The moon hung high over Konohagakure, its pale light filtering through the hole in my shack's roof. I sat cross-legged on the worn floor, my hands resting on my knees, my mind drifting as I channeled chakra to steady my breathing. Training was my anchor, a constant in a world that still felt alien despite twelve years of living in it. Tonight, though, my thoughts wandered not to ninjutsu or genjutsu, but to a life I'd left behind—a life where I wasn't Archon, the orphan shinobi, but a gamer hunched over a screen, lost in worlds of fantasy and strategy.
Before I was reborn in this chaotic world of shinobi, I'd been an ordinary guy, my nights consumed by role-playing games like Baldur's Gate, Dragon Age, and The Witcher. RPGs were my escape, their sprawling worlds and intricate mechanics a puzzle I could lose myself in. I wasn't a competitive player, no speedrunner or esports wannabe—just someone who loved crafting builds, min-maxing stats, and outsmarting enemies with clever tactics. Those games taught me to think several steps ahead, to exploit every tool at my disposal. Now, in the Naruto universe, that mindset was proving more valuable than I'd ever imagined.
My favorite spell from Baldur's Gate had always been Mirror Image. A simple illusion that conjured multiple copies of the caster, each one a decoy to confuse enemies and absorb attacks. It wasn't flashy like a fireball or devastating like a disintegration spell, but it was elegant, efficient—a perfect blend of deception and survival. As I sat in my shack, I realized that genjutsu, with its focus on manipulating perception, was the closest thing this world had to those arcane tricks. The Mist Servant Technique I'd mastered was a start, but it was crude, limited to basic clones that flickered under scrutiny. I needed something better, something inspired by Mirror Image—a genjutsu that could create lifelike duplicates to throw off even the sharpest shinobi.
The next morning at the Ninja Academy, I was distracted, my mind buzzing with ideas. Iruka's lecture on chakra control barely registered as I sketched in my head, blending my gamer instincts with shinobi training. In Baldur's Gate, Mirror Image created illusions that moved independently, each one a potential target to draw enemy fire. To replicate that, I'd need a genjutsu that not only conjured clones but made them react dynamically, mimicking my movements while adapting to the environment. It would require precise chakra control, a deep understanding of perception, and a touch of creativity—qualities I'd honed in countless RPG campaigns.
During a break, I slipped away to a quiet corner of the training grounds, a secluded spot behind a cluster of trees. I started small, channeling chakra to create a single illusory clone, much like the Mist Servant Technique. The clone mirrored my stance, its movements synchronized but stiff. I pushed further, adjusting the chakra flow to give it autonomy. The clone began to shift, stepping to the side, raising a kunai as if ready to strike. It was a step in the right direction, but it lacked realism. In Baldur's Gate, Mirror Image clones flickered in and out, disorienting enemies with their unpredictability. I needed that same chaos.
I drew inspiration from another game, Skyrim, where the Illusion skill tree let you manipulate enemies' senses with spells like Frenzy or Calm. Genjutsu worked similarly, hijacking a target's chakra flow to alter their reality. I experimented, weaving a subtle genjutsu that made my clone appear to flicker, its form blurring at the edges like a glitch in a game. To test it, I lured a squirrel into the clearing and locked eyes with it, projecting the illusion. The squirrel froze, its tiny head darting between me and the clone, unable to decide which was real. It scampered off, confused but unharmed.
Satisfied, I pushed the technique further. By the end of the session, I could summon three illusory clones, each one moving independently, dodging and weaving as if alive. Unlike Shadow Clones, they were intangible, but their realism was uncanny—down to the rustle of my cloak and the glint of light on a fake kunai. I called it the Mirror Mirage Technique, a nod to my gamer roots. It wasn't perfect yet; maintaining multiple clones drained my chakra faster than I liked, but with practice, it could become a game-changer in combat.
That afternoon, the Academy held a sparring session, and I was paired with Ino Yamanaka. Her clan's mind-based techniques made her a tricky opponent, but also a perfect test for my new genjutsu. As we faced off in the training ring, I kept my movements casual, my hands loose at my sides. Ino smirked, her confidence unshaken.
"Ready to lose, Archon?" she teased, already forming seals for her Mind Transfer Jutsu.
I didn't respond, focusing instead on my chakra. As she lunged, I activated the Mirror Mirage Technique. Three illusory clones appeared, each one mirroring my stance but shifting slightly—one crouched, another stepped left, the third raised a kunai. Ino's eyes widened, her technique faltering as she tried to pick the real me. I seized the moment, darting forward with chakra-enhanced speed and tapping her shoulder with a controlled Cleave—just enough to sting, not cut.
She yelped, stumbling back, and Iruka called the match. The clones vanished, and I caught Ino's glare, a mix of frustration and curiosity. "What was that?" she demanded.
"Just a trick," I said, shrugging. "You should work on your focus."
Naruto, watching from the sidelines, whooped. "That was awesome, Archon! You made her look like an idiot!"
Ino shot him a venomous look, but I ignored them both, my mind already analyzing the fight. The Mirror Mirage Technique had worked, but Ino's hesitation was brief. A stronger opponent—like Sasuke or, worse, a jounin—might see through it. I'd need to refine the illusions, make them react faster, maybe add sensory feedback like heat or sound. In Baldur's Gate, the best spells were versatile, adaptable. I'd make this one the same.
That night, back in my shack, I reflected on my past life. Gaming had been more than a hobby—it had shaped how I approached problems. In RPGs, you didn't just fight; you planned, you adapted, you exploited every mechanic. My Dismantle and Cleave were like high-damage spells, but the Mirror Mirage Technique was my first true blend of gamer strategy and shinobi skill. I thought of other spells from Baldur's Gate—Blur for evasion, Invisibility for stealth—and wondered how I could adapt them as genjutsu. Even Dragon Age's Spirit Healer abilities had parallels in my medical ninjutsu, letting me mend wounds or boost stamina with precise chakra control.
My old life felt distant, like a half-remembered dream, but its lessons were etched into me. I wasn't just a shinobi; I was a tactician, a strategist who saw the world as a game board. My goals—power, control, freedom—were the endgame, and every technique, every spar, was a quest to get me there.
As I practiced the Mirror Mirage Technique, summoning clones that danced around the shack, I felt a spark of excitement. Not the thrill of battle, but the satisfaction of creation, of turning a memory from a game into a weapon in this world. Konoha might be watching, Hiruzen and Danzo's eyes on my back, but I wasn't afraid. Let them watch. I'd give them a show, one move at a time, until the board was mine.