The first moments were a chaos of sensations. Not the pain of bullets piercing flesh in another world, but a heavy heat, dampness, and a sharp, deafening scream that burst from my own lungs—lungs that didn't belong to me. A foreign body, tiny and helpless. The sounds were muffled, blurred, like from beneath a layer of water. Someone's voice, soft and unfamiliar:"Congratulations, it's a boy…"
I didn't remember how I grew last time. I was simply found in that gray world. But here… here I felt every change, every inch of growth, every emerging tooth. And every moment of this forced helplessness was torture. I, who for twenty years had been a shadow, a perfect predator, now couldn't even turn over on my own.
They named me Akio.
My father, Kagetora—strong, taciturn man. His hands, rough from constant training and work, always smelled of steel and the dampness of the mist. He was a Chuunin of the Hidden Mist Village, Kirigakure. His gaze was direct and sometimes heavy, as a shinobi of the Hidden Mist should be. But when he held me, his fingers were surprisingly gentle.My mother, Yume—short, with a warm smile and hands always busy tending a small stall on the market street. She smelled of herbs, rice cakes, and comfort. She was the embodiment of the normality I never knew and yet despised.
They loved me. The way parents love in this world—unconditionally, simply because I was their son. To them, I was their little Akio, their treasure.
To me, they were just scenery. A necessary cover. A path to my goal.
I quickly understood where I was. The mist that almost never lifted, the heavy, humid air, the salty smell of the sea and… the scent of blood. The Hidden Mist Village. Kirigakure. Perfect. The Village of the "Bloody Mist." A place where children were taught to kill before they even became teenagers. Where only the strongest survived and the weak became fertilizer.
I lay in a cradle, then crawled on a futon, learned to walk, talk… and watched. Absorbed every word about jutsu, chakra, missions, the Academy, the Genin Exam—the one where comrades cut each other to prove their worth. Parents spoke about it casually, as if it were just work. A horrifying normality.
Five years. Five years of pretending. Smiles on a child's face while inside was the icy calm and sharp mind of an adult killer. Tears when I had to beg for something or avoid punishment. Hugs that only felt like the warmth of a stranger's body, no kinship. I was the perfect actor playing the role of the beloved child.
I felt inside me, beneath the layer of "Akio," something slowly awakening. Not rage—that's chaotic. Hunger. Pure, ancient hunger of a predator. The urge to act. To break, to dominate, to leave marks. In the past life, that hunger was sated by professional work. Here, it accumulated, waited. Waited for the moment this tiny body would become strong enough.
That moment came when I turned five. Childish babble and naivety could no longer be the only shield. It was time to acquire tools.
I found my father on the veranda. Evening mist curled just above the wooden planks. Kagetora sat hunched, methodically sharpening one of his kunai on a whetstone. Sh-sh-sh. Sh-sh-sh. The sound was monotonous, his movements precise, mechanical. He was absorbed in the process. He didn't see me. Didn't see the true gaze behind the eyes of a child.
I approached slowly, trying to make my steps sound like the uncertain walk of a five-year-old. Stopped beside him. Looked at his hands, at the gleaming blade.
"Papa…" My voice was softer than usual, tinged with feigned timidity.
Kagetora stopped sharpening but didn't lift his head immediately. He finished the motion, put away the whetstone."Hm?"
"I… I want to become a shinobi," I blurted out, making my voice tremble a little. I raised my eyes to him, trying to make them wide and full of childish dreams. "Like you. I want to be strong. To protect the village… I want you to be proud of me."
It was bait. Simple, effective. Parental pride—one of the strongest and most predictable weaknesses.
He finally raised his gaze. His eyes, the color of dark sea, studied my face carefully. The silence stretched for a few seconds, which for me—accustomed to controlling every fraction of a moment—felt like an eternity. I held the mask. The perfect, dreaming son.
Then he let out a short, throaty chuckle."You're too early, Akio. The milk on your lips hasn't even dried yet," his voice was slightly hoarse but not unkind.
I lowered my head, pretending disappointment, but slowly enough for him to notice."But… but I can do it. I feel it," I raised my hand, clenched a small fist. "I feel the power inside. That's… that's chakra, right? Like you said?" I made my voice a little more excited, almost naive. "I can feel it! Please, Papa! Teach me!"
He sighed again, longer this time. I saw a flicker of pride beyond the usual in his eyes. My trick worked. He didn't see a calculating killer, but his little son, looking up to him with admiration, wanting to follow in his footsteps.
"All right," Kagetora put down the kunai. "Starting tomorrow. Early morning, before the mist thickens. We'll begin from the very basics. Meditation, breathing control… But listen," he moved closer, his voice serious, "if you realize it's not for you—say so right away. No need to force yourself. And don't disgrace yourself."
"Okay, Papa!" I lifted my head and gave him the most sincere, brightest childish smile I could muster.
Perfect.
The following weeks were a mix of boredom and intense labor. Mornings began with my father. Sitting, breathing, trying to feel this "life energy." Kagetora was patient, explaining simply, like to a child. For me, it was elementary. I knew what chakra was from my past anime world. I knew the basics. Now I had to learn to control it in this body.
At night, when my parents slept, I continued training alone. I recalled everything I knew. Chakra element system, basic taijutsu forms from the Academy, even vague knowledge of fuinjutsu and genjutsu. I summoned images—not of heroes, but of those who wielded power without hesitation: immortal Hidan, cutting flesh for the glory of Jashin; genius Itachi, destroying wills with a glance. These were my guides.
I pushed my new body beyond limits. Stood under icy mountain stream jets, trying to harden muscles and spirit. Trained endurance, hiding in the forest on the village's edge. Fell, skinned knees, split lips, trying to concentrate chakra in my feet to run across the sheer bark of an old tree. Pain was my teacher and my proof. It was real.
I learned to feel chakra not only inside myself but around me. Weak, pulsating currents in living beings. Echoes of techniques in earth and air. It was a new "reading the world," more complex than watching people's fears in a megacity, but equally intriguing.
"Akio, you look so tired in the mornings," my mother said worriedly, running her hand through my tousled hair as I nodded off at breakfast.
"Just… thinking a lot, Mama," I answered, yawning and faking sincere childish tiredness. "About how to get stronger. I want Papa to be proud of me."
She smiled, her gaze warm with tenderness."You still have time, sunshine. Just don't overdo it."
Mom… you have no idea how much I will overdo it. You feed not a son at this table, but a predator waiting for his hour.
The hunger grew. The feeling of power in this new body, control over chakra—it was intoxicating but insufficient. I needed… a trigger. Confirmation. I needed blood. The first blood in this new world to finally shed the last remnants of childish helplessness.
One night I couldn't hold back. The moon was barely visible, the mist hung thick like a wall. I slipped out of the house quietly, taking a small, sharp kitchen knife. Headed to the forest where the neat streets of Kirigakure ended and wild, unpredictable nature began.
I needed someone weak. Someone whose death wouldn't raise questions. Someone… suitable.
I found him near the outskirts. A stray dog. Thin, with patchy fur and clearly ailing hind leg. He sat by trash bins, growling at the approaching shadow. Pity? No. Only calculation and cold anticipation.
"Sorry," I whispered, approaching. The knife in my hand felt too light, too small. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." The dog tensed, ready to defend itself. "You'll be the first. Just the first."
I moved like in my past life—fast, silent, precise. Not like a five-year-old. Like a predator. The strike was one. Quick, under the jaw, severing an artery. The dog gasped, twitched, and fell.
Blood spilled, warm and thick, on my hand, on the ground.
The world shrank. Everything focused on the red, on the pulse, on the taste in my mouth—not like in my past life, but… deeper. More visceral. Real.
I knelt there a long time, listening to the last breaths of my first victim. A start. The beginning.
Tomorrow I would start again. But with new understanding. New strength.
I was no longer Akio.
I was a shinobi born from blood and mist.