89 years…. That's how long I've walked this earth. Long enough to taste the bitterness of war, to feel the weight of a rifle heavier than my own bones, and to watch the faces of both enemies and allies disappear into the same bloody war. I've lived a life carved out by discipline and sharpened by violence. Some call it patriotism, some call it madness. Me? I call it survival.
I was just a kid when I joined the Marines. Barely eighteen. Too young to understand what I was signing away, too eager to escape a life that had no meaning. War gave me meaning. The Corps gave me structure. I was molded into a weapon—every order I obeyed, every mission I executed. Eat when you're told. Sleep when you're told. Kill when you're told. And I did. God helped me, and I did it better than most.
Combat changes a man. Some crumble under the weight of blood and screams. Others… thrive. I was the latter. My hands were steady, my breath calm. Where others saw chaos, I saw clarity. Targets, distances, wind, timing—it all fit into a rhythm. A song only I could hear. I became a sniper, the ghost in the trees, the shadow on the ridge. They used to say, "If you hear the shot, it wasn't meant for you." My targets never heard a damn thing.
Years rolled on—conflict after conflict. Names and faces blurred together. Iraq. Afghanistan. Places that don't matter anymore. I left parts of myself buried in the sand, and in return, I carried back the ghosts of my victims and the men that I couldn't save. The Corps decorated me, called me a hero. But what is a hero? Someone who kills on the right side of a border? Someone who sleeps with nightmares but salutes the flag in the morning? If that's a hero, then I suppose I was one.
But medals don't fill the hollow inside. When the uniform came off, when the government washed its hands of me, I was just another relic of war. That's when the underworld found me. Assassins, mercenaries, private contracts—I slipped into that world like I was born for it. The discipline of a Marine, the precision of a sniper… and no leash. No chain of command. Just me and the scope.
They called me many names. Ghost, Shadow, Death. A top assassin on every blacklist that mattered. When I pulled the trigger, politicians, businessmen, and kings fell, cartels crumbled, secrets were buried. I stopped believing in countries, in causes. My only loyalty was to the contract and my weapon. The world stopped being black and white—it was just shades of red.
Did I enjoy it? That's the question I've asked myself for decades. The answer… is complicated. Killing was never joy. It was the focus, clarity, and purpose. But there's a strange peace in knowing you control life and death with the curl of a finger. It's intoxicating. Dangerous. That power corrodes whatever soul a man has left.
And so here I am, an old man strapped to a bed, veins pumping with more medicine than blood. 89 years… and I outlived almost everyone who could have called me by name. I have no wife, no children, no family. Only scars of being a soldier and assassin. Only memories of the faces of men I killed. Faces of brothers I lost. Some blurred, some sharp as the day I first pulled the trigger.
Funny thing is, I don't regret it. I regret nothing. Regret is for men who wish they had chosen differently. Me? I chose every shot. I chose every kill. I walked my path willingly. I accepted the weight, and I carried it until my back bent and my body broke. That was my truth.
But still… there's a whisper inside me. A thought I buried under decades of steel and blood. Was it worth it? All those lives taken, all the years spent sharpening myself into the perfect blade. For what? To die here in a hospital, surrounded by silence and sterile walls? Not even a battlefield to bury me. Just a machine counting down the last beats of my heart.
I think about the men I trained with. The ones who laughed, drank, and fought beside me. Most of them are gone long before they reach my age. Maybe I'm the lucky one, or… I'm the cursed one, condemned to carry their spirits longer than anyone else.
The monitor beeps more slowly now. Each sound feels like a hammer striking the coffin shut. I can feel it—the end. There's no fear I felt. I made peace with death a long time ago. Death is an old friend. I've sent enough men to meet him. It's only fair he comes for me now.
My breath is shallow. My vision blurs. If this is all there is, then so be it. I lived as a weapon, and I'll die as one. That is my legacy. A sniper's creed. A soldier's truth. An assassin's silence.
… And yet, a part of me wishes for more. One more shot. One more chance. Not to undo the past—I wouldn't dare—but to see if I could become something greater. To take all I've learned, all I've endured, and carve a different path.
The monitor's tone flattens. The world fades. My body is weak, but my mind is sharp. And in the darkness that follows, I whisper to myself:
"If there's another life waiting for me… I won't waste it."
-Break-
Darkness. That was the first thing I felt—complete, suffocating darkness. Not the kind from closing your eyes, but something deeper. A heaviness pressing on all sides. Warm. Rhythmic. Alive.
For a moment, I thought I had slipped into some kind of sensory deprivation chamber. But then I heard it. A slow, steady drumbeat surrounds me. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. A heartbeat.
What the hell…?
I tried to move, but my limbs were weak, unresponsive. My body wasn't my body. It was small. Fragile. I felt liquid all around me, cushioning me like an invisible cradle.
That's when it hit me. I wasn't in a chamber. I was in a womb!
The thought should have broken me, but decades of being a soldier with top discipline kept me calm. Assess. Adapt. Survive. That's what I always did. And so I waited.
Then came the light. Harsh, blinding, searing into my eyes. My lungs burned as air rushed in for the first time. Instinct took over—I cried. Loud, pitiful wails that didn't belong to the man I had been, but to the infant I had become.
Hands lifted me. Gentle, trembling hands. My vision was blurry, but slowly, I saw her. A woman with pale skin, dark hair, and eyes that shone red. Not just red—crimson.
Sharingan!
My breath caught—or it would have, if I had control of my body. Recognition slammed into me like a bullet. I knew those eyes. Not her face, not her name, but those eyes.
No way… No. Damn. Way!
I'd spent my last years of old age watching anime. The Naruto series had been one of the few things that brought me a strange comfort—fantasy battles, shinobi honor, the rise and fall of clans. I'd watched it all. From the First Hokage's dream to Naruto's final battle. Every arc, every tragedy.
And now, staring up at that woman's crimson gaze, I knew exactly where I was.
I've been reborn… into the Uchiha clan.
The system's voice echoed in my head, crisp and mechanical:
[New Body Created: Uchiha Clan Infant]
Year: 0041
Time: 0001
Assignment: Survive, Adapt, Conquer.
System Features:
– Gain Experience through battles, duels, and kills.
– Level Up to obtain 5 Attribute Points per level.
– Attribute Point Conversion:
→ +100 Chakra Capacity
→ +1 Life Expectancy (year)
→ +1 to Physical/Skill stat
I wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a baby's cry. In my past life, I had been a soldier, a sniper, an assassin. Here, I was starting over as a child of one of the most feared clans in shinobi history. Same generation as Minato Namikaze, if my timing was right based on the system's information.
I knew what was coming. The wars. The betrayals. The Uchiha massacre. Madara. Obito. The Akatsuki. Kaguya. I'd seen it all unfold through a screen, decades after it was drawn. But this time, I wasn't a spectator. I was inside it.
And unlike the Uchiha who let their emotions chain them, I carried a soldier's mind. I carried discipline. Lethality. Knowledge.
This was no second chance at life. This was a battlefield reborn.
I made a vow, right there in the trembling arms of my mother:
I will not be another casualty in the Uchiha tragedy.
I will not bow to destiny.
With my system, my past life, and this bloodline, I will become the most dangerous Uchiha the shinobi world has ever seen.
The cries of a newborn filled the room. But beneath them, buried deep, was the silent oath of a soldier reborn!