The faint call of his mother's voice pulled Hiroshi from his thoughts. He had been sitting outside, staring at the darkening sky. The cool desert air whispered against his skin, carrying the scent of sand and sparse vegetation.
"Hiroshi! Dinner's ready!"
Her voice had a warmth to it—gentle, but firm enough to remind him it wasn't a request. He took a deep breath, brushing the sand off his trousers as he stood. The stars had begun to flicker to life, a sight both foreign and familiar.
The house was small but sturdy, its earthen walls holding the day's heat even as the desert cooled. Inside, the smell of spices and cooked lentils greeted him, wrapping around him like a soft blanket. His mother, Kokoro Kazetani, placed a steaming bowl of stew on the wooden table. A flatbread sat beside it, warm and slightly charred, alongside a small cup of herbal tea. His father, Hachirou Kazetani, sat at the table already, his rough hands resting on the wood, his face calm but unreadable.
Hiroshi slid into his seat quietly. No one spoke as they ate, a rhythm of silence punctuated only by the clink of wooden spoons against bowls. This was new to him. In his previous life, meals had been lively affairs, filled with chatter, laughter, or the hum of background noise. Here, the quiet felt almost sacred.
But not oppressive.
After a while, his father broke the silence. "How was your first day at the academy?"
Hiroshi hesitated, organizing his thoughts. "It was… different," he said finally. "The teacher introduced himself. We introduced ourselves."
Hachirou grunted, nodding as though that answer was sufficient. Hiroshi found that oddly reassuring; his father wasn't one for unnecessary words.
Kokoro, however, leaned forward slightly, her soft features shadowed by concern. "Did you meet anyone?" she asked. "Make any friends?"
Hiroshi looked down at his bowl. "Not really," he admitted.
Her gaze lingered, searching his face for something. "Hiroshi," she began, her voice quiet but steady, "friends make all the difference. They'll be there when things get hard. And things will get hard."
Hiroshi glanced at her, startled by the weight in her tone. Kokoro caught herself and smiled, her expression softening. "Just… try to open up a little, okay? You might be surprised."
He nodded but didn't say anything more. After dinner, Kokoro gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Don't stay up too late," she said.
---
That night, Hiroshi lay on his mattress, staring at the wooden ceiling. The walls of his room were bare, the furniture sparse—a single shelf, a small desk, and the bed he now called his own.
He closed his eyes, trying to recall the faces of his parents from his previous life. But the harder he tried, the blurrier their features became. He remembered their love, their laughter, but not their faces. It was a cruel irony, like sand slipping through his fingers.
His thoughts turned to his new parents. Kokoro's gentle warmth and Hachirou's quiet strength were so different from what he'd known. And yet, the way they cared for him was undeniable.
They love me, he thought. As much as they loved their son.
The weight of his new identity pressed down on him. I am Hiroshi Kazetani now. Whether I stole this life or was given it doesn't matter. I have to live it. For them. For myself.
His thoughts shifted to the future—a future as a shinobi. Civilians lived simpler, safer lives, but that wasn't an option for him. Not with what he knew about this world and the dangers lurking within it.
But he wasn't afraid. Not entirely. Because this world had something his old one didn't: chakra.
Chakra… the potential here is limitless. His mind raced with possibilities: water-walking, cloning techniques, elemental manipulation. These weren't just skills—they were miracles defying every law of physics he once understood.
How does it work? Can it be harnessed scientifically? What are its limits?
He lay awake, chasing these questions until exhaustion finally pulled him under.
---
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the cracks in the wall. For a brief moment, Hiroshi thought it was all a vivid dream. But the smell of fresh flatbread and the sound of faint rustling in the kitchen brought him back to reality.
He dressed quickly and stepped out to find his parents already awake. Breakfast was simple—flatbreads with butter, a small bowl of lentil soup, and a few dates for sweetness.
Kokoro hummed softly as she served the food, her movements quick but graceful. Hachirou sat across from Hiroshi, sipping his tea slowly. They exchanged a glance, one Hiroshi didn't miss.
"Did I forget something?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Hachirou raised an eyebrow. "The academy. Don't be late."
Hiroshi nodded sheepishly and hurried out.
---
The academy buzzed with morning energy when Hiroshi arrived. A few students were already inside, chatting or waiting for class to begin. He slipped into his seat near the back.
"Early, huh?"
Hiroshi turned to see girl from yesterday who introduced herself as Mina plopping down next to him, her short brown hair messy but purposeful. She grinned at him.
"You're early too," he said.
"I like the back," she replied, shrugging. "It's not as intimidating as the front. "
Before Hiroshi could respond, the teacher, Takeda, entered. He began the day with a lesson on Sunagakure's history.
Hiroshi listened intently, though the teacher's nationalistic tone didn't escape him. Propaganda, he thought. Classic brainwashing. Still… there's truth in it. Somewhere.
Throughout the day, Hiroshi's quick answers to math and language questions drew attention. Some students whispered among themselves, while others stared with open curiosity.
Mina leaned over during a break. "Show-off," she whispered, her tone playful.
Hiroshi smirked faintly but said nothing.
---
That evening, the academy staff gathered to discuss the new batch of students.
"The usual standouts," Takeda began. "The heirs of prominent shinobi families."
The math teacher, an older man with a sharp gaze, nodded. "Kazama's boy shows promise. Natural aptitude for strategy."
"And the Kobayashi girl," the language teacher chimed in. "Determined. Her written work is exceptional."
A younger teacher, recently appointed by the Kazekage, leaned forward. "What about Project Akira? Any candidates here?"
Takeda frowned. "That's not for us to decide."
The math teacher hesitated. "There is… one. Not from a shinobi family, though. The Kazetani boy. Academically sharp, but we don't know his potential in the field yet."
The younger teacher raised an eyebrow. "A civilian? Those rarely succeed."
Takeda's voice was firm. "The desert doesn't care about bloodlines. It only cares about survival."
As the discussion continued, a quiet tension settled over the room. The stakes were clear: only the strong would thrive, and the academy was just the beginning.
Somewhere in the heart of the village, Hiroshi Kazetani dreamed of a future he would carve with his own hands.
---