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Every 100 Power Stones = 2 Extra Chapters
Every 100 Collections = 1 Extra Chapter
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I ground my teeth. "Shut up," I whispered.
But Naruto wouldn't.
Something wasn't right. I was linked to this world, somehow. I could see it. Hear it. But I couldn't touch it. Couldn't bend it. Couldn't rewrite it. Not yet.
And that infuriated me.
I wasn't sympathetic. I wasn't emotional. This wasn't a moment of empathy. It was annoyance. Disruption. That child's sobbing cut into my thoughts like a knife. It denied me sleep, control, serenity.
I tried to speak into the world. To reach Naruto. Or Minato. Or anyone. My voice felt thick, like screaming underwater. I knew what was happening—like a lucid dream where control is an illusion.
Hiruzen arrived, flanked by elite jōnin. They scooped up the child, wrapped him in a blanket stained with the blood of his legacy. But Naruto wouldn't stop crying. His tiny voice clawed into my reality, dragged across my eardrums like a jagged blade.
I slammed my eyes shut. Nothing worked. I covered my ears. Nothing.
Naruto wept.
And I?
I stared into the nothingness, cold sweat on my brow, gnawing on my own helplessness.
This wasn't a dream anymore. It wasn't playacting. I was connected to Naruto—somehow, inexplicably. I could see, hear, and feel him. But there was no magic word, no hidden seal, no whispered command that could grant me influence.
Just observation.
And irritation.
Finally, Naruto's sobs grew quiet. His energy was spent. He whimpered, a final plea echoing into silence.
And in that silence, I collapsed into sleep once again, not from peace, but exhaustion. My dreams were bitter and heavy, tasting like ash.
I was supposed to be a god.
I was supposed to shape the world.
This wasn't about Naruto. Not for me. I didn't care about him.
I tested again.
I whispered, Open, willing the fabric of the world to respond.
Nothing.
I visualized a portal between our worlds—Shinrabanshō no Kekkai, a theoretical rift. I poured intent into it. Still nothing. I tried for hours, like a god trapped behind unbreakable glass.
And eventually, Naruto's energy gave out. He stopped crying. Just as suddenly, the connection blurred. My thoughts faded. My vision darkened.
And I finally slept.
Not because of peace.
But because exhaustion swallowed my frustration.
Morning came, but it felt meaningless. I sat on my bed, barely feeling the sun, wondering why the world dared to move forward while I remained powerless.
That morning began like any other, or so I thought. The crust of sleep still clung to my eyes as I stumbled through the apartment, mechanically going through the rituals that kept me sane in a world I didn't care for. I brewed the bitter coffee I never finished, I opened the blinds that let in light I didn't need, and finally, I sat at my desk—the sacred altar of my mind's escapism.
My old, scarred laptop hummed to life like a dying beast, ready to receive the next chapter of my current project: Naruto: The White-Eyed Demon. It was a fanfic I wrote not for fame or praise, but because I could bend that world to my will in ways this one never allowed. I gave Neji the power he deserved. I rewrote fate as I saw fit. In that world, I was God.
But that morning, something was wrong.
There it was, sitting beside the keyboard like it had always belonged there: a book.
I don't read physical books. Haven't in years. They collect dust, take up space, and offer no control. But this one—this one was different. It had a black leather cover, cracked and matte, unmarked by title, author, or publisher. No barcodes. No identifiers. Just...there.
Curiosity, rare and poisonous, pulled at me. I touched it.
Cold.
I flipped it open. The pages were bone white, untouched. Thirty of them. Clean, fresh, meaningless.
Until the last.
On the final page, scrawled in immaculate ink, was a message. A preface. A prophecy. A confession.
You must have started seeing Naruto. The real one.
You must have tried everything in your imagination to control the world. Nothing worked.
That is because the world does not respond to thought. It responds to this.
This book.
The Rules:
1. You must write in this book to influence the Naruto world.
2. You are not the creator. You cannot will things into existence beyond logic.
3. There are only 30 pages. Use them with caution.
4. You cannot initiate conversation. Only Naruto's extreme emotions create a bridge (In the Intial Phases).
5. Your influence grows as Naruto's power grows.
6. You may observe the Naruto world through the Shingan.
7. The Shingan activates in dreams or trance. Do not seek control without clarity.
8. Should Naruto die, your connection is severed.
9. The book is a relic. Destroy it, and you will lose everything.
The weight of those last words hit differently.
I closed the book, but its existence refused to vanish. My heart was racing, not with fear but with something darker. Elation. I had seen Naruto, hadn't I? I had heard his cries echoing in my head, interrupting my sleep, unraveling my dreams. I thought it was delusion, obsession, burnout from too many hours writing fanfiction.
But no. It was real.
Fiction was reality.
And I was tethered to it.
I fell back into my creaking desk chair, letting the ideas swirl. My hands trembled, not from dread, but from potential. I had tried to summon torii gates in my dreams. I had tried to speak words of command. None of it worked. Not until now.
My mind immediately danced through possibilities. Rewrite the Fourth Great War? Eliminate filler arcs? Make Naruto a prodigy from day one?
No. Too soon. Too powerful.
I turned back to the first page of the book. It was blank. Inviting. Hungry.
I didn't write yet. I needed to see. I needed to feel what was happening in his world now.
I closed my eyes.