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Reincarnation. Previous lives. Concepts often whispered about in the mundane world.
The protagonists of those tales usually become aware of their past selves the moment they are born, or even while still drifting within the womb.
Whether I am the exception or if those stories are merely fabrications, I cannot say. Unlike them, my awakening came at the age of five—in the midst of a trivial squabble in kindergarten, triggered by another child planting a sharp uppercut into my jaw.
To delve deeper into the theory of reincarnation, such phenomena generally fall into two categories.
The first is the Absolute Continuity of the Ego. Even if Subject A transmigrates into the vessel of Subject B, the ego remains entirely intact and identical. The second is Incomplete Succession—a state where the ego is inherited imperfectly, manifesting only as subtle influences or fragmented memories.
In my case, it would be the latter.
The notion that humans only utilize a small percentage of their brain has long been dismissed as a fallacy, yet the sheer volume of data flooding into my consciousness was agonizing enough to make such myths feel plausible. It was a sensation akin to boring a hole into my skull and pouring in hydrochloric acid.
However, there was something far more critical than the physical agony.
Something that weighed heavier than the pain.
"Just why the hell are my eyes purple?!"
Unless this world operates under the laws of a certain ninja manga, why would a Rinnegan manifest in an otherwise mundane reality? That was the question.