Is this what the world looks like after death?
A soul, shaped like a sphere of light, drifted through a pitch-black void. He could barely observe his surroundings, but his ability to think remained intact. Being able to think in this state was a feat in itself, but it was hardly a blessing.
In an environment of absolute darkness and silence, there were no frames of reference. He had no way to judge the passage of time, nor could he tell if he was moving or stationary. It was the most terrifying form of torture. A normal human staying in a pitch-black room for six hours would hallucinate that seven or eight days had passed; after three days, they would lose all sense of time and suffer severe psychological damage.
But he wasn't a living person. He couldn't die, and he couldn't even go mad. Instead, the accumulating agony slowly eroded the vitality of his will.
First came the loss of memory. Slowly, he forgot many things, until the moment he realized he couldn't remember his own name. That realization jolted him awake.
I can't keep going like this.
He began to desperately seek out stimulation and entertainment for himself. He revisited every movie, novel, and manga he had ever seen, digging deeper and deeper into the recesses of his memory. He unearthed trivial details he hadn't known he possessed—even the specific location of a crease on a page of a manga volume.
Revisiting these memories of entertainment after so long brought him a flicker of joy. The fact that he could still excavate such detail gave him hope: perhaps he could still find his name.
Yet time continued its relentless crawl. Eventually, the memories of fiction could no longer provide the spark he needed. So, he found a new source of stimulation: Learning.
Astronomy, geography, biology, chemistry—he recalled every textbook he had ever read. He went through them page by page, symbol by symbol, even remembering the little doodles he'd drawn in the margins when his mind had wandered during class. He could even hear the voice of every teacher and every lecture they had ever given.
He studied. He delved deep. Every moment of sudden clarity or "Aha!" realization brought a surge of absolute euphoria. He finally understood: this was the joy of being a "top student."
If I could have felt this kind of joy back then, maybe I would've actually become a scientist, he lamented with a touch of bitterness every time he mastered something new.
Alright, let's be real. If I weren't this bored, I'd never have focused on studying. The path of a scholar never suited my personality anyway. My true peak of happiness is lying flat, drinking soda, eating chips, and scrolling through TikTok.
How long had it been since he had eaten or drunk anything?
Based on my current experience, if you want to turn a 'bad kid' into a genius, just throw them into solitary confinement with nothing but textbooks and lecture videos.
Wait... what did the sweetness of Coke taste like again?
This is starting to feel more brutal than that 'Internet Addiction' shock therapy guy.
Potato chips. What did they taste like?
If I survive this 'black room,' what title would I get? The Overlord of Claustrophobia?
!!!!
He suddenly snapped out of it, reeling in his wandering thoughts. It was dangerous; he had almost lost his mind again.
Study. I have to keep studying.
...
Once he had mastered every textbook in his memory and every piece of knowledge was second nature, the novelty faded. Boredom returned to haunt him. He was forced to pick up the final, most terrifying subject: Mathematics.
It's often said that a person can do anything when pushed to their limit—except math.
The study of mathematics was excruciatingly painful, but pain was better than boredom. Unfortunately, he had only a single core of thought. With no outside communication and no way to conduct experiments, solitary thinking had its limits. Eventually, his learning hit a dead end, and his thoughts began to loop.
Repetition was boredom, and boredom was the beginning of a fractured mind. His consciousness finally began to disperse, splintering into countless stray thoughts. Slowly, those thoughts began to wither, and his will began to sink into silence.
Just before total annihilation, a sea of light appeared.
Stimulated by the glow, his will regained its activity. Though he couldn't move on his own, he realized he was being drawn toward that sea of light. He was lucky.
He watched the sea of light with singular focus. As he drew closer, he realized it was composed of countless spheres of light, both large and small—spheres just like himself. Within the sea, spheres flickered out and died while new ones were born. They drifted and collided; he noticed that collisions often caused the smaller spheres to extinguish.
In the center of this sea stood over a dozen massive spheres, tens of thousands of times larger than the average ones. These giants loomed high above the rest, each occupying its own territory, some surrounded by "smaller" spheres that were still a hundred times larger than him.
As he watched the ebb and flow of the sea, he began to find the rhythm of it. It was fascinating.
Suddenly, two even more colossal spheres of light crashed into the sea, throwing the entire expanse into violent turmoil. A fierce struggle erupted between the giants. Eventually, the conflict ended, and the sea returned to a semblance of peace.
Of the original giants, only three remained. One of the outsiders survived, but it had ballooned to an unprecedented size, its diameter nearly half that of the entire sea. The rest of the sea began to orbit around it.
The remaining three original giants retreated to the edges, their light dimming.
Peace lasted for a long time, until the central sphere split to create two new giants. Conflict erupted again. Ultimately, the central sphere lost its brilliance and vitality, being driven to the outskirts of the sea.
The sea returned to its active state, but by now, he was too close to see the big picture anymore. His speed increased. Soon, he entered the sea of light, racing toward the center. Other spheres began to whiz past him.
As his speed hit a breaking point, his own sphere of light began to stretch and vibrate unstably. Suddenly, his trajectory aligned with a newborn sphere. The two spheres drew closer, spiraling around one another faster and faster.
The collision was inevitable.
It hurts!
Oh... I can feel pain.
Haha, I get it. I'm alive!
Hiss, damn, that hurts. It's been so long... it feels great.
...
Dawn broke. A transmigrate who had spent the night contemplating the meaning of life dragged himself out of a brief slumber. He rolled out of bed, walked to the window, and pushed it open. The fresh morning air was a much-needed jolt to his system.
The sunlight was punishingly bright for someone who had pulled an all-nighter. It took him a good while for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw a landmark that was both familiar and strange.
It was a cliff face carved with two massive heads. It was familiar because he had looked at it for several years now; it was strange because, as a transmigrator whose consciousness had just fully awakened, this was the first time he was seeing the most famous landmark of a certain manga from his previous life: The Hokage Rock.
Even though there were only two heads carved into the stone, it was enough to confirm his location: Konoha Village.
Today wasn't his first day in this world, but it was a special one.
The sheer volume of information contained within a transmigrator's soul was far more than a newborn's undeveloped brain could handle. It was like trying to install a Windows 10 OS package onto an ancient computer with only a 10GB hard drive. The system couldn't deploy; it had to be compressed again and again, waiting for a hardware upgrade.
For the past three years, the newborn transmigrator had seemed like a normal, if slightly slow, child.
Weighted down by his dormant soul, the boy known as Aburame Tetsumaru had been a late talker (due to interference from his mother tongue), had slow reactions (because the "compressed files" took up most of his brain capacity), was prone to staring blankly into space (triggered by seeing things that initiated "unzipping"), and frequently ran mysterious fevers (system overload during decompression).
Yesterday, Tetsumaru's memories—including his core consciousness—had finally fully deployed. The result was a high fever, muscle aches, headaches, and numbness. Tormented by the pain, he couldn't sleep, but he couldn't pass out either. He had been forced to stay awake, sorting through the chaotic memories of two lifetimes.
His name was Aburame Tetsumaru. A boy.
That's a relief.
He was currently 3 years old (plus 42 years from his past life). He had a father and a mother. He was born into the Aburame Clan.
I'm not an orphan! Thank god!
His father was Aburame Wafu, a Konoha Chunin, currently away on a mission. His mother was Aburame Aiko, a Konoha Genin and a medical ninja working at the newly established hospital.
With two ninjas in the house, their income was quite respectable. They were a well-to-off, wealthy family living in their own large house with an even larger courtyard. Their neighbors were all relatives of the Aburame clan.
"Breakfast is ready!"
Tetsumaru blinked, taking a moment to process his mother's voice calling from downstairs. Yesterday's awakening had reinforced his memories of his original language, which was currently clashing with his understanding of this new tongue.
It wasn't a major issue, though. The interference would likely only last a day or two; after all, he was no longer in an environment where his old language was spoken.
Breakfast consisted of rice, pickled radishes, tofu, and miso soup with kelp. In Konoha, this was a very hearty meal. Compared to a normal village in the Land of Fire... well, Tetsumaru had no idea what a "normal" village looked like. Members of shinobi clans rarely had the chance to leave the village.
Seeing her son start eating, Aiko hurriedly hung the laundry in the yard and changed into her work clothes.
"Tetsumaru, after you finish eating, head over to Aunt Sachiko's by yourself. Be a good boy today, okay?" she said, slipping on her shoes and rushing out the door.
"Tetsumaru, just head out when you're done! Leave the dishes, Mommy will clean them when I get home tonight..." Her final instructions drifted in from outside as the door clicked shut.
Tetsumaru watched his young mother leave. He hadn't managed to call her "Mom" yet.
He picked up his bowl and ate slowly, chewing on his new reality as much as his food. These were his new parents. They had given him a second life and had taken excellent care of him during his "dull" period. He didn't feel any resentment toward them—including his absent father. He couldn't.
He was just a little embarrassed. In his memory, he was at least forty years old—nearly double the age of his new mother.
After finishing, Tetsumaru cleared the table. He dragged a stool over and stood on his tiptoes to put the dishes in the sink, but he quickly realized his arms were too short to reach the faucet.
He gave up on the dishes and headed out.
Tetsumaru skipped and hopped his way toward the large estate where "Aunt Sachiko" lived.
Wait... skipping and hopping?
Huh?
Why am I doing this?
He tried to walk normally, but after a few steps, his feet started to bounce again, and before he knew it, he was skipping.
No, this is too embarrassing. Walk like an adult.
Skip, hop, skip...
The transmigrator, Aburame Tetsumaru, crouched on the ground and covered his face in despair. This is humiliating. I can't control my own legs.
It turned out the first thing a human has to domesticate is themselves.
...
The Aburame clan maintained a "Nest House" in the center of their compound. Functionally, it was a combination of a kindergarten and a daycare. Currently, six orphans or children whose immediate family couldn't care for them lived there full-time under the care of a retired kunoichi, Aburame Sachiko.
Other children, like Tetsumaru, came to the Nest House during the day and went home at night. For families where both parents were active ninjas, the Nest House was a massive benefit.
Tetsumaru spent ten unremarkable days struggling against his own childish instincts. The results were a total defeat.
However, despite the "skip-hopping" failures, he did make progress. He adapted to the language and got to know a bunch of his relatives.
One day at lunch, Tetsumaru found himself once again marveling at the sheer physical prowess of the people in the Shinobi World. He picked up a bowl twice the size of his head and began slurping down noodles.
The bowl held at least three pounds of noodles; with the soup, the whole thing weighed nearly four pounds. Yet, Tetsumaru could lift it with one hand without breaking a sweat. He ate happily while complaining internally.
I'm three years old. In my last life, a three-year-old couldn't even hold a plastic bowl steady. By five, they'd still drop it on the floor half the time.
The children of this world were built differently. In the cafeteria, he saw a toddler—technically his "cousin-uncle"—who was only two and a half, holding a massive bowl of soup with both hands, steady as a rock.
Well, they say humans in the Shinobi World have four or five times the number of cells as people on Earth. I believe it. It's the only thing that makes sense.
While he was eating, a ninja came in and whispered a few words to Sachiko.
The kunoichi saw the messenger off and turned back to the room. "Masao, come here for a second."
Tetsumaru frowned. He could hear the sadness in her voice and already knew what had happened.
Aburame Masao was a typical four-year-old brat. He chirped a refusal to get up, earned himself a smack from the kunoichi, and was hauled out by the scruff of his neck.
"Masao... your father has died in battle."
Out in the courtyard, the woman in her forties gently delivered the news of death to the child.
Masao didn't quite understand what was happening. He looked dazed for a moment, then slowly began to cry. Before long, the other four children in the room started crying too.
No one came to comfort them. The Shinobi World was a cruel place; parting and death were daily occurrences.
Tetsumaru didn't cry. The atmosphere of grief wasn't enough to move a transmigrator's soul. Fortunately, since he had always been a "slow" and somewhat detached child, he didn't have to fake any tears.
The four other children soon stopped crying, having no idea why they started. Masao, however, kept crying until he was exhausted and fell asleep.
The kunoichi eventually took the newly made orphan back to his empty home, ending a somber day.
...
Over the next seven days, the Aburame clan handled the funeral arrangements. Surprisingly, Masao wasn't sent to an orphanage.
Konoha had a population of a hundred thousand, which was far too large for its rudimentary administrative system. It was large enough for darkness to grow. Orphanages were often the easiest places for that darkness to take root, showcasing the worst of human nature.
Three or four-year-olds were simply too small. Without the selfless, dedicated care of parents, they were incredibly fragile. Whether it was spoiled food due to greed, accidents caused by negligence, or corporal punishment fueled by someone's anger—there were too many ways for a young child to die.
Furthermore, the current leadership—the Second Hokage—was a hardliner. A cold-blooded politician, a master of forbidden jutsu, and the pioneer of biochemical research. He had set the precedent for human experimentation. An orphanage was not a place anyone wanted to be.
The Aburame clan provided basic protection for their own orphans, and Masao's life seemed to return to its previous routine.
However, even with the protection of a clan, safety was never guaranteed.
Not long after, Aburame Masao vanished.