Name: Masahiko Uzumaki
Age: 48
Ninjutsu: 68
Taijutsu: 89
Technique Power (Chakra): 1000
Three Basic Techniques: Lv. 10 (100,000) — Max
Shurikenjutsu: Lv. 10 (100,000) — Max
Earth Release: Lv. 2 (16,920 / 20,000)
Wind Release: Lv. 3 (85,462 / 100,000)
Fire Release: Lv. 2 (14,490 / 20,000)
Special Talent: Sensory Perception
Overall Rank: Standard Jōnin
Masahiko Uzumaki stared at the translucent interface hovering before his eyes and let out a heavy, weary sigh. In his previous life, he had been nothing more than an average university graduate until fate hurled him into the Naruto universe, smack in the middle of the brutal Warring States Period. Forty-eight years had drifted by since then. Tomorrow marked the New Year and his forty-ninth birthday—an age that, in these harsh lands, garnered a mix of respect and sheer disbelief that anyone could survive so long.
He had discovered his personal System at the tender age of five, the very moment he first awakened his chakra. Yet, the journey from euphoria to disillusionment was short-lived. There was no sentient spirit guide to offer wisdom, no magical lotteries, nor any shops selling divine artifacts. There were only cold, dry statistics, dispassionately tracking his progress.
Just today, his chakra reserves had crossed a significant threshold, finally hitting four digits. Over years of meticulous observation, Masahiko had deduced a clear hierarchy: Genin stats for Ninjutsu, Taijutsu, and Chakra ranged from 1 to 10; Chūnin capped at 100. To claim the title of Jōnin, one had to break that hundred-point barrier. Previously, the System had classified him as a Tokubetsu Jōnin—a specialist—but now he was officially a full-fledged Jōnin. Though, given the reality of perpetual warfare, that rank merely meant he had graduated to becoming high-grade cannon fodder.
On paper, he had every advantage. The Uzumaki clan was a powerhouse, and Masahiko himself was the second son of the former clan head. He had access to the finest mentors and possessed decent potential. So why had he only reached the level of a standard Jōnin at forty-eight, an age when most shinobi careers were winding down, if not already extinguished?
The culprit was a single, fatal error of his youth. Masahiko often mentally cursed the anime and its future protagonist. As a die-hard fan, he had attempted to recreate the famous "Sexy Technique." The irony was cruel: during his first real battle, nerves got the better of him. Instead of a combat jutsu, he panic-cast that shameful transformation. From that day on, he became a laughingstock not just within his clan, but across the entire Land of Fire.
That incident torpedoed both his social life and his ambitions. Twenty-four years of solitude in his previous life, compounded by forty-eight in this one—a grim tally. His golden years, from twelve to thirty, were lost to the crushing weight of depression and ridicule. He abandoned his training, and his power stagnated. He survived the bloody meat-grinder of war only thanks to the innate vitality of the Uzumaki bloodline and a sensory gift akin to Karin's abilities. By the time he stopped caring about the opinions of others and returned to the path of the shinobi, the prime of his life had already slipped through his fingers.
As Masahiko wallowed in bitter regret, light footsteps approached the door, and a bright, girlish voice pierced his brooding:
"Second Grandpa, the Senju clan's wedding procession arrives tomorrow. Please be ready."
"I remember, Mito," he replied, his voice flat.
Standing outside was the granddaughter of his late older brother, Mito Uzumaki. The future wife of the First Hokage, the first Jinchūriki of the Nine-Tails, and a pivotal figure in history. It was her birth, fifteen years ago, that had finally allowed Masahiko to pinpoint exactly where he stood in the timeline.
Tomorrow, the Senju envoys would arrive to escort the bride. Mito's father, the current clan head, could not leave his post, so the duty of accompanying the girl to her new home fell to Masahiko. He fit the role perfectly: an elder with high formal status but no actual responsibilities.
Masahiko listlessly packed his gear and supplies, then sank back down, staring into the void.
They just want me out of sight, he thought grimly. Otherwise, they would have sent one of Mito's influential uncles.
The clan respected him only on paper, purely due to his age and lineage. In the shinobi world, power is the only currency, and until today, Masahiko had been bankrupt. Add to that the lingering history of the "perverted technique," and it was clear why no one took him seriously. His only solace was Mito—she genuinely honored her Second Grandpa.
His thoughts drifted back to the future. Tsunade, Jiraiya, Orochimaru, Naruto, Sasuke...
"Why was I born so early?" he lamented. "Even if I live to a ripe old age like the Third Hokage, I'll catch only the prologue of the legend. And I'll be a feeble old man by then."
He decided it was time to sleep, but anxiety about the morrow kept him awake. Who would come for the bride? Hashirama, as the groom, was required to wait at home. That meant the delegation would likely be led by his brother, Tobirama Senju. The chance to see the future creator of forbidden techniques—and the architect of the Uchiha tragedy—stirred a tremor of awe within him.
Midnight drew near. Masahiko pulled up the System interface again. Soon, the number "48" would tick over to "49."
A shinobi's life is cyclical. Before twelve, the foundation is laid. From thirteen to twenty-four comes explosive growth. Up to thirty-six is the peak and refinement. By forty-eight, power stabilizes. But what then? Decline? Had he finally reached Jōnin rank only to immediately begin withering away?
If only I had one more chance! Masahiko pleaded silently. I wouldn't give a damn about the mockery! Only power matters! God, how I wish I could be young again!
At that moment, the clock ticked off the final seconds of the year. The attribute panel rippled, updating its data. When the text sharpened again, Masahiko froze.
The age had changed. But instead of "49," it glowed with the number "47."
He rubbed his eyes furiously, unable to believe his sight, but the digits did not lie. Realization hit him like a physical blow, and tears welled up in his eyes.
"So that's how it works..." he whispered, his voice trembling. "I can control my age. I genuinely wished to be younger, and the System subtracted a year instead of adding one!"
This changed everything. The founding of Konoha, the Great Ninja Wars, the legendary battles, Kakashi, Guy, the Naruto generation... He would be able to see it all with his own eyes! He wouldn't just survive to see it—he would be in his prime.
His exhaustion vanished instantly. The soul of a middle-aged man, crushed just moments ago by the weight of wasted years, was now overflowing with a thirst for life. The thought of meeting Tobirama tomorrow, and soon the entire legendary Senju clan, chased away the last remnants of sleep.
Masahiko Uzumaki spent the rest of the night awake, but it was no longer the insomnia of regret—it was the anticipation of a man looking forward to a magnificent future.