughing, helping me with chakra control, leaf trembling on my forehead.
Then screams.
Orange fur. Red eyes. Towering over buildings like something out of a kaiju film.
Mom's terrified face shoving me into a shelter.
Explosions. Fire. Everything burning.
Dad and mom never coming home.
Their photo on the altar. That smile frozen forever.
Nine Tails attack.
Living with my aunt. Pitying looks from neighbors.
Academy classes. Average at everything and unremarkable.
Hokage Monument visible from my window.
Practicing hand seals alone in the apartment.
Being an orphan in a village full of heroes.
Years of memories not mine but somehow completely mine flooding in at once. Lifetime compressed into seconds. Every joy, disappointment, mundane moment forced into my brain until I thought my skull would crack open like an egg.
And beneath it all, one crystal clear realization: This wasn't Japan. This is Konoha.
This is the goddamn Naruto world!!!
I collapsed forward onto my hands. Gasping like I'd just surfaced from drowning. Sweat poured down my face, soaking the tatami.
But the memories settled and it became part of me.
I know now.
This body belonged to someone. A thirteen year old boy in Konohagakure. The Hidden Leaf Village. Not some modern Japanese city. The world of shinobi. Giant tailed beasts level villages for fun.
The Nine Tails that killed my—Ken's—parents few years ago.
Made him one of the orphans of the Nine Tails incident. Mediocre Academy student. No special talents. Just another kid who lost everything before he could even remember having it.
I pushed myself up, wiped sweat from my face with my sleeve. Hands steady now. Breathing even. Two impossible sets of memories somehow fitting together like puzzle pieces.
I'm in the Naruto world. The actual fucking Naruto world. With ninja and jutsu and all that insanity.
The blue screen still floated there, patient as ever:
[[ Registration Complete. Welcome, Ken Shimura. ]]
I let out a long breath but couldn't help the small grin tugging at my lips.