They had married, and soon after, their daughter was born. Life had been good then. Takeru had opened a restaurant, and to his surprise, it thrived. Their family was happy, secure—until war had come, and Yumi had refused to stay safely behind. As a Jonin, she went on mission after mission, despite his pleas. Three years after their daughter's birth, Yumi was killed.
Takeru closed his eyes, feeling the weight of that moment all over again. Her team had been ambushed. Her location had been compromised, leaked to the enemy camp. At first, it had seemed like a tragic misfortune of war—but he had sensed something deeper, something darker.
"I couldn't accept it," he murmured, his fingers grazing the edges of the notebook. "And that's when I started digging. The more I looked, the more I found. Your death, Yumi—it wasn't an accident. I've uncovered 119 more cases like yours. Ninjas whose locations were mysteriously compromised. And there's one thing that ties all of them together—they were all former members of the Senju Clan."
His gaze returned to the photograph, a storm of unresolved questions swirling in his mind. "This is no coincidence. You, Senju Yumi... you were targeted. And I won't rest until I find out why."
After placing the notebook carefully back into the hidden drawer, Takeru locked it and stood up. He walked to the mirror in the corner of the room, his reflection staring back at him. His gaze lingered on the empty sleeve of his left arm, a constant reminder of what he had lost.
"Seven years," he muttered under his breath. "I've trained relentlessly for seven years, pushing my body to its limit. My physical strength is now on par with a Chunin's, and my one-handed swordsmanship has improved… but it's still not enough."
He clenched his fist, the frustration gnawing at him. "At best, I'm an Elite Chunin now. Against someone who can't use high-level ninjutsu, I might fight at the level of a Special Jonin. But if I face even a single Chunin who knows two decent jutsu, it'll be hard for me to win. And that's the reality."
Takeru's eyes darkened as his thoughts turned to his daughter. "This isn't enough to keep her safe. The way former Senju are being targeted, it's only a matter of time before they come for her too."
Staring into the mirror, he felt his frustration boil over. "I hate this." His voice trembled with barely restrained rage. "If I still had both arms, at least I could have reached Jonin level by now. I would have the strength I need to protect her—to keep her safe until she's old enough to defend herself."
In a fit of anger, he punched the wall beside the mirror, his knuckles splitting against the wood as he cursed under his breath. "Damn it!"
Suddenly, a voice rang inside his head, clear as if someone were speaking directly into his mind.
"Who says one-handed characters are weak?"
Takeru's eyes widened in shock. Without hesitation, he crouched, drawing a kunai from the hidden sheath around his ankle, his sharp gaze scanning the room for the source of the voice.
"I'm inside your head."
Takeru's heart raced. He looked around, still tense, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. "Someone from the Yamanaka Clan?" he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening around the kunai.
"No, genius. Have you forgotten? You were reincarnated into the world of Naruto 28 years ago."
The words froze Takeru in place. His eyes narrowed, and his grip on the kunai loosened. Reincarnated. That single word sent a shockwave through him. It was a secret buried so deep within him that he had never spoken it aloud—not to his wife Yumi, not even to his parents. No one knew. How could they?
His mind raced. He had lived another life before this one, in a world where the Naruto series was nothing more than fiction. But in this reality, the world he had read about was real, and somehow, he had been reborn into it. Yet, for years, he had suppressed that truth, choosing instead to focus on his life here—on Yumi, his daughter, his village. But now, the voice had resurfaced, dragging those buried memories back to the surface.
"Who are you?" Takeru demanded, standing still, his senses sharp and alert. "What do you want from me?"
The voice in Takeru's head chimed in again, this time with a sarcastic edge. "I'm not someone from outside, Takeru. Have you forgotten all those fantasy novels and fanfics you used to devour? Shouldn't you be gasping in surprise and saying, 'System?' Then, of course, you'd demand compensation, whining about how late I am, and maybe even treat me as your god or father or whatever nonsense."
Takeru's muscles relaxed slightly, his kunai lowering as the absurdity of the situation began to sink in. His face twitched in annoyance, a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement crossing his expression. "That's how it went in some fanfics and novels," he muttered, "not all."
But curiosity began to prick at the edges of his mind. Could this really be happening? He needed to know for sure.
"Show me my character panel," Takeru said, half-expecting the voice to laugh at him again.
Instead, a soft shimmer appeared in the air before his eyes, and suddenly, a translucent panel formed, displaying information in neat lines.
[Name: Takeru Kokuryu]
[Chakra: 1 (Measured against Kakashi's level.)]
[Strength: Special Jonin.]
[Abilities: Chakra Swordsmanship.]
Takeru stared at the panel, the strange reality of it hitting him hard. This wasn't just in his head—it was real, a manifestation of something that shouldn't have existed here. He blinked twice, then raised an eyebrow.
"Only one chakra point?" he muttered, irritated. "Measured against Kakashi, of course..."
The panel flickered, but the numbers remained unchanged. Special Jonin strength, which he already knew. His abilities—Chakra Swordsmanship—were displayed with clinical precision. But still, the low chakra rank gnawed at him.
"See?" the voice rang out, smug and playful. "I'm here, and you should be thanking me! After all, you've got a system now—better late than never, right?"
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