People always joked about dying during finals week, but I never thought I'd be the punchline. It wasn't a blaze of glory or some poetic tragedy—just a dumb, avoidable mistake. Picture this: a rooftop party to celebrate surviving another semester, cheap beer sweating in red plastic cups, and a playlist of overplayed summer hits blaring from a Bluetooth speaker. I was 21, a college student scraping by on instant ramen, energy drinks, and an unhealthy obsession with anime. That night, the air was sharp with the promise of freedom, the city skyline sparkling below like it was daring us to live louder. We were laughing, egging each other on with stupid challenges, the kind of reckless fun you think you're untouchable for.
Someone—Jake, probably—pointed to the ledge of the roof. "Bet you can't walk it, man," he said, grinning like he'd already won. I was buzzed, not blackout drunk, but just loose enough to think it was a brilliant idea. I hopped up, sneakers scraping the concrete, arms outstretched for balance. The ledge was narrow, maybe a foot wide, but I felt like a king. I took a step, then another, soaking in the cheers from my friends. The world was alive, electric, like I could do anything. Then my foot hit a slick patch—condensation, maybe, or spilled beer. My stomach dropped. I flailed, grabbing at air. The city tilted wildly, neon lights blurring into streaks. I heard a scream—mine, theirs, who knows. Then a sickening crack.
Then nothing.
I woke in silence. Not the soft quiet of a hospital room or the distant hum of traffic—just pure, suffocating stillness. My body was weightless, suspended in a thick, cold liquid that wasn't water. It was denser, tingling with an energy that prickled against my skin like static. I opened my eyes, and the world was bathed in a faint blue glow, like I was staring through tinted glass. I was floating in a cylindrical tank, its reinforced walls etched with glowing seals that pulsed with a rhythm I could almost feel. My first instinct was to panic. I thrashed, expecting to drown, my arms clawing for a surface that didn't exist. But I wasn't drowning. My lungs didn't burn. I didn't need to breathe.
My heart—or whatever passed for it—pounded, a strange vibration deep in my core. Something was wrong with my body. I looked down at my hands. They were pale, nearly translucent, shimmering like moonlight on a still lake. When I flexed my fingers, they rippled, stretching like liquid before snapping back into shape. My skin wasn't skin—it was water, held together by some impossible force. I touched my arm, and it gave slightly, like pressing on chilled gelatin. My pulse quickened, but it wasn't a normal heartbeat. It was a hum, a current flowing through me.
"What the actual hell?" I muttered, and the voice wasn't mine. It was sharp, cocky, with a lazy drawl that carried an edge of trouble. I froze. I knew that voice. I'd heard it in countless episodes of Naruto Shippuden. My hands flew to my face, feeling high cheekbones, a jawline too sharp to be human. I caught my reflection in the tank's glass—a distorted, wavering image, but unmistakable. White, spiky hair floating like mist in the liquid. Pale lavender eyes, slitted and predatory. A grin full of shark-like teeth.
Suigetsu Hozuki.
The realization hit like a freight train. I wasn't in my world anymore. I was in Naruto. And I wasn't some random shinobi—I was Suigetsu, the water-wielding, sword-obsessed Missing-nin from the Hidden Mist. My mind spun, grasping for logic. Was this a dream? A coma? Some twisted afterlife prank? But the cold liquid, the glowing seals, the weight of this alien body—it was too real. Too vivid. My fingers brushed the glass, and the seals flared, sending a jolt of pain through my arm—ice and lightning threading through my veins, stabbing at something deeper than flesh. I yelped, my body instinctively trying to melt into water, but the seals snapped me back, forcing me solid. My vision swam, and I floated back, gasping—or trying to. This tank wasn't just a prison. It was a chakra cage, built to contain a Hozuki's Hydrification Technique.
A hiss broke my thoughts. The chamber's heavy stone door slid open, and a man in a gray lab coat entered, clutching a clipboard. His hair was greasy, his eyes sunken, like he hadn't seen sunlight in years. He glanced at a monitor beside the tank, then did a double-take. "He's conscious?" he muttered, voice muffled by the glass. "Already? That's impossible." A woman joined him, shorter, with a surgical mask pulled down. "Mark the time," she said, scribbling on her own clipboard. "He shouldn't be active with the suppressors at this level. Orochimaru-sama will want a full report."
Orochimaru. The name sent a chill through my liquid form. I was in one of his hideouts, a lab rat for his sick experiments. Suigetsu's memories trickled in—flashes of needles, glowing seals, and that creepy snake laugh. This wasn't a random cell. This was a custom-built tank, designed to study the Hozuki clan's hiden jutsu. I was a specimen, a puzzle for Orochimaru to dissect. My stomach—or whatever I had—twisted. I'd seen what he did to people. I wasn't about to become his next cursed seal guinea pig.
I floated there for hours, maybe days, the passage of time blurred by the lack of sunlight and the tank's oppressive glow. At first, I clung to the hope this was a fever dream, a hallucination from a concussion. But the longer I stayed, the more undeniable it became. Suigetsu's body wasn't a costume—it was mine. His chakra flowed through me, sluggish under the suppressors but undeniably there. His muscle memory surfaced in fragments: the flick of a wrist to summon water from thin air, the stance for a perfect sword strike, the smirk before a fight. They weren't my memories, but they were mine to use. And unlike Suigetsu, I had something he never did: meta-knowledge.
In my old life, I was a Naruto fan. Not a superfan who memorized every databook, but I'd binged the anime, read the manga, and spent way too many nights arguing power scaling on Discord. I knew the story inside out: the Akatsuki's plans, the Fourth Shinobi War, Kaguya's ridiculous resurrection, Naruto and Sasuke's demigod showdown. And let's talk about that power scaling for a second, because wow, did it get dumb. Early Naruto was grounded—ninjas with cool tricks, strategy, and grit. By the end? God-tier chakra monsters throwing moon-busting attacks like it's nothing. Naruto and Sasuke became walking plot devices, while everyone else—Kakashi, Rock Lee, even Suigetsu—got sidelined. The power creep was so bad it made DBZ look restrained. A single Rasenshuriken could level a city, but somehow fodder ninjas were still relevant? And don't get me started on Kaguya. A bunny goddess retconned in at the last minute? Lazy writing at its finest.
But that knowledge was my edge. I knew who lived, who died, who won. I knew the war's outcome—Naruto and Sasuke would save the world, because of course they would. I didn't need to play their game. I wasn't here to be a hero or a villain. What I wanted was a life—a relaxed, carefree one, something I could never have as a rogue ninja. Rogues were hunted, hated, always looking over their shoulder. But a war hero? That came with perks. Respect. Security. Maybe a nice house by the ocean, where I could sip sake and watch the mist roll in. To get that, I needed to play this smart.
The Plan
Step 1: Play along with Sasuke. He'd arrive in a week, needing muscle to betray Orochimaru. I'd act like canon Suigetsu—snarky, blade-obsessed, loyal enough to join Taka. But I wasn't his fanboy. Sasuke was a tool, not a leader. I'd make a deal: he gets his shot at Itachi, I get Kubikiribocho, the Executioner's Blade. Once that fight's done, I'm out. Sasuke's path leads to war crimes—attacking the Gokage Summit, joining Obito, stabbing Karin like she's nothing. I'm not signing up for his international criminal record. The guy's a walking red flag, and I'm not here to be collateral damage.
Step 2: Return to Kirigakure. The Hidden Mist is Suigetsu's home, and it's where I'd rebuild. The Hozuki clan is still there—Hydrification is a hiden jutsu, not a kekkei genkai, so they're alive and kicking. Kiri's in rough shape after the Bloody Mist era, but Mei Terumi's leadership is turning things around. They're desperate for strong shinobi, and the Seven Swordsmen are down to one sword: Hiramekarei used by Chojuro. I'd bring Kubikiribocho and whatever I could loot from Orochimaru's labs—scrolls, forbidden jutsu, maybe some experimental tech. I'd spin a story: I escaped Orochimaru, ditched Sasuke, and came home to serve. Not a rogue, not a stray—a loyal Mist ninja. With my clan's backing and a legendary sword, I'd be a hero, not a fugitive.
Step 3: Become a war hero. I'd train hard, master Suigetsu's abilities, and fight in the Fourth Shinobi War. My meta-knowledge would let me counter threats like Obito and Madara without stealing the spotlight. Naruto and Sasuke can handle the god-tier nonsense—Kaguya, the Ten-Tails, all that overpowered garbage. I'd focus on protecting Kiri, racking up wins, and building a reputation. War heroes get respect, influence, maybe even a cushy position in the village. I didn't need to be Mizukage—that's too much paperwork, too much stress. I just wanted to live well, maybe flirt with a few shinobi, and enjoy the perks of being a badass without the rogue life's baggage.
I tested my body, flexing my fingers. They melted into water, then solidified, even under the tank's suppressors. Suigetsu's power was unreal—muscles coiled with strength, chakra flowing like a tidal wave. His memories flooded in: Kiri's fog-choked streets, the weight of Kubikiribocho in his hands, the rush of slicing through enemies like they were paper. But I wasn't just Suigetsu. I was me, with a fan's obsession, a student's discipline, and a healthy hatred for Naruto's bloated power scaling. I'd make this body sing, not just splash around like canon Suigetsu.
The lab was quiet now, the scientists gone. I floated, staring at the seals. I couldn't break them yet, but I could prepare. I closed my eyes, focusing on my chakra. It was sluggish, but I moved it in tiny pulses, feeling it flow through my liquid form. I practiced shifting my fingers—hardening them like ice, softening them like mist. I imagined fights, drawing on Suigetsu's instincts: a water whip to disarm, a liquid dodge to evade, a blade-hand to strike. Every day, I'd push harder, learn more. By the time Sasuke showed up, I'd be ready—not just to escape, but to carve my own path.
Footsteps echoed. A scientist approached, holding a syringe of glowing green liquid. His smirk was all teeth. "Time for another test, Suigetsu. Lord Orochimaru wants to see how much you can take."
I grinned back, sharp teeth glinting. "Bring it, doc."
Let them think I was their prisoner. Let Sasuke think he'd be my savior. Let the world think I was just another side character.
I knew better.
This was my shot at a carefree life, and I was writing it in blood, water, and a whole lot of attitude.