Tom's soul drifted freely in endless darkness. There was no sense of time, no shape or form to his surroundings—only a vast, cold void. It felt like he had been floating for centuries.
"How long has it been?" Tom asked himself with a dry, ironic smile. "Maybe a hundred years or more."
He cursed the emptiness.
"Damn it! Again?! Is there no end to this? What kind of sick joke is this?!"
Suddenly, two streaks of light—one blue and one orange-red—flared within his soul.
Without warning, intense pain surged through him, as though his soul was being torn apart by invisible hooks. All he could do was scream into the abyss. His only defense was anger, his only weapon a barrage of curses.
Time passed. How much, he couldn't say.
The blue and orange-red energies began to fight violently inside his soul. They used his very being as their battlefield, clashing and tearing through him like rival beasts vying for dominance.
Every inch of his soul became contested territory.
Each time one energy destroyed a part of him, his natural healing ability kicked in, restoring what was lost. Over and over this cycle repeated—destruction and regeneration—until Tom could no longer tell if he was being punished or transformed.
Eventually, the energies reached a stalemate. Whether it was because Tom's soul had become too resilient, or because the two forces realized neither could win, he wasn't sure.
Then something extraordinary happened.
The energies intertwined, wrapping around each other to form a spinning Tai Chi pattern—two halves in perfect balance. The symbol pulsed slowly, then began to multiply—two into four, four into eight, eight into sixteen. Each copy shrank in size but carried the same fusion of forces.
The process continued until the patterns became infinitesimally small, far tinier than even a human cell.
When the last of them stopped dividing, the fragments fused completely with Tom's soul.
"Am I… mutating?" he wondered. "What kind of monster am I becoming?"
At that moment, a small, glowing light appeared in the darkness. It was delicate and pure, no larger than a pebble, but it radiated a warmth Tom hadn't felt in what seemed like centuries.
Without thinking, he reached out.
As his fingers brushed the light, it expanded instantly—consuming him like milk pouring into black coffee.
Suddenly, sensation returned.
His body was heavy. A loud chorus of voices rang in his ears. His throat burned with the taste of blood.
"This feeling… it's awful. And yet… it's real. I'm alive."
Before he could react further, consciousness slipped away once more.
Tom awoke sometime later, groggy and disoriented. He wasn't lying in a high-tech facility or hospital bed, but on a cold floor. A bright light shone overhead, and shadowy figures moved around him.
The scent of disinfectant and medicine filled the air. All around, voices shouted in Japanese.
"Was I rescued?" Tom thought vaguely.
The sounds, smells, and sights overwhelmed him. Then fatigue overtook him again, dragging him back into unconsciousness.
When Tom opened his eyes again, it was night.
The room was dim, quiet except for the occasional groan of pain echoing off white walls and ceilings. From what little he could see, it was a hospital—or at least a well-equipped clinic.
He tried to rub his eyes but paused mid-motion.
His arm was tiny—soft, pudgy, and barely the size of a toddler's.
Shock hit him like a slap.
"What the hell?!"
Tom bolted upright, staring at his small hands and trembling arms.
"This… this is the body of a child!"
Before he could panic further, a gentle voice interrupted him.
A nurse with natural purple hair walked into the room. Her soft expression shifted when she saw him awake.
"Are you okay?" she asked kindly, kneeling beside him.
Tom blinked. Purple hair? That couldn't be natural—not in Asia.
But with his trained eye, he could tell—it wasn't dyed. This woman's hair was genuinely purple. Strange.
"Where… where am I?" he muttered, then instinctively replied in Japanese, "No, it's okay…"
He froze.
His voice—it was high-pitched, childlike, innocent.
"What's going on…? Why is my voice like this?"
The nurse seemed relieved and reached out to comfort him. Tears welled in her eyes.
"It's okay now," she whispered softly. "You're safe."
She began to hum a lullaby. It was unfamiliar—gentle, slow, and soothing. Tom didn't recognize the melody, but it calmed him.
Years of mental discipline kicked in. He forced himself to breathe, think, observe.
Through the reflective glass in the corridor, he caught glimpses of people walking by—some wore green vests and forehead protectors.
His eyes widened.
Konoha forehead protectors…?
And then it hit him.
"I've been reborn… in the world of Naruto."
The next two months passed in a haze of recovery and introspection.
Tom remained quiet, watching and listening. Every detail, every interaction painted a clearer picture of what had happened.
He hadn't died in that explosion underground. Instead, he had been reborn—reincarnated, perhaps—in a different world.
And not just any world.
The Naruto universe.
As he pieced things together, he arrived at several truths:
First, he had been betrayed. Bureaucrats from his former world had colluded with foreign powers, sending him into a trap to die and harvest his genetics. They had used the Chiyan Golden Beast gene sample as bait, underestimating its complexity—and his resilience.
Second, the healing ability he had in his past life had crossed over with him. It was likely a result of the fusion between his soul and the blue-orange energy that symbolized destruction and rebirth.
Third, no one had visited him in over two months. That could only mean one thing: he was an orphan.
Oddly, that didn't bother him much. He wasn't the sentimental type. Being a "son" to strangers in a foreign world? No thanks.
Fourth, based on the state of the village and the incomplete carving on the Hokage Rock, it was just before the start of the Naruto storyline.
He had arrived at a critical time.
After his release from the hospital, Tom was assigned a modest home on the outskirts of the village. An older woman came by daily to care for him, cook meals, and manage errands.
The home was simple. On the small wooden cabinet near his bed sat a framed photograph.
In it, a cheerful couple beamed at the camera, holding a young child who looked uncannily like him.
His father had bright fiery red hair, sharp eyes, and strong features. He looked like a warrior and a celebrity combined. His mother had long black hair and striking purple eyes. Her beauty was gentle yet unforgettable.
Tom stared at the photo for a long time.
So these were his parents in this life.
They had died during the Nine-Tails' attack on Konoha over a year ago, sacrificing themselves to protect him.
His father had been a ninja from the Uzumaki clan, and his mother—a skilled pharmacist.
Because of their contributions and their savings, Tom hadn't been placed in an orphanage or sent to the twisted grasp of Danzo's Root.
Instead, the Third Hokage had arranged for a caretaker to look after him, ensuring his inheritance and monthly support.
The remaining portion would be given to him upon adulthood.
Now three years old, Tom lived quietly.
He watched the world of Naruto unfold around him with the eyes of a seasoned soldier and the soul of someone who had died once.
He trained his small body as best as he could, meditating daily, and quietly observing the shinobi who passed his house. He began to understand the energy inside him—how it moved, how it healed, how it waited.
His past life was gone, but not forgotten.
And here, in this dangerous, vibrant world, he was determined to carve a new destiny.
The rules might be different.
The enemies might be stronger.
But Tom wasn't just some civilian reborn in a child's body.
He was a warrior with a second chance.
And the world of Naruto had no idea what was coming.