The sesame cookie had been, objectively, of remarkable quality. In terms of flavor and texture, it was delicious—a precise balance of sweetness and toasted savoriness. Subjectively, it constituted the most blatant and yet psychologically effective bribe Asahi had experienced in this life.
'A classic "carrot and stick" tactic,' Asahi mused the next day, as he hung suspended from a beam in the storage shed.
The atmosphere in here was different, heavy with the smell of dry wood, the metallic tang of rust, and the fragrance of compacted earth.
'Although, for the moment, Emi-san seems to have omitted the punitive component. Or, even worse: the reward is so effective that it negates the expectation of punishment. A considerably more insidious strategy, designed to foster complacency.'
The day corresponded to a Tuesday. Meaning, a 'Pull and Legs' session, according to his meticulous fitness schedule.
He was attempting to execute what he remembered as 'inverted rows.'
The wooden beam was of abysmal quality, rough and covered in splinters, exerting painful pressure on his six-year-old palms.
He rested his feet on a decrepit crate that threatened to give way under his weight. He tried to maintain absolute bodily rigidity—an achievement attributable to the brutal core workout from the previous day—while pulling his chest toward the beam.
'One...' A sharp vibration ran through his biceps. The neuromuscular connection was poor.
'Two...' His adult mind possessed the exact procedural knowledge, but his childhood physiology proved woefully inadequate in its execution.
A six-year-old's nervous system was not designed for this load.
'Focus,' he ordered himself, jaw tight. 'Don't pull with the arms. The impulse must originate from the back. Contract the scapulae as if trying to crack a nut between them.' He managed a third repetition, which was more of an uncontrolled neuromuscular spasm than a fluid movement.
'Dorsal musculature is fundamental for climbing,' he reasoned, as lactic acid burned in his shoulders.
'When the Sandaime inevitably reveals his true manipulative nature and I have to escape the orphanage via the rooftops... or when Orochimaru initiates his assault during the Chūnin Exams... the ability to scale walls and trees will be critical. Physical weakness is not an option; it is, so to speak, a death sentence.'
He dropped down, landing with practiced stealth. He exhaled sharply, his breath fogging in the shed's cool air.
'Three. Only three reps. A pathetic result.' The chasm between this effort and Chūnin-level competence seemed unfathomable. 'It will be necessary to exponentially increase the training volume. Fifteen sets of three, if necessary. Total volume is the key to forcing adaptation.'
Next, legs. Squats.
'The legs are the engine. The fundamental principle is cardiovascular endurance, but that is useless without a foundation of strength to support it. How can you flee from a Kumo ninja, or a ROOT operative, if your knees fail after a hundred meters? Escape velocity is everything.' He focused on his technique, a mantra from his past life echoing in his mind:
'Back straight. Chest up. Break parallel. Weight on the heels. Control the descent, explode on the ascent.' He executed ten squats with perfect form. He felt an intense, pure burn in his childish quadriceps.
Nevertheless, the sensation was positive.
Pain was an honest variable, a reliable data point in a world of ambiguous smiles.
Pain did not lie. 'In my previous existence, I paid high fees for access to climate-controlled facilities and specialized equipment. Here, the environment is the gym, and the membership fee is a state of perpetual paranoia. An ironic and brutal transaction.'
He was halfway through his second set, his legs under considerable stress, when the orphanage's main bell resonated. It wasn't the usual melodic chime for a meal, but a rapid, sharp, and urgent ringing that indicated 'assembly.'
He tensed instantly, the fight-or-flight reflex flooding his system. He almost lost his balance. His heart rate spiked sharply.
'What's happening?' His mind cataloged the threats. There were no shouts of fire.
'An attack? Too quiet for an external raid. Is it possible ROOT has begun its recruitment process? A surprise evaluation to select assets from the orphanage?' This was the contingency he feared most. He wiped the sweat from his brow and ran, but not toward the assembly. He moved in a crouch, sticking to the shadows, toward a strategic observation point: the shed's fractured window, hidden behind some burlap sacks.
'Never advance directly into an ambiguous situation,' his survival protocol dictated. 'Observe. Listen. Assess the threat. Survive.'
Emi-san was in the yard. The other children were emerging, yawning and confused. Kenji (the snorer) tripped and fell. None of them showed fear, only mild irritation at the interruption. The lack of panic was, in itself, suspicious.
"Alright, listen up, everyone!" Emi-san announced with a smile that Asahi found deeply suspect. Too wide. Forced.
'No one displays that expression of performative joy unless they are trying to manipulate a situation or cover up an underlying intention.'
"It's a beautiful day, the Sandaime-sama has given us a little extra funding this month, and the Hokage-sama has declared today 'Family Appreciation Day'!"
Asahi felt a chill that had nothing to do with his sweat.
'Seriously? Family Appreciation Day? In an orphanage?' The irony was grotesque, a deliberate psychological blow. 'What kind of manipulation tactic is this? A reminder of our deficiency to foster dependence? A psychological operation to reinforce the Village as the surrogate family?'
"So...!" Emi-san continued, oblivious to his analysis, "We're all going to the central park! I've made onigiri for everyone!"
The other children reacted with euphoria. Park? Onigiri? The simplicity of their joy was baffling. They ran to get their shoes. Asahi leaned against the wall. He felt momentary relief at the absence of ROOT ANBU, which was immediately supplanted by renewed suspicion.
'A park. A public space. Why?'
'It's a situational evaluation. Definitely. They want to observe our instinctive reactions in an uncontrolled environment. Or, alternatively, they are using us as a decoy. A group of orphans...'
"Asahi-kun! Are you in there?" Emi-san called out.
He emerged from the shed, feigning confusion and blinking in the light.
"I'm here, Emi-san."
"Ah, wonderful! Training again, right? So diligent." She smiled. "Come on, get your shoes. It'll be fun!"
'Fun,' Asahi repeated internally. 'No doubt.'
Half an hour later, he was being led through the streets of Konoha. Emi-san was holding his hand firmly.
The day was, to his frustration, climatologically perfect.
The sky was a deep blue. The village was spotless, prosperous, vibrant with activity. Civilians waved to the patrolling ninja... and the ninja waved back with familiarity. The palpable tension, the paranoia of a militarized state that he expected, did not exist.
It smelled like freshly baked bread.
'A facade,' he hissed internally. 'An impeccable stage play. Like The Truman Show. Where is the hidden surveillance? In the telephone poles? Behind the vendors' masks?'
They arrived at the central park. It was congested. Families everywhere. Children laughing, the aroma of dango and grilled fish hanging in the air...
"Come on, kids!" said Emi-san. "Stay where I can see you!"
Kenji and Miko ran for the swings.
Asahi, as soon as Emi-san released him, immediately headed for the park's perimeter.
He sat and pretended to examine the local flora, while his eyes performed a systematic sweep of the surroundings. He was mapping, not just watching. Identifying chokepoints, escape routes, and assessing every individual.
'Where are the ANBU operatives? They have to be here. At a public event with the Hokage, their presence is mandatory.' He inspected the buildings. 'On the roofs? Too obvious. Dispersed among the crowd?'
'The ice cream vendor?' Suspicious. 'The dog?'
He saw a ninja with a dog.
'An Inuzuka. The animal is a sensor. Maintain distance and avoid its line of sight.' He was so engrossed in analyzing a bored-looking Jōnin reading an orange book...
But then he heard it. A high-pitched shout, a child's laugh, and then a female voice that rang out, cutting through the crowd's murmur: "Arashi, come here! Stop bothering the Inuzuka-san's dog with that toy shuriken! DATTEBANE!"
He froze. The world stopped. The acoustic environment faded, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
'That inflection... That verbal tic... No. It's impossible.' His brain rejected the data. He turned his head so sharply he felt a stabbing pain in his neck. And there she was.
No more than thirty meters away. A woman with vibrant red hair, long and brilliant, flowing with her energetic movements. She was wearing an apron.
She was alive. She was healthy. She radiated vitality. And she was scolding a child.
It was Kushina Uzumaki. And beside her, laughing as he scratched the back of his neck... a blond man in the Hokage's cloak, worn casually over his Jōnin uniform. Minato Namikaze. The Yondaime Hokage.
His breathing stopped. His lungs refused to inhale.
'No. Impossible. They're dead. The Kyuubi incident. October Tenth. The attack. The Shiki Fūjin (Dead Demon Consuming Seal). They sacrificed themselves. They must be dead!' It was canonical fact.
It was the cornerstone of the modern era.
Yet, the visual evidence contradicted his fundamental knowledge. They were alive. Buying candied apples.
Minato handed one to Kushina, who accepted it without ceasing her frown at the child. The banality of the scene was surreal. And then he saw the children. There were two. The one running, Arashi, was a redhead like Kushina. Hyperactive, loud, overflowing with energy. The other, standing next to Minato, was calm, observant... and blond. An exact replica of Minato. It was Naruto Uzumaki. The protagonist.
He watched, catatonic, in a state of shock.
The family interaction. Minato ruffling Arashi's hair. Kushina kissing Naruto's forehead. And the villagers... were greeting them?
'A positive interaction?' No one was looking at Arashi with hatred. No one was whispering. An old woman even offered him a sweet, and the boy shouted, "Thanks, Grandma!"
His paradigm of the world, built on six years of paranoia, logic, and canon... collapsed.
'They're alive. Minato is alive. Kushina is alive. Naruto is the quiet one. And Arashi... Arashi is the Jinchūriki and he's... socially accepted. What is this discrepancy? Where is the hatred? Where is the outcast?' He felt a sharp vertigo. The blood drained from his face.
'I'm in the wrong universe. This isn't canon. This is... this is a fundamental narrative deviation. Is this a Genjutsu? Am I insane?' An icy sensation, far more intense than the orphanage floor, washed over him.
'If they are alive... if the Kyuubi attack didn't happen... if Konoha is functionally peaceful and prosperous...' He looked at his hands, small and calloused from useless training. 'Then why did my parents die? If the Kyuubi didn't attack, what event did? What catastrophe happened that night that only affected me?'
'My prior knowledge isn't useless,' he concluded with growing horror. 'It's worse. It's actively detrimental. It's poison. I've been deluding myself for six years.'
'I've been training for a scenario that never existed.'
'And my status as an orphan persists. But now... now the etiology is completely unknown. I am no longer a victim of canon; I am an anomaly in an unknown reality. And that is infinitely more terrifying.'