For all his memories of his past life, the first thing he truly remembered in this one…
was warmth.
Not the cold glow of the ROB or the impact of a truck's bumper —
But the warmth of arms wrapping around him, a lullaby in a language he had once only read about.
His mother's voice.
His father's laughter.
The scent of steamed rice and ink-soaked scrolls.
---
Despite the weight of reincarnation and the burning presence of dormant power within him, he was still a child — and he let himself be one.
He giggled when lifted in the air.
Cried when he scraped his knees.
Chased fireflies barefoot through garden paths lit by soft lanterns.
He didn't rush into training.
He waited — because he knew what would come.
And because this time… he had something to lose.
---
His parents were strong but kind. His mother, a master of chakra threads. His father, a scholar-warrior who taught him how to hold a brush before a kunai.
The villagers smiled when he passed.
The villagers often said he had quiet eyes — not sleepy, but watching.
Too calm for a child. Too steady.
But they also said he had his mother's kindness and his father's poise, so they left it at that.
No one saw the storm beneath.
Akashi often sat by the cliffs overlooking the ocean, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"I used to stare at computer screens. Now, I stare at this — and somehow it matters more."
He would whisper those words with a smile, never explaining them to anyone.
He wasn't in a hurry.
Because for once in two lives, he was at peace.
And he would protect that peace — until the day came when the sword must be drawn.
His Essence hadn't stirred fully, but there were signs.
He would occasionally heal too fast.
He could sense people's emotions in their footsteps.
Once, he wrote a completely original fūinjutsu pattern in a dream… and when he showed it to his father, the man just stared and said,
"You… shouldn't be able to do that. Not yet."
---
But he smiled through it all.
Because Akashi didn't want to awaken power with arrogance or pressure.
He wanted to grow alongside it — with intention.
He still laughed with the other children.
He helped carry scrolls for the elders.
He tasted every bowl of ramen like it was the first.
"Being good… wasn't so bad," he whispered once, watching the stars alone.
"But this time… I'll be more, when it truly matters."
Akashi was five when it began.
Not because someone forced him, but because the stillness within had finally shifted.
---
One morning, his father knelt before him — the first time the man ever looked at him not as a son, but as a legacy.
"Akashi, There are things I can teach you, and things you must learn from those who know more than me."
"From today, two men will shape your steps."
---
The Shadow Teacher – ANBU Mentor
He never spoke his name.
His chakra was silent, presence erased, but his strikes were clean and fluid like poetry with a blade.
He was his father's closest comrade — a war-hardened ANBU whose mask bore no animal, only a blank white surface.
"Your mind is as sharp as a blade," he said the first day.
"But your body is still a child. We will sharpen it."
Training began before sunrise:
Balance. Breath. Silence.
Blade handling with wooden sticks.
Chakra control — walking, gripping, suppressing.
Akashi fell. Bled. Got up. Smiled.
"Again," he'd say.
And the ANBU would nod, without praise, without pity.
Only respect.
---
The Sealing Master – Ashina, the Grandfather
Ashina was old.
Very old.
His hands shook when he drank tea.
But when he drew a seal, the ink bent before the brush even touched the scroll.
"Our clan built peace with fūinjutsu. Not war," he said one day, sitting beneath a tree with Akashi beside him.
He taught him how to fold chakra into paper.
How symbols were more than language — they were truths.
"Seals are like emotions. You don't control them… you guide them."
Ashina never rushed him.
He asked questions, let the boy speak.
Sometimes, they didn't even study. Just listened to the wind and drew spirals in the dirt.
And Between Them… He Grew
From the ANBU, he learned motion. Precision. The feel of danger.
From Ashina, he learned stillness. Depth. The language of the soul.
And though the Emperor Eye still slumbered…
The Essence inside him had begun to stir — adapting, molding, growing stronger with each lesson.
"Two worlds," he thought, after a year passed. "One in shadow, one in silence. And I'm walking both."