When I opened my eyes, I was not in my cramped apartment, but in a quiet room lit by paper lanterns. My tiny hands trembled as I reached up, catching sight of pale skin and dark hair in the reflection of a mirror. And then I saw them—the unmistakable Uchiha crest embroidered on the blanket.
"No way…" I whispered in a voice far too young. "I… I reincarnated into Naruto?"
The thought should have thrilled me. After all, I had binged the anime countless times in my past life. But as the days passed, and I grew into my new family, dread replaced excitement.
Because I was an Uchiha. And I knew what was coming.
From the outside, the Uchiha compound was beautiful—quiet streets lined with cherry trees, stern but proud relatives greeting one another with calm nods. But beneath the surface, I could feel it: tension. Resentment. Distrust toward the village leadership.
And me, a reincarnator, stuck in the middle of it all.
Every time I saw Fugaku, stern and unyielding, I remembered how he would meet his end. Every time I saw Itachi walking gracefully down the road, I saw blood.
I knew the massacre was coming. And I refused to die for a history I had no say in.
Escape. That was my only choice.
At six years old, I had already awakened my Sharingan. It happened during training when another clan child mocked me and shoved me into the dirt. Rage flared, and suddenly the world sharpened into crimson and black.
The elders praised me. "A genius," they said. "A future protector of the clan."
But I didn't want their praise. With every step deeper into Uchiha politics, I felt the noose tighten. I was being molded into a pawn for their coup—or worse, a potential sacrifice to their pride.
At night, lying in my futon, I stared at the moon and whispered to myself:
"I'm not staying here. I'm not dying here."
Escaping Konoha wasn't as simple as walking out the gates. The Uchiha were already under surveillance. ANBU masked figures often lingered near the compound. I couldn't leave openly.
So I planned.
I studied maps of the Land of Fire. I learned about patrol shifts by eavesdropping on careless chunin. I even befriended a shopkeeper near the walls, just so I could hide supplies in barrels of rice
But my first attempt failed spectacularly.
I slipped out under the cover of night, hugging the shadows. My heart pounded with freedom just a few streets away from the gate. Then, a voice.
"Where are you going?"
It was Shisui. His Mangekyō glowed faintly in the dark. He didn't scold me, didn't raise the alarm. He only placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered:
"You'll die out there. Not yet."
And with that, he turned me back.
For weeks, I burned with frustration. I hated that he was right.
Time marched on. The tension between the Uchiha and the Hokage worsened. I saw more meetings, more whispers, more hateful glares at the villagers outside.
Itachi grew more withdrawn. Shisui vanished one day, and the clan grew restless.
And I knew. The night was drawing near.
The massacre.
That night, my fear crystallized into determination. I packed what little I had—dried food, stolen kunai, a small pouch of ryo. I couldn't fight Itachi. I couldn't fight ANBU. But maybe, just maybe, I could slip away while their eyes were fixed on the slaughter.
The screams started suddenly.
I woke to the smell of fire, to the sound of steel clashing. My parents rushed out of the house, shouting for me to stay inside. But I already knew what awaited them.
I ran.
Through alleys, past burning lanterns, I saw corpses fall. Friends. Neighbors. Children. Itachi's silhouette cut them down with impossible grace, his Mangekyō glowing like death itself.
I sprinted through the chaos, slipping past the walls as ANBU and fire consumed the clan behind me.
Beyond the walls, the night was darker than I had ever seen. For the first time in years, I breathed air that wasn't heavy with suspicion.
But freedom came with a price. I was a fugitive. A missing Uchiha.
Every village would hunt me, not for my name, but for my eyes. Rogue Uchiha were bounties worth fortunes.