The late morning sun chased thin golden threads across the floors of Musutafu Kindergarten, warming the classroom walls and glinting off every child's lunchbox and pencil case. It should have been peaceful. To Nagato, though, it was a trial in patience—one not even the most difficult Akatsuki meeting could compare to. Five-year-olds, he was learning, possessed all the tact and subtlety of a stampede of rhinos.
The day had started with a circle of introductions, but as soon as break arrived, Nagato found himself besieged by a chorus of noisy, energetic children—each more persistent than the last.
"Is it true you can make stuff float? Can you show me right now?"
"Why do your eyes look like that? Are you wearing contact lenses?"
"Are you really gonna be a hero, just like All Might?"
"Do you like robots or dinosaurs? If you could pick any quirk you wanted, what would it be?"
Sometimes, they circled around to the same questions minutes later, coupling it with the tugging of his sleeves or the shoving of their latest snack in his face—half hope, half dare.
Nagato answered as briefly as he could, but soon he realized, with a sinking certainty, that he couldn't recall anyone ever warning him about the mental strain of blending in with young children.
His mind—used to strategic conversations and brooding introspection—was battered by the barrage.
He found himself drifting, barely holding his polite smile as he wondered how any teacher survived a full day of this chaos. He missed the gravity of grown-up problems, the weight of consequence.
In this bright, gleaming space, everything felt feather-light and absurdly loud. He toyed with the idea of faking a stomach ache, but the memory of his mother's hopeful face at breakfast made him grit his teeth and persevere.
Eventually, with the classroom transitioning to free play, liberation came.
The teacher dismissed everyone for break and the room exploded with movement.
Children rushed for the playground, shrieking with laughter, racing for the slide and jungle gym.
Nagato, feeling relief as keen as victory, decided to stay behind. The classroom emptied until only the faint distant voices drifted in from the open windows.
He claimed the far corner, laid his arms across the desk, and closed his eyes with a sigh so deep it nearly shook loose the remaining tension from his limbs.
The hum of the building and the warmth from the sun lulled him towards sleep.
His nap was short-lived.
The squeal of a door, the muffled thud of running feet, and then small shouts—t
Nagato heard familiar shouts—the raucous boasting of Bakugo and the anxious protest of Midoriya, mixed with the sound of a younger child's fearful crying.
He moved swiftly, rounding the climbing frame to see Midoriya shielding a smaller classmate, arms spread protectively, while Bakugo strutted with two lackeys at his side. Bakugo's red eyes gleamed with mischief and dominance, hands already glowing with faint sparks.
"Move, Deku! Out of my way, you useless extra!" Bakugo taunted, fists raised.
Midoriya's jaw trembled but he didn't move. "N-no, Kacchan! Stop picking on him. Y-you can't just—"
"Shut up, quirkless loser!"
Midoriya's reply was barely above a whisper, but the resolve was clear and raw.
"Let him go, Kacchan. Don't make him cry. Please…"
Bakugo's sneer grew wider. "Why do you care? Little quirkless cry-baby—always acting like a hero, but you can't do anything. Useless. Not a real hero. You're just in the way!"
The last words hung in the air, charged and cruel.
One of Bakugo's lackeys, emboldened, pushed Midoriya's shoulder with a snicker,
"Yeah, Deku, don't be a baby. Let Katsuki do it."
Midoriya wiped at his eyes, holding back tears. He squared his shoulders, even as he shook.
"No! If you want to fight, fight me—but leave him alone!" His lower lip trembled, but he did not budge.
Bakugo's right hand began to spark in earnest, palm glowing faintly as he lifted it. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll blast you both! Nobody'll care about a quirkless nobody anyway—"
But before he could take another step, something unseen coiled through the air—a heaviness pressing onto Bakugo's body, then freezing him on the spot. His fingers twitched, foot halfway raised, and a look of confusion flashed across his face.
"Wha—? Why aren't my legs moving?!"
Bakugo's whole body locked mid-motion. His eyes widened in utter confusion as his feet, then his entire form, grew impossibly light. With a small flick from Nagato, gravity turned traitor.
Bakugo shot upwards, propelled high above the playground. His scream pierced the air.
"WAAAAAH! WAAAAAAH!"
He soared, arms flailing, climbing higher above the jungle gym and swing sets. The children below froze, jaws dropping in awe and disbelief as the class bully became a shrinking spot against the clouds.
Up and up—then gravity released him, letting him fall—but Nagato controlled the descent, setting Bakugo down safely on the soft grass, away from the crowd.
Bakugo scrambled to his feet, face streaked with panicked tears. He rubbed his eyes furiously and, without a shred of bravado left, ran from the playground, still crying and yelling as his followers stumbled after him.
"You—you FREAK! You'll regret this! I'll get you one day!" he choked out, voice cracking, but he didn't dare stay a moment longer.
For an instant, the playground was silent. Then the whispers started—admiring, fearful, some in sheer disbelief.
Midoriya, eyes still wet but filled with relief, stumbled toward Nagato. "N-nagato… Arigatou…"
The smaller boy Midoriya had protected wiped his cheeks with a sleeve and, in a wavering voice, looked at Nagato.
"A-arigatou…" the boy whispered, gratitude shining in his frightened eyes before he darted back toward the safety of the teacher.
Nagato watched the boy disappear into the forming line for their return to class, then glanced at Midoriya. Izuku's face was still blotchy from crying, his determination flickering beneath the damp lashes.
As the teacher called the class to sit, Nagato subtly moved his seat closer to Midoriya. He met Izuku's glance and nodded—silent, but full of promise.
'I have to do something. I can't let him get picked on endlessly. '
------------------------------------------------------
Day after day, the slow shift in Bakugo's attitude was impossible to ignore.
He still barked, boasted, and sometimes picked on the meek, but it no longer erupted into true cruelty. More often, a stern teacher's glare or my quiet interference—never showy, but undeniable—would draw him up short.
There were afternoons when Bakugo, trailing after his brash mother, would end up in our entryway, dropping his shoes with a scowl and stomping in after calling out to his mother,
"We're here, old hag!"
After getting a fist of love from his mother,
She and my mom would chat over tea, and Bakugo, after a few minutes of grumbling, would half-heartedly poke at card games or building blocks with me.
Sometimes Midoriya joined us. The three of us in one room made for a volatile mix, especially when Bakugo lost a round or Midoriya's enthusiasm got a little too much.
But even then, Bakugo's temper cooled quickly; his glares lost their venom and his shouts softened into grumbles.
He was still himself—prideful, explosive, and determined never to lose. But something about these visits—about sitting across from me at the low table, watching our mothers laugh like old friends—started softening the edges of our rivalry with something like familiarity.
It was during one of those visits, over a plate of anmitsu and a round of cards (Bakugo accusing me of stacking the deck), that our mothers began reminiscing about family gatherings long before any of us could remember.
Yui laughed, elbowing Mitsuki, and said,
"Nagato and Katsuki are more alike than they know, aren't they? Stubborn runs in the Uzumaki blood, whether you're here in Musutafu or not."
Bakugo looked up, brows furrowed. "Wait, we're cousins?"
Mitsuki shrugged casually.
"Distant, but yeah. Old family roots and all that. Hope it means you two won't drive each other crazy."
She winked at my mother, who just smiled.
I glanced at Bakugo, watching confusion flicker behind his usual bluster. He stared at me, then looked away, mumbling, "Tch… figures."
It didn't change everything overnight—Bakugo didn't suddenly trade barbed words for hugs or warmth. But something shifted. The shoves became shoulder bumps.
The taunts came with smirks, not scowls. Slowly, we became more like a trio than rivals circling a ring. On days when Bakugo stormed out, it was never long before he'd show up again, a new card game or challenge ready, like he didn't really want to leave things unfinished between us.
Until,
One night, I'm now eight years old, I drifted to sleep in my own room—a privilege marked by a childhood earned and a mother always near.
Darkness had a way of pressing in on the senses, a heavy, suffocating velvet that sometimes felt colder than any winter wind. It was long past midnight when I shot awake, sweat beading on my brow and breath ragged.
The dream haunted the edges of my consciousness—a memory, vivid and raw, of Yahiko's final moments. I saw him collapse once more, the look of pain and belief flickering in his dying eyes. That wound, no matter how many peaceful days I'd found in this new world, never seemed to fully close.
I sat up, blinking until my vision adjusted to the pale bands of moonlight carving up my small bedroom. The world was still, silent—a stark contrast to the chaos still echoing in my mind. But something felt… different.
There was a tension, an awareness in the air. The kind of subtle shift only my Rinnegan could sense.
Focusing, I peered inward. In past years, the energy patterns around me were simple: quirks glowed in humans with their unnatural, often jagged auras, and everything else faded into mundane dimness.
But now, as if an invisible door cracked open, a new sense bloomed within me. The faintest pulse—the whisper of the Preta Path—awoke. My control was almost non-existent, the technique barely a flicker at the edge of perception.
But it was there.
Wait. That wasn't all. There was another energy, familiar yet impossibly distant. I focused harder, heart pounding. The ambient energy wasn't just quirky static or biological heat.
"Chakra?!"
I could see it—no, feel it—threaded everywhere, woven faintly through every living thing in my line of sight.
My vision darted to the potted plant on the windowsill, its stem bending toward the glass. It shone with a light I remembered well from my old world: not as bright, not as lively—perhaps a tenth of what it should be—but chakra, all the same, pulsing gently in its core.
'Was it possible? Had it always been here?'
Excitement—tinged with anxiety—twisted inside me. I glanced toward the half-open window, focusing my heightened perception further.
On the balcony railing, a stray cat dozed, nose twitching in some small dream. Through my newly awakened sight, it, too, bristled with the faintest wash of chakra, subtle but real.
'What is going on…?'
My mind raced, pushing the limits of what the Preta Path could reveal.
This world, I realized, had adapted, shifting from an era where chakra ruled, to one dominated by quirks. Yet that old power lingered, hidden, nearly depleted but stubbornly clinging to life. It existed as a life force, separate from the boisterous, artificial buzz of quirks.
I needed to know more. I focused on a new target—up, across, and into the apartment above ours. The walls of concrete and distance faded before the gaze of the Rinnegan, and there, sleeping soundly in his bed, was Midoriya.
As I studied him, another shock rooted me to the spot. Within Izuku—not much, a mere flicker, yet unmistakable—was chakra.
A pure, natural whorl at the heart of his being, quietly circulating, untouched by any quirk's interference.
I almost laughed aloud, the realization flooding me with equal parts awe and disbelief. So that was the truth.
This world's quirks had consumed most people's chakra, mutating the flow of life force into something stranger and less balanced. But a quirkless boy like Midoriya, excluded from that unnatural inheritance, carried a kernel of what once was—a potential none of the others could ever imagine.
"Chakra had always been here."
With the eruption of quirks, it was suppressed, leeched, rendered all but invisible. Only those untouched by that new order, like Izuku—or perhaps, like me—sustained it in its original form.
"This changes everything."