His body felt like lead. Every muscle ached with an unfamiliar, pervasive soreness, as though he had run a marathon without preparation. Even the simple act of lifting an arm felt like wading through viscous water. The sensation of disconnection with his own body lingered—a strange, unsettling discord that made his movements clumsy, as though he were inhabiting someone else's skin. The hum of the Tenseigan pulsed faintly within him, a low vibration like an electric current just beneath the surface. It wasn't painful but inescapable, an odd buzz that anchored his attention. He lay sprawled on the bed, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling.
A dull ache throbbed at his temples, prompting him to wince and press a hand to his forehead. Perhaps it was the strain of piecing together fragmented memories or the exhaustion of adapting to an overwhelming new reality. His stomach growled, a hollow protest against his neglect, but even hunger failed to motivate him.
Just a little longer, he thought, pulling the blanket over his head. He wasn't ready to face the world outside this fragile cocoon of warmth. Not yet.
His eyelids grew heavy, and despite the lingering ache in his muscles and the subtle buzz in his head, sleep claimed him. It came softly, pulling him into a deep, dreamless reprieve that only exhaustion could bring.
When he woke, it felt as though he'd been struck by a freight train—twice. Every joint groaned and cracked as he stretched, his body stiff like he'd spent the night on bare concrete instead of a mattress. He shuffled into the bathroom, fumbling for the light switch. The bulb flickered once before settling into a weak, uneven glow.
Cold water splashed onto his face, shocking him awake with its icy clarity. He gasped at the sensation, a jolt that chased away the haze of sleep. As he straightened, his eyes locked onto his reflection, and he froze. The face in the mirror was his, but something was off. It was the same yet different, as though painted with sharper, more vivid strokes.
His right eye flickered suddenly, and he stumbled back in alarm. The Tenseigan's pupil flared to life, glowing with an intense, otherworldly blue that pulsed like a living thing. He leaned closer, his breath shallow and uneven.
"What the hell?" he muttered, squinting at the vibrant glow. It was disconcertingly vivid, almost surreal. A half-nervous chuckle escaped him.
"Well, you're certainly flashy today."
The eye seemed to blink back at him, almost as if it had a will of its own.
"Alright, calm down," he murmured, rubbing his temple. Drawing a deep breath, he focused on suppressing the chakra flow. Slowly, the Tenseigan's glow faded, leaving his eyes their usual deep blue. He exhaled in relief, wiping sweat from his brow.
So, I can control chakra? The realization sent a shiver down his spine. He gave his reflection a weak smile and a thumbs-up.
"Not bad for someone who barely knows what he's doing."
With a shrug, he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water cascaded over his skin, drawing a groan of relief from his lips. The tension in his muscles melted away, replaced by a soothing warmth. He leaned against the cool tiles, letting the steam envelop him as the water washed away the remnants of stiffness.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, a quiet laugh escaping him. "One minute, I'm minding my own business in my world, and now… this. A shower in the Naruto universe." He shook his head, incredulity flickering across his face.
"What's next? Breakfast with Madara? A date with Kaguya?" He snorted at the absurdity, the image of such encounters almost laughable. "No, no… dinner and drinks with Tsunade would be a better choice."
He smirked at the thought. Tsunade might be over fifty, but her appearance was youthful and undeniably alluring—like someone in their thirties. She could make herself look even younger if she wanted to.
The absurdity of his musings hit him, and he couldn't help but laugh softly. It wasn't humor born of joy but of sheer disbelief at how surreal his situation had become.
Finishing his shower, he stepped out and grabbed a towel. It was worn and scratchy, but it did the job. The mirror, fogged from the steam, reflected his damp visage as he wiped it clean with his hand. He stared at his reflection, combing his wet hair back.
"Who are you?" he murmured, half-joking but with an edge of seriousness. He felt like an actor miscast in a role he didn't fully understand.
Suddenly, pain shot through his head, sharp and invasive, as though a needle were drilling into his brain. He clutched his temples, his vision swimming. Amid the pain, a fragment of memory surfaced—fleeting, blurred, but unmistakable. A name echoed in his mind, clear and resonant.
Tomaru… Minakura.
The words felt foreign yet familiar. He repeated them softly, testing their weight and meaning.
"That's my name," he whispered. "Tomaru Minakura."
The room seemed to hold its breath, the buzzing in his head ceasing as clarity took its place. It wasn't much—a name—but it was a start. The missing piece of a puzzle, small but significant, had fallen into place.
A name. An identity. It felt right, as though the scattered fragments of his existence were beginning to align.
He looked at his reflection again, truly seeing himself for the first time.
"Tomaru Minakura," he said, more firmly this time. And with that declaration, it felt like he had taken the first genuine step toward understanding who he truly was.