Man, life as a transmigrator sucks—especially when you end up in the world of Naruto, years before the Third Great Shinobi War, right after the Second. And to top it off, I was eleven years old.
Of all the times I could've been transmigrated, it had to be this one. But hey, I had to roll with it. What still puzzles me is that I didn't die in my previous life. So what happened? Does it even matter now? Not really. I had surviving to do.
Life at the Academy wasn't all that bad, though keeping up with prodigies like Fugaku and Minato was hell. I trained every night in the Uchiha training grounds, pushing myself until my muscles begged for mercy. Sure, I lost to them during spars when we got paired up, but I made damn sure they didn't walk away unscathed.
I ranked third in the Academy—right behind the golden boys, much to the annoyance of the stuck-up Hisashi.
Within the Uchiha clan, I had no real friends—just acquaintances. Well, except Fugaku, who insisted we were rivals. As for family, there was my mother, a retired kunoichi with a mean left hook and no patience for whining.
Things weren't too bad—until I became a chunin.
That's when tensions between the great villages boiled over, and the sparks of the Third Shinobi War ignited. On a routine border patrol mission, my team was ambushed by Kiri hunter-nin. I barely survived. That was my wake-up call—a brutal reminder of how weak I still was. But that day, my Sharingan fully matured.
When I returned to the village, I requested access to the Uchiha clan's library and nearly killed myself grinding through every scroll I could get my hands on. By fifteen, I was promoted to jonin alongside Minato, just as the war reached its peak.
The frontlines were hell, especially the Iwa front, where I was stationed. But I didn't hold back either. Chidori tore through their ranks like lightning. I could use Rasengan, too, but Chidori felt more natural in my hands. That's when they started calling me The Red Devil. The terrified whispers of the Iwa ninja fed my arrogance—until I met Roshi.
Facing a Jinchūriki in full form was like standing against a force of nature. If I hadn't used Kirin to nearly kill him, I would've died that day. But I survived—and that battle marked me as a mage-level fighter.
Hiruzen and his faction weren't pleased. They didn't like having an unpredictable Uchiha with that much power. But they needed all the manpower they could get, so they shut up.
Later, Minato—already famous as the Yellow Flash—took on a genin team. Yeah, that genin team. As the war raged on, my mother came out of retirement despite my protests. She was stubborn like that.
Then came the infamous Kannabi Bridge mission. I tried to join them, but I was denied. Rin still died. Obito was presumed dead. Madara, it seems, always had contingencies.
My mother died on a perimeter patrol near the Kumo front. That day, I felt a rage I'd never known. I wanted to burn the world, make it feel what I felt. But I held back. I knew that was the Curse of Hatred whispering to me.
My Mangekyō Sharingan awakened that day.
The left eye allows me to teleport anything within my line of sight to anywhere else I can see. The right lets me teleport to any place I've seen. I kept it secret. That was my trump card.
A year later, the war ended. Fugaku became the clan head. Minato became the Fourth Hokage.
And me? I'm still me. Respected in my clan. Feared on the battlefield. Stronger than most—but not quite a Sannin.
Not yet maybe in the future who knows
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