Darkness.
Not the kind that creeps in during sleep or the sort that gently swallows the world when the sun sets. This was deeper—more primal. A quiet, oppressive black that seemed to pull on the edges of Satoru's awareness like tar.
He sat cross-legged, his hands resting uncertainly on his knees, and his back hunched with tension. His eyes were closed, the dim light of the shabby room gone behind his eyelids. But there was no sense of peace in the stillness. Just a deep, gnawing uncertainty.
'Okay… breathe… just breathe.'
He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with the scent of aged wood, stale futon fabric, and something faintly herbal—probably the ointments Akari had been using on his bandages. The air felt heavy, like it was trying to remind him that this world wasn't his.
'Chakra… how did they describe it again? A spiritual and physical energy mix. The fuel for all jutsu. Every shinobi has it.'
Satoru furrowed his brows, trying to focus. He remembered vague descriptions from the anime—chakra pathways, inner energy centres, and meditation practices. But those were either glossed over or explained in plot-convenient chunks. He wasn't one of those fans who learned all the hand signs or memorized chakra control exercises for fun.
Hell, he could barely sit still without his legs going numb.
'I'm not some cosplaying chakra monk… how the hell am I supposed to "sense" something I've never even felt before?'
He shifted slightly on the mat, uncomfortable but determined. His fingers twitched unconsciously as he mentally combed through every scrap of Naruto lore he could recall. The Academy students—how did they do it? Meditation? Focusing on the gut? Visualizing a flame?
He tried visualizing a fire in his stomach. Nothing. He pictured glowing threads running through his arms. Still nothing. He tried imagining a whirlpool spinning in his chest.
'Still nothing—damn it!'
His breathing quickened as frustration crept in. If he was stuck in this war-torn world, he couldn't afford to be ordinary.
He exhaled through clenched teeth, forcing himself to calm down.
'Try again.'
This time, he let go of the images. Let go of the expectations. He focused on his own body—the rhythm of his breath, the subtle beat of his heart. The ache in his bandaged forehead. The uncomfortable chill in his toes. The sweat clinging to his skin.
'Come on… there has to be something…'
Then—barely perceptible—something flickered.
He froze.
It was a strange sensation. Not quite physical, not quite mental. Like the tremble of a string somewhere deep within, as if something inside him had responded to his call. A whisper of warmth coiled in his gut, so faint he thought he imagined it.
But it grew.
A slow thrum began to pulse in his core, not unlike the beat of a second heart. The warmth expanded, radiating gently outward. It wasn't heat in the conventional sense—more like… potential. Like a coiled spring of energy just waiting to unspool.
Satoru's eyes widened beneath closed lids.
'There it is…'
His lips parted slightly in awe.
'That's chakra.'
He couldn't believe it. He could feel it. Real, tangible, alive inside him. Like the blood in his veins, only more—vibrating with raw possibility. He didn't know how it was already accessible. From what he remembered, most children required focused training to awaken and control their chakra. Some didn't even manage it until they entered the Academy.
'So why is mine already unlocked?'
A thought surfaced—unexpected and unsettling.
'Was it the transmigration?'
He didn't know how this reincarnation had worked—what laws had been broken, what souls displaced—but it seemed plausible. His essence, forcibly injected into this world, may have shocked the chakra network awake. Like jumpstarting a dormant engine.
He let the warmth spread a little further, exploring it now with cautious curiosity. It was… vibrant. Rich. Alive. It pulsed along channels he couldn't name, brushing gently against parts of him he'd never noticed before. He could feel it coiling in his chest, spiralling down his arms, pooling in his fingertips like ink in a brush.
He imagined it surging outward, like a tide crashing against the shore.
And then—
Pain.
A sharp stab erupted behind his eyes, sudden and blinding.
"Ghh—!" he hissed, clutching his temples.
The chakra, once warm and inviting, turned volatile. It convulsed inside him like a writhing serpent, its rhythm distorted. His head throbbed like drums were being beaten inside his skull, and something hot and metallic burned behind his closed eyelids.
'What the hell—'
His vision behind his lids twisted into kaleidoscopic light. The pain intensified, fracturing his awareness.
'Stop—make it stop—'
And then the images came.
Disjointed. Shaky. Blurred by emotion.
He wasn't in control anymore.
He saw a dim room lit by candlelight. A boy—him, Satoru—sat beside a frail woman lying in a futon. Her skin was ghostly pale, her cheeks sunken. Every breath she took sounded like a struggle against death itself.
"Don't worry, Mother… I'll get more medicine tomorrow. You just need rest."
The boy pressed a damp cloth to her forehead with trembling hands. His voice cracked, though he tried to stay strong.
The scene bled away, replaced by one cold and grey.
A funeral.
Rain poured in sheets, turning the dirt to mud. The same boy, now dressed in ill-fitting black robes, stood before a freshly filled grave. His shoulders shook silently, face turned away from the few mourners gathered behind him. The wooden marker read only a single name—he didn't look old enough to read it aloud.
The image wavered again.
He was alone now. Back in the same house, the futon empty and neatly folded. Dust settled on untouched shelves. The boy sat in a corner, arms wrapped around his knees, sobbing quietly. His cries were muffled against his sleeve, his small body trembling.
And then—
A spark.
His sobs became louder, more frantic. His hands flew to his face.
"My eyes—! It burns—! It hurts!"
He thrashed, pain blooming from his skull outward. His reflection flashed briefly in a cracked mirror across the room.
Red.
His eyes—now a deep, glowing crimson—were etched with a single black tomoe in each iris.
The Sharingan.
'Uchiha.'
The scenes shattered like glass, and Satoru was flung back into his own body, gasping.
His eyes snapped open.
He coughed, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His hands clutched the futon like a lifeline. The pain was gone, but his body trembled as if he'd just escaped a nightmare—or lived someone else's.
His thoughts raced.
'That was real. That wasn't just a dream. Those were… his memories. The original Satoru.'
He sat up shakily, blinking against the faint candlelight that flickered from a shelf across the room. His breath came in short, erratic bursts.
And then he remembered.
'The eyes.'
He rubbed his face instinctively and muttered aloud, voice hoarse:
"Satoru was… an Uchiha?"
He hadn't meant to say it out loud. The words just slipped out, carried by disbelief and awe.
He stared into the window's reflection, hoping—fearing—what he might see.
And there, faintly glowing in the shadowed glass, was the unmistakable gleam of crimson.
Two red eyes stared back at him, each marked with a solitary tomoe swirling slowly within the iris.
The Sharingan.
Still activated.