"..."
I shot up with a gasp, my hands clawing at my chest as if trying to keep my heart from leaping out of my ribs. My lungs burned, drawing in air that tasted like wet dust and ancient neglect.
"What the hell?..."
I stared at my hands. They were small. Too small. Pale, thin, and trembling. I quickly looked around, my mind firing off possibilities like a malfunctioning CPU. Didn't I just die? Why am I breathing? Is this a post-mortem hallucination? I knew the science—brain activity tends to spike in a final, frantic burst after the heart stops. But this felt too grounded. The cold air on my skin, the grit under my fingernails... it was far too stable for a dying dream.
The room was a disaster zone. It was cramped, filthy, and looked like it hadn't seen a broom since the era of the dinosaurs. The couch was shredded, the wooden table was a mosaic of deep scratches, and the bed beneath me groaned with every tiny shift of my weight.
I took a slow, deep breath, forcing my heart rate down. Panic is a luxury I couldn't afford. Step one: Accept reality. I died. Step two: Assess the current situation. I am in a foreign environment, likely inhabited by someone who doesn't give a damn about hygiene. Whoever or whatever put me here was powerful, supernatural levels of powerful. I'd have to stay cautious. Very cautious.
Sigh. So much for a quiet afterlife.
I finally looked at my body. My skin was a few shades lighter than I remembered, my limbs shorter. I swung my legs off the bed, aiming for the floor.
Thump!
My center of gravity was completely skewed. I hit the floor with a dull thud, my knees barking in protest.
"Okay... this is going to be a massive pain in the ass," I groaned, pushing myself up. I felt like a toddler learning to walk again. I staggered toward what I assumed was the bathroom, immediately hit by a stench so foul it felt like a physical slap to the face.
"Jesus Christ..." I pinched my nose. The bathroom was a nightmare. A cracked mirror hung precariously over a sink stained with rust. I tried the tap, but it only let out a dry, rasping hiss. No water.
"Figures," I muttered. That explained the smell; without water, the plumbing was just a decorative pipe system for waste. I cracked a small window to let the place breathe before finally turning to the mirror.
I froze. Staring back at me wasn't the face I'd spent decades looking at. It was a cute kid, maybe five or six, with deep crimson hair and striking violet eyes. The hair was spiky and wild, but the facial structure was refined—almost elegant. I looked like a feminine version of Minato Namikaze, but with the coloring of an Uzumaki.
"..." I stared in a deadpan silence.
Are you kidding me? I thought. I couldn't be the canon Naruto? I got the fanfic variant? My meta-knowledge of the show was already starting to look like a pile of useless trivia. If I wasn't the blonde Naruto, how much else was different? Was the fox even in here? Was the plot even going to happen the same way?
I huffed, walking back into the main room. Bitching about it wouldn't change the DNA. I had to play the hand I was dealt. My goal was simple: get strong enough to ensure a comfortable, leisurely life where no one could tell me what to do.
But then a horrifying thought hit me. What the hell am I going to do when I'm bored? No consoles. No internet. No Netflix. No chess. I was going to have to raw dog reality in a world that hadn't even invented the TV properly. I shuddered, but then again, the technology level was terribly inconsistent, thanks a bunch, Kishimoto.
I checked the cupboards. It was pathetic. A few cups of instant ramen, most of them past their expiration date. How had this kid even survived? Without water to boil, was he eating the noodles dry? I thought I understood "Naruto's neglect" from the anime, but seeing the reality—the lack of basic utilities, the filth, the isolation—it was worse than any "sad swing" flashback could portray.
Time to plan.
Scout the Area: I need to know the layout of this village and find emergency exits. If things go south, I'm not staying to be a martyr.
The Old Man: I need to meet Hiruzen. I need to see if he's the "kindly grandfather" or the "negligent dictator." Plus, I need to leverage his guilt for better living conditions.
Timeline: I need to know the date. If I have five years until the massacre or ten years until the invasion, I need to know now.
I slapped my cheeks. "Let's go."
The walk to the Hokage Tower was an exercise in psychological warfare. The moment I stepped onto the street, the air grew heavy. I felt the glares—cold, sharp, and dripping with a hatred that felt almost physical.
Is this an involuntary reaction? I wondered. My body flinched every time a whisper reached my ears. Naruto's psychological damage ran deep; even with my mind in the driver's seat, the "hardware" was still traumatized.
"Stay away from him!" a mother hissed, nearly dislocating her son's shoulder as she yanked him away.
I almost reached out, almost said "sorry," but I caught myself. Pathetic. Why am I letting a child's abandonment issues dictate my movements?
"Look at it, trying to act normal," a man scoffed near a vegetable stall.
"I know, right? Honestly, can't it just drop dead already?"
"If you ask me, the Third should've put it down the night it showed up."
I kept my eyes forward, but my inner monologue was a string of creative insults. These people were the definition of irony; calling a child a monster while they bared their teeth like rabid dogs. I wasn't the original Naruto. I wasn't going to spend my life chasing their "precious bonds." If they wanted a monster, I could show them a 'demon' with a grudge, but for now, I needed a mask.
I reached the tower and shifted my posture. I rounded my shoulders, widened my eyes, and put on the most "innocent orphan" face I could muster.
"E-excuse me, m-miss?" I stuttered to the receptionist. "Is Mr. Hokage available?"
She looked down, and for a second, I expected the same hate. But she blinked, her eyes softening. "Aren't you just the cutest thing!" she beamed, reaching over the desk to pinch my cheeks.
Keep your hands off the merchandise, lady, I thought, while giving her a shy grin. "I... I just wanted to talk to him."
"Hokage-sama is available, little one. Come, I'll take you." She grabbed my hand, leading me through the corridors. I made a mental note of her name tag, If she was one of the few who didn't hate me, she was a resource I could use later.
We reached the office. The doors opened, and there he was. Sarutobi Hiruzen. The Third Hokage.
In my world, he was a controversial figure; some called him a saint, others called him the worst CEO in history. Looking at him now, seeing the piles of paperwork and the smell of cheap tobacco, I leaned toward the latter. He was an old man clinging to a system that was clearly broken.
Bare witness to my Oscar worthy acting, peasants.
"...Old man?" I whispered, looking at my feet.
"Naruto? What's bothering you, moving so early in the morning?"
I looked away, biting my lip. "I've been thinking... shocker, right?" I let out a hollow laugh. He gave a small, paternal smile. Hook, line, and sinker. "I've been paying more attention to what people say. I... I still don't get why they hate me so much."
"Naruto—"
"I know, I know," I interrupted, letting my hair shadow my eyes for dramatic effect. "I should just ignore them. But I can't. I want to prove them wrong. I want to show them I can be amazing... that I can be Hokage."
It was pure, Grade-A bullshit. I had zero interest in the paperwork-heavy, target-on-your-back job of Hokage. But it was what he wanted to hear. It was the "Will of Fire" script he lived by.
He looked at me with such pride it was almost nauseating. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. But I suspect you didn't come here just for a heart-to-heart?"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Mhm. I probably sound super ungrateful and bratty... but can you give me a technique? To start? And maybe some books? The librarian... he's a real jerk to me. He won't let me in."
Hiruzen's eyes softened with genuine guilt. Yes, feel bad, you old lizard. Feel the weight of my shitty apartment. "I think I can manage that," he said, reaching into his desk. He pulled out a scroll. "This is the Transformation Jutsu. It's the foundation of all shinobi arts. Master this, and I'll see about getting you some more advanced reading material."
"Yes, sir!" I chirped, bowing low. "Thank you, old man. Really."
I turned and left, my face dropping into a neutral mask the second the door clicked shut. Socializing is such a chore.
I didn't dawdle. I navigated the tower's corridors, keeping my head down to avoid any unnecessary encounters. Once I hit the humid air of Konoha's streets, I practically sprinted back to my dumpster-fire of an apartment.
I slammed the door, locked it—not that the pathetic latch would stop a determined shinobi—and tossed the scroll onto the scratched wooden table. My heart was thumping, but not from the run. This was it. The moment of truth. If this worked, this world wasn't just a prison; it was a playground.
"Okay, let's see the source code," I muttered, rolling open the parchment.
The scroll was old, the paper yellowed but sturdy. I scanned the instructions, my modern mind automatically translating the archaic phrasing into a step-by-step flowchart:
1. Stasis: Steady the physical vessel.
2. Visualization: Create a high-fidelity mental render of the target form (size, mass, texture).
3. Synthesis: Mold internal energies into a uniform 'chakra' compound.
4. Distribution: Coat the epidermis in a consistent, micro-thin layer.
5. Execution: Trigger the change through specific somatic components (Hand Seals).
6. Sustainment: Maintain a constant 'loop' of energy flow.
It looked simple on paper, like an RPG tutorial. But there was a glaring, massive hurdle: I had no idea how to actually feel chakra, let alone move it. In my old world, "energy" was something you paid a utility company for. Here, I was the power plant.
Body and Mind, I reminded myself. Physical and Spiritual energy. It's a chemical reaction, just happening in the soul.
I sat in the center of the room, crossing my legs. I ignored the dust mites dancing in the sunlight and the distant sounds of the village. I closed my eyes and went inside.
"Focus. Don't force it. Just... observe."
I started with the physical. I listened to the rhythmic thrum of my heart. I felt the tension in my calves, the slight ache in my lower back from the floor's hard surface. After a few minutes of deep, rhythmic breathing, it happened. A slow, heavy warmth began to bleed through my skin. It felt like my blood was finally moving after being frozen for a century. It was visceral, grounded, and intensely real.
"Physical energy. Check," I whispered, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
Now for the hard part. I shifted my focus to the 'mind.' I didn't just think; I felt. Memories I didn't ask for began to surface—faces of people I'd never met, the cold sting of winter on a swing set, the crushing weight of loneliness. But I didn't let them drown me. I grabbed that frustration, that stubborn 'I will survive' instinct, and sharpened it into a needle.
The world narrowed. My thoughts became clinical, cold.
Then, I felt the collision.
A pressure blossomed just below my ribs, in the solar plexus. It felt like holding a breath for a minute too long—a tight, expanding balloon of energy that wasn't quite heat and wasn't quite light. My instinct was to flinch, to tense up against the sudden invasion of power.
The moment I tensed, the sensation shattered. The warmth evaporated, and the pressure vanished. I gasped, my eyes snapping open.
"Damn it. Too much grip." I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. "Both of those energies are massive. It's like trying to hold two magnets together that really don't want to touch. One wrong move and I feel like I'll pop like a balloon."
I took a breath, reset, and went back in.
This time, I didn't try to control it. I just let the energies exist in the same space. I relaxed my shoulders, letting the 'balloon' expand naturally.
The pressure responded. It didn't just sit there; it began to flow.
A thick, unmistakable current moved outward from my core, rushing through channels I'd never known existed. It felt like liquid fire—dense, addictive, and terrifyingly powerful. It moved down my arms, up my spine, and settled in the palms of my hands.
I opened my eyes and looked at my fingers. They were humming. Literally vibrating with a blue-tinted haze that only I could see.
"So this is chakra?..." A grin split my face. It was the ultimate drug. I felt like I could sprint across the country or punch through a brick wall. That was.... suspiciously easy. I thought Kurama was supposed to be the world's worst roommate, messing with my control.
Maybe the fox was asleep. Or maybe, because I was 'more Uzumaki' than the original, my natural capacity was so high that his interference was just a drop in the bucket.
I grabbed the scroll again. "Alright. Round two. Let's not look like a dumbass this time."
I stood up, shaking out my limbs. I called forth the chakra again, but this time, I didn't let it roar. I tried to dial it back, treating it like a dimmer switch rather than a power surge. I visualized a perfect, adult version of myself—not a specific person, just a generic, taller male. I focused on the mass, the height, the clothing.
I formed the seals. Ram. Snake. Tiger.
"Transformation!"
POOF!
A cloud of white smoke erupted, filling the cramped room. I coughed, waving my hand to clear the air. As the haze dissipated, I looked down.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
I wasn't a taller man. I was a monstrosity. My arms were the size of tree trunks, bulging with muscles that didn't make anatomical sense, while my legs remained the stubby, short limbs of a six-year-old. I looked like a cartoon character that had never heard of leg day.
I dispelled the jutsu with a frustrated grunt.
"Control is absolute garbage," I muttered, pacing the small room—or attempting to, with my still-shaking legs. "I overcompensated. I dumped seventy percent of the output into my upper half and neglected the anchor. It's a distribution error."
Even without a giant fox actively sabotaging me, the sheer volume of chakra I was working with was the problem. It was like trying to perform brain surgery with a sledgehammer.
I sat back down, a tired but manic light in my eyes. "Fine. If the problem is precision, then I just need more data."
I spent the next three hours failing. I turned into a giant head with tiny feet. I turned into a puddle of flesh. I even accidentally turned into a very realistic-looking chair, which was weirdly comfortable, but not exactly what I was going for.
But with every failure, I was learning the 'code' of the energy. By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting my room in shades of bruised purple and orange, I had a theory. I couldn't just follow the scrolls. I had to rewrite them.
(AN: I decided to do the rewrite by just rewriting the original chapters. Also, I tried to keep it canon; however, I can't promise it'll be correct. I don't know everything regarding the anime. Please remember, this is a fanfic, it won't be perfect.)