I woke up to the unmistakable sounds of a brawl—loud, chaotic, and frankly, impossible to describe.
It was like someone had taken the sound effects from a bad kung fu movie and smashed them together: paaa! bang! bang! puuu! You get the idea. Definitely a fight, though.
Opening my eyes was a task unto itself. They felt like they'd been super-glued shut, and my whole body screamed for a recharge—either that or a complete system meltdown involving vomit everywhere.
Mental note: never smoke Thick Martian Weed again. Not worth it.
When I finally pried my eyelids apart, the scene before me was...something. Two guys, both barely out of their teens, were going at it in the middle of the club.
One had bright purple hair, like a cartoon character, and the other sported this bluish-black mop that screamed "edgy boy band reject." Both looked like total clowns, yelling at each other with all the finesse of rabid toddlers.
"FUCK YOU!"
"NO, FUCK YOU!"
And the crowd? Oh, they loved it. They weren't cheering in the wholesome, "go team!" kind of way. No, this was more like tossing gasoline on a fire to see how big the flames could get.
Bigger. Better. Stronger.
That was the vibe.
A pack of hyenas hyping up the carnage, not because they cared who won, but because watching two idiots punch each other was their version of high-class entertainment.
Rich monkeys laughing at poor monkeys tearing each other apart.
It was ugly. It was primal. It was...weirdly fitting for a place like this.
"Yo… Itachi, what the hell's going on here?" I asked, lazily turning my head to the right. My body sank deeper into the sofa, the cushions swallowing me up like they knew I wasn't getting up anytime soon. Too damn high for that.
That said, I wasn't too high to watch a couple of chimps brawling in public. Priorities.
On my right sat Itachi. Jet-black hair grazing his shoulders, red pupils gleaming unnaturally bright—just colored lenses because this guy decided brown eyes weren't edgy enough. His skin? So pale and flawless it practically came with a free pass to call anyone the C-word without hesitation.
And, of course, the golden cigar-looking thing dangling from his fingers. A puff of smoke curled up as his bloodshot eyes glowed faintly, courtesy of that Martian Thick Weed we'd been torching all night. Classy.
He took a long drag, holding the cigar aloft like it was a damn magic wand, and exhaled before answering. "The monkey with purple hair? He said, 'Flat is justice! Sakura is perfect.'" Itachi waved his hand, ash trailing lazily into the air, his tone as casual as if he were narrating a weather report.
"And the other monkey?" I prompted, already sensing where this train wreck was headed.
Itachi's lips curled slightly as he looked at me, amusement flickering in his crimson lenses.
"That one fired back with, 'Ah, the perfect disguise for justice. No one would suspect a plank.'" He paused for dramatic effect, flicking the cigar. "And they've been at it for, like, thirty minutes now."
I blinked, the absurdity sinking in. "You're telling me they're beating the crap out of each other over anime waifus?"
Itachi shrugged, taking another puff. "Flat is justice, apparently."
"I was better off being a criminal in the shinobi world with damaged lungs," Itachi muttered suddenly, his voice laced with regret as he took another puff from the golden cigar. Smoke curled around his face like a mournful shroud. "Why do I have to reincarnate in this shithole?"
And puff—another drag.
I sighed, already resigned to this routine. Here we go again. The man had a flair for tragic monologues. Sometimes, I wondered if he'd ever let this go and just… act like a normal reincarnated person. Though, who was I kidding? Normal wasn't exactly in the cards for a guy like Itachi.
What really killed me, though? The guy was so hung up on his past life and his damaged lungs—yet here he was, chain-smoking like it was an Olympic sport. And let's not forget how he invested billions into developing Martian weed just to get his fix. You'd think reincarnating would give him a chance to start fresh, but nah, he went all in on this self-destruction hobby.
Oh, and yeah, in case you're wondering: this is the same Itachi from Naruto. The same cold, calculating genius who massacred his entire clan and became the subject of Tobirama's eternal dick-riding fanfiction.
If you're asking what Itachi's doing here right now—smoking weed, ranting about reincarnation, and generally being a walking existential crisis—well, let me explain.
This world? It's where underrated characters from anime reincarnate after dying. It's like some cosmic HR department decided to give us all a second chance.
Take Itachi, for example. Or Tobirama. Or me. Yeah, you heard that right—I'm one of them too.
I come from Demon Slayer. That's right, the anime everyone pretends to love for its "storyline" but really just watches for the god-tier animation. I was Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
You know, the perfect human. The guy who made Muzan his bitch, invented breathing styles, and basically carried the entire Demon Slayer Corps on his back. That was me.
Now? I'm stuck in this bizarre purgatory where people like Itachi spend billions to get high and pick fights over waifus. Life—or afterlife—is wild like that.
Damn, I wish I wasn't such an introvert back then! Gosh, I could've rizzed up so many females back in the Demon Slayer world. The regret hit me like a brick wall—an old, familiar sting that's been bothering me for years.
I mean, let's face it: I was boring in my past life. No bitches, no money, and a jealous, maybe-gay brother who kept life extra spicy in the worst way. What did I have? Just my sword and a mission. But now? After reincarnating and discovering Demon Slayer merch, anime theories, hentai—don't judge me—I see it all so clearly.
I was stupid. Blind to the potential.
But let me tell you, I've changed. I'm not that introverted, "perfect human" anymore. Nah. Now, I'm the Rizzler! …Okay, that was cringe, but hey, it's the spirit that counts.
"Yo, Yoriichi," Itachi's voice broke my train of thought as he took another puff of his Martian weed. His red, weed-glazed eyes locked onto me lazily. "Mahoraga and Makima told us to come to Peach Juice Palace for some melon juice. You remember?"
The fog in my brain cleared just enough for me to recall. Oh, shit. They did tell us to swing by around 2:75. A quick glance at the clock hanging on the bar wall told me it was already… 3:69 AM. What kind of time system even is this?
"Meh, we're late already," I shrugged, leaning back on the sofa and pointing lazily at Itachi. "Let's bet on which monkey wins instead."
Itachi gave me a tired look, his eyes heavy with a mix of regret and weed. Then, slowly, he smirked.
"My bet's on the purple-haired monkey," he said, tilting his head toward the ongoing brawl.
"Then the black-haired one's mine," I replied, matching his smirk. The fight raged on, a chaotic spectacle of flailing limbs and shouted obscenities. In the background, the crowd roared with delight.
Late to melon juice or not, this was shaping up to be a damn good night.
As we continued watching the fight, the noise of the crowd was suddenly interrupted by a distinct, repetitive sound from behind us.
FAP FAP FAP FAP.
I froze for a moment, unsure if I was actually hearing it or if the Martian weed had finally done a number on me. Slowly, I turned my head toward the source.
There, in a small room with the door wide open, was a man with silver hair. And he was... Oh God, why?! Fapping his little brother—no euphemisms here—to the Uchiha Massacre.
"HEY, Itachi," I leaned over and whispered in his ear, barely keeping the disgust out of my voice, "Tobirama's at it again. Fapping to the Uchiha massacre."
Itachi didn't even flinch. He just let out the deepest, most exasperated sigh I'd ever heard, like this was as routine as someone forgetting to lock the bathroom door. Without missing a beat, he suddenly flipped backward out of his seat—yes, a literal backflip—and landed on his feet.
Calm but focused, he marched straight toward the room Tobirama was in, radiating an aura that screamed, I've had enough of this shit.
Now, if you're wondering why Tobirama was doing... that, well, it's sort of a canon event. See, Tobirama has this weird... thing where he gets off to the Uchiha massacre. According to him, nothing in the world brings him more joy—or, apparently, pleasure—than seeing his long-hated rivals wiped out in glorious detail.
One time, in a moment of what he probably thought was "bonding," Tobirama shared a story with me:
"I once saw a Senju boy beating a pregnant Uchiha woman," he'd said, deadpan. "It made me so angry... so furious, that I jumped in. I had to make it fair."
I thought maybe this was a turning point in his tale—a glimmer of morality. But no.
"I made it a 2v2," he finished proudly.
So yeah. If you weren't convinced he's completely unhinged by now, I don't know what to tell you. This man is too far gone.
Fuck this.
I've been corrupted by these fuckers too. Look at me—high off Martian weed, betting on monkey fights, and casually watching Tobirama do his unholy ritual. What even is my life anymore?
Hic.
Wait... why am I getting hic—HIC.
The hell is going on? Before I could even piece it together, a sharp pain jolted through my chest. My vision blurred, and everything felt... distant.
And just like that, I was gone.
No glorious death. No epic fight. No last-minute speech or dramatic revelations. I just... died.
Demon Slayer World.
Lord Yoriichi is back, bitch!
(Said the author to himself with a shit-eating grin, ready to unleash chaos once more.)
{A/N: So, How Was The Starting Point Of The Story?}