It was yet another peaceful morning in Konohagakure—the Village Hidden in the Leaves. An elderly man stood solemnly in his office, gazing out of a wide window while leisurely puffing on a thick cigar. The glass pane offered a sweeping, unobstructed view of the village—a charming sprawl of rooftops nestled among verdant trees, bathed in the gentle embrace of morning sunlight. This man was none other than Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage of Konohagakure, revered by many as the God of Shinobi.
Behind him sat a large desk, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of official documents, mission scrolls, and bureaucratic clutter accumulated over the last several days. The sheer volume of paperwork loomed like an immovable mountain, a grim reminder of the responsibilities tethered to his title.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the faint yet deliberate rhythm of approaching footsteps. Moments later, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy door of his office. He sighed, his breath heavy with exasperation. With a weary, almost forlorn expression, he mused internally, As if this mountain of paperwork wasn't punishment enough... Did she truly have to bring more? I swear upon the gods—this infernal paperwork will be the end of me someday."
He didn't need to ask who stood beyond the door. It was, without question, his meticulous assistant, Shimizu Emi. He had long since learned to recognize her by the cadence of her footsteps alone. Exhaling a curl of smoke, he muttered, "Come in."
The door creaked open with a respectful slowness, revealing a woman with an air of quiet discipline. Her jet-black hair cascaded past her shoulders in a silken fall, and her subdued brown eyes held the calm sharpness of a seasoned kunoichi. Clad in a standard Konoha flak jacket, dark navy trousers, and the worn sandals of a veteran shinobi, she entered the room cradling a thick bundle of official papers in her arms.
Hiruzen turned around, clinging momentarily to the faint hope that perhaps—just perhaps—this visit bore some other purpose. But as his gaze inevitably landed upon the ominous stack in Emi's hands, that fragile hope dissolved instantly. Of course it's more paperwork. Why would it be anything else?
Despite the growing weight of his internal frustration, his expression remained the perfect mask of calm leadership.
Noting his silence, Emi took the initiative and stepped forward with professional composure. Her tone was respectful, her posture unwavering.
"Hokage-sama, I've gone through the latest batch of documents that arrived this morning. Of all the requests, these are the ones requiring your immediate attention."
Hiruzen gave a subtle nod, his voice level but edged with fatigue. " Very well. Just place them on the auxiliary desk in the corner. I'll try to tend to them before the day is done "
Accepting the subtle cue for dismissal, Emi offered a courteous bow before exiting the office, closing the door behind her with practiced grace.
Letting out a deeper sigh than before, Hiruzen reached for the nearest scroll, only to find that it concerned one of the village's orphanages. Due to a noticeable surge in orphaned children, the head caretaker was requesting additional funding. This marked the fourth such appeal in the last three weeks, and the Third Hokage felt each one like a dagger in his conscience.
Sighing yet again, Hiruzen couldn't help but direct the blame inward. It was his incompetence, his decisions, that had helped plunge the shinobi world into yet another war. His hand may not have wielded the sword directly, but the blood of countless innocent lives—many of them parents—still stained his legacy. If it weren't for him, perhaps some of those children would still have families.
Shaking off the wave of regret with the force of discipline only years of leadership could teach, Hiruzen turned back to the stack of documents, though it always seemed to grow the moment he looked away.
Meanwhile, in one of Konohagakure's many orphanages, a boy no older than three sat upright in his bed with a start. A dull throb echoed behind his eyes as he clutched his small head with trembling hands, his tiny frame wracked by a pain that felt far too intense for someone so young.
"Damn... what the hell is up with this pain? Did I drink too much last night...?"
The thought escaped in a hoarse whisper, though it felt absurd the moment it formed. A child this young shouldn't even know what a hangover is—let alone experience one. But that wasn't the only thing that felt wrong. His mind swirled with chaotic fragments, images spinning in a feverish whirlwind, slowly beginning to form into something more coherent.
A young man. Twenty-one years old.
Then a name—Daiki. Daiki Kurosawa.
And with that name, a floodgate burst open. His entire life, all the memories, all the emotions, returned in a crushing tidal wave. The sheer force of it nearly caused him to cry out in agony, but he managed to hold it in. Just barely.
But then came the terrifying question.
"How... how am I still alive?"
He looked around, taking in the wooden ceiling, the worn floor, and the unfamiliar furniture. This was definitely not a hospital. Nothing in the room bore even a passing resemblance to the world he remembered.
"I remember it clearly. That train… four hundred miles per hour. There's no surviving something like that."
As he studied his surroundings, he began to realize something else—everything looked larger, almost exaggerated in scale. The bed he sat on felt enormous, the distance to the floor exaggerated. The room hadn't grown.
He had shrunk.
Then, as if the universe were answering his unspoken question, a realization hit him harder than the train ever did.
"Did I... did I travel to the past?"
The possibility sparked a strange sort of joy, . The idea of reliving his life sparked joy in his heart—even as his mind whispered that something was still wrong.
Because something still felt... off.
The building was unfamiliar. The sensations in his body were alien—not just smaller, but somehow warmer, more alive, like raw energy hummed faintly beneath his skin. Perhaps it was just the fantasy of time travel clouding his senses. Perhaps not.
But then came another ache in his skull, subtle but insistent. He knew he was missing something—some vital piece of the puzzle still hadn't clicked into place.
Not wanting to waste another second, he slipped out of bed and stood on unsteady legs. Every movement felt wrong, like his limbs didn't belong to him. Awkwardly, he shuffled across the room until his eyes caught a mirror placed at an angle on the far wall.
As he stood in front of it, what he saw drained the blood from his face.
"What the hell... that's not me."
He raised his arms, watching the reflection mimic his every move perfectly. No illusion. No trick.
The boy in the mirror had sky-blue hair, light purple eyes, and a chubby, cherubic face. He wore a light blue jacket over a white shirt, and his pants were a darker shade of blue. None of it was familiar. None of it was his.
He took a trembling step back, horror twisting in his gut.
This wasn't his body. He had not traveled to his past.
"Then... where the fuck am I?"
Transmigration. The word surfaced from the depths of his subconscious, a theory often whispered in fiction but never taken seriously.
"Did I get... transmigrated?"
The very idea shook him to the core. But even as he reeled from the shock, he knew what he needed to do: find out where he was and what kind of world this truly was.
From beyond the room, he could hear faint voices—children laughing, shouting, playing. He made his way toward the sound, hoping to find someone who might help him piece things together.
As he moved through the hallway, certain rooms sparked flashes in his mind—brief, disjointed memories of a life not his own.
The corridor he walked felt strangely familiar.
He passed a wide room. Cafeteria, he thought automatically.
These weren't his memories. They belonged to the body's original owner.
Soon, he stepped out into a large courtyard. From his new perspective, it looked absolutely massive. Children ran about, lost in innocent games and laughter.
Some of their faces looked vaguely familiar, like echoes in a dream—but no names surfaced. He felt a chill of isolation wash over him. He couldn't just walk up and ask someone what year it was, or where he was. That kind of behavior would make him stand out immediately, and in a place like this—what was clearly an orphanage—being different could lead to all sorts of unwanted attention.
Then a boy's voice called out across the yard:
"Ryuu! What are you doing, man? Come join us! We're playing ninja!"
That name—Ryuu—struck something deep inside him. A tremor passed through his body.
Why does that name feel so important? I'm sure I've never met anyone named Ryuu. Then why… why does it feel like it belongs to me?
A headache hit him like a hammer, and before he could steady himself, his knees gave way. He collapsed onto the ground, a silent scream caught in his throat as a torrent of images surged through his mind.
A little boy, laughing as he ran through a modest house.
A gentle woman, smiling through her worry.
A man, tired but kind, lifting the boy into the air with a warmth that radiated pure love.
"Ryuu," the man called, his voice full of emotion.
No other words. Just that name.
And it shattered something in him.
He began to cry.
When the flashback subsided, he found himself in someone's arms—held tightly, protectively.
He didn't know the boy who embraced him, but he didn't resist.
Those weren't my memories, he realized. They were Ryuu's. And with them came Ryuu's emotions, crashing over him like a wave.
He stayed quiet, not trusting his voice.
After a few long moments, the boy holding him whispered gently:
"It's alright. You're safe now."
And in that whisper, a name rose unbidden to his mind—clear, certain, and comforting.
Ren.
When he came back to himself, he realized someone was hugging him tightly.
He didn't recognize the person, but he didn't pull away. In that moment, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. The warmth of the embrace, the gentle pressure, it was comforting in a way that made him feel both lost and strangely at home. That memory... it wasn't his. It belonged to the boy whose body he now inhabited. Ryuu's memories were returning, and with them, the surge of emotions tied to them.
He didn't speak—he couldn't trust his voice yet, still raw from the flood of unfamiliar memories crashing through him.
After what felt like an eternity, a soft whisper cut through the fog of his thoughts:
"It's alright. You're safe now."
The words, so simple, yet so profound, grounded him. It was as if that single phrase unraveled a knot inside of him, releasing a torrent of emotions. And with it, one word surfaced clearly in his mind, as if it had always been there, just waiting to be remembered:
Ren.
His gaze darted upward. The boy hugging him was Ren, another orphan from this place. It was the same boy who had just moments ago called out to him, asking him to play. He had no memory of what had passed between them, but there was something about the boy that felt deeply familiar.
For a fleeting second, everything else fell away—the confusion, the overwhelming flood of emotions, the strange, surreal realization that he wasn't who he once was. In that moment, only one thought remained, simple yet urgent, and it slipped past his lips, desperate and raw:
"Where… where am I?"
He could feel Ren's questioning gaze bore into his back, his eyes filled with curiosity and concern. But it didn't matter. Ryuu just needed to know. The weight of his own confusion, of everything that had happened to him, hung heavy, and he was determined to find some semblance of clarity.
Moments passed, the hug breaking slightly as Ren shifted, still staring at him with those wide, questioning eyes. And then, after a breath that felt too long in the silence, Ren spoke. His voice was soft but steady, the words simple, yet they carried a weight Ryuu hadn't expected:
"…Konoha."