Sleep folded around Rei like a thin veil, and the dream rose without warning—sudden and visceral, dragging him backward through time and consciousness into a past that should have been left behind in death.
The Uchiha compound materialized around him with terrible clarity.
Not the quiet, empty streets of morning or the bustling activity of a clan going about its daily business, but the compound as it had been on that night—shadowed and silent, heavy with the weight of what was about to unfold. The scent of tatami mats and night-blooming flowers hung in the air, incongruously peaceful against the violence Rei's hands were about to unleash.
He watched himself move through the streets with mechanical efficiency. A younger Itachi—thirteen years old, eyes already ancient with burden—appeared at doorways and in windows, tanto flashing in moonlight. Each strike was precise, calculated to end life quickly with minimal suffering. He'd told himself that mercy, at least, was something he could offer.
Mothers fell in their kitchens, hands still clutching the vegetables they'd been preparing for tomorrow's meals that would never be eaten. Fathers died defending families they couldn't protect from a threat that came from within. Children—some barely old enough to walk—were cut down before they could understand what was happening, their young faces frozen in confusion rather than fear.
The elderly went quietly, many of them recognizing Itachi and choosing not to resist. They'd lived through wars and understood when death was inevitable. Some closed their eyes and waited. Others whispered blessings or final words of advice that Itachi's younger self couldn't afford to hear.
No remorse showed on his face. Couldn't show. If he'd allowed himself to feel the full weight of what he was doing, he would have stopped—and stopping would have meant war, would have meant Sasuke's death, would have meant the destruction of everything Konoha had built through decades of blood and sacrifice.
So he'd locked his emotions away and become the weapon the village needed, even if it damned him forever.
The dream shifted with the logic of nightmares, time compressing and expanding without warning.
Suddenly he stood before Izumi's house—the girl who'd loved him with quiet devotion, who'd seen past his genius and his burden to the person underneath. She stood in her doorway, eyes wide with dawning comprehension as she registered the blood on his clothes and the bodies visible in the street behind him.
"Itachi?" Her voice was small, confused, refusing to believe what her eyes were showing her.
He met her gaze, and the Mangekyo Sharingan activated with its terrible power.
"Tsukuyomi."
The genjutsu took hold instantly, dragging her consciousness into an illusory world of his creation. Inside that illusion, she lived an entire lifetime in the space of seconds—eighty years of peaceful happiness. She married Itachi in a world where the Uchiha coup never happened, where he'd never been forced to choose between his clan and his village. They had children together, watched them grow, held grandchildren. She grew old surrounded by love and family, her life full and complete.
In reality, her body collapsed as her mind surrendered to the gentle fiction. Itachi caught her before she hit the ground, cradling her carefully as her life slipped away. Her eyes—already losing focus—looked up at him with gratitude rather than accusation.
"Thank you," she whispered, smiling at the beautiful lie he'd given her. "It was wonderful."
Then she was gone, dying peacefully in his arms while believing she'd lived the life she'd always dreamed of.
It was a kindness, he'd told himself. Better than the truth. Better than making her face the horror of what he was doing, better than letting her die knowing the boy she loved had become a monster.
But it was still a lie. A beautiful, terrible lie that let him pretend he'd given her something precious when really he'd just stolen her life while making her thank him for it.
The scene fractured like glass struck by a stone.
Rei stood again in the shadowed interior of his parents' house—the place he'd grown up, where his mother had taught him to cook and his father had instructed him in shuriken techniques. The familiar layout was exactly as he remembered: the low table where they'd eaten family meals, the alcove where his mother's favorite scroll hung.
His younger self faced his parents in the main room. Tanto trembled faintly in his hand despite his best efforts at control. His parents knelt before him in formal seiza, their postures dignified even in the face of death.
Fugaku's gaze was steady—not accusing, not angry, not even afraid. Just immeasurably sad and proud all at once, the complex expression of a father watching his son do something terrible for reasons he understood even if he disagreed with the choice.
Mikoto's eyes were warm, gentle even now. She looked at him the way she always had—with unconditional love and understanding, the kind of acceptance only a mother could offer. There were tears on her cheeks, but her expression remained serene.
"Our philosophies may differ," Fugaku said softly, his voice carrying none of the sternness it usually held, "but I am still proud of you. You are truly a kind child, Itachi."
The words cut deeper than any blade could reach, slicing through carefully constructed emotional barriers to wound the person underneath. They held no blame, no resistance, no accusation of betrayal—only acceptance and love even in the face of death. His father, who'd never been demonstrative with affection, who'd always held Itachi to impossible standards, chose his final words to express pride and understanding.
His mother spoke next, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying clearly in the silent house. "We understand why you're doing this. You've always carried too much, tried to protect everyone. That hasn't changed."
Her hand reached out, touching his cheek with maternal tenderness. "I'm proud to be your mother. Live well, Itachi. And take care of Sasuke for us."
In the dream, Rei felt the ache of that moment all over again with crushing immediacy. The unbearable knowledge of what he had chosen. The weight of their forgiveness, which was somehow harder to bear than hatred would have been. The devastating tenderness of parents who loved him despite everything, who chose to spend their final moments comforting him rather than condemning what he was about to do.
His hand raised the tanto. His mother closed her eyes. His father's gaze never wavered.
The blade fell—
Light fractured. The house dissolved into fragments of memory and darkness. Sound compressed into a single, overwhelming roar that might have been his own scream or simply the howl of guilt that had lived in his chest for years.
Rei's eyes snapped open.
He lay staring at the ceiling of his new bedroom, breath held without realizing it, his small body rigid with tension. The room was quiet, untouched by the violence of his dreams. Early morning light leaked through the curtains in pale streams, painting everything in soft grays and golds that spoke of peace rather than blood. The digital clock on his bedside table read 5:47 AM in glowing numbers.
His heart beat faster than the stillness around him deserved, hammering against his ribs with the kind of panic that came from waking suddenly from nightmares. His small hand curled against the sheets, fingers digging into fabric with enough force to hurt.
Something wet touched his cheek. Rei raised his hand automatically and felt moisture—a tear had escaped without his permission, trailing down his face like evidence of weakness he couldn't afford.
He wiped it away roughly, frustrated by the lack of control. Even now, even in a new body in a new world, the past could reach out and drag him back. Seven years since that night when measured in his previous life's timeline, but the memories remained sharp-edged and immediate, refusing to dull with time or distance.
Rei remained motionless for several minutes, forcing his breathing to slow and steady, imposing control over his physical responses through sheer discipline. This body was five years old, small and weak and untrained, but the mind inhabiting it still remembered how to master itself.
Gradually, his heartbeat settled. His muscles relaxed incrementally. The dream's grip loosened, fading back into memory where it belonged.
It's been one week, Rei thought, letting the observation ground him in present reality. One week since I was reborn into this world. One week since I attended that social gathering and learned about awakeners and their society.
Seven days that had transformed his understanding of where—and when—he'd found himself.
The week had been intensive by necessity. Hidetoshi had taken his role as father and teacher seriously, recognizing that his son's sudden unusual maturity and sharp questions required immediate education rather than gradual introduction. Whether he suspected something had changed in his child or simply accepted Rei's precocity as genius, Hidetoshi had moved quickly to bring him up to speed on the awakened world.
Rei had absorbed the information with careful attention, cataloging every detail while maintaining the façade of a curious but appropriately childlike student.
He'd learned about the Veil Accord first—the foundational agreement that shaped everything about awakened society.
The accord had been established decades ago by the World Awakeners Association, a global governing body that coordinated between different nations' awakened populations. Its primary purpose was deceptively simple: maintain the separation between awakeners and what they termed "mundanes"—ordinary humans without awakened abilities.
According to the Veil Accord, the existence of awakeners was to remain hidden from public knowledge. Not as a conspiracy or sinister plot, but as a practical necessity born from historical experience. Hidetoshi had explained this with the patience of someone who'd thought deeply about the reasoning behind it.
"When awakeners revealed themselves openly in the past," his father had said, his tone carrying the weight of lessons learned through tragedy, "the results were almost always catastrophic. Either mundanes reacted with fear and violence, attempting to destroy what they didn't understand, or awakeners began to see themselves as superior, as natural rulers over those without power. Both paths led to conflict, oppression, and suffering on scales that threatened entire societies."
The Veil Accord sought to prevent both outcomes by maintaining separation. Awakeners would police their own communities, handle their own conflicts, and maintain their own governance structures—but always in the shadows, never drawing attention that would force mundanes to confront the existence of people who could manipulate reality through force of will.
It was, Rei had immediately recognized, a fragile arrangement. Not unlike the hidden village system in its way, though with different mechanics. Both were attempts to contain and channel power in ways that prevented larger conflicts, to create structures that could manage superhuman abilities without letting them destroy the fabric of society.
The accord mandated that all nations with significant awakened populations—Japan, Korea, China, various European countries, the United States, and others—take active measures to prevent public awareness. This meant suppressing evidence, controlling information, managing witnesses when awakened conflicts spilled into public view, and maintaining what they called "mundane interfaces"—organizations and individuals who could operate in both worlds, handling the practical necessities of keeping awakeners hidden while allowing them to function in modern society.
Japan's implementation of the accord was apparently considered one of the most effective, owing to cultural factors and the strength of its organizational structures.
Which brought Rei to the second major revelation: Tokyo's role as the unofficial capital of awakened Japan.
The city wasn't just a major metropolitan area in this world—it was the center of awakened power and influence for the entire nation. Most major clans and organizations maintained their primary facilities there, creating a concentration of awakened individuals and resources that shaped policy for everyone with abilities throughout Japan.
Hidetoshi had explained the structure with visible pride in how the Tsugikane fit into it.
"Tokyo is divided into special wards," his father had said, pulling up a map on his tablet—another piece of technology Rei was still adjusting to. "Twenty-three special wards form the core of the city, and each one has its own character, its own population, its own economic profile. For awakeners, these wards represent territories."
The map had showed Tokyo's complex geography, the wards colored and labeled. Hidetoshi's finger had traced across the screen as he continued.
"The six central wards—Chiyoda, Chuo, Minato, Shibuya, Shinjuku, and Shinagawa—are considered the most prestigious and important. They house the financial districts, the major commercial centers, the government offices. Control of a central ward means significant power and influence."
His finger had stopped on Minato. "This is ours. The Tsugikane clan has held Minato for over a century, maintaining order among awakeners in this territory and representing our interests in the broader Tokyo governance structure."
"And the other central wards?" Rei had asked, his child's voice carrying careful curiosity rather than the analytical interest he actually felt.
"Each is controlled by one of the other great families," Hidetoshi had explained. "Together, we're known as the Six Great Families of Tokyo—the most powerful awakened clans in the city, responsible for maintaining the Veil Accord within our territories and adjudicating disputes among lesser families."
The Hoshin family in Chiyoda. The Kagetsu family in Chuo. The Hibara family in Shibuya. The Tsukishiro family in Shinjuku. The Mihara family in Bunkyō. And the Tsugikane in Minato.
Six families, six territories, six power bases that together formed the core of Tokyo's awakened governance.
Beyond the central wards were the outer wards—larger in area but less densely populated, less economically important, held by middle-sized families like the Kazemoris who Rei had met at the gathering. These families answered to the great families in matters of major policy but maintained considerable autonomy within their own territories.
It was feudalism wearing modern clothing, Rei had recognized immediately. Territory and power bound together, hierarchies enforced through strength and political alliance, all of it operating in the shadows beneath mundane society's awareness.
Some things, it seemed, were truly universal across worlds.
Rei's hand moved to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm. Five years old. Powerless in any practical sense. The heir to one of Tokyo's six great families, with all the burden and expectation that entailed.
I wanted rest, he thought with something close to bitterness. I wanted to be done with responsibility and burden and the weight of other people's expectations. I wanted to stop being a piece on someone else's board, stop making impossible choices, stop sacrificing everything for the sake of a greater good that never seemed to actually arrive.
But here he was. Reborn into another powerful family, another heir with another destiny mapped out before he had any say in the matter.
Different world. Different rules. Different power system.
Same fundamental dynamic.
The morning light strengthened, pushing back the shadows in his room. Somewhere in the compound, he could hear the faint sounds of people beginning their day—footsteps in distant hallways, the murmur of voices, water running through pipes.
Life continued, indifferent to his dreams and regrets.
Rei pushed himself upright, small legs swinging over the edge of the bed. His feet didn't quite touch the floor when he sat like this—another reminder of how young this body was, how much growing remained before he'd be anything close to capable.
He looked down at his hands—small, unmarked by scars or calluses, innocent in a way his previous hands had never been even in childhood.
I killed my entire clan with hands like these, he thought distantly. Slaughtered everyone I'd grown up with, everyone who'd taught me and trained me and believed I would lead them someday. I killed the girl who loved me. I killed my own parents.
The memories sat heavy in his chest, familiar weight that never truly lifted no matter how much time passed or how many worlds he crossed.
I wonder if Sasuke is alright, the thought came unbidden, carrying an ache that was almost physical. I wonder if he found peace after learning the truth. I wonder if he hates me still, or if he managed to move past hatred into something more complex. I wonder if he's alive, if he's happy, if he managed to build something good from the ashes I left him.
Questions without answers. A brother left behind in another world, another life.
Rei slid off the bed, his feet touching the cool floor. He moved to the window and pulled back the curtain, looking out over the Tsugikane compound as it woke to face another day.
The architecture mixed traditional and modern elements in ways that still sometimes jarred his sensibilities. The carefully maintained gardens visible from his window could have existed in any era, but beyond them he could see the edges of Tokyo's skyline—glass and steel towers rising toward a gray sky, monuments to human achievement built without chakra or jutsu.
A different world.
Maybe, with time and effort, he could make it a different life as well.
The dream's grip had finally released him completely. Rei turned from the window and began preparing for the day ahead, movements automatic as his mind continued processing everything he'd learned.
He didn't know yet if this was a gift or a curse, a chance at redemption or simply another burden to carry.
But he was here, alive again despite never asking for it.
So he would adapt. Learn. Survive.
It was, after all, what he'd always done best.