[Nagato's POV]
'A week had passed since my quirk awakened, and already life in this new world felt like a strange mix of the ordinary and the wondrous. The adjustment was jarring at first, as if I'd stepped into another dream, one layered with gentle light and the hum of daily life instead of rain and war. The air here in Musutafu was fresh, tinged with a faint, floral scent brought on the wind from the surrounding gardens and the tiny pocket park that bordered our block.'
Home, as it stood, was a squat, four-story apartment building made of sturdy cream concrete, flecked with gentle lines of red brick and baskets of nodding plants on each narrow balcony.
Our place—a two-bedroom unit on the second floor—looked over a narrow pedestrian street lined with wisteria and a tiny bakery, from which morning always brought the scent of sweet bread and grated lemon.
My room was tucked away at the apartment's rear, facing a thin strip of communal green and the rustle of hedges where shrikebirds nested.
A simple futon lay against one wall, topped with a sky-blue comforter dotted with faded clouds—a hand-me-down from my mother's youth.
Next to it, a squat wooden chest served as both a seat and storage, and above that, an old calendar marked the days in careful script.
Sunlight slanted in through sheer curtains, weaving golden warmth through dust motes that drifted lazily on the air.
My walls bore few ornaments; a delicate origami crane mobile hung above my bed, and in one corner, a twine board with three photographs: my mother smiling wide with streaks of flour on her cheek; a wedding portrait with my father, tall and sharp-eyed, hand in hers; and a shot of a newborn—me, wrapped tight in a hospital blanket, a round, sleepy face.
If my room was spare, the rest of our home felt cozy and lived-in.
The kitchen was small but bright, always smelling of ginger and simmering tea. Yui Uzumaki—my mother—kept rice cookers warm and spices in a neat row above the counter.
Our table, battered but sturdy, sat beneath a cheerful yellow lamp, its surface scored with years of use and a childish scrawl or two on the underside: relics from children who had grown up here before me.
The living space was peppered with relics of two lives: my father Kaito Uzumaki's old pro hero cape (a soft indigo, folded neatly on the mantle), a box of his service medals, a well-thumbed novel he had intended to finish.
Mom kept her own hero relics out of sight—a badge, a cracked wristwatch—but I'd caught a glimpse in the junk drawer once.
Outside the kitchen window, a thin balcony stretched just wide enough for two chairs and a small iron table.
On weekends, Yui tended her plants there: boxy succulents, a single cheerful sunflower, and a climbing bean vine that curled purposefully along the railing, reaching toward sunlight with green persistence.
Musutafu itself was a city of contrasts.
Children walked in groups beneath banners advertising hero events, their laughter mingling with the drone of traffic and the distant wail of sirens.
Towering office buildings gleamed against the low rumble of train lines, and at night, the city lights turned the streets into rivers of reflected gold and neon.
There were moments—early in the morning or late at night—where I could almost forget everything I'd left behind, and simply exist as part of this world's gentle swirl.
The week had been filled with tests of adaptation, of learning to measure myself against the rhythms of this place. Each morning, I woke to the sound of my mother's quiet footsteps, the rattle of chopsticks being bundled for lunch, and sunlight filtering through the paper screen that divided my room from the rest of the apartment.
Yui Uzumaki was small and quick, her yellow-gold hair tied in a loose bun and her manner gentle but firm. Her quirk—SpeedUp—was one I watched with fascination.
She had a way of flicking her wrist and shaving minutes off the mundane: water came to boil in seconds, wounds closed overnight, laundry finished before I blinked.
She mostly used it for chores, a kindness to spare herself extra work, and sometimes to rush me through sleepy mornings. She'd grown up in the city herself, left hero work for family, and now divided her days between local public safety consulting and the rhythm of our home.
My father, Kaito Uzumaki, was physically absent, but his presence lingered. He lived on in stories told late at night when the lights were dim: how he raced through the city with sonic booms trailing his cape, saving a busload of children here, stopping a runaway train there.
He'd held a low but honest ranking among pro heroes—number 109, going by the name Sonic. After his passing, the government continued his pension, and what he'd saved was enough for us to get by. Every so often, Yui would ruffle my hair and say,
"You run like your father," and for a flicker of a moment, it made sense to belong to both this world and the last.
My mother and I inhabited this small haven, attended now and then by a neighbour dropping off mochi, or the landlady herself muttering about leaky faucets or the antics of local heroes on the news.
The television was always tuned to reports of heroics or the squabbles of politicians, interrupted only by Yui's reminders to eat or to tidy up after myself.
This peaceful routine was precious, unfamiliar. There was no war here, no heavy rain, only the distant challenge of starting over. Tomorrow, I would begin kindergarten—something that felt simultaneously laughable and terrifying.
Kindergarten.
The word itself was jarring. In my last life, I had been a leader, a warrior scarred by too many burdens. Now, I was expected to sit among children, to pretend at innocence I no longer possessed. I looked at the new backpack my mother had bought me, a simple blue with little rabbits stitched along the zipper. To anyone else, I was merely a bright-eyed boy entering school for the first time. Inside, I braced myself for the challenge of blending in, to hide power and knowledge that no other child could comprehend.
I recorded these thoughts in a journal Yui had given me—a plain, brown notebook. The habit was an old one; reflection had saved me before, even as it dragged me through regret.
The Rinnegan's quiet pulse behind my eyes was a constant companion—a reminder and a blessing both. Gone was the unrelenting drain of my old world; here, my power felt dormant, coiled and patient. Most days, I tested the limits discreetly:
Deva Path: I could bend gravity with a thought—repel, attract, send objects drifting across the floor or draw them toward me. It was useful for small chores but I was careful never to overdo it; the advice from the doctors still echoed: too much, too fast, and my body would rebel.
Human Path: Risky and draining, this ability let me paralyze with a glance, extract memories or subconscious thoughts, though the process was taxing and potentially dangerous. If I pushed against someone stronger, the backlash left me dizzy, my vision pulsing with pain.
The other paths—the Animal, Asura, Preta, Naraka—remained locked away. Instinct told me my body wasn't yet ready, and even trying would likely break me.
For now, patience was my shield.
Stamina was rarely an issue anymore, except for the subtle warnings that surfaced—dryness at the edges of my vision after too much use, a gentle burning that reminded me not to strain. Supplement bottles lined the kitchen counter, and Yui was diligent with eye drops every third day, cooing at my complaints.
When I wasn't watching my power, I watched the world. Trees outside my window budded with tiny green shoots as spring crept in. The apartment creaked at odd hours, sometimes with the wind, sometimes with the movement of tenants returning from work. At night, the distant rumble of trains comforted me—a city steady and alive, not ravaged by civil war. Once, a patrol hero stopped a thief on the street below, his neon armor shimmering through the dusk before he vanished amid cheers.
Our home was a haven arranged with simple things:
Kitchen: Compact and functional, with pots hanging from a low rail, mismatched mugs, and a breakfast nook with frayed cushions. The clock was always five minutes fast—Yui's doing—and a shelf above the stove held her recipe books, pages dog-eared and flour-stained.
Living Room: Scattered floor pillows, a faded red rug, and a battered television flanked by old hero magazines. A low table hosted my father's chess set, pieces worn smooth with use. In one corner, houseplants reached stubbornly for the window, and in another, a forbidden cache of superhero action figures—remnants from a forgotten childhood.
Bathroom: Small, clean, with a chipped porcelain tub, a rack of blue towels, and a cheery sea creature curtain that Yui insisted was for my benefit.
Balcony: A steel railing festooned with twinkling lights. Two chipped enamel chairs and a battered table, perfect for sweet buns and cocoa after sunset.
Sometimes, when the world felt overwhelming, I would sit on the balcony at dusk, legs swinging over empty air, and question what life might become. Here, I could almost convince myself I was just Nagato Uzumaki—a child in a world that worshipped hope rather than feared power.
Loneliness lingered, but it was a different shape now. My father was gone, but his memory lived on in the way Yui smiled, the stories she told. Sometimes, I saw her pause at the window, her gaze lost in the city lights, a soft worry etching lines on her face. On those nights, she'd quietly leave two bowls on the table, eating in silence beside the empty chair she pretended not to see.
My integration into this peaceful routine wasn't seamless. There were hiccups—calling her "Mother" in a too-formal voice, or reaching instinctively for absent weapons. She noticed, sometimes, but said nothing, choosing instead to ruffle my hair and remind me that I was home.
Tomorrow, I would enter a classroom packed with children. I wondered what sort of first impression I'd make—would my eyes scare them, the faint rings visible even in the sunlight? Would they sense something different, or would I merely become another oddity in a world full of quirks?
I resolved to be cautious, to keep my power subdued, and my curiosity sharp. In this life, regret would not define me. This time, every step would be made with deliberate care, every action chosen with hope rather than desperation.
As the hour drew to a close, a gentle call pulled me from my reverie.
"Nagato, come on out! Let's have dinner!"
Mother's voice, warm and steady as summer. I tucked away my journal and rose, leaving my room and its quiet shadows behind.
Our apartment was filled with the scent of simmering rice and fried tofu, and Yui bustled around, spooning vegetables into bowls and humming under her breath. She glanced up as I entered, her eyes—bright gold, flecked with amber—crinkling at the edges.
"Did you finish your reading?" she asked.
"I did. Thank you, Mom."
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The table was already set in the humble Uzumaki apartment—two steaming bowls of rice, miso soup shimmering with green onion, golden-brown tofu beside pickled plum, and neat slices of crisp cucumber.
The room was bathed in the cozy halo of the yellow lamp overhead, and the city's distant rumble faded to the edge of comfort.
Nagato slid onto his chair, feet just grazing the rundown rug, the Rinnegan's soft rings dim and almost gentle in the lamplight. His mother, Yui, sat across from him, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a small smile curving her lips as she poured two cups of barley tea.
"Let's eat!" she announced cheerfully, hands together.
"Itadakimasu!"
Nagato echoed, "Itadakimasu," and took up his chopsticks, happy to let the quiet, steady rhythm of the meal settle in.
Yui: "So, have you thought about what you'll show your new friends at kindergarten tomorrow? Are you nervous?"
Nagato hesitated, mind cycling through memories of another life, but made his voice light.
"Maybe a drawing. Or my toy cars?" He grinned—a kid's grin, not a God's.
"Do you think they like space robots?"
Yui: "I bet they'll love them. Your father used to say everyone's a little afraid on their first day—heroes included!"
She nibbled a slice of tofu and then asked, "Do you want to wear your new scarf? It's lucky, you know."
Nagato nodded, chewing thoughtfully.
"Can I take the blue one? The one with the clouds?" He glanced at her for approval.
Yui:"Of course." She laughed softly, eyes crinkling.
"You always liked the sky, even as a baby."
Nagato watched her, senses picking up everything: the way she hummed under her breath, the gentle tap of her chopsticks, the faint scent of yuzu soap lingering from her hands.
For several moments, they simply ate, the conversation trailing into companionable silence.
Dinner ended with Yui tidying the dishes and Nagato folding napkins as best he could, his small hands clumsy but earnest. They took turns brushing teeth in the bathroom, giggling as a dab of toothpaste ended up on Nagato's nose.
Soon, Nagato padded back to his room in soft pyjamas, the sky-blue comforter already turned down. Yui followed, carrying the worn plush crane he slept with each night.
She tucked him in and, for a moment, sat on the edge of the futon, running her fingers through his gold-tinged hair.
Yui: "Are you warm enough? Want me to read you that story about All-Might again?"
Nagato shook his head sleepily, eyes drifting closed.
"No need…it's nice just like this."
He felt her kiss his forehead, her words a soft benediction:
"Goodnight, Sweetie. Sweet dreams."
"Goodnight Mom-"