Konoha, Year 48.
Within the Uchiha clan's territory, in a remote courtyard far removed from the family's core district, a boy of about five years old sat quietly along the corridor of his home. His gaze lingered on the fan-shaped clan crest engraved on a nearby wall, his thoughts sinking deep into silence.
His name was Katsuragi Shoran.
He carried two surnames—Wagner in his previous life, but now, he bore the name Uchiha.
He… was a transmigrator.
In his past life, he had died in an accident. Yet somehow, his soul—still carrying all its memories—had crossed into this world of shinobi, reborn into the body of a five-year-old child.
This boy was an orphan.
His father had been a Chūnin of the Uchiha clan, killed during a mission. His mother, though also an Uchiha, was not a ninja. Frail and chronically ill, she had barely held herself together. When news of her husband's death arrived, the combined weight of grief and the burden of raising a child alone crushed her already weak body. Not long ago, she, too, passed away.
And so, the child—just five years old—was left alone.
Relying on irregular relief meals delivered to his door, he had struggled to survive for three months… until now.
Until Wagner Sean took over this body.
Yet even with a new soul—an adult's consciousness—the condition of this body remained unchanged. A child starved for so long, reduced to skin and bones… no matter who inhabited it, the truth remained the same:
This body was already at death's door.
The only thing that could keep him alive now… was food.
When he had first arrived in this world, he discovered that aside from some water, there was nothing edible left in the house.
After his mother's death, the original child had eaten everything he could find. And yet, even then, he had refused to step outside—refused to face the world beyond his door.
By the time Shoran took over, the body had already reached its limit.
Even after drinking several mouthfuls of water, he still lacked the strength to leave. In the end, he collapsed onto the corridor floor.
"Was it fear… after losing his parents? Why didn't you step outside? Why didn't you listen to your mother… and live on?"
Shoran had inherited fragments of the boy's memories.
Though a fierce will to live now burned within him, his body had already reached its breaking point. He didn't even have the strength to walk out the door. The unwillingness in his eyes slowly dimmed.
'Well… dying once or twice doesn't make much difference anyway. Maybe in the next world… I'll wake up again.'
Time ticked by, second after second.
Though it was high noon in the peak of summer, the blazing sun overhead did nothing to warm him. Instead, he felt only cold… and darkness closing in.
Just as his consciousness began to blur—when the darkness was about to swallow him whole—a cold, indifferent voice suddenly broke through.
"Food's here! Come eat!"
A roughly wrapped lunchbox was placed at the entrance.
The person who delivered it had no intention of stepping inside. After setting it down, he turned and left, grumbling loudly.
"What a dump… takes me half an hour just to get here and back… In this heat, too—are they trying to kill me? Can't he just drag himself to the relief station to get his own food? I've got plenty of things to do—who has time to keep running back and forth like this? I'm not coming again…"
The harsh words didn't crush Shoran.
Instead, they pulled him back—if only briefly—from the brink of darkness.
With astonishing willpower, he forced his body to move, gathering every last shred of strength. Inch by inch, he crawled toward the lunchbox.
Reaching it, he grabbed a handful of food and shoved it straight into his mouth without hesitation.
The long hunger had erased all sense of restraint or common sense.
He devoured it.
Mouthful after mouthful, he swallowed desperately—this hard-earned food was his lifeline.
Only after finishing every last bite did he finally manage to stand, trembling, before staggering back into the house.
He collapsed onto the bed and fell into a heavy sleep.
After a stifling midday nap, he finally regained a small measure of strength.
Once awake, he began searching the house, carefully going through everything—anything that might help him survive.
Before long, he gathered all items of value:
A kunai.
Two shuriken.
Two Fire Release technique scrolls.
One genjutsu scroll.
And one scroll detailing hand seals.
Aside from these… there was also a letter written by his mother.
Shoran ignored the other items for now. He carefully tucked the letter into his chest, holding it close.
This was a mother's final message… to her five-year-old child.
She had written so much—countless instructions, endless worries. Her concerns spanned every aspect of the future.
But above all, one message was repeated again and again:
Live on. Be strong. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how unbearable it becomes—live on.
Her handwriting was faint, weakened by illness.
But the love within those words… struck deeply into Shoran's heart.
Holding the letter, he couldn't help but think of his own parents from his previous life.
If they learned of my death… how much pain would they feel?
They're not young anymore… how will they live the rest of their lives?
The thought made his chest tighten painfully.
"If I can come here… then there must be a way back. If I gain power in this world—borrow its strength—then maybe… I can return home."
With that, his goal became clear.
His eyes suddenly shone with fierce determination—a light born of hope.
Faintly, he felt an itching sensation in his eyes. He rubbed them hard, and the feeling soon faded without explanation.
"These… must be Father's inheritance."
He glanced at the scrolls.
"The Great Fireball Technique, the Phoenix Flower Technique, and the Temple of Nirvana Technique…"
He shook his head with a bitter smile.
Right now, he didn't even have chakra. These scrolls were useless to him—for the time being.
What he needed… was a method to extract chakra.
And food.
And money.
"Money… Part of the reason Mother died in despair… was Father's death compensation."
He frowned.
"So even within the clan, those on the fringes are treated like this… Is it because they have no value?"
He casually placed the scrolls in the living room. Taking only the kunai, he tucked it into his waist and staggered out of the house.
According to his mother, their family was supposed to receive a death compensation payment.
But every time she went to claim it, she was turned away with various excuses.
Originally, someone had informed them to collect the money. But at the time, his mother had been bedridden and unable to go. When she finally recovered enough to try, the payment was no longer obtainable.
Something about this didn't sit right.
He needed answers.
Now that he had inherited Uchiha Shoran's memories… he had also inherited his karma.
From this moment on—
He would live on.
And he would live well.
On behalf of them both.