Life in the Hidden Leaf is… quiet. Too quiet, sometimes.
Peaceful, certainly. I wake up without the familiar itch between my shoulders, without the constant paranoia of Lord Voldemort's shadow or Dumbledore's chessboard mind hovering somewhere just out of sight. No prophecies whispering in the walls. No Dark Marks burning. In that sense, it feels like breathing fresh air after years underground.
Boring, though. Painfully so.
My days follow a rigid rhythm: training at dawn, Ninja Academy classes until afternoon, more training until my muscles feel like wet parchment, then sleep. Repeat. No intrigue. No political knives hidden in polite smiles. Just sweat, bruises, and routine.
And tiring… gods, it is tiring. This world doesn't care about comfort. Training here drains you down to the marrow. Chakra exhaustion feels different from magical fatigue, heavier, as if someone is wringing your soul like a soaked cloth.
I met Akira's mother a few days ago. She surprised me. Compared to Corvus's mother, she is… normal. Less unhinged. More human. Genuinely caring. She works at the hospital, which, from what I can tell, is uncommon for an Uchiha. Most of them seem obsessed with combat, pride, and their cursed legacy. Healing feels like rebellion here.
Speaking of Uchihas, the so-called Pride Enforcers lost interest in me after the first day. Their attention shifted to Minato Namikaze.
That… was a mistake on their part.
Minato dismantled them so thoroughly that it almost felt educational. Clean movements. No wasted chakra. No unnecessary cruelty. After that, they stopped bothering me altogether. Not out of fear, I think, but embarrassment. As for me, I never cared enough to respond in the first place.
I finally tried Ichiraku Ramen. It's good. Comforting. Not the divine revelation people make it out to be, but undeniably worth the price. Honest food. No deception. I respect that.
The Ninja Academy is unlike any school I've ever attended. There is no subtlety here. Indoctrination begins immediately. The Will of Fire. Sacrifice for the village. Loyalty before self. It's repeated so often that it becomes background noise, yet I can't shake the feeling that every response, every hesitation, every expression is being catalogued somewhere.
Profile first. Trust later.
Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Hokage, reminds me uncomfortably of Dumbledore. The same grandfatherly warmth. The same careful omissions. But if I'm honest, he feels… lesser. Not as sharp. Not as terrifyingly capable. Still dangerous, though. Dangerous in the way soft hands can still guide a blade.
Danzo Shimura, on the other hand, doesn't even bother with pretense. Extreme doctrine. Ends justify the means. Control through fear and necessity. If this world needed a Voldemort analogue, he would volunteer for the role without hesitation.
And then there is Orochimaru.
If Voldemort is ambition and Danzo is ideology, Orochimaru is curiosity stripped of morality. A serpent that sheds ethics as easily as skin. He unsettles me more than either of them.
Comparing universes is foolish, I know. Yet I keep doing it.
James and Lily feel eerily similar to Minato and Kushina. Brilliant. Loved. Lost too soon. And Naruto… Naruto is unmistakable. A lonely boy carrying a burden he never asked for, smiling too brightly to hide the cracks. Harry Potter, reborn in orange.
But the parallels end there.
In the Wizarding World, Voldemort stood above all others, a singular apex predator. Here, I'm not convinced such a pinnacle exists. Too many monsters. Too many philosophies wearing human faces. Perhaps I simply haven't reached the first true hurdle yet.
The instructors have paired me against Minato multiple times. I lost every match.
Still, the margins are shrinking.
A loss is a loss, but improvement is undeniable. My reactions are faster. My footwork cleaner. I've begun integrating the Clone Technique into my fighting style. Not shadow clones yet, just simple diversions, but even that changes the flow of combat.
I still don't know the Body Flicker Technique. Watching Minato use it feels like watching reality blink.
For the past month, I've restrained myself deliberately. No flashy experimentation. Just fundamentals.
Chakra control exercises every morning.
Three basic jutsu every night.
Again. And again. And again.
Now I can walk on water without breaking concentration. I've reduced the hand seals of basic techniques to a single sign. The goal is one-handed execution… eventually none at all.
It isn't glamorous progress, but it is real.
A month of discipline has sharpened my chakra control and expanded my reserves noticeably. More importantly, I feel aligned with this system now. Less like a foreigner borrowing power. More like someone learning the grammar of a new language.
The village remains peaceful.
Boring.
Tiring.
But beneath the routine, something is taking shape. And when this quiet finally breaks, I intend to be ready.
As of now, I am trying to make sense if sealing techniques, I think this knowledge can easily be synonymous to rune in Wizarding world, but it is not. The fundamental, the structure everything is different. It does not even have the same logic. So I has been a pain, learning it. But, there is progress, I cant wait to return back to Wizarding World and try incorporating the ideas to make better gadgets, especially storage seals and explosive seals.. This is ground breaking. So, greed and hope has prompted me to learn sealing, self study obviously, as Uchiha feel sealing beneath them, and very less seal masters would teach Uchiha, so I did not even try.
Next month will bring the summer break. Which means another week or two decides everything.
Rankings.A test.
And for once, I do not intend to merely survive it. I intend to top it. Rewards from the system is on the line.
That single decision changed my entire approach.
I did something shameless. Calculated. Necessary.
I sought out Fugaku Uchiha.
The man carries authority like a blade kept sheathed out of courtesy, not restraint. When I asked for guidance in Genjutsu, his eyes sharpened instantly. Genjutsu without the Sharingan, he told me, was an uphill climb with broken legs. Inefficient. Wasteful. He advised patience. Wait for the eyes to awaken.
I nodded. And lied that I don't have Sharingan yet.
My Sharingan is already awake.
I just refuse to let anyone know. Not the clan. Not the village. Not even my mother. Power revealed too early becomes leverage in someone else's hands, and I have had enough of that in other worlds..
So instead, I turned sideways.
If visual Genjutsu was risky, I would explore sound.
That… has been humiliating.
Sound-based Genjutsu is harder than it looks. Sound travels slower than light. It disperses. It deforms. Chakra carried through vibration is temperamental, prone to collapsing mid-pattern. My early attempts failed so spectacularly that even I had to laugh. Targets blinked, tilted their heads, and then punched me, I kept challenged Uchiha boys, only to get punched in the face, I kept chasing Rabbits in the forest to practice Genjutsu.
Still, an idea lodged itself in my mind.
What if the Genjutsu didn't come from my voice at all?
I experimented with earrings. Arm bands. Thin chakra-conductive metal etched with shallow channels, meant to hum when air passed through them. Wind chimes disguised as ornaments. The theory was elegant. The execution was… tragic. Sound propagation lagged behind movement. In combat, the delay might as well be an eternity.
So I went even further backward.
I commissioned a flute.
Learning to play it has been a lesson in humility all its own. Fingers aching. Breath control failing. Notes wobbling like newborn deer. But something interesting happened once I layered chakra into the sound. Patterns began to hold. Not strongly. Not cleanly. But enough to tug at perception. Enough to blur edges. Enough to plant hesitation.
I remembered the manga and the anime. A red-haired woman who used sound to summin monsters. If it worked once, it could work again.
The flute works.
That is both encouraging and useless.
No one pulls out a flute in the middle of a battlefield unless they want to die theatrically. And more importantly, I am not proficient enough to run, dodge and play flute simultaneously.
So now, my nights are split. Flute practice to understand the structure of sound-based Genjutsu. Engineering attempts during the day, trying to compress that same principle into earrings and arm bands. Short-range resonance. Instant activation. Minimal delay. But it did not work properly, so I thought of using string based instruments, that could assist me in propagating sound based Genjutsu, so I ordered a make shift guitar, and it worked, it helped more because, I already knew how to play guitar, so there was progress..
But, progress is slow.
Painfully slow.
But it exists.
My chakra control keeps improving. My perception sharpens. I can feel vibrations now, not just hear them. Air moving against skin. Subtle tremors in the ground. Sound isn't just noise anymore. It is information.
This test is coming fast. May be next week.
And when rankings are finalized, I want to top it.
I was halfway lost in a daydream when the classroom door slid open.
The teacher entered with a girl in tow. Red hair. Not subtle red either. The kind that refuses to be background. I knew immediately who she was, even before the teacher cleared his throat and announced a new transfer student.
Kushina Uzumaki.
The protagonist's mother, in the flesh. History wearing sandals.
She wasted no time. Introduced herself loudly, proudly, and then declared she wanted to become Hokage.
The classroom erupted.
Laughter. Mockery. Whispers sharp enough to hurt. I chose not to react. Silence is a habit I cultivated carefully.
Kushina was guided to an empty seat beside Mikoto.
Unfortunate for the boys in the class.
I sat directly behind Mikoto, which meant Kushina was now within my orbit. I felt her glance back at me once. Then again. Curious. Measuring. Not hostile.
What can I say. I am a looker. I am painfully aware of this fact.
After my initial loss to Minato, I leaned into a certain… aesthetic. Melancholy, carefully curated. Silver earrings that chimed softly when I moved. A locket resting just below my collarbone. White t-shirt. Bluish jacket. Black pants. Somewhere between brooding shinobi and tragic pop idol.
It worked.
Loss to Minato did not dent my popularity. If anything, it gave it texture. Tragedy sells better than victory. Add politeness, a soft-spoken demeanor, and the ability to listen, and suddenly even aunties smile at you. I get discounts at the market. I smile while buying vegetables and people forget to charge full price.
I might be the most popular Uchiha in Konoha.
The boys resent it. Quietly or loudly.
Except Minato.
Though after Kushina's entry today, and the way Minato was awestruck, I suspect even he may feel a twinge of something unfamiliar.
I do not want to be obnoxious. Or narcissistic. Truly.
But sometimes reality insists on being narrated honestly.
I have started playing the guitar. Purely for personal growth, of course. Sound based Genjutse practise. I have also begun translating English songs into Japanese. Linguistic exercise. Cultural exchange. Entirely academic.
And yes, I accidentally played one of them on the Ninja Academy rooftop.
Accidentally.
Now most of the girls are fans.
The ninja world is woefully unprepared for quiet sadness paired with musical competence. Girls either want to fix me or smother me. Boys oscillate between admiration and envy.
Kushina turned around again.
This time, I met her gaze.
She blinked. Cleared her throat. Then said, a little too quickly, "Hi, I am Kushina. Kushina Uzumaki."
I smiled, gentle and measured. "Hello, Kushina. I am Akira. Uchiha Akira. Welcome to Konoha."
She spluttered out a thank you and snapped her head forward as if the blackboard had personally offended her.
I smiled again.
Then I turned my attention back to the window.
Outside, the village breathed. Leaves swayed. Clouds drifted lazily. Peaceful. Ordinary.
Inside, the world's history had just taken a seat in front of me.
And I wondered, not for the first time, how much chaos one red-haired girl could eventually bring into a world that thought it understood destiny.
After class ended, my feet carried me somewhere familiar before my mind caught up. The rooftop. My rooftop. Wind-scoured tiles, a generous view of the village, and just enough isolation to pretend I was alone even when I never truly was.
I brought my guitar with me.
I sat, rested it against my knee, and began to strum. Softly at first. Aimless chords. Then a rhythm found me. I let chakra seep into the vibrations, thin and careful, braided into the hum of strings and breath. Not Genjutsu. Not quite. More like… suggestion. Atmosphere.
That was when I felt it.
Eyes.
Not one pair. Several. Distant, disciplined, curious. The weight of attention that does not bother to hide. Hokage-sama, perhaps. Anbu shadows perched like patient crows. Maybe instructors. Maybe worse.
An audience, then.
Well. It would be rude not to perform.
I closed my eyes and let the melody settle before I sang.
---
She's sitting there, all on her own,
Weaving dreams in shades of light,
Eyes so full, she's softly drawn
To catch the clouds beyond her sight.
She's sitting there, all on her own,
Weaving dreams she calls her own,
Eyes so full, she's reaching still,
Through the window, chasing sky.
Her humming thoughts float in the air,
Listen close, they're everywhere,
With every stroke, the clouds run free,
Open your eyes, and you might see.
Her humming thoughts float in the air,
Listen close, they're everywhere,
With every stroke, the clouds run free,
Open your heart, and you'll believe.
She's sitting there, all on her own,
Her dream-machine keeps spinning time,
Old grey clouds are counting slow
The rhythm of the falling rain.
She's sitting there, all on her own,
Dreams awake while hours pass,
Ancient clouds in quiet rows
Tap the beat before the splash.
Her humming thoughts float in the air,
Listen close, they're everywhere,
With every stroke, the clouds run free,
Open your eyes, and you might see.
That humming song calls down the rain,
Drop by drop, it won't refrain,
The rain-soaked heart calls out to me,
"Stay wet, my mind, like a crow set free."
That humming song, soft and low,
Soaks the heart and lets it grow,
In rain-washed thoughts, I hear the plea,
"Stay here, stay true, stay drenched with me."
She's sitting there, all on her own,
Weaving dreams in colors bright,
Eyes so full, she's reaching still,
Catching clouds in window light.
She's sitting there…
All on her own.
---
When the last note faded, the air felt heavier. Not oppressive. Saturated. Like the moment just before rain breaks.
I opened my eyes.
The village looked the same. Tiles. Trees. Smoke curling lazily from chimneys. But something subtle had shifted. The wind carried the echo farther than it should have. Chakra residues shimmered faintly before dissolving, like dew under evening sun.
No applause. No footsteps. No voices.
Of course not.
The watchers never announce themselves.
I smiled to myself, slung the guitar over my shoulder, and stood.
If they were listening, then good.
Let them wonder whether it was art, or technique.
Let them debate whether a boy on a rooftop could bend moods without ever forming a seal.
And somewhere below, in a classroom seat near a blackboard, a red-haired girl was watching clouds through a window, she was not in a good mood, then she heard the song, it made her cry, think of her home, her life before, then she smiled, and started humming the song, unaware how her simple action has rang alarm bells in the minds of the onlookers far away watching via a telescope.