In the outskirts of Konoha, near the village gates, a small house sat wedged between two others. For a moment, its lone window flared with a burst of golden light—sharp, silent, and gone in seconds.
Inside, a man jolted upright on the wooden floor, gasping. His head throbbed. He pressed his palms to his temples and groaned. The air felt heavy, warm, and real in a way dreams never were.
"…What the hell?" he muttered.
He staggered to his feet, the unfamiliar weight of a thin, rough-spun shirt clinging to his back. The small room was bare—a futon, a cracked basin, a paper lantern on the table. Nothing else.
Still dazed, he walked to the window.
What he saw outside made his breath hitch.
Across the skyline, carved into the distant cliff face, stood four massive stone faces staring over the village—the Hokage Monument.
His mind went blank.
No phone. No noise. No city skyline. Just tiled rooftops, rising smoke, and the faint sound of someone calling out for morning dango.
He stumbled back from the window, heart pounding.
Konoha.
"Konoha," he whispered again, as if saying it might make it less absurd.
He stood there for a long moment, just staring. Then, slowly, he raised a hand and pinched his cheek. Hard.
"...Ow."
He tried again—harder this time.
Still pain.
His throat went dry. "No way. This can't be real…"
He pressed both hands to his face, breathing unevenly. Everything around him was too solid to dismiss—the faint draft from the window, the creak of old wood, the lingering smell of smoke and ink. It wasn't a dream.
And then, without warning, a dull wave of memory hit him. It wasn't his, but it fit too neatly into his head to deny.
Images. Snippets. The life of a quiet man who lived alone in this tiny house near the village gates. No friends. No real work. Just a small existence that barely brushed against the world outside.
The rush of it passed as quickly as it came, leaving him lightheaded and silent.
He sank back down onto the futon, staring at the worn floorboards.
"So I've landed inside Naruto's world. In someone else's body. And he wasn't even doing well."
He let out a long breath and leaned his head against the wall
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint chirping of birds outside. He stared at his hands — unfamiliar, rougher than his old ones, faint calluses at the base of the fingers.
Then he saw it.
A small, pale scar marked the back of his right hand.
Not a cut. Not a burn.
An X, faint but clean, as if etched there on purpose.
He frowned and rubbed at it, but the mark didn't fade.
Instead, a faint warmth pulsed under his skin — brief, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
"What… is this?" he murmured.
Nothing happened. No glowing light, no voice, no explanation.
He sat there for a while, tracing the lines of the X with his thumb.The memories from this body offered no answer.
The man who lived here before had no jutsu, no clan, no strange habits. Just loneliness.
He sighed. "Great."
Outside, footsteps passed by — a pair of villagers chatting about the market. He heard their laughter, light and easy. For a second, he envied how normal it sounded.
Then, softly, the mark pulsed again. Once.
Like it was reacting to something.
He froze, staring at it.
Nothing else happened.
"…Okay," he whispered. "Either I'm hallucinating, or this thing is waiting for something."
He rubbed his face, trying to focus. Whatever that mark was, it wasn't giving him answers. Fine. He'd deal with it later.
He turned toward the low wooden table by the wall. A small leather pouch sat there, worn at the seams. Instinct—or maybe memory—told him that was his wallet.
He untied the cord and peered inside.
A few dull coins. That was it.
He frowned and tipped them onto the table: a handful of ryo, not even enough for a full meal at Ichiraku.
"…Broke," he muttered.
More fragments of memory drifted up, sluggish but clear enough now. The man who lived here had done odd jobs around the gate. Carried crates. Fixed fences. Swept streets for a few coins. Barely enough to cover rent.
He sighed and leaned back against the wall again, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
"New world, same paycheck."
Outside, the voices of villagers grew louder as the day began. Someone shouted about fresh rice at the market. Another called for a courier. The sounds were ordinary, almost peaceful—but they reminded him of one thing he couldn't ignore.
He had no plan. No money. No identity anyone would recognize.
And if the memories were right, this version of him didn't even have chakra strong enough to pass for a failed academy student.
He stood, stretched, and looked toward the window again. The Hokage Monument caught the sunlight now, bright and distant.
He exhaled slowly. "Alright. Let's figure out how not to starve first."
He tied the pouch back to his belt, stepped to the door, and pushed it open.
The village awaited.
He stepped out into the sunlight—and stopped.
Down the street, two women were talking by a fruit stand.
One had long, bright red hair that caught the morning light.
He froze.
No way…