The screaming reached Shukuba Town just after dawn.
Kenshin jerked awake in his small bed, his Six Eyes immediately parsing the chaos beyond the walls—multiple chakra signatures moving erratically, some flickering and fading like candles in the wind. His four-year-old heart hammered against his ribs, but his reincarnated mind supplied cold analysis: Combat. Close range. People are dying.
"Stay inside!" Akane burst through his door, her red hair disheveled, eyes wide with the particular terror of a mother in wartime. "No matter what you hear, you stay—"
The front door crashed open.
Takeshi stumbled through, and Kenshin's breath caught. His father—always so controlled, so precisely dangerous—was painted in blood. It soaked through his shirt, dripped from his left arm, pooled on the floorboards with each lurching step.
"Rogue nin," Takeshi gasped, collapsing against the doorframe. "Seven of them. Hit the caravan at the border crossing. I'm the only one who made it back."
Akane was already moving, her hands glowing with green chakra as she caught her husband before he fell. "How bad?"
"Bad enough." Takeshi's pale eyes found Kenshin standing in the doorway. "Get away from the window, boy. If they tracked me—"
"They won't get past me." Akane's voice carried the steel of someone who'd survived Uzushiogakure's destruction. She pressed her glowing palms against the worst of Takeshi's wounds—a deep slash across his torso that had nearly disemboweled him. "Kenshin, bring me the green case from under our bed. Now."
Kenshin ran.
His small legs carried him through their modest home while his Six Eyes tracked the chakra signatures outside. More were converging on the town center—defenders rallying to meet whatever threat approached. He could see Hideaki's familiar presence, steady as a lighthouse, and several others he recognized from the marketplace.
The war was supposed to stay away from here, he thought desperately, dragging the medical case out with both hands. Shukuba Town is too small, too insignificant. That was the whole point.
But war didn't care about significance. It spread like wildfire, consuming everything in reach.
He returned to find his mother working with the focused intensity of a master healer. Her chakra flowed into Takeshi in complex patterns, knitting torn flesh, coaxing blood vessels to reconnect, forcing his Kaguya body's natural durability to accelerate its regeneration.
"The case," she said without looking up.
Kenshin placed it beside her. She flipped it open one-handed, revealing sealed scrolls marked with Uzumaki spirals. Medical supplies, soldier pills, emergency rations—the prepared gear of someone who'd fled destruction once and refused to be caught unprepared again.
"Mama," Kenshin whispered, watching her chakra dim as she poured more into Takeshi. "You're using too much."
"I'll be fine." But her hands trembled, and sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool morning air.
Takeshi grabbed her wrist with his good hand. "Akane, stop. I'm stable enough. You need to save your strength in case—"
An explosion rocked the town.
Kenshin's Six Eyes tracked its location instantly—the eastern checkpoint, where merchants entered from the main road. Chakra signatures clashed there now, five against three, and even from this distance he could perceive the difference in their quality. The defenders fought with the economical movements of retired professionals. The attackers moved with the brutal efficiency of active killers.
"They're here," Kenshin said quietly.
His parents exchanged a look that held years of shared survival, wordless communication born from living on the edge of death.
"The emergency plan," Takeshi said.
Akane nodded, already moving. She pressed a storage scroll into Kenshin's hands. "If I tell you to run, you run. Straight to the cache point in the forest. You remember where?"
"The lightning-split oak, thirty degrees northwest from the northern gate." Kenshin's adult mind had memorized it months ago, recognizing it for what it was—an escape route prepared by people who expected to need one.
"Good boy." She kissed his forehead, and for a moment she was just his mother, not a refugee or a healer or a survivor, just a woman terrified for her child. "Stay close to me. Whatever happens, stay close."
The battle for Shukuba Town unfolded in brutal increments.
Kenshin watched from the doorway of their home as Hideaki led the defense, his single arm forming seals with practiced speed while his chakra shaped water from the morning dew. Water Release: Water Trumpet. The technique exploded from his mouth in a focused jet that caught one attacker mid-leap, sending him crashing through a market stall.
But there were too many attackers and too few defenders. The rogue nin moved with the coordination of a proper squad—former chunin at least, maybe jonin, driven to banditry by the war's chaos. They wore mismatched armor and no headbands, but their techniques spoke of professional training.
One of them, a tall woman with lightning crackling around her fists, carved through a defender's water technique like it was paper. Lightning Release: False Darkness. The bolt caught the retired shinobi in the chest, and Kenshin watched through his Six Eyes as the man's chakra network shorted out, his heart stopping mid-beat.
He's dead, Kenshin thought distantly. Just like that. One technique, one second, and he stops existing.
"Don't look," Akane said, her hand on his shoulder.
But he couldn't stop looking. The Six Eyes showed him everything—every technique launched, every counter performed, every mistake that led to death. It was educational in the cruelest possible way, a masterclass in combat taught in blood.
A different rogue nin, this one wielding earth techniques, slammed his palms against the ground. Earth Release: Earth Flow Spears. Stone pillars erupted beneath another defender, impaling him before he could dodge.
Too slow, Kenshin's analytical mind noted. He committed to a water technique and couldn't change direction. Basic tactical error.
His stomach churned even as his brain catalogued the lesson.
"They're pushing toward the town center," Takeshi said from behind them. He'd managed to stand, one arm wrapped around his torso, his Kaguya durability keeping him functional despite the severity of his wounds. "They're not just raiding. They're hunting someone."
"You," Akane said flatly. "They followed you back to finish the job."
"Probably." Takeshi's expression held no fear, just grim calculation. "Which means they'll come here eventually. We need to move."
But before they could act, one of the rogue nin broke through the defensive line. He was younger than the others, maybe early twenties, with the byakugan-less eyes of the branch house Hyuuga and twin tanto strapped to his back. He moved with the fluid grace of a taijutsu specialist, each step precisely placed as he raced toward their street.
"Inside," Takeshi commanded, pushing Kenshin and Akane back. "Now."
They retreated into the house. Takeshi took position by the door, his hands already forming seals despite his wounds. Bone began to protrude from his fingertips—Dance of the Camellia—white spears of calcium that would make any close-quarters combat lethal.
The rogue nin kicked their door open.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other—the wounded Kaguya, the desperate Uzumaki, and the four-year-old child. The attacker's eyes flickered between them, clearly calculating odds.
"Just give me the storage scrolls from the caravan," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "No one else has to die today."
"Already sent them to Konoha," Takeshi lied smoothly. "You're too late."
The rogue nin's expression hardened. "Then I'll settle for whatever coin you have. And maybe the red-haired woman as a bonus. Uzumaki go for good money in the right markets."
Uzumaki are valuable, Kenshin remembered from his previous life's knowledge. For their longevity, their chakra, their sealing techniques. They're prizes to be sold or exploited.
Rage, bright and terrible, flared through him. This wasn't a story anymore. This wasn't background worldbuilding. This was a man threatening to sell his mother like livestock.
"Get away from her," Kenshin said, his child's voice cracking with fury.
The rogue nin's attention shifted to him, and something like pity crossed his face. "Kid, you don't want to—"
Kenshin's hands erupted in pain.
He cried out, stumbling backward as something tore through his palms from the inside out. Black diamond-shaped marks spread across his skin like ink through water, geometric and precise. They burned—not with heat but with hunger, a desperate pulling sensation that reached for the chakra in the air around him.
Dark Release, his mind supplied through the pain. It's manifesting. Finally.
The rogue nin's eyes widened. "What the hell—"
Takeshi didn't give him time to process. He lunged, bone spear extended, forcing the attacker to dodge backward through the doorway. They clashed outside, taijutsu meeting taijutsu in a flurry of strikes too fast for normal eyes to follow.
But Kenshin's Six Eyes saw everything. He watched his father fight despite wounds that would have killed a normal man, watched the way bone weapons extended and retracted from his arms in defensive patterns, watched the precise moment when the rogue nin found an opening and drove a tanto through Takeshi's shoulder.
"No!" Akane surged forward, her hands glowing green again despite her exhaustion.
The rogue nin kicked Takeshi away and turned toward her. "You Uzumaki never learn. That healing chakra just makes you better merchandise—"
He never finished the sentence.
Hideaki appeared behind him in a shunshin, moving with the terrible speed of a water-style user in his element. His single arm thrust forward, fingers rigid, and pierced through the rogue nin's chest from behind with a technique that turned his hand into a water blade.
Water Release: Water Severing Wave, Kenshin's Six Eyes identified. Compressed water pressure sharp enough to cut steel. Lethal in close range.
The rogue nin collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.
Hideaki stood over the body, his weathered face expressionless. "The others are dead or retreating," he said quietly. "Five defenders lost. Seven attackers eliminated. The town survived." His gaze shifted to Kenshin's hands, to the black diamond marks still burning there. "And you've awakened something new."
Kenshin stared at his palms, at the marks that made him a wielder of Dark Release. Around him, the morning air filled with the smell of blood and smoke. His father bled from new wounds. His mother swayed with exhaustion. And somewhere in the town, families were learning that loved ones wouldn't come home.
This is the price, he thought. This is what 'peace' looks like in the shinobi world.
The days after the attack blurred together in a haze of recovery and grim realizations.
Akane worked herself to collapse healing the wounded, her Uzumaki vitality the only thing keeping her conscious through the chakra exhaustion. Takeshi spent his recovery time standing watch, refusing to rest fully until he was certain no other threats approached. And Kenshin found himself unable to sleep without seeing the moment that defender's chakra network had shorted out, playing in perfect clarity behind his closed eyes.
"You're thinking too much," Takeshi said one afternoon, finding Kenshin sitting alone behind their house.
"Someone has to." The words came out more bitter than Kenshin intended.
His father settled beside him with a grunt of discomfort, his wounds still healing despite Akane's best efforts. "I know what you saw. I know it wasn't easy."
Easy? Kenshin almost laughed. I watched people die. I watched you nearly die. I learned exactly how fragile life is in this world.
"You want to be stronger," Takeshi continued, reading his silence correctly. "Strong enough to protect us. Strong enough to matter in a fight."
"I'm four years old," Kenshin said flatly. "My chakra control is good, but my body is still a child's. I can barely throw a kunai straight. What good am I?"
"More than you think." Takeshi stood, grimacing at the pull of half-healed muscle. "Come. If you want to be useful, I'll teach you something useful. But it won't be easy, and it will hurt. The Kaguya way always does."
That was how Kenshin's real training began—not with the theoretical exercises Hideaki taught, but with his father's brutal practicality. Takeshi taught him taijutsu the way a soldier might teach a child soldier: economical strikes meant to disable larger opponents, footwork designed for survival rather than beauty, and the fundamental lesson that in real combat, there were no rules.
"Hit the joints," Takeshi instructed, demonstrating on a practice dummy. "Eyes, throat, knees. You're small. Use that. Get under their guard and strike where it matters."
Kenshin practiced until his child's muscles screamed protest. He learned to fall without breaking, to roll with impacts, to turn his small size into an advantage. And slowly, the techniques began to connect with his Six Eyes' perfect perception.
I can see where they'll move before they move, he realized during one sparring session. The weight shift, the chakra flow toward certain muscle groups—it's all telegraphed if you know how to look.
"Good," Takeshi said when Kenshin successfully predicted and dodged his training strike. "Your eyes give you an advantage. Learn to trust them."
But it wasn't enough. Even with perfect perception, his four-year-old body lacked the strength and speed to capitalize on what he saw. He was a mind capable of jonin-level analysis trapped in a frame that struggled to perform basic academy techniques.
Patience, he told himself. The body will grow. The training will compound. I just need time.
Time, however, felt like a luxury the world refused to grant.
Three weeks after the attack, Master Hideaki gathered the town's survivors in the marketplace.
Kenshin sat between his parents, watching the old shinobi address the crowd. Hideaki looked older than before, the weight of leadership and loss pressing down on him like physical burden.
"I received word from a trading contact," Hideaki announced. "The Third Shinobi World War has officially ended. Iwagakure and Konohagakure have signed a ceasefire treaty. The major nations have begun withdrawing their forces."
A murmur ran through the crowd—relief mixed with disbelief, hope tempered by experience.
"Does that mean we're safe?" someone called out.
Hideaki's expression turned grim. "No. Wars don't end cleanly. There will be displaced shinobi, disbanded military units, missing-nin who thrived in the chaos and don't want it to stop. If anything, the next few years will be more dangerous as these elements seek new purposes."
He's right, Kenshin thought. The power vacuum after a war is often worse than the war itself. All those trained killers with no structure, no orders, no purpose except survival.
"What do we do?" another voice asked.
"We adapt," Hideaki said simply. "We strengthen our defenses. We train those willing to learn. We make Shukuba Town difficult enough to attack that bandits choose easier targets." His gaze swept the crowd. "And we prepare for the world the war has left behind—one where might makes right, and the weak exist to be preyed upon."
The gathering dissolved into smaller conversations, people debating and planning. Kenshin sat quietly, his Six Eyes tracking the flow of chakra around him—the nervous energy of civilians, the controlled calm of retired shinobi, his mother's depleted reserves still slowly recovering.
"He's not wrong," Akane said softly. "The war ending doesn't mean peace. Just... a different kind of violence."
Takeshi nodded, one hand unconsciously touching his healing wounds. "We should consider joining a village. Konoha, maybe. You have connections there, and—"
"And they'd notice Kenshin immediately," Akane interrupted. "Three bloodlines, the Six Eyes, already showing signs of being a prodigy? They'd recruit him into ANBU before he turned twelve. Or Root would take him." She shook her head. "I won't let my son become a tool."
"Then we stay here," Takeshi said. "And I train him properly. If the world is dangerous, he needs to be dangerous enough to survive it."
They both looked at Kenshin, and he felt the weight of their expectations. They didn't know about his reincarnation, about his adult mind and foreknowledge. They just saw their child caught in a world that devoured the weak.
They're trying to give me a choice, he realized. Trying to let me be a child as long as possible. But they know it can't last.
"I want to train," Kenshin said quietly. "With you, Father. With Hideaki. With anyone who'll teach me." He held up his hands, showing the black diamond marks that had burned themselves into his palms during the attack. "These appeared for a reason. Everything I have exists for a reason. I should learn to use it all."
Akane's expression crumbled, and she pulled him into a fierce embrace. "You're four years old. You should be playing, not training to kill."
"The bandits didn't care how old I was," Kenshin said into her shoulder. "Neither will the next threat. Or the one after that."
This is the shinobi world, he thought. Where children learn to fight or learn to die.
He felt his mother's tears dampen his hair, felt his father's hand settle heavy on his shoulder, and understood that he'd just crossed a threshold. Childhood—what little remained of it—was over. The pretense of normalcy had shattered along with Shukuba Town's illusion of safety.
From now on, he would be what he needed to be: a weapon in training, a survivor in the making, a reincarnated soul determined to change a world that seemed hell-bent on drowning in its own violence.
The Third Shinobi World War had ended.
But for Kenshin, the real war—the one to become strong enough to matter, to survive, to protect what few precious things he had—was only beginning.
That night, alone in his room, Kenshin sat cross-legged on his bed and stared at his palms. The Dark Release marks had faded to faint shadows, but he could feel them there beneath his skin, waiting. Hungry.
He'd manifested two of his three kekkei genkai now. The Shikotsumyaku lay dormant in his bones, the Dark Release slumbered in his palms, and the Six Eyes saw everything with merciless clarity.
Three bloodlines, he thought. Three wishes granted. And now I need to learn what they mean, what they cost, what they can do.
Outside his window, Shukuba Town slept fitfully—a small settlement of survivors trying to carve out peace in a world that had forgotten what the word meant. And somewhere beyond the walls, the shinobi world turned on, indifferent to the hopes and fears of those too weak to shape it.
Kenshin closed his eyes and began cycling his chakra, feeling it flow through his pathways with the perfect efficiency his Six Eyes enabled. He was four years old. He had perhaps fifteen years before the canonical events began, before Naruto's generation faced the threats he remembered from his previous life.
Fifteen years, he thought. To grow strong. To prepare. To become someone who can change things instead of just surviving them.
The war had ended.
His war had just begun.
And this time, he would make sure the price of peace was paid by those who deserved it—not by the innocent, not by his family, not by the people just trying to live.
One day, he promised himself. One day, I'll be strong enough that no one can make us bleed for their ambitions.
But that day was still far away. For now, he was just a child with dangerous gifts, learning to walk the razor's edge between power and survival in a world that showed no mercy to the weak.
The moon hung pale above Shukuba Town, casting shadows that seemed to whisper of the violence yet to come.
And in his small room, Kenshin trained his chakra control until exhaustion finally pulled him into dreamless sleep.