Two years. I've completed two years in this body, in this world that still feels like a feverish dream mixed with an inescapable nightmare. Another year has passed since I began deciphering the words around me, and in that time, I've absorbed everything with a voracious hunger that only an adult mind trapped in a child's body can have. Not just the Japanese language, which now flows in my head with frightening naturalness, but the rhythms of daily life, the invisible hierarchies, the shared laughter in moments of truce, and the serious looks that say more than any shout. I'm small—barely reaching the waist of my youngest half-siblings—but my mind is a sharp blade, cutting through the fog of childhood to see the truth behind appearances. I observe, I listen, I plan. And, gradually, I interact, testing the limits of what a two-year-old can do without raising suspicions.
This year was one of rapid and profound changes. From a baby who could barely move to a child who crawls with fierce determination, walks with increasingly steady steps, and now runs clumsily through the damp corridors of the compound, tripping on purpose to maintain the facade. My body grows at an accelerated rate—faster than expected for any ordinary child, and I notice this from the surprised looks of the mothers when they see me climbing a low bench or carrying a bucket of water that should be too heavy for me. "Pure Hoshigaki blood," they whisper among themselves, with a mix of pride and caution. I control everything. I pretend weakness when necessary, falling "accidentally" or whining about "tiredness." I babble simple words—"mama," "nii-san," "training"—but in my head, complex sentences form with crystal clarity. I could speak full sentences, recite poems, or even discuss strategies if I wanted. But I don't want to. Not yet. Drawing early attention would be a fatal mistake in this world of ninjas, secrets, and watchful eyes.
My past life still echoes in moments of quiet, when Kirigakure's eternal mist envelops the compound like a suffocating cloak, muffling distant training sounds. I was Erick, a solitary by forced choice and inevitable circumstance. I grew up in an American family where affection was rationed like food in times of war. Parents immersed in corporate careers, siblings who saw me as invisible competition or mere irrelevance. I closed myself off early, building walls of books, anime, and lines of code. But here, in the Akashio clan, isolation isn't a viable option. It's an intricate web of bonds—strange, brutal, but unbreakable. A family that functions like a living, fierce organism, where each part supports the other not out of sugary sentimentality, but out of primal survival need.
Let's start with my siblings, because they are the pulsing, wild heart of this collective madness. Twenty-two half-siblings, all older, spread across ages that form a natural ladder of competition and companionship. Daigo, the firstborn, is the unshakable pillar. Now ten years old, he acts with the maturity of someone already carrying the weight of the Akashio name on his shoulders. This year, he graduated from the Ninja Academy—early, absurdly early by village standards. Most children take years to master the basics, but Daigo devoured the curriculum as if it were instinctive, natural. I watched him training in the central courtyard on days when the sun filtered weakly through the mist, sweat running down his focused face as he executed Suiton: Mizu Bunshin at eight years old, fluid taijutsu like running water, introductory genjutsu that he used to play light, harmless pranks on the younger siblings. He's quiet, strategic, the type who calculates three steps ahead before moving a muscle. The others respect him not out of imposition or blind fear, but genuine, deserved admiration. "Daigo-nii is the best," I hear the younger ones whisper, eyes shining with pride.
Rokuta, eight years old, is the perfect counterpoint—fire beside Daigo's calculating ice. Hot-headed, impulsive, always the first to jump into a training fight or silly argument over who ate the last piece of dried fish. But he laughs at everything, even with a bloody nose or a purple bruise forming. I saw him taking a strong punch during a sparring against Shun, blood dripping, and instead of crying or complaining, he laughed loudly: "Good hit, you idiot! Now take this!" And he attacked back with a ferocity that made the air vibrate with energy. Nao, six years old, is more introspective and reserved, but no less tough—the type who observes, adjusts, and hits on the next try without complaining. He entered the Ninja Academy this year, at just six years old, along with a significant group of siblings: Tetsuya (eight years old, Kaho's son, with an impressive natural talent for forming hand seals quickly), Shun (seven years old, fast as lightning in movements), Goro (six years old, strong like a small bull, able to withstand impacts that would knock down larger children), Kenta (five years old, the youngest to enter this year, already showing surprising basic chakra control). The Akashio clan children enter the Academy early—at five or six years old, at most—and the training there is heavy, relentless, designed to forge ninjas or break them.
I watch everything from afar, pretending to play with damp stones or fallen leaves on the courtyard ground. When my father is home—rare presences, but ones that change the compound's air like an approaching storm—the training intensifies. "Line up, you brats!" he roars, deep voice echoing off the stone walls like thunder. The children over five years old obey instantly, small bodies but rigid with discipline. He makes them repeat katas for hours on end, correcting postures with firm, precise touches—never to the point of breaking bones irreversibly, but enough to leave marks and lessons etched in the flesh. "Are you Akashio or trash the mist will swallow?" Sometimes, when missions take him away, a loyal subordinate of his—a chūnin named Haruto, face crossed by scars like maps of ancient battles—takes over. "More chakra! Control the flow or die trying!" The boys sweat rivers, gasp like fish out of water, fall exhausted on the damp ground, and get up again. Rokuta curses low when he misses a seal, but tries again with more fury. Nao observes in silence, mentally adjusts posture, and hits on the next repetition. They're tough—hard-headed like the village stone, stubborn to the bone. Even the quieter ones, like Isao (six years old, Yori's son, always thoughtful and analytical) or Jun (four years old, but already watching everything with attentive eyes), endure without a tear.
They fight among themselves in trainings—punches fly, kicks connect, blood occasionally stains the ground—but in the end, it's always laughter. "Good one, brother! Next time I'll get you for real!" They smile through the pain, as if it's an inside joke shared only by them. A completely crazy mentality, but one that makes them different, superior. I see clearly why the clan is standing out so much. The mothers comment softly during collective meals or while washing clothes in the common tank: "The Akashio are a real promise for the village." "Daigo graduated early, and the others are following the example." "At the Academy, the instructors say our boys have chakra control and endurance above the class average." "Isamu-sama is satisfied—finally the fruits are ripe." The clan is new, founded just a decade ago, but the older siblings are proving to be of superior quality, creating a milestone that puts positive spotlights on the Akashio name and leaving my father—and, by extension, the village—increasingly attentive and proud.
I'm starting to insert myself into this organized chaos. At two years old, my "games" are calculated and strategic. With Daigo, I "ask" to climb on his shoulders, babbling "nii-san up!" with a childish voice. He laughs, lifts me as if I were a light feather: "Little shark is going to fly high today!" As we walk around the courtyard, I observe the compound from a better height, memorizing corridor layouts, guard positions, possible emergency exits. Rokuta "teaches" me to fight—actually, lets me hit him with soft, uncoordinated fists. "Hey, Arashi! Harder, come on! Show those teeth!" I pretend maximum effort, but control the strength to not reveal too much, laughing when he falls dramatically on purpose. Nao brings me stones or damp leaves, patiently explaining "this one is round like a ball, this one is sharp like a kunai." I "respond" with excited babbling, but in my mind, I thank the patience and absorb the subtle observation lessons. There's no toxic rivalry or heavy jealousy among them. Respect for the eldest, yes—Daigo leads games and light trainings, and everyone follows without question—but with genuine companionship that warms something deep inside me, something I never had in my past life. Like a wild pack: they fight fiercely, but protect the pack with claws and teeth.
The mothers are the invisible foundation, the glue that keeps this crazy structure standing. Hanae, the first wife, is the unofficial matriarch—strong as tempered steel, practical and organized, distributing daily tasks with military efficiency. "Miyu, get the vegetables at the market; Kaho, help with the younger children today." Miyu, the second, is serene and calm, always with a soft smile that calms even Rokuta's explosive temper. Kaho, third, is the storyteller, sweet voice weaving tales of legendary ninjas at night for the little ones. Rina, fourth, elegant and graceful with her geisha background, teaches subtle manners and fluid movements. Sae, fifth, practical and skilled, mends torn training clothes with agility. Yori, sixth, of peasant origin, tends the small internal garden, teaching the children to plant and harvest. Akemi, seventh, energetic and lively, organizes collective games. Fumika, eighth, quiet but extremely observant. Nagi, ninth, with maritime roots, tells stories of the furious ocean. And my mother, Maluso, the tenth and last, the foreigner with flaming red hair, brings a contagious vitality that lights up even the cloudiest days.
They get along in a way that would be rare in any other polygamous structure—a sisterhood forged in the fire of need and the bloodthirsty village. I see it in everyday moments: cooking together in the common hall, laughing at inside jokes while cutting vegetables, watching each other's children with attentive eyes. When my mother takes me to the internal courtyard for "sun"—which in Kirigakure's eternal mist is more fresh, damp air—the others quickly join, forming a protective circle. Babies and young children in the middle, like me and Haruto (two years old, Fumika's son, always trying to imitate the older ones), rolling on the sparse grass or playing with stones. They talk in low voices, but I hear everything: "Isamu came back late from the mission yesterday. Looked tired, but satisfied." "I took care of Hanae's boys while she rested." "We're a real family— we protect our own."
It's a mutual protection network, born from real fear. In a village where betrayals, assassinations, and political coups are common, they know they're potential targets—rich widows with promising children attract envy and knives in the shadows. So they unite like hens protecting the entire brood, no matter which egg each chick came from. If one falls ill, the others cook, clean, and watch her children. If one is threatened by suspicious looks in the village, they all close ranks. I heard Rina say once, voice low but firm: "If something happens to me, care for Ren and Mizuki as if they were yours." The others nodded without hesitation, eyes determined. Strange to an outside observer, but effective—a sisterhood forged in fear, but solid as stone.
The absolute highlight of the year was Daigo's Academy graduation. A simple but lively party, organized in the compound's main hall. Paper lanterns lit flickering on the damp walls, long tables covered with fresh grilled fish, steamed rice, sautéed vegetables, and sweets made from sugared seaweed—a rarity in the village. The mothers worked all day together: Hanae coordinating everything with efficiency, Rina decorating with rare flowers brought from a mission, my mother preparing a special cake with imported fruits she had saved for weeks. I "helped" in my way—messing up flour on the kitchen floor, laughing loudly when they cleaned me with damp cloths, pretending to be just a mischievous child.
The children ran excitedly through the hall, voices echoing: "Daigo-nii is a genin now! A real genin!" The youngest, like Kenta and Hajime, watched with wide eyes, dreaming of the day it would be them. My father appeared at the peak of the night, entering like a colossal shadow, huge sword on his back reflecting the lantern light. Silence fell immediately, but it wasn't pure fear—it was deep respect, mixed with pride. He praised Daigo publicly, deep voice cutting the air: "You've given me true pride, son. Proven yourself above the rest. A true Akashio."
The children ran excitedly through the hall, voices echoing: "Daigo-nii is a genin now! A real genin!" The youngest, like Kenta and Hajime, watched with wide eyes, dreaming of the day it would be them. My father appeared at the peak of the night, entering like a colossal shadow, huge sword on his back reflecting the lantern light. Silence fell immediately, but it wasn't pure fear—it was deep respect, mixed with pride. He praised Daigo publicly, deep voice cutting the air: "You've given me true pride, son. Proven yourself above the rest. A true Akashio."
He handed over the sword—specially forged for him, sharp blade enough to cut mist, hilt engraved with the village symbol and a subtle clan detail. Daigo took it with steady hands, eyes moist with contained emotion, but posture straight like a soldier. "Thank you, father. I won't disappoint."
Then, Isamu turned to the other children, gaze sweeping each face: "I expect no less from you. Grow strong or perish trying."
Harsh words like steel, which in another family could crush spirits. But here? Collective smile. Like a bunch of lunatics. Rokuta shouted loudly, slapping Shun's shoulder: "We'll surpass you easy, Daigo!" Laughter exploded, echoing through the hall. Even the youngest, like Kaito and Toma, clapped excitedly, imitating the older ones. Clan mentality: pressure isn't oppression, it's fuel for the inner fire.
The mothers watched from the side, smiling softly while serving more food. Later, when the children slept, they commented: "He's hard as stone, but a good father." "He cares for all of us, protects the clan." "Without him, where would we be?"
I interact more now, in small but meaningful ways. With Hanae, I "ask" for stories at night, babbling "tell!" with pleading eyes. She laughs, sitting me on her lap while narrating tales of ancient samurai. With Miyu, I "play" hide-and-seek, learning to move silently through corners. With my mother, quiet and intimate moments: she rocks me, singing foreign songs in a language no one else understands, and I feel a deep connection, something in her blood that seems to strengthen me from within.
This year showed me the truth: this family is united in a strange, brutal, and beautiful way. Polygamy, trainings bordering on abuse, smiles pulled from pain—all this forms a cohesive whole. I'm part of it now. I'll use these bonds to grow, to strengthen myself.
Because in the end, this is my family. Crazy, yes. But mine
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio