The truck's headlights were the last thing I saw. No dramatic slow-motion, no life flashing before my eyes—just blinding white light and the sickening crunch of metal. Then darkness. And then... crying. Not my crying. A baby's crying. My crying?
My name was Alex Chen. Twenty-eight years old, software engineer, chronically single, and someone who'd spent way too many nights binging anime instead of building a social life. I'd been crossing the street when I saw the kid—couldn't have been more than six—chasing a ball into traffic. The truck driver never saw either of us.
At least, that's what I thought happened. The last coherent memory I had was shoving the kid backward and feeling the impact.
Now? Now I was apparently having a very vivid hallucination, or I'd hit my head harder than I thought, or... I didn't want to think about the "or."
Everything was wrong. My body felt wrong—tiny, weak, completely unresponsive to my commands. I tried to speak, to move my arms with any kind of coordination, but all that came out was an infant's wail. The sound of my own crying was disorienting, primal, and utterly humiliating for someone who'd been filing tax returns just days ago.
Days? Hours? I had no concept of time anymore.
Large hands picked me up, and I found myself staring at a woman's face. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, with kind brown eyes and dark hair pulled back in a simple style. She cooed at me in what sounded like Japanese, words I somehow understood despite never being fluent in my previous life.
Previous life.
God, was I really thinking that?
"Shh, Kenji-chan," the woman—my mother?—whispered, rocking me gently. "Mama's here. You're safe."
Kenji. That was apparently my name now. Kenji... something. The surname came later, overheard in conversations I could barely process through the fog of infant confusion.
The first few days—or was it weeks?—were a blur. I slept more than I ever thought possible, waking only to feed or when my tiny body decided it needed something I couldn't articulate. But during the lucid moments, I observed everything with an adult's awareness trapped in a newborn's prison.
The house was small, traditional Japanese architecture with tatami mats and sliding doors. Oil lamps provided light at night. No electricity? That seemed wrong for modern Japan, but then again, nothing about this situation made sense.
My father was a broad-shouldered man with calloused hands and a gentle smile. He spoke to my mother in rapid Japanese about his work, something involving carpentry and a construction project in the "outer district." They seemed happy, content, but there was always a note of careful budgeting in their conversations, a awareness of limited resources.
Then, about three months into my new existence—I'd started counting days by tracking the light cycles—everything changed.
My father came home excited about something. "Hana," he called to my mother, "the Hokage made an announcement today. They're increasing security around the village."
I froze. Even my infant body seemed to go still.
Hokage.
That word. I knew that word.
"Is everything alright, Tomio?" my mother asked, concern in her voice. "Do you think there's danger?"
"No, no," my father reassured her. "The Hokage said it's just a precaution. You know how things have been since the war ended. He wants to make sure Konoha is protected."
Konoha.
My infant mind reeled. Hokage. Konoha. Japanese architecture with no modern technology. People talking about war and village security.
No. It couldn't be.
Over the next few weeks, I listened obsessively to every conversation. My father mentioned visiting the "ninja district" for materials. My mother talked about a neighbor's son graduating from the "academy" and becoming a genin. Another conversation referenced something called "chakra" in the context of healing.
The pieces fell into place with the weight of an avalanche.
I wasn't in Japan. I wasn't even on Earth anymore.
I was in the Naruto universe.
The anime I'd watched through college and rewatched a dozen times during lonely nights. The manga I'd read cover to cover. The movies, the filler episodes, the fan theories I'd debated on forums at two in the morning.
This was that world. And I was living in it.
The realization should have been exciting. For an anime fan, this was the ultimate fantasy, right? Isekai stories were built on this premise.
But as I lay in my crib that night, staring at the ceiling, all I felt was a creeping dread. Because I knew what happened in this world. I knew about the wars, the massacres, the body count. I knew that in Konoha alone, an entire clan would be slaughtered. I knew that a nine-tailed demon fox would attack and kill hundreds.
I knew too much.
And I was a civilian. No bloodline, no clan, no protagonist's plot armor. Just Kenji Yamamoto, son of a carpenter and a seamstress, born into a world where people could breathe fire and summon giant toads.
I was so screwed.
That's when it appeared.
I'd been lying awake, my infant body unable to sleep despite exhaustion, when suddenly my vision was filled with a translucent blue screen. Text scrolled across it in English—not Japanese, but English, my native language.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
[WELCOME, REINCARNATOR]
[ANALYZING HOST...]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[NAME: Kenji Yamamoto (Alex Chen)]
[AGE: 3 Months]
[STATUS: Civilian (Reincarnated)]
[INTEGRATION: 100%]
I tried to scream, but only a confused gurgle came out. The screen didn't go away. It hung in my vision like a heads-up display from a video game, responding to my eye movements.
More text appeared:
[WARNING: TIMELINE CORRUPTION DETECTED]
[ANALYZING TEMPORAL ANOMALY...]
[CURRENT YEAR: KONOHA CALENDAR YEAR 39]
[CALCULATION: 13 YEARS BEFORE KYUUBI ATTACK]
[CORRECTION: 10 YEARS BEFORE MAIN TIMELINE EVENTS]
[TIMELINE STABILITY: 87%]
My infant heart hammered in my chest. A system? Like in those light novels? And what the hell was "timeline corruption"?
As if responding to my thoughts, more text scrolled:
[TIMELINE CORRUPTION EXPLANATION: Your presence as a reincarnated individual with knowledge of future events has created a paradox in the space-time continuum. Left unchecked, this corruption will cause dimensional collapse.]
[YOUR MISSION: Stabilize the timeline by achieving designated power thresholds and managing causality disruptions.]
[FAILURE CONDITION: Timeline Stability drops below 50%]
[FAILURE RESULT: Complete dimensional collapse. Total existence erasure.]
The words floated before my infant eyes, and despite my inability to speak, one thought screamed through my mind:
What the hell is a "Timeline Corruption"?