Naruto: Beastmaster of the Multiverse Chapter 1 — Konohagakure
"Sigh… of all places, I had to end up in a world like this. I don't know whether this is the Goddess of Fortune smiling at me… or the Goddess of Misfortune playing a cruel joke."
The speaker was a small child, his face faintly sullen, annoyance barely concealed in his voice.
His name was Ruofeng.
He looked no more than four or five years old.
Seated inside a quiet, tastefully designed courtyard, he rested his chin in his hands. Before him lay a small, crystal-clear pond. The clothes he wore were made of fine fabric—far too expensive for an ordinary household.
This wasn't just wealth.
This was the kind of wealth backed by status and influence.
"If this were Earth," Ruofeng muttered, "I'd definitely be a second-generation rich kid. But in this world? Money means nothing. One wrong move and you're dead."
A faint melancholy crept into his expression as his gaze drifted toward the distance.
There, carved into the mountainside overlooking the village, stood three immense stone faces.
The Hokage Monument.
"The First… the Second… the Third…"
He frowned slightly.
"Where's the Fourth? Not carved yet…"
Which meant the current Hokage was still the Third.
And that meant—
The Second Shinobi War.
exhaled slowly.
"The Third Hokage hasn't been in office long, and the war has already reached a stalemate phase… This era is tragic no matter how you look at it. It's the Second Shinobi War, after all. Even if it's no longer the brutal opening slaughter, a drawn-out mid-war stalemate isn't exactly better."
He calculated quietly.
"At my current age… if I become a shinobi, I'll definitely catch the tail end of the Second War."
"And even if I survive that… the Third Shinobi War won't be far behind."
There was no good outcome.
Yes.
Ruofeng had transmigrated.
He had once been an ordinary young man on Earth—not a recluse, not a failure. Just a normal, decent person living a simple life.
And yet, for reasons beyond comprehension, he had been thrown into the world of Naruto.
Not the anime.
Not the manga.
A real, breathing shinobi world.
The manga showed passion, camaraderie, heroism.
But it never showed everything that lay beneath that surface.
From the moment he was born, Ruofeng knew where he was.
Because when he first opened his eyes—
He saw a pair of crimson eyes staring down at him.
Scarlet irises. Black tomoe slowly rotating within.
If those weren't contact lenses, then there was only one answer.
The Sharingan.
He never saw those eyes again after that day. But over time, through fragments of information and observation, he confirmed it.
This was truly the world of Naruto.
And in this world, shinobi stood above all.
If you possessed chakra, you were born superior.
Within Konohagakure, civilians and shinobi appeared to coexist peacefully. But beyond the village walls—or in other hidden villages—that illusion shattered quickly.
In some villages, shinobi might not openly oppress civilians, but the arrogance of superiority was always there.
Outside a ninja village's protection?
Civilians were no different from ants.
Even among shinobi, hierarchy was absolute.
Clans possessing kekkei genkai stood at the peak.
Clans with inherited secret techniques followed closely behind.
Civilian-born shinobi formed the lowest tier.
Ruofeng understood this clearly.
And because he understood—
He had never once considered living an ordinary life.
If he had been reborn into the Naruto world and chose not to become a shinobi, what would he become instead?
A merchant?
A bystander?
And when Konoha faced destruction in the future—as it inevitably would—how would he survive?
He refused to leave his fate in someone else's hands.
His destiny would belong to him alone.
⸻
Unfortunately, he was simply Ruofeng.
No prestigious surname.
No clan backing.
Just like any other civilian child.
Yes, his maternal grandfather was extremely wealthy—controlling nearly two-thirds of Konoha's hot spring businesses.
But compared to the great shinobi clans?
That gap was immeasurable.
And yet…
Ruofeng had always felt something was strange.
That pair of crimson eyes at birth.
The faint trace of hatred within them.
There was no doubt—it had been the Sharingan.
But why would someone bearing the Sharingan look at a newborn with hostility?
He didn't know.
Still, being connected to the Sharingan at all—
That wasn't ordinary.
⸻
As he grew older, he discovered something else.
His parents had died on the day he was born.
The only family he had left was his grandfather.
And that grandfather never spoke of shinobi.
Never spoke of Ruofeng's parents.
He only provided an abundance of wealth, ensuring Ruofeng lived comfortably—lavishly, even.
That silence only deepened Ruofeng's suspicions.
He searched the entire estate more than once.
No ninja tools.
No scrolls.
No hidden compartments.
Nothing.
At one point, he even considered using his immense wealth to purchase ninjutsu.
He quickly learned how naïve that idea was.
Money could not buy ninjutsu.
Unless you were born into a major clan, the only legitimate path was the Ninja Academy.
He had also thought about hiring a shinobi as a private tutor.
But he wasn't someone like Konohamaru—grandson of the Hokage, with a jōnin caretaker assigned to him.
Ruofeng had asked around discreetly.
Hiring a jōnin instructor?
Almost impossible.
Even if he could invite one, no shinobi would casually pass down real techniques.
At most, they might teach the fundamentals.
Shurikenjutsu.
And the Three Basic Techniques:
•Transformation Technique (Henge no Jutsu)
•Clone Technique (Bunshin no Jutsu)
•Substitution Technique (Kawarimi no Jutsu)
Everything beyond that required rank, merit, or lineage.
If he wanted proper training, the Ninja Academy was the only viable route.
And even then—
It depended on whether he could successfully extract chakra.
Chakra.
Everyone possessed it to some degree.
But possessing chakra and being able to refine and control it were two entirely different matters.
The Academy taught a standardized chakra extraction method—the most basic one.
Clans did not use that method.
Each clan had its own refined cultivation techniques, passed down through generations.
Like internal cultivation manuals in martial arts novels—some superior, some inferior.
Ruofeng's pride wouldn't allow him to settle for the lowest tier method.
So even at five years old, he had not begun formal ninjutsu training.
Instead, he asked his grandfather to procure medicinal herbs for body-strengthening baths.
Even those formulas had been obtained at considerable cost from families connected to minor shinobi lineages.
In simple terms:
In this world, wealth nurtured strength.
Why were clan shinobi powerful?
Because from childhood, they strengthened their bodies through medicinal baths and trained using superior methods.
Civilian shinobi threw shuriken.
Clan heirs cultivated legacies.
After entering the Academy, promising students would be assigned to jōnin instructors.
Through missions and experience, those instructors might eventually pass down real techniques.
The truly exceptional among them might even be accepted as personal disciples.
That was the gap.
And Ruofeng?
He stood outside the gates.
Waiting.