The orphanage was a hive of controlled chaos by day and a tomb of hushed breathing by night. It was in the latter that I found my sanctuary. After everyone else had settled into the rhythm of sleep—the soft snores of the younger kids, the rustling of futons, the distant hoot of an owl—I would slip out. My target: the small, overgrown backyard.
The cold, damp earth under my bare feet was a grounding sensation, a stark contrast to the swirling chaos within my mind. My first few nights were frustrating. I'd close my eyes, concentrate, and command the Sharingan to activate. Sometimes, nothing. Other times, a brief, agonizing flare of red vision, followed by a splitting headache that forced me to retreat back to bed, clenching my teeth against the pain.
The System, ever the detached observer, would offer terse updates:
Sharingan Activation Attempt: Failed. Insufficient focus. Sharingan Activation Attempt: Success (0.5 seconds). Instability critical. Chakra drain: High.
I learned quickly that simply wanting it wasn't enough. It required a specific kind of internal push, a subtle shift in my chakra flow that felt like trying to grab smoke. One night, I focused on a small, flickering candle flame I'd smuggled out. I wasn't trying to copy it; I was trying to see it, truly see its subtle movements, the way the heat distorted the air around it. And then, a familiar ping!
One-Tomoe Sharingan Activated. Stability improved (0.1%). Chakra drain: Moderate.
My vision didn't turn crimson, not fully. It was more like a transparent film of red overlaid on reality, highlighting the minute details of the flame, the tiny currents of air that made it dance. I could feel the chakra draining, a subtle but insistent pull, like a leaky faucet. I held it for a few seconds, fighting the growing throb behind my eye, before deactivating it. Progress, tiny as it was, felt like a monumental victory.
The "Self-Preservation" mission felt less daunting, now that I had a tangible way to approach it. Stabilizing the Sharingan was paramount. Every night, I repeated the process, pushing my limits, enduring the headaches, trying to extend the activation time by mere fractions of a second. I started practicing basic Taijutsu forms from the anime, mimicking movements I'd seen Naruto and Sasuke perform, focusing on fluidity and balance. My E-rank stats groaned in protest, but I pushed through, driven by the desire for those sweet Evolution Points.
By day, I focused on the "Adaptation" mission. Haruno Chiaki, the orphanage director, was kind enough, though her gaze often lingered on me with a touch of sadness. I was careful not to draw attention, to be just another quiet, grieving orphan. I helped with chores, played with the younger kids (often letting them win at tag), and absorbed everything I could about Konoha.
I listened to conversations, piecing together the political landscape, the village's perception of the Uchiha massacre. The official story was a rogue faction, wiped out. No one mentioned Itachi. No one mentioned the real reason. It was a carefully constructed lie, accepted by the traumatized populace. This reinforced the need for my secrecy. The truth of my survival, of Itachi's deliberate sparing of me, would expose more than just me; it would unravel the fragile peace of the village.
My most anticipated time of day was when the Academy students walked past the orphanage on their way to and from classes. I'd watch them, trying to pick out familiar faces. Naruto, boisterous and clumsy. Sakura, already intelligent and focused. And then, there was Sasuke. He was easy to spot, even from a distance. A small, solitary figure, usually lagging behind or walking slightly apart from the other kids, his dark hair a stark contrast to his pale, serious face. He carried a weight I recognized, a silent burden of grief and unresolved anger. My heart ached for him. He was a boy destined for a dark path, and I was perhaps the only one who could truly understand the horror he carried.
The System remained silent during these observations, but my resolve hardened. Sasuke will never walk alone. That wasn't just a fanfic trope anymore; it was a personal mission. But to reach him, to truly help him, I needed to become a force to be reckoned with.
One afternoon, while I was sweeping the orphanage's small porch, I overheard a conversation between Chiaki-san and a passing ANBU member. Their voices were low, but a few words cut through the air: "Uchiha... Academy enrollment... special consideration..." My broom froze. Special consideration? For Sasuke, perhaps? Or... could it be for me?
A new thought sparked in my mind. The Academy. It was the pathway to becoming a ninja, to gaining access to the resources and training I desperately needed. It was also the most visible path. Could I join without exposing myself? Could I maintain my "ghost" persona within the very heart of the ninja world? The Adaptation mission suddenly felt a lot more complicated.
The protagonist is now making subtle progress with his Sharingan, observing Sasuke, and realizing the path to power (and helping Sasuke) lies through the Ninja Academy. This presents a new challenge for his "Adaptation" mission.
What do you think will be the protagonist's biggest hurdle in joining and navigating the Ninja Academy while keeping his unique abilities and origin a secret? And how might the Evolution System help or hinder him in this new environment?
End of chapter 4