At first, Yoru figured it had to be a dream.
But no. Too bright. Too loud.
And crying. He was crying. Ugly, uncontrollable crying. He hated it, hated the way it sounded, hated the way it shook his whole body. He didn't cry like this. That was clue number one something was off.
Everything loomed. Too big, too blurry. Voices sounded like they'd been dunked underwater.
Then it was sleep. Then more sleep. Carried, fed, put down. Like a machine on repeat. A hamster on a wheel.
He wanted to scream what the hell is happening, but his throat only made more baby-noises.
Yeah. Something had gone wrong. Badly.
By the time he could sort of walk, if wobbling around on fat legs counted, he'd given up pretending it was a dream.
The orphanage was… well, it was an orphanage. Wood floors that tattled on you every time you stepped wrong, gruel that tasted like paper left out in the rain, a matron who smelled like soap and rice vinegar. She wasn't cruel, but she wasn't the warm-and-hug type either. Efficient. Feed, scold, bed. Repeat.
Yoru told himself he didn't care. Didn't need it. He had bigger problems.
Like the language. It came way too fast. Too easy. Slid into his head like someone had already loaded the files. Not normal. Not safe. So he made mistakes on purpose, tripped over words, kept his head down. Just another quiet kid. Nothing to see here.
But his eyes were open. Always open. Always watching.
...
The older boys bragged about the Academy. Ran around the yard throwing the kind of punches that wouldn't dent a pillow. Yelling about how they'd be shinobi one day.
He laughed at first. Couldn't help it. Shinobi. Cute. Like kids back home with plastic swords.
Then he saw the real thing.
Green flak jackets. Metal headbands flashing in the sun. Walking past the gates like they owned the road. Everyone went still. The matron bowed her head. Neighbors hushed. Kids stared like they'd just seen superheroes step out of a comic.
And Yoru's stomach dropped.
Konoha. Hidden Leaf.
Oh, great. Just his luck.
For a little while, he held onto the hope that maybe this wasn't that Konoha. Maybe it was some knockoff. Some cheap ninja village with the aesthetics and none of the death toll.
Then the evidence piled up too fast. Faces carved into the mountain. Spiral symbols on uniforms. The way people said "shinobi" in awe.
And one night, lying on his futon, he heard the caretakers whispering.
"Another skirmish on the border."
"The Third War's heating up."
Yoru froze. The blanket felt heavy.
Third War.
Not pranks and ramen runs. Not the goofy parts. No. The ugly part. The meat grinder. The one where even kids got sent to die.
And he was three years old.
His fists clenched the blanket. A laugh slipped out, shaky and wrong.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
Didn't even sound like a laugh.
After that, everything felt heavier. Food tasted worse. Air seemed loaded with smoke that hadn't even been lit yet.
The other kids didn't notice. They kept fighting over toys, sneaking dumplings, roughhousing.
Yoru stayed on the steps, knees pulled up, watching. Always watching.
"Why don't you play?" a girl asked once. Pigtails, missing tooth, rice bowl in her hands.
"Not in the mood," he muttered.
"Are you sick?"
"Yeah," he said. "Something like that."
She didn't buy it. Squinted at him, then ran off when another kid shouted her name.
He almost told her. No, I'm not sick. I'm scared out of my mind. Because we're all going to be shoved into uniforms before we can even shave. But what would that do? She wouldn't get it. And if she did, that'd be worse.
...
He started picking up on little things. Prices creeping up at the market when the matron grumbled about groceries. Neighbors whispering when they thought kids weren't listening. Shinobi who left on missions and didn't come back.
Sometimes he saw Academy kids jogging past, six or seven years old, wooden kunai tied at their sides, looking proud as hell. His stomach twisted every time.
That would be him in a few years. Whether he wanted it or not.
Unless he figured something out.
At night, on his futon, he thought.
Okay. What did he actually have?
No bloodline. No clan. No freakish stamina. Just a scrawny orphan body and a brain stuffed with anime trivia.
Anime trivia. That was his cheat. Yeah, really useful when somebody shoved a kunai through your ribs.
Still. Knowledge mattered. Names. Dates. Kakashi. Obito. Rin. Itachi. Minato. The big beats of history. If he timed things right, dodged certain assignments, maybe… maybe he could live.
Not much of a plan. But better than nothing.
He started practicing small things. Quiet things. Stretching when no one was looking. Breathing deep and slow, the way he remembered shinobi conserving chakra.
He pressed his fingers together sometimes, waiting for a spark, a tingle, anything. Nothing. Just warmth. Still, better early than never.
The matron caught him once. "Strange boy," she muttered. "Always so serious."
He forced a smile. "Guess I'm boring."
"You're three."
Yeah. Three. Already scheming like his life depended on it. Because it did.
Sometimes he let himself imagine what it could've been. Uchiha? Safety net. Uzumaki? Practically unkillable. Hyūga? At least you got fancy eyes. Even Inuzuka would've been something.
Instead, he got Yoru. No clan. No bloodline. Just cannon fodder.
Unless he rewrote the script.
His fists clenched. The world wanted him to die nameless in the mud. Fine. But not yet.
Tomorrow would look the same: thin gruel, creaky floors, kids pretending to be shinobi. Static.
But his eyes were open now. Watching. Listening. Filing everything away.
And when the storm came, and it would, he planned on surviving.
Even if he had to crawl through hell to do it.
...
Thanks for reading~