"He who has been beaten by life will achieve more.
He who has eaten a pound of salt values honey more.
He who has shed tears laughs more sincerely,
He who has died knows he lives!"
Omar Khayyam.
March 14, 1050
"I see you have talent in bukijutsu," the light-brown-haired chunin named Naoki replied cheerfully and ruffled my hair. I forced a strained smile and hurried to fix my hair.
"Don't take offense, but whenever I get a chance to sneak out of the orphanage, I always look for someone to train me," I clasped my hands behind my back and looked at the loose gravel we stood on.
We were on a small training ground near the orphanage, from which I often escaped. I needed to prepare for admission to the best shinobi class, where all the clan kids trained from childhood. Last year they told me there'd be a tough entrance exam, and at the time, all I could do was nothing.
Realizing at that pace I wouldn't even get in, I had to take extreme measures—find teachers myself. I ran around Konoha, begging nearly every shinobi I met to teach me something, since I couldn't even use chakra, let alone throw shuriken. Mostly refused: some gently, some rudely, but it didn't change—I spent days to find even one willing to spare twenty minutes.
"And who exactly trained you?" the blue-eyed guy in standard chunin vest asked.
"Different people each time, maybe twenty times total. I also asked Hokage-sama for training, so a few came," I tried to feign joy, lacking emotions. "A few months ago, Kakashi Hatake himself came!"
"Mm, lucky you! Copy Ninja—one of the village's strongest shinobi!"
"He gave training recs for taijutsu development," I added, omitting I'd begged an explanation of shadow cloning too. Hatake stared intently then; I justified hearing it from another sensei who promised to teach me, given my huge chakra reserve. Hatake hesitated, but I got it—briefly, how the technique works.
Time passed since, but I still couldn't make shadow clones.
"You're entering the Academy soon?" he looked down at me.
"Yes, admission in half a month. I want the best class!" I exclaimed childishly, faking it.
"Great attitude! How old are you?"
"Seven!"
"You're a little one."
"No, I'm not; I'm grown up, see!" I crossed arms and pouted, feigning indignation.
"Haha," the shinobi chuckled lightly. "You pick it up fast. I'm sure you'll be a talented kunoichi. Gotta go, so take this as a goodbye gift."
He pulled three kunai from his ninja pouch and handed them to me.
"Wow!" I showed surprise. "Kunai? For me? Yes? Kunai? For me?! Thank youuu!"
"Yeah, to practice more before admission. Just be careful, don't hurt anyone," he smiled and vanished in a shunshin puff.
The fake smile I'd held fell instantly, and I securely hid the kunai, heading to the village outskirts orphanage. The training exhausted me; I didn't know what was harder: trying to control the huge chakra reserve that stubbornly resisted, or pretending to be a cheerful little girl without a gram of emotion?
Reaching the orphanage quickly, I quietly jumped to the second floor through the open window I'd left from.
Removing outdoor shoes, I hid the kunai and went to wash up. This year was one of the longest in my life—days dragged like rubber. No wonder they say childhood years feel longer, post-twenty they fly by unnoticed.
Back in my room, I opened the drawer and rummaged through books begged from orphanage staff. I was interested in everything—from novels to history textbooks. I read to kill time, but mostly to have an excuse to refuse kids' play invites. They already disliked me for the private room unlike others, and unwillingness to play worsened my shaky rep. Constant studying got me called bookworm; after months, no kid invited me to play. Perfect—that's what I needed. Training and reading first; alibi always: reading in my room. No questions. Ideal grind rep. Even staff liked my calm, no-trouble self.
Taking the gifted chakra control book, I lay on bed when someone knocked softly. I checked the clock, thinking dinner-late, but it was only 5:30.
"Ariza-chan, you here?" the caregiver's slightly worried voice came through the door.
"Yes," I replied, hastily opening to let in the pretty thirty-ish woman. She looked at me intently, almost sadly, with deep brown eyes and said what I least expected:
"Time to say goodbye, Ariza-chan; you're moving today," she said with a melancholic note.
"Moving?"
"Yes, to the dorms; they're waiting downstairs."
"Oh... I thought I'd stay here..." I drawled, blinking rapidly.
"All future shinobi move to dorms near the Academy. It's the rule," she smiled softly, crouching so I wouldn't crane my neck. "We're proud of every shinobi alumnus; we have few. And I'm sure your parents would be proud too," she said bitterly of inevitable parting, placing hand on my chest over the purple pendant gifted by parents. All I had left of them; must cherish it.
In past life, parents left me and grandma nothing before goodbye-forever departure. Seems this time more loving parents, though orphaned again.
"Thank you..."
"Become a great kunoichi; you can, Ariza-chan."
"I will."
Quickly packing, twenty minutes later I had six huge bags—Minato's gifted books, scrolls, clothes, stationery, hygiene. Wanted everything; unknown roommates or survival funds.
Yawning sleepily, I last-glanced the room of my first year-and-a-half here, and left. Descending stairs, I concluded it best Devourers stripped emotions/feelings. Surely I'd bonded, friendship heartbreak on parting. Loneliness in unknown world, no one truly needing me. Harder training amid daily killing loneliness, endless longing for loved ones/friends. Whatever body, I'm cheerful extrovert needing friends/close for well-being.
Now no pain, longing, joy. All gray, dull. Strangely, doesn't bother me. Not as should be, but indifferent.
"I wonder if emotions will ever return?"
Downstairs waited escort—one caregiver, gloomy forty-ish man—and others come goodbye.
Orphanage staff and few kids who liked me. All knew no return; memories of quiet outskirts orphanage forever memory. Year-and-a-half learning leap high, shuriken throw, fight. Dividing life "Before" and "After."
Caregivers encouraged, wished ace exams, best group. Kids clamored show techniques later, teach fighting. Lacked spark for Academy, but all seemed to want. Unlike me, couldn't sense chakra; many sad.
If knew I lived sixteen ordinary human years, maybe less envy.
We all starting paths. They'd be Konoha civilians: carpenter, merchant—I must save world.
We said goodbye. Door closed. Never saw again.
Dorms same as Naruto's anime. Five-story beige with red roof, small first-floor windows, green boards nailed haphazardly.
Couple blocks from main street/Academy, district mostly low-chakra civilians. Unremarkable; rare shinobi. I'd been couple times, realized no training beggars, didn't return.
Most shinobi clan-based, territories across Konoha. Strangers rare; if appear, softly asked leave. Felt on skin wandering into Hyuga—they quickly showed wrong road.
With those thoughts, escort and I climbed to top floor. En route noted unusual Konoha houses. Odd shapes—round, oval, slightly conical—each upper floor smaller, narrow overhanging roofs circling building.
"Probably so shinobi jump house-to-house easily?"—my road thoughts.
My one-room shabby apartment top floor, spacious balcony overlooking nearly all Konoha.
"Can stargaze there," thought. Past life loved astronomy/stars, but relatives against; went medical.
Escort gave key, said wait: dorm head come in hours, explain.
No waiting; started cleaning. Bucket water, scrubbed thick dust floor.
Walls green everywhere except bathroom. Room: wardrobe, dresser, bed. Kitchen: fridge, gas stove, sturdy wood table cloth-covered, two chairs.
Bathroom: icy sea-wave tile, cracked spots. Old cast-iron tub from Hashirama era, same-age sink rusty faucet. Kitchen few dishes long unused. Dusty wood valances, threadbare green curtains.
Sweeping broom/mop/rags, ready unpack when loud insistent knock—someone rushing.
No tempting fate, opened hastily, admitting plump bald sixty-ish uncle. Panting, mouth agape—fifth-floor climb workout.
"Saito?!" he boomed, eyeing me like bug, nodded calmly, kept shoes, headed kitchen pulling thick yellow envelope pocket.
"And I just mopped floor," thought, avoiding barefoot dirty tracks.
"Well, listen, I'm not explaining it a second time!" the man barked menacingly, adjusting his mustache before starting to pace the apartment in his dirty boots, all the while explaining to me how to use the gas stove, where the switches were, and how to care for the refrigerator.
"Where do I throw out the trash?"
"Around the corner of the building, to the right," he tossed out casually, and for some reason, I suddenly got curious about where the trash goes after that.
"Maybe I'm curious because I'm in a child's body, and kids that age are super curious?"
"Is there heating in winter?" I asked, recalling that winters here weren't just cold—snow sometimes fell too.
"Hm, they heat it, they heat it, but you gotta pay the communal fees on top for that!"
The dormitory manager said he'd bring the monthly orphan stipend on the fifteenth of every month. Until I finished the Academy—at which point I'd have to earn on D-rank missions and pay for the dorm myself, which cost four thousand Ryo.
This month's stipend was two thousand Ryo more, totaling fifteen thousand. I didn't know if it'd be enough for food, but I couldn't even hold it in both hands.
"Whoever you are, don't think you're allowed to do anything! Keep quiet and don't bring anyone here! And no sounds after eleven!" he warned me sternly, wagging his finger, wiping his bald head, and heading out the door.
"Whoever I am?"
Shrugging and closing the door behind him, I went to refill the bucket for mopping the floor again.
Waking up early the next morning, quickly cooking myself some rice, getting cleaned up, I headed to the Shop. My stomach grumbled pitifully the whole way, as if no one had fed it or starved it for a week. Unable to hold out, I ducked into the nearest eatery.
After eating and buying groceries, I realized they'd given me not just a lot of money—way more than a lot. Maybe they give out such stipends so you can afford weapons? They must be expensive.
Wandering Konoha for another hour, I got home by lunchtime. Plans for the day: hit the weapon shop to see what's there, swing by the archive and grab a couple dozen books if possible, then stroll evening Konoha—would be good to figure out where the Academy is and how long it takes to get there. I'd glimpsed it once, but that was half a year ago for just a few minutes.
Eating and dressing, I set off on my route.
The weapon shop turned out to be a quiet, modest place, even on the main street, not far from the Hokage's Residence. Lots of glass cases with weapons of shapes I'd never seen, though I recognized shuriken, kunai, nunchaku, and katanas.
I'd read all the shinobi books in the orphanage and studied everything the Hokage gave me, but it still wasn't enough. The world I'd landed in was way deeper than what the anime showed. I'd watched the whole shonen from start to finish and knew the plot, but I wasn't a fan.
And that wasn't good. Unlike Naruto, I wasn't the main character—no plot armor to save me. Who knows, maybe one of those swords would gut me and smear my guts on the wall.
"What are you complaining about, Ariza? Be glad you landed in peaceful Konoha, not Attack on Titan—there they'd eat you, not just slit your throat," I told myself.
Snapping out of that wild thought, I looked away from another set of oddly shaped kunai and saw a middle-aged gray-haired man behind the cash register, scribbling intently in a notebook and occasionally shooting me a dismayed glance. I approached, stopping a meter from the counter, and said, "Hello."
"Hm, what do you want?" He eyed me closely with gray eyes.
"How should I address you?"
"Name's Toshi. You can call me Toshi-san," he said, stroking his beard and looking me over.
"Alright, Toshi-san, could you tell me how much a standard set of ten kunai costs?" I asked politely.
"One thousand eight hundred Ryo."
"Hm," I calculated mentally and, seeing I had enough, clarified: "Can I buy some?"
"Hah," he chuckled slightly, looking up from the counter. "You even enrolled in the Academy yet?"
"Not yet, starting early April," I replied calmly.
"You got ID?"
"Yep," I nodded and handed it over.
"Alright... Ariza Saito, seven years old," he gave me an appraising look, then back to the docs. "Good luck getting in."
He handed back the documents and glanced at the door, hinting I should leave. I didn't push it, took my papers, and headed out silently. Expected that, so I had a backup—patrol the training grounds for lost weapons.
"Girl," he called as I opened the door. I stopped and turned. "Some Academy students can buy weapons. Come back after enrolling, we'll see."
Thanking him and closing the door, I continued on.
Konoha's public archive, whose address I'd gotten from local shinobi beforehand, was farther out, thirty minutes' walk from the dorm. As I learned, no strong techniques there—just basic Academy jutsu and scrolls/books unrelated to ninja arts. All the good stuff was in another, secret archive, hidden in Hokage Rock by rumor. All info on the village's past and future, and every Konoha shinobi. No way I'd try that—obvious they'd send me packing far and long.
The local "library" greeted me with eerie silence. Inside, three tall floors of three-meter bookshelves stuffed with books and scrolls. To avoid endless searching, I took the easy route and approached the reception desk, where a gray-haired man in thick glasses sat.
"Hello, sorry to interrupt, could you tell me where..."
I didn't finish before someone rounded the corner and called to the librarian:
"I Sao-san, Keihatsu just neutralized a rogue ninja—can I cross his name off myself now?"
It was a twenty-something guy with a short buzz cut. Getting a slight nod from the shift boss, he went back to work.
"What do you want?" the old man finally noticed me.
"I need these books," I handed him a list: Konoha history, cooking, our language, dictionary, Land of Fire traditions, taijutsu/ninjutsu/genjutsu books marked "all you have if possible," and other essentials for classes.
He stared in bewilderment, like "You lost your mind, kid?" but saw only my indifferent eyes.
Sighing tiredly and irritably, he stood, muttered "Come on," and led me deep into the archive. We hit every section, stacking up worn old books.
"Won't give you all taijutsu and ninjutsu books—read these three first, return in two months, then we'll see."
"And genjutsu?" I asked.
"Checked out. Come back later."
"Got it."
Exiting with a bag of books to keep till end of May, the sky had turned stunning sapphire. Unable to resist, I looked up at the faintly twinkling distant stars, breathing deep the cool spring air. A light breeze brushed my red strands, carrying scents of roasted chestnuts, tsukemono pickles, and chrysanthemum blooms.
Realizing I'd drool myself to death, I headed home. The way went through the main street, source of all those yummy smells, and though no emotions, something pulled me to eat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Ichiraku Ramen—a small wooden stand with just six high one-legged stools like a bar counter.
The aroma of noodles, fried pork, and spicy toppings hit my nose. Couldn't resist—went in to check prices. Maybe I could swing by occasionally? Cooking that myself was tedious, especially post-training.
A pleasant old man named Teuchi-san greeted me, with his young cheerful daughter Ayame helping with the family business that's been around twenty-five years. In this cozy spot, a huge bowl of ramen cost peanuts—just sixty Ryo—so I decided weekly visits.
Sitting down, I ordered a medium ramen and, to not waste time waiting, jotted upcoming tasks in my notebook. Not many: study some techniques, read books, fully rewrite the notebook detailing this world's future. I'd written it in Russian for speed; now transcribe to local language so I wouldn't forget words later.
"Hello, Teuchi-san!" a boy's voice piped up behind me, but I didn't turn.
"Oh, Jiro-kun, sit down—what'll it be?" the owner greeted joyfully.
"Nah, looking for my brother—seen him?"
"Hitoshi hasn't come by today, sorry," Teuchi shrugged.
"Got it, thanks!"
"Jiro-kun, any news on your sister?" the owner asked, and I heard a heavy sigh behind. "Clan helping at all?"
"Not anymore," the kid said bitterly. I turned to look. Pretty black-haired boy with light curls, about my age, maybe slightly older. Clothes vaguely Uchiha-like: black long-neck T-shirt, dark shorts.
He glanced at me fleetingly, sadly dropped his gaze, and left Ichiraku.
"Poor kid," Ayame whispered.
Teuchi-san pursed his lips annoyedly, and I kept jotting my list. One item post-Rasengan study: try inventing my own variant. Don't know my element yet, so no Rasen-Shuriken or fireball (Rasengan with fire) yet—might be water. I'd master Rasengan for chakra control at least, and if lucky, make a technique usable openly without interrogation fears.
"Here you go, girl—enjoy!" They brought my ramen; thanking them, I snapped chopsticks and dug in. Tasting it, I got why Naruto loved it: perfect noodles, broth spicy but not bland, meat ideally cooked. Great value. But before praising, a new guest entered.
"Been a while," a familiar baritone said. Turning, I saw Kakashi Hatake himself, popping in for a bite. The twenty-something wore his usual: green Konoha jounin vest, black forehead protector over left eye, tousled light-gray hair swept aside—not as long as in the anime.
"Hello, Kakashi-san—usual?" Ayame smiled softly.
"Yep," he nodded slightly, sitting left of me— one stool between, holding my library book bag. Waiting for his order, he studied me; I quickly shut my notebook, seeing he recognized me.
"Ariza-chan?" he smiled with one eye; I greeted him.
"Didn't expect to see you here, Kakashi-san!" I said animatedly, noting his gaze on the white bag between us.
"Yours?"
"Yeah, grabbed from the archive today for enrollment prep."
"Mind if I look?" he asked; I nodded. He reached in, pulling taijutsu and ninjutsu books. "See you're a reader. Isn't that a lot? Archive loans are limited—gonna finish all that?"
"By my calc, yes. Just eight books—month's enough."
"I see. Hm. How's the technique coming?" He eyed me suspiciously; I caught the wariness.
"Guess I'm bad at playing little girl, or he's such a pro it's pointless."
"Not yet, but trying," I frowned, then pleaded at Kakashi. "Help, please—explain once more? I'd be so grateful! Who knows, maybe post-Academy I'll be your student," I smiled slightly, catching his surprised look. "Just learned teams form post-grad: three grads, one sensei."
"Hm, you know everything," he squinted.
"Tongue leads to Kirigakure," I corrected just in time. "I wanna be a strong shinobi, and simplest way to get stronger—ask the strong how they did it, then copy."
"Not everyone shares that freely."
"One in a hundred will," I shrugged.
"Rare to find kids your age so sharp. Why get stronger?"
"No one—no parents, friends, siblings... Totally alone. Hurts deep that I'm truly needed by no one," I gazed tiredly at him, seeing resonance. He slumped, guilt weighing heavy, looked away. Mine from emotionlessness, buried deep; his daily monstrous loneliness.
"Maybe something happened with Obito and Rin here too."
"But someday I'll have dear loved ones who need me, love me as I love them. Wanna protect them—no one takes them away!" I said inspired; we shared something that instant.
We chatted another hour. Nice sharing feelings and being heard. Who better than Kakashi knows loneliness pain?
Hatake warmed up, explained shadow clones in detail. We even practiced in the shop. No idea why such trust. Why Minato sent teachers, orphanage gave solo room—mystery. Others treated me different, but couldn't pinpoint. Maybe I screamed clan kid?
Remaining days: packed with training and reading. Up early to late evening, slaving for one goal—best group, then team with century's strongest shinobi.
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan