The Haruno household was a small, cozy pocket of warmth nestled in a quiet, civilian sector of Konoha. It smelled perpetually of Mebuki's fresh-baked bread and the faint, woodsy scent of the herbs Kizashi sometimes used for his odd jobs. For two years, this had been Ryu's entire world, and it was a world he cherished with the fierce, protective love of a man who had once had nothing.
To his parents, Ryu was a miracle and an enigma. Their son had spoken his first clear words at nine months and was reading simple picture books by his first birthday. They would find him sitting in a patch of sunlight on the floor, not with wooden blocks, but with a book, his tiny finger tracing the kanji with an unnerving focus. Kizashi, a man whose heart was as big and boisterous as his laugh, would simply beam with pride. "A genius! Mebuki, we have a genius!" he'd declare, sweeping Ryu into the air.
Mebuki, more pragmatic and grounded, would smile, a flicker of something deeper and more complex in her green eyes. She saw the intense concentration in her son's gaze, the way he seemed to understand things far beyond his years. It was astounding, but also faintly unsettling. He was their baby, yet sometimes, when he looked at them, it felt as though an ancient soul was peering out from behind his bright, emerald eyes.
For Ryu, it was a constant battle between a mature mind and an undeveloped body. His memories of Blake, of a life lived with adult coordination and strength, were a frustrating counterpoint to his clumsy toddler limbs. Still, he persisted. Every morning, before the sun had fully risen, he would be in his room, his small body straining. He would attempt push-ups, his arms trembling violently before giving out. He would try to stretch, mimicking the forms he vaguely recalled from ninja anime, his movements wobbly and imprecise. For a year, he had kept at it, a quiet, daily ritual of discipline. The progress was minuscule, but it was there—a slow hardening of infant muscle, a gradual increase in stamina.
His real progress was mental. He devoured the scrolls and books his parents had packed away from their brief and unremarkable careers as genin. They were basic texts, academy-level stuff, but to Ryu, they were scripture. He learned about the elemental nations, the founding of the Hidden Leaf by Hashirama and Madara, and the slow, simmering tensions that had twice before exploded into world wars. He read about chakra, that mystical energy that was the lifeblood of a shinobi. He learned how it was molded from spiritual and physical energy, how it could be used to walk on water, create fire from nothing, or grant superhuman strength. The concepts weren't new to him, but reading the in-world theory, the actual mechanics of it, was intoxicating.
It was during one rainy afternoon, curled up with a worn scroll detailing the history of the village's conflicts, that the cold fist of dread clenched in his stomach. The text spoke of recent border skirmishes with Iwagakure and rising tensions with Kumogakure. It mentioned dates, political shifts, and the names of prominent figures. Cross-referencing it with the knowledge from his past life, Ryu pieced it together. He was not born in a time of idyllic peace. He was on the cusp of the Third Great Ninja War. The realization hit him like a physical blow. In a year, maybe less, the world would be plunged into chaos. Minato Namikaze would earn his legendary moniker, Kakashi would lose his eye and his best friend, and countless lives would be extinguished.
He also knew, with a chilling certainty, that somewhere else in this village, a boy with hair as black as night and eyes that would one day hold the crimson of the Sharingan, was his exact age. Itachi Uchiha. A prodigy who would walk a path of unimaginable sacrifice. Ryu felt a strange kinship with the yet-unknown boy, a shared burden of knowledge and a heavy future. He knew he had to meet him, but first, he needed to be more than a physically dedicated toddler with a head full of theory.
That evening, as his third birthday loomed just a month away, he knew he could wait no longer. He found his parents sitting at their small kitchen table, sharing a pot of tea as the evening light softened the room. Kizashi was telling a loud, animated story, and Mebuki was laughing, her whole face lit with joy. The sight of their simple happiness solidified his resolve. This was what he would protect.
He padded over to the table, his small footsteps barely making a sound. "Mama? Papa?"
They both turned, their expressions softening as they looked at him. "What is it, Ryu-chan?" Mebuki asked, reaching out to brush a stray strand of his bright pink hair from his forehead.
Ryu took a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts. He looked from his mother's kind face to his father's proud one. "I want to be a shinobi," he said. His voice was the high, slightly lisping voice of a two-year-old, but the words were delivered with a gravity that made them hang in the air.
The laughter died in the room. Kizashi's smile faltered. Mebuki's hand froze in his hair. They exchanged a look—a quick, silent conversation full of shared history and mutual fear. They had been genin. They knew the reality behind the heroic stories. They knew the smell of blood, the cold terror of an ambush, the gnawing feeling of being hopelessly outmatched. They had chosen this quiet, safe, civilian life for a reason.
"Ryu," Mebuki began, her voice gentle but laced with a new tension. "That's… a very dangerous life. It's not like the stories in your books."
"I know," Ryu replied, looking her directly in the eyes. "I know people get hurt. People die. But I want to be strong. Strong enough to protect you. To protect our family."
The word 'family' struck them both. For Blake, it was a dream he'd died with. For Ryu, it was his reason for living. His earnestness, the pure, undiluted conviction in his gaze, was more powerful than any childish tantrum could ever be.
Kizashi let out a long, slow breath, running a hand over his chinstrap beard. He saw the familiar texts scattered around the living room. He saw the subtle changes in his son's physique, the calluses that had no business being on a toddler's hands. He wasn't just a genius; he was determined. To deny him would be to deny the very core of who he was.
"The world… it's not a safe place right now, son," Kizashi said, his voice uncharacteristically solemn. "Another war is coming. We can feel it."
"That's why," Ryu insisted, his tiny fists clenching at his sides. "That's why I need to start now. When I turn three… will you help me? Will you teach me how to feel my chakra?"
Another silence descended, heavier than the last. Mebuki looked at her husband, her eyes pleading, searching for a way out. But when she looked back at her son, at the unyielding fire in his young face, she saw that there wasn't one. This was his path. She closed her eyes, a single, silent tear tracing a path down her cheek, which she quickly wiped away.
Kizashi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and fixing his son with an intense stare. He saw not just a child, but a will of forged steel. He saw the dragon his son was named for, beginning to stir.
"Alright, Ryu," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "When you turn three, I'll teach you the leaf concentration exercise. I'll teach you everything your mother and I know." He reached across the table and placed a large, warm hand on Ryu's head. "But you must promise me. You will be careful. You will be smart. And you will always come home."
Ryu nodded, a wave of relief and gratitude so potent it almost brought him to his knees. He looked at his parents, at the fear and love warring in their eyes, and his vow echoed in the chambers of his soul. He would not just come home. He would make sure they all had a home to come back to.