Reincarnation in the world of Naruto isn't exactly a blessing. Imagine leaving a peaceful world, free of major conflicts, only to be thrown into a land where child soldiers are drafted into war. Sometimes, the great villages even accelerated graduation, forcing kids as young as ten onto the front lines.
But... when you're born with a cheat, everything changes. The world becomes a playground—unless you're Senju Nawaki, and you lose your parents before you even learn to tie your headband.
He was only one when it happened. His parents, elite shinobi of the Senju clan, had fallen during a covert mission in the First Shinobi War. Konoha gave him a name. The clan gave him a roof. But no one gave him peace.
What they didn't know was that the boy had memories. Memories of another life. A quieter world. A longer one.
And now, equipped with a system of "templates"—of every Kage, every legend—Nawaki wasn't just a child prodigy. He was a ticking force of nature.
Hashirama. Minato. Naruto. Tobirama. The Third Raikage. One by one, their paths would become his.
To reach 100% sync with each template, there were two ways.
The first? Wait for the years of each character to naturally pass. Minato, for example, died at 23. All Nawaki had to do was reach that age to inherit his knowledge, combat skills, and even his final state—complete with Nine-Tails chakra.
But Nawaki... wasn't patient.
There was a second path. Riskier. Potentially lethal. But utterly irresistible to someone like him. Waiting never sat right with Nawaki. Patience? That was his sister's thing. His way was more like his grandfather's: face the danger, punch through it, and move on.
The sky above him burned red like fresh blood slipping from a drawn blade. The forest, unnaturally quiet, held its breath. It was the kind of silence that dared you to break it. Nawaki tilted his head, a crooked grin forming at the edge of his young face.
"Tch... C'mon already. Don't keep me waiting," he muttered, twirling a kunai between his fingers.
CRACK! A branch snapped behind him. No flinch. Nawaki was no ordinary kid. His body was small, but his instincts were sharp. His chakra steady. His presence... unsettling.
SWOOSH!
A shuriken cut through the air, fast and sharp. Nawaki sidestepped with effortless calm, not even blinking. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Too slow," he said, almost bored.
CLANG! CLANG! TCHINK!
A flurry of weapons followed, but Nawaki deflected them with minimal motion, turning dodges into something almost balletic. His form was raw but brilliant. Not elegant like a trained jōnin—but like a beast learning to enjoy the hunt.
Then came the attacker. A masked shinobi burst from the trees, aiming a chakra-charged strike right at Nawaki's heart.
POW!
The kick landed—full force. Nawaki was hurled backward, smashing against a tree trunk.
THUD!
Dust. Leaves. Silence again.
But then... laughter.
Low. Calm. Controlled.
He sat up, wiped a thin line of blood from his lip, and licked his thumb. "Nice hit."
"You're just a brat," the masked man barked, clearly irritated by Nawaki's nonchalant tone.
Nawaki stood. Slowly. Chin up. Golden-brown eyes narrowing.
"Confidence doesn't come from age," he said. "It comes from knowing you've already won."
The battle reignited. Fists. Kunai. Wind. Earth. Nawaki didn't fight like a child. He fought like a ghost—slipping through attacks, countering with timing that was uncanny, almost unnatural.
To him, every move was data. Every twitch a code. Every opponent a puzzle to dissect.
And then—he formed the Rasengan.
Yes, that Rasengan. A spinning sphere of condensed chakra, humming with untamed force, summoned with no hand signs, just control and intent. He wasn't supposed to know it. Not at his age. Not even his sister had seen it.
But Nawaki had learned it alone.
His hand glowed with swirling blue, the chakra howling like a caged storm.
RASENGAN!
He dashed forward, chakra exploding behind him as he struck. The masked shinobi raised his arms—
KA-BOOM!
The clearing erupted. Trees swayed. Leaves flew. Smoke danced around them.
Nawaki landed on one knee, panting slightly, eyes locked on the settling dust.
Footsteps.
"You're still alive," he muttered. "Impressive."
"You brat...!" the masked man coughed, emerging from the wreckage, bloodied but standing.
"I wouldn't underestimate you," Nawaki said, now smiling. "You're a rare opportunity. A live experiment."
The masked man blinked, confused.
But Nawaki was already in motion. Their clash continued, fiercer than before. But what set him apart wasn't raw power. It was his coldness. His mind.
Where others fought with emotion, he fought with insight.
Each step was deliberate. Each strike—calculated. His mind moved faster than his fists. It wasn't just about winning. It was about understanding—mastering.
Because in this cruel shinobi world, survival wasn't about passion. It was about precision. Cold, surgical domination of detail.
And in that, Senju Nawaki was already a master.