Land of Fire — Capital of the Fire Daimyō
A young man lay upon the manicured lawn of the Fire Daimyō's inner garden, gazing up at drifting clouds against a clear blue sky. Slowly, he raised his hand. A faint, pale-blue shimmer flickered above his palm—then vanished like mist.
"Tch… still nothing."
He let his arm fall back to the grass, eyes unfocused.
"Eight years. Eight years, and I still can't retain even a trace of chakra. Am I truly fated never to become a shinobi?"
He laughed bitterly.
"If you were going to throw me into this world, then why deny me the one thing that matters here?"
The young man was a transmigrator — a soul from another world reborn into the world of Naruto.
His former name had long since faded from memory. In this life, he was Shinji, the only son and heir of the Fire Daimyō.
To most, this identity meant power, wealth, and security beyond imagination.
But to Shinji — who once lived as a devoted fan of this world — it meant only one thing:
He had been given the perfect starting point to become a shinobi.
Yet fate had mocked him.
From early childhood, he had obtained official chakra cultivation scrolls through his father's authority. He followed the methods precisely. Every time, he could feel chakra being refined within his body — warm, vivid, real.
And yet, in the next instant, it vanished completely, as if swallowed by an invisible void.
Not leakage.
Not instability.
Simply… disappearance.
No matter how many times he tried, the result never changed.
Eight years of failure.
At his request, the Fire Daimyō had even invited the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, to personally examine him.
The verdict:
His body was healthy.
His chakra pathways were intact.
His natural aptitude was above average.
And yet — no explanation for why his chakra could not be retained.
Even the "Professor of Ninjutsu" had been unable to solve the mystery.
At first, Shinji had clung to hope.
In transmigration stories, protagonists always awakened hidden systems, sealed mentors, or divine bloodlines after years of patience.
He waited.
One year.
Three.
Five.
Eight.
No system.
No hidden master.
No miracle.
Only the same empty result.
"So this is it?" he muttered. "Am I supposed to abandon my dream, inherit the Daimyō's seat, and live as a powerless noble while shinobi decide the fate of nations?"
He pictured the Fire Daimyō — robed, crowned, and utterly dependent on Konoha's protection.
A gilded prisoner.
"No."
Shinji rose sharply to his feet.
"I swore I would become the strongest shinobi in this world. I won't give up."
His eyes hardened.
"If conventional methods fail… then I'll seek unconventional ones."
A name surfaced in his mind.
Orochimaru.
One of Konoha's Legendary Sannin.
A genius researcher.
A man already walking paths forbidden to others.
"At worst, he'll find a way to turn me into a shinobi," Shinji whispered. "Even if it means stepping into darkness."
He paused.
"…As long as he doesn't decide to dissect me instead."
Timeline check:
The Second Shinobi World War had ended years ago.
The Legendary Sannin had already earned their fame.
Orochimaru had not yet defected from Konoha — but his obsession with research had clearly begun.
"If I wait until the Third Great War ends, it may be too late," Shinji thought. "I'll move now."
He called out calmly:
"Guards."
Two masked shinobi in dark armor appeared instantly, kneeling on one knee.
"Lord Shinji."
They were chūnin-level bodyguards — private shinobi personally trained under his authority. Orphans taken in young, raised with absolute loyalty. Not exceptional in talent — but unwavering in devotion.
Tools, weapons, and faith — all belonging to him.
"Prepare the escort," Shinji ordered. "We depart for Konoha."
"Yes!"
They vanished in a flicker of movement.
Shinji watched with unconcealed envy.
So fast.
So free.
This was what it meant to be a shinobi.
Soon… he would stand among them.
Fifteen minutes later, another shinobi arrived, kneeling respectfully.
"Lord Shinji. The Daimyō's procession is ready."
Shinji nodded.
As heir to the Fire Daimyō, he could not simply walk into Konoha like a common traveler. A formal convoy was required — carriages, banners, retainers — the visible authority of the Land of Fire.
It was a hollow display.
Everyone knew the truth:
Konoha's shinobi protected the nation.
The Daimyō merely paid the bills.
Still, even a gilded crown had meaning.
And today, Shinji would use that crown as his first step toward destiny.