A voice—a trembling, desperate melody—echoed through a void of darkness and pain.
"N-Nagato!"
The sound slipped through like a lifeline cast across a roaring storm. Weightlessness dragged him deeper, smothering thought, memory, self, until only the echo of that name remained.
Then, a sudden jolt—like a snapped wire inside his own mind—and the darkness shattered.
He opened his eyes. Blinding white. Crisp, sterile light flooding a small, unfamiliar room. The ceiling above was smooth and immaculate, nothing like the cracked stone of Rain's hideouts or the battered wood of war refugee shacks. Here, everything felt clean, almost too clean, as if the past's grit and blood had been scrubbed away.
A searing pain lanced across his head, and he flinched, biting back a strangled gasp. Images flickered violently behind his eyes: the cruel geometry of the Akatsuki's lair, orange dusk over Amegakure's ruined skyline, the trembling hope in Naruto's eyes as healing chakra washed over scorched earth. But there were others—brighter, softer—of playgrounds and birthday candles, of a gentle woman's laughter and the steady, comforting rhythm of a mother's heartbeat pressed close.
Two sets of memories warred for dominance, swirling in his consciousness so violently that he squeezed his eyes shut.
Which was real? Which dream, which memory—what did he even call himself now?
Drifting between confusion and pain, the memories began to untangle—one life, remnant and burned-out, scarred by loss; the other, tentative, almost untouched, belonging to a child he barely knew.
A voice returned, more immediate now, clearer.
"Doctor! The boy has woken up!"
He felt the rustle of bedsheets, a hand cool and small gripping his own. Fingers ran gently through hair—not the fiery red of Uzumaki heritage, nor the ash-Gray of loss, but something else... yellow-orange and warm similar to Yahiko's , sunlight poured into strands.
"My baby, are you okay now?" It was the woman from his memories—her presence more real, more vivid than any chakra signature he had ever sensed.
"Don't worry, Mama's here."
A lump caught in his throat. The words wanted to tumble out, but his lips fumbled, his brain reeling.
"M…mom?" The uncertainty was pure and childlike, far removed from the grave powers his old soul had once commanded.
Relief radiated from her, a fragile joy tempered by anxiety.
"Yes! Are you feeling any pain, my sweetie?"
Her gaze flickered quickly to the man in a stark white coat.
"Doctor?"
The doctor, composed and middle-aged, looked over a clipboard. His smile was practiced, but not unkind.
"A minor physical mutation, Miss. Some dizziness and disorientation, very common during quirk awakenings at this age. Let's give him a few minutes to adjust, then we'll continue the tests."
The words quirk, mutation, drifted over Nagato's consciousness strangely—labels for a world utterly foreign, yet tinged with fleeting familiarity through the borrowed memories of this young form. What was once chakra, now distantly echoed in this society's quirks.
He nodded slightly when the doctor addressed him, trying not to betray the confusion behind his eyes. The woman beamed at this—and for a moment, Nagato felt horribly, helplessly vulnerable under her gaze.
Something shimmered in the corner of his vision—a metallic glint. He turned, heart pounding, and saw it: a small mirror propped up near the bed.
The reflection revealed a child—no older than four or maybe five—with creamy white skin, pale gold-orange hair falling messily over a narrow brow, nose dotted by the beginnings of familiar piercings, and most damning of all, eyes marked with an unmistakable ripple: the Rinnegan.
Shock rooted him to the spot.
'Rinnegan? Here?! In this tiny body, without pain, no strain, no overwhelming burden…'
He forced himself to look deeper into those eyes, searching for a sign that this was a genjutsu—a trap, perhaps, by some new enemy. But what he found was only truth: the Rinnegan, fully formed, resting in the gaze of an innocent.
'I remember laying down my life to bring hope—surrendering to Naruto's convictions, because I wanted to believe he could break the cycle. And now I'm here… wherever 'here' is. Two memories. Two people. One body.'
He tried, with trembling focus, to sense chakra—yet all he felt was an unfamiliar, internal hum, different and wild, as if the rules beneath reality had changed. The details began to filter through: a year's worth of this child's life, the threads of daily joy, petty sorrows, fleeting smiles, and idle curiosity. A mother who loved fiercely. A world without shinobi—but filled instead with talk of heroes and villains, flashy costumes, battles on television, and the ever-present word: quirk.
'I cannot feel chakra in myself but I have a similar power residing within me and for others they too don't posses the chakra I'm familiar with but they posses the same unnatural energy that's within me'
Nagato drew a shaky breath.
'So this is my reality. Another world. Another body. But still… me.'
'Mother. She is real. Her touch does not vanish. Her eyes hold worry for me alone. In all my years, I wanted peace, yet tasted little love.'
'If Naruto's world could not achieve peace, does this one fare any better? Or will I find the same weary cycle—conflict and pain in new costumes?'
He tried to push the dread down as the doctor and mother exchanged quiet whispers out of earshot.
"His vital signs are good-" the doctor murmured.
"The mutation is… uncommon, but there's no immediate danger. Some odd pigmentation, too—perhaps his quirk is manifesting slowly. I think everything's going to be all right."
The mother nodded, her relief shadowed by concern. She knelt beside the bed, brushing hair from his forehead in a lingering caress.
"Rest for a minute, sweetheart, all right? Mommy's right here. When you're ready, we'll see what your special gift is."
Nagato closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting the sensations settle. The bed was soft and warm, the linen clean. A world away from rain-soaked, hunger-bitten nights in Amegakure.