Hana and Satoru's POV:
The room was thick with tension. Moans of effort and pain echoed against the white-tiled walls, punctuated by the rhythmic beeping of machines.
Hana Uchiha gritted her teeth, hands clutching the edge of the delivery bed, sweat dampening her dark hair plastered against her forehead. Every breath felt like fire in her lungs, every contraction a hammer striking her insides.
Beside her, Satoru Uchiha's hands hovered, uncertain whether to squeeze hers for comfort or to offer strength he didn't know he possessed. His face was pale, eyes wide, sweat beading along his temples.
Years of training, years of control in the clan's halls, had never prepared him for this—watching the woman he loved endure unimaginable pain while life balanced on a knife's edge.
"You're doing so well," Satoru whispered, though his voice shook. "Just a little longer… you can do this."
Hana gasped, voice ragged, but managed a weak laugh between contractions. "You say that every time… and I don't believe you!"
"Then believe me now!" he snapped gently, the fear behind his tone barely hidden.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, sweat, and fear, a mixture both sharp and raw. Nurses moved quickly around them, instruments clinking, voices soft but firm, guiding the process. And somewhere in the periphery, several elderly men—clan elders—watched silently, their expressions a careful balance of pride and calculation.
Michael's now Kaien's POV:
From the void, a warmth greeted him.
Michael had expected nothingness—darkness, silence, the endless void of the afterlife. He had thought he had died, and yet this was not pain, not terror, not the oblivion he had half-expected.
Only warmth. A soft, encompassing heat that pressed against him from all sides.
Finally… nothing. Peace.
And then: pressure. A squeezing sensation, tight, constricting. Not like pain, not exactly… but something that made him conscious, aware, in a way that startled him. He tried to pull away, to relax, but the sensation persisted.
And then it stopped.
Warmth returned, this time tinged with movement, voices, and life.
…voices?
Muffled at first, unintelligible, yet growing clearer:
"Healthy boy," one nurse said, her tone brisk but soft. "Strong. Beautiful. Excellent work, doctor."
"Congratulations, Satoru. Hana," another elder intoned, reverence threaded through every syllable. "You have delivered well. Truly, a blessing for the Uchiha."
Michael's mind, still adjusting to this new existence, tilted between confusion and curiosity. He could hear everything, the cadence, the excitement, the faint hum of energy in the room. And against all rational thought—he had never been a baby before—he wanted to see. To understand.
What the hell…?
He opened his eyes. Pain shot through him. Not ordinary pain. A fierce, burning strain that pressed at his skull, tugged at his vision, and yet… it was sharp, precise, alive. His vision blurred, then cleared, and what he saw made him gasp—though he didn't yet have the lungs or control to vocalize it.
The room was enormous, filled with the clean sterility of medical instruments, nurses bustling to and fro, elders in crisp robes whispering between themselves. But beneath the normalcy… something extraordinary. A faint, almost imperceptible blue energy coursed through the people in the room, like heat rising from metal, like rivers of power invisible to ordinary eyes.
Michael's mind raced, trying to catalogue, to process.
This isn't normal. Not even slightly. And why the hell do I feel… everything?
He turned, trying to see who was holding him. The warmth was anchored to a figure—his mother. Hana's exhausted eyes met his, soft with relief and something he couldn't name. She extended her arms.
"May I hold him?" she asked, voice shaking with pride and fatigue.
Something compelled him to look up.
And then he saw it.
Three Tomoe.
A swirling, crimson pattern staring back at him, piercing through his awareness. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. It burned into his vision, his consciousness, his very soul. The strain intensified. Michael could feel every thread of energy, every beat of life around him, every subtle micro-muscle twitch magnified tenfold. The Sharingan—active at birth.
Shock, awe, and something darker surged through him: dread.
He blinked, forcing himself to focus through the pain. The room seemed both small and vast, the elders' presence overwhelming yet precise. His gaze drifted backward, toward the figure of one elder who had stepped out a moment before. On his back, embroidered in perfect crimson thread against the deep black of his infant clothing, a crest—a symbol of lineage, of legacy.
The Uchiha crest.
Recognition struck like lightning. Images, memories, sensations, and thoughts poured into him, faster than his tiny body could process. Afghan battlefields, gunfire, the smell of blood, comrades falling beside him. Watching Naruto, Bleach, Dragonball. Laughing at the absurdity of life, only to die crushed by a truck. The life he had just lived, so vivid, so real, so complete—it came flooding back.
Michael Williams. Marine. Survivor. Strategist. Mastermind.
And now… reborn.
He was Kaien Uchiha, son of Satoru and Hana, a new born with the mind of a man who had lived and died, carrying knowledge, experience, and a singular determination into a world that would demand more than most could endure.
The blue currents of chakra surrounding him pulsed like a living map. He could feel the elders' attention, the nurses' movements, his mother's heartbeat, every imperfection in the room's energy. Every shift, every whisper, every glance was data—input for analysis, for strategy, for survival.
Good. Excellent. Finally… a world that makes sense.
Pain from the strain of his Sharingan reminded him that this body was new, fragile, and yet… power coursed through him already, subtle but undeniable. His eyes scanned the room again, noting every potential ally, every potential threat, every pattern. Even as a new born, he understood a fundamental principle: perception was survival. Knowledge was power.
The elders whispered. "Exceptional. Truly exceptional. This boy… he is not ordinary."
Michael—Kaien—catalogued their voices, their gestures, their intentions. Nothing was wasted. Nothing unnoticed. And beneath the awe, a quiet, darkly familiar vow formed in his infant consciousness:
I will not be ordinary. I will not be weak. And when the time comes… I will not be denied.
Even in this fragile shell, even amid the straining, burning awareness of the Sharingan, Michael felt his fury, his determination, his intellect—alive, sharp, and waiting.
He was reborn. And the world would learn, in time, the weight of a man who had died once… and would not fail again.