Legend has it that when the Buddha Shakyamuni was born, he could already walk on the ground and speak, pointing to the heavens and the earth with a booming voice. But that sort of mystical tale had nothing to do with Nara Shikamaru. It had already been three months since Lu Liangnai was reincarnated into the Naruto world as Shikamaru, and as a baby, he was no different from others his age—sleepy and utterly helpless.
That's just normal physiology. Fantasies of infants dashing around days after birth or being born brimming with chakra are nothing but dreams. Chakra is made up of physical and spiritual energy; without strong vitality and matching mental strength, there is no way to manifest it.
Even with the soul of an adult, Shikamaru's current body was still underdeveloped and frail. He could cry to signal hunger, thirst, or a dirty diaper, but being asleep and wetting the bed—well, that was just an unfortunate reality.
At this time, the Hidden Leaf Village was still at war. As a shinobi, Nara Shikaku couldn't stay at home every day to care for his wife and son. The only ninja frequently present at home was Shikamaru's mother, Nara Yoshino. His grandmother and the middle-aged nanny were civilians, and with Yoshino's weak health, it was impossible for her to teach chakra control to a newborn.
Life as an infant was dull and uneventful. Shikamaru hadn't been born with chakra and felt no trace of innate spiritual energy like those cultivators of fantasy novels. There were no divine powers to defy biology, and in fact, he slept even more than average. His young body was still developing, while his adult soul and memories placed a great burden on his infant brain.
He couldn't do much. Still, nutrition during infancy was critical. Shikaku occasionally brought home a bottle of deer milk, which Shikamaru showed a clear preference for. Deer milk was rich in nutrients, and expressing that preference meant he got it often—vital for his growth. As for chakra training, he wasn't hopeful.
A power system that has developed for countless generations and can be passed down must have a well-established structure. According to the original Naruto canon, chakra wasn't something like internal energy from Chinese wuxia novels, cultivated through mere meditation. It required physical training and chakra control exercises. Even if he wanted to start training, as a baby, it just wasn't possible.
Right now, his main focus was on maintaining good health. In this fragile stage, any neglect could lead to long-term consequences. Just look at Hayate Gekkō from the original series—always coughing like he had a terminal illness. A perfect example of what not to become.
Starting early to consciously build up his body might not make him as overpowered as a Jinchūriki—those human vessels with near-cheat-level boosts—but it could still give him an edge over his peers.
That day, Shikamaru was, as usual, crawling around to exercise on the floor. Not far off, seated on the couch and reading the newspaper, was his father, Shikaku, finally home for a rare rest.
Shikaku glanced at him from the corner of his eye, watching the sweaty, tireless baby crawl around. He found it amusing, put down the paper, squatted beside him, and quietly observed.
His role as a shinobi left little time for family. And he wasn't exactly the affectionate type. He spent more time with his comrades than with his wife or child. Both he and Yoshino were shinobi, and during wartime, Yoshino had to return to duty soon after recovery. That left the grandmother and the nanny to care for Shikamaru, and Shikaku often felt guilty about it. But unlike planning battlefield strategy, he had no clue how to make it up to his son.
After a while, exhausted, Shikamaru stopped crawling. He looked up, parched, and opened his arms toward Shikaku. He muttered, "Daddy… thirsty." Shikaku, startled out of his thoughts, picked up Shikamaru and handed him the baby bottle of deer milk, then sat on the couch holding him, watching as his son gulped it down. A small smile of paternal contentment spread across his face.
Shikamaru had always been clever. Though still vague, he could already use simple words to express his needs. Perhaps in a few years, this precocious child would grow into a truly gifted shinobi.
But being too smart, too early… wasn't necessarily a good thing.
Shikaku's expression grew complicated. In a well-functioning system, skipping ranks should be discouraged. War is, at its core, a grinder of lives. Ninjas, no matter how talented, were ultimately just consumables in war. Those so-called "geniuses" that emerged during wartime were merely students thrown into battle before their time.
No matter how gifted a child is, without a fully developed body, how much of their potential could they truly realize? And these battlefield promotions weren't a reward—they were a sign the village was running out of manpower.
Take Hatake Kakashi, for example. His survival wasn't just due to talent but also sheer luck.
In times of peace, with proper training systems and time, talent could flourish. But in war, survival often depended on chance. Even if Shikaku had a good reputation now, it was nothing compared to the overarching decisions of Konoha's leadership.
Just then, Shikaku's face shifted. He sensed something far away—a presence. He jerked his head up, face turning grim. Simultaneously, baby Shikamaru shivered uncontrollably, a wave of fear washing over him. His limbs stiffened, and the bottle slipped from his hand.
Shikaku glanced down at him. Despite the tension in his small body, he wasn't crying. Shikaku sighed and gently patted him.
"What a sensitive and strong kid…" he murmured.
"Lord Shikaku!" a voice called from the courtyard.
Shikaku set his son down gently and strode out. A young Nara clan shinobi stood outside, nervous but composed. "Sir, the Nine-Tails has gone berserk!"
Shikaku's expression turned darker. Though he had suspected as much, confirmation made it worse.
He pointed at the door. "Stay here and protect Shikamaru. I'm heading to the front."
Despite being at home, Shikaku was always in ready-to-battle gear, given the wartime conditions. He didn't need directions—the explosions and oppressive chakra in the distance made the location obvious. Without delay, he sprinted toward the source.
Back on the couch, Shikamaru fidgeted, already guessing what was happening. Sure enough, his father was gone, and a young Nara clansman, with the family's signature spiked ponytail, was now cradling him while nervously watching the window.
Shikamaru sighed inwardly.
The Nine-Tails' chakra was even more terrifying than he imagined. In his past life, he had seen lions and tigers at the zoo—but this was no mere animal. The Kyūbi no Yōko, or Nine-Tailed Fox, was a being of raw, supernatural power, born of hatred and malice. Even from a great distance, its malevolence could be felt by a child who hadn't even begun chakra training.
But it wasn't surprising.
The Nine-Tails thrived on negative emotions—hatred, wrath, bloodlust. To expect it to grow weary of slaughter or adopt the peaceful ways of an enlightened monk was laughable.
Let's be real: just because humans live longer than ants, doesn't mean they feel "too old" to keep living. Likewise, the Kyūbi, no matter how long it lives, would never tire of destruction.
Naruto Uzumaki, the destined child full of courage and idealism, couldn't persuade the Nine-Tails to turn good for years. How could an ordinary person with more flaws and temptations stand a chance?
In Shikamaru's mind, there were only two ways to work with the Kyūbi:
The absolute method—like Uchiha Madara or a powerful Jinchūriki—dominate or seal it with overwhelming force and make it obey.
The risky method—create chaos and war, amplify human hatred, and use that resonance to strike a temporary deal. But that was playing with fire. The fox's essence was slaughter. Any "partnership" would always be one heartbeat away from betrayal.