Finally, the long-awaited day of departure had arrived.
Akira stood quietly at the entrance of Konoha Village, the morning sun casting soft, slanting light over the great wooden gates. It was his first time standing here, not just as a curious child or a student on an errand, but as a full-fledged shinobi preparing to leave his home for the battlefield.
The gate looked slightly different from the familiar scenes he remembered from the anime—newer, cleaner. It made sense. This was more than a decade before the timeline he once knew, a world still brimming with unknown variables, one he was learning to navigate step by step.
To his amusement, the two familiar faces of Izumo Kamizuki and Kotetsu Hagane were already stationed at their posts, diligently guarding the gate even at this earlier point in the timeline. Some things, it seemed, were destined to remain unchanged.
Anko and Hayate were already waiting, standing off to the side, both their faces pale with tension. The weight of this moment wasn't lost on them. Freshly graduated from the Academy, neither had expected to be swept into the tides of war so soon. Akira could see it written plainly in their eyes: fear of the unknown.
Approaching them with an easy smile, Akira broke the heavy silence.
"Feeling nervous? You don't have to be. Our team leader is Lord Orochimaru, one of the strongest shinobi in the entire village. As long as he's with us, nothing will happen. Look at me—not nervous at all," he added with a grin.
His voice was light, even playful, and it worked. The tension in Anko's shoulders softened, and Hayate's rigid posture eased just slightly. What they didn't realize was that Akira's words were carefully chosen, a soothing lie wrapped in optimism.
In truth, Akira knew full well the battlefield was ruthless and unpredictable. Even someone as skilled as Orochimaru couldn't guarantee their safety. The fate of Nawaki, Tsunade's younger brother and Orochimaru's former student, lingered in Akira's thoughts. Ambushed, outnumbered, and gone before help could arrive. Reality had a cruel way of reminding people that strength alone was never enough.
Still, Akira played his role perfectly.
Anko, her voice smaller than usual, glanced up at him. "Thank you for the comfort, Akira. I feel better now. And you're so strong too... if something happens, you'll protect us, right?"
Akira offered her a reassuring nod, placing a hand on his chest in mock solemnity. "Of course. If it comes to that, I'll protect you both with everything I've got."
But in the quiet space of his mind, a colder truth settled. To the best of my ability, he thought silently. If it's a hopeless situation, you're on your own.
Anko and Hayate, however, had no way of knowing this hidden side of him. To them, Akira was both a genius and a dependable comrade—someone who wouldn't hesitate to lay down his life for his teammates. Their admiration only grew, and Akira allowed it, the faintest trace of a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Every impression left now would serve him later.
Their conversation drifted to lighter topics: dreams, ambitions, and the future. For a moment, they were just three children standing on the cusp of adulthood, daring to hope. Then, the air shifted.
Orochimaru arrived, his expression as cold and unreadable as always.
"Everyone's here," he said simply. "Let's move."
Without delay, the team set off toward the Wind Country, their pace brisk and their hearts steadying with each step. Orochimaru walked slightly ahead, his keen senses on high alert, though his outward calm never wavered.
Before long, he slowed, glancing back over his shoulder. "Remain vigilant," he instructed, his voice low and measured. "We haven't reached the battlefield, but that doesn't mean we're safe. News of my return to the front might have already reached the Sand Village. If so, they won't hesitate to prepare an ambush."
Anko and Hayate exchanged nervous glances, the weight of Orochimaru's words sinking in, pulling them back to the harsh reality of war. Akira, ever the calming voice, spoke up casually.
"He's just reminding us to stay sharp," Akira said, his voice light but steady. "He made it back safely on his own, didn't he? Besides, if anything happens, we'll handle it together."
But Akira knew the truth.
Orochimaru's words weren't just an exercise in caution. If the Sand Village had learned he left Konoha with only three Genin, they'd never pass up the chance to strike. Ambushes, assassination squads, poison traps—the Sand Village had no shortage of cruel tactics.
Of course, most of the danger would be directed at Orochimaru. Akira, for all his hidden power, was still seen as just a child. That suited him just fine. Let them underestimate him. If anyone dared to spring a trap, he was ready to deliver a brutal surprise.
Yet even as his mind plotted scenarios, Akira remained careful not to overexpose his strength too soon. Revealing his full hand on the battlefield could paint a target on his back, one he wasn't ready to shoulder. His real goal lay elsewhere.
The battlefield wasn't just a place of survival, but opportunity—a place where death was abundant, and the conditions were ripe for his ultimate secret: Impure World Reincarnation. His Sharingan's time-limited abilities made each use precious. He needed the perfect target, and the warzone would give him one.
The journey continued in tense, watchful silence, but no ambush came. Instead, they encountered a scattered band of rogue ninjas and thieves—desperate souls taking advantage of the chaos, preying on civilians and travelers who lacked protection.
Orochimaru didn't lift a finger. Instead, he turned to the three Genin, giving them their first true taste of battle.
"Handle it," he said coolly.
Anko and Hayate hesitated at first, unaccustomed to real combat. Their inexperience left openings, and more than once, Akira had to step in to prevent an injury.
But experience was the best teacher. As the skirmishes continued, their confidence grew. Soon, both were dispatching the ragtag thieves with swift, decisive strikes. Akira stepped back, letting them learn and adapt. He had no need to steal the spotlight here.
Orochimaru watched silently, his sharp gaze lingering on Akira longer than the others. The boy was different. His attacks were precise, merciless, and his battlefield composure was eerily mature—far beyond what any six-year-old should possess.
Every time he looked at Akira, Orochimaru felt a strange sense of unease. The boy was a mystery, and mysteries always intrigued him.
After several uneventful days, they finally arrived at the Wind Country battlefield and the hidden Konoha base. The journey had been smoother than expected, but Akira knew the real challenges were only beginning.
And so the curtain rose on the next chapter of his life—one soaked in the blood and chaos of war.
The base they arrived at looked like a simple military camp at first glance, but in truth, it was Konoha's central nerve—a command center hidden behind the veil of unassuming tents and hurried footsteps.
Every ninja dispatched to the front lines was required to report here first. Despite its outward modesty, this was the most crucial medical stronghold Konoha had established on the Wind Country front. The stakes were high, and every breath taken within the camp carried the weight of countless lives.
The camp was laid out in organized chaos. Dozens of tents, varied in size and purpose, stretched across the arid soil. The largest ones, unmistakably, served as temporary hospitals where the wounded moaned and medics hurried under dim lantern light. Their canvas walls barely contained the suffering and effort within.
One medium-sized tent, larger than most but smaller than the hospitals, stood sturdily in the center. This was the war room—a hive of strategy, whispered decisions, and last-minute course corrections that could shift the tide of battle.
The rest of the tents—smaller, tightly packed—served as barracks and supply stations. Here, ninja rested, armored themselves, or relayed orders. Despite the severe demands of war, the camp lacked traditional defenses. No walls, no traps—just a flimsy wooden fence bordering the perimeter.
To an untrained eye, it seemed laughably easy to infiltrate. After all, what were fences to shinobi who could walk on water and scale cliff sides?
But to assume that would be a fatal mistake. Every three steps, a guard. Every five, a sentry. Patrols looped with flawless precision, rotating without gaps. Above, sharp-eyed Hyuga and Uchiha ninja surveyed the land, their dojutsu piercing the veil of night and jutsu alike. Not even a fly could trespass without being seen.
Originally, the camp hadn't been built this way. The command center and the medical unit had been separate—by necessity, not choice. The command center was a prime target. If it fell, the entire front could collapse. Hence, it had been designed for swift evacuation, free from the burden of immobile wounded.
But that changed after a tragedy.
The Hidden Sand had struck Konoha's medical base with a precision raid, and in the chaos, Akira's mother perished. She had been a healer, a woman whose hands never trembled, even when the world did. Her loss echoed far beyond the tents. It rewrote strategy.
Konoha realized then that medical units were as vital—and vulnerable—as the command center. From that point on, the two were merged, their fates intertwined. Defend one, and you defend the other. The camp became a single, united force, capable of supporting itself from within.
Other ninja bases were consolidated too, woven together like threads in armor. Scattered camps became strongholds, medical and tactical facilities integrated and protected under one banner. The model was so effective, it spread across battlefields like wildfire, copied and adapted by other nations.
It was into this new world of war that Akira arrived, and with him came new knowledge of the Wind Country's battlefield.
The war with the Hidden Sand hadn't begun with declarations. It started with skirmishes, frictions, missing scouts. Then came blood. And then, the Third Kazekage vanished.
The Hidden Sand blamed Konoha. Konoha denied it. But Akira, with the knowledge of his past life, knew the truth. Sasori had taken him—turned him into a puppet in both body and legacy.
In their desperation to reclaim their Kazekage, the Hidden Sand overextended. Defensive lines thinned, leaving them vulnerable. The Hidden Rock struck, exploiting their weakness. But they, too, paid dearly, and their appetite for war dulled.
Still, the fighting wasn't over. Konoha's forces stayed alert, their bodies tense like drawn bows. The Hidden Sand was far from done, and the most brutal battles had yet to unfold.
Under Orochimaru's command, Akira and his squad registered at the camp. Tasks were quickly assigned, based on skill. New Genin were typically given logistical roles, regardless of who trained them. Not even Orochimaru's apprentices, Anko and Hayate, were exempt.
But Akira had another identity—he was a medical ninja, and Orochimaru had taken notice of his talent.
Akira was placed in the medical corps. It was exactly what he wanted.
He thrived.
The wounded whispered praises of his hands—steady, precise, imbued with life-saving chakra. His peers watched in astonishment as he healed injuries others considered irreversible. In his past life, Akira had been a doctor—an exceptional one. No one in the ninja world, he dared believe, understood the human body as intimately as he did.
In this life, that knowledge merged with chakra mastery. His Mystical Palm Technique was near flawless. Hemostasis, detoxification, diagnosis—all became second nature. The Sharingan, his blood inheritance, only amplified his skill.
With its piercing gaze, he could see through skin and sinew, trace infection, monitor blood flow. While others relied on tools, Akira needed none. His mind was the scalpel; his chakra, the thread.
His only weakness was surgery. In his previous life, he had only touched it lightly. At the Leaf Hospital, he'd barely practiced it. But here, in the thick of war, surgery became unavoidable. Every incision taught him more.
Orochimaru was watching.
Among the chaos, the legendary Sannin made time to teach. He guided them not just in missions, but in secret techniques and theories. Hayate kept to his sword, uninterested in Orochimaru's dark paths. Anko, overburdened with duties, learned only scraps.
But Akira absorbed everything. Even as his hands healed the dying, his mind devoured jutsu—Earth and Water Release, nature transformation, chakra control.
His chakra test revealed what he had hoped for. Fire, Earth, Lightning—and Water. Four out of five primary natures. Almost complete.
Only Wind eluded him.
It gnawed at him. A peerless genius like him—how could he lack the final piece?
He swore to find a Wind Release user, absorb their teachings, and claim that final attribute. Then, he would be complete. Then, he would be unstoppable.
Orochimaru shared more than jutsu. He passed on summoning techniques—snakes, swift and lethal, slithering extensions of his will. Akira mastered them too, expanding his arsenal.
But the praise came with poison.
Orochimaru's words began to twist. "Life is fragile," he would murmur. "Immortality gives it meaning." He spoke of eternity, of experiments, of transcending death. Always with a soft tone, as if offering kindness.
Akira knew what he wanted: a disciple to inherit his forbidden art. A tool to chase immortality. He thought Akira, having lost his mother young, was emotionally broken. That a little affection would buy loyalty.
But Akira was not a grieving child. In his previous life, he'd lived nearly thirty years, hardened by society, shaped by twelve years of school and a decade of professional rigor. He had stared death in the face more than once—not as a victim, but as a healer.
He saw through Orochimaru. And he despised him.
But he didn't show it.
He smiled. He nodded. He played the perfect student.
Orochimaru was fooled, pleased by what he saw as progress.
Akira, meanwhile, planned.
He wanted knowledge. He wanted strength. But not this. Not at the cost of his soul. For months, he waited, endured, pretended.
And finally, a sliver of opportunity arrived—a chance to break free from Orochimaru's grasp.
He would take it. And when he did, he would step into his own destiny, away from shadows, toward the brilliance he was born for.