The scent of simmering miso soup and freshly steamed rice filled the air, making his stomach grumble in protest.
At the low table, his grandmother was arranging plates—rice, pickled vegetables, and a small piece of grilled fish.
She looked up as he entered, her wrinkled face softening into a smile.
"Obito, you've been at it again, haven't you?" she said, worry flickering in her eyes as she noticed the sheen of sweat on his brow. "Training is important, but don't push yourself so hard. You've only just recovered."
Obito sat across from her, returning a faint smile. "I'll be fine, Grandma. I promise."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she sighed, shaking her head. She ladled soup into his bowl and slid it gently toward him. "You're too much like your father," she murmured.
Obito accepted the bowl with both hands. Warmth spread through his chest at the first sip, soothing his fatigue.
In his past life, meals had been little more than takeout cartons, instant noodles, and lukewarm coffee. Here, a single bowl of hot soup prepared by someone who cared for him felt like a luxury he had long forgotten.
For a brief moment, the weight of transmigration, the looming war, even the shadow of Madara—all of it faded away.
He was just a boy sharing dinner with his grandmother.
"Thank you for the food," he said softly.
His grandmother chuckled and patted his hand with her thin, trembling fingers. "Eat well, little Obito. You'll need a healthy body if you want to be a proper ninja."
As if remembering something, she added, "Ah—your homeroom teacher sent a letter today. He asked about your health. If you've recovered, he wants you back at the academy. But if you still don't feel well, you can rest a little longer."
Obito thought for a moment, then nodded. "It's okay, Grandma. I'll return tomorrow."
Her brows furrowed slightly. "I know you're eager, but be careful during spars, all right?"
Obito's smile didn't falter as he nodded reassuringly, though inwardly he sighed at the irony.
Before his transmigration, Obito had been sparring with Kakashi during academy training when a blow to the head knocked him down.
Obito didn't incur any serious injuries, but it was at that exact moment that his soul had crossed over. From the outside, it looked like he had fallen into a coma from the injury, and when he woke in the hospital days later, everyone assumed it was Kakashi's strike that was to blame.
He hadn't bothered to correct them, of course. Instead, he used it as an excuse to take a month off from the academy.
It not only gave him precious time to stabilize his condition but also served as the perfect cover for the change in his personality. It was a pity for Kakashi, but he had no better choice.
The meal passed in silence. When Obito set down his empty bowl, a thought surfaced in his mind.
What happened to Obito's grandmother in the original story?
From what he could remember, after Obito's supposed death at Kannabi Bridge, she was never mentioned again.
Obito's gaze lingered on the old woman. Her back slightly hunched, her hands trembling faintly with age. A pang tightened his chest.
Did she pass quietly, forgotten in the chaos of war? Or did she mourn alone, carrying the weight of losing her grandson while no one even remembered her pain?
His fists clenched beneath the table. The latter felt far more likely. He had seen it himself—in just the short time he'd been in a coma, she looked like she had aged by several years, worn down by worry.
Obito lowered his gaze, hiding the flicker of determination in his eyes. He wasn't the original Obito. He wouldn't let her be erased from the story. Not only because she was his only relative in this world, but also because of the love and care she had shown him over the past month.
Moreover, intentionally or not, he had taken over the body of the original Obito, which was no different from killing him. This was the least he could do for him and her.
"Let me do the dishes," he said, standing before she could refuse.
She gave him a surprised glance, then chuckled. "Such a good boy. All right, you can do it."
Obito carried the dishes to the sink, washing them carefully before returning each one to its place.
When the last bowl was stacked neatly away, he offered her his arm. "Come on, Grandma. I'll walk you to your room."
She laughed softly at his seriousness but didn't protest, letting him guide her down the narrow hallway.
At the doorway to her room, she paused and rested a hand briefly on his cheek.
"You've grown up so quickly," she whispered, eyes glimmering in the lantern light.
Obito forced a smile and nodded. "Good night, Grandma. Rest well."
She slipped into her room, sliding the door closed behind her.
Obito stood in the quiet corridor for a long moment, staring at the wooden panel before finally turning back to his own room.
Sliding the door shut behind him, he crossed to the corner where a worn wooden chest rested beneath the window. He crouched, fingers brushing across the aged lid before lifting it open.
There weren't many things inside. Just a set of worn-out kunai and shuriken, a polished tanto carefully wrapped in cloth, and a faded hitai-ate whose metal plate bore a shallow scratch.
As he examined them, his thoughts wandered. There was no mention of Obito's parents in the original story. Even after his transmigration, he had inherited no memories of them.
He had always lived with his grandmother. From what she had told him, his mother—Aiko—had been a civilian-born medical-ninja who married into the clan. She had died giving birth to him.
His father, Uchiha Raiden, had been a jōnin of the clan and a member of the Konoha Police Force. He had fallen during the Second Great Ninja War, months before Obito was born.
The chest contained what little remained of them. Sifting through the layers of cloth, Obito finally found what he was searching for: a slim, weathered book and four scrolls.
He carried them to his desk, carefully closed the chest, then settled into his chair.
The scrolls came first. He unrolled them one by one.
Great Fireball Jutsu – C-rank
Phoenix Sage Fire – C-rank
Healing Palm Technique – C-rank medical ninjutsu for minor wounds, bruises, and muscle tears
Hemostasis Technique – D-rank medical ninjutsu to stop bleeding.
Obito's gaze lingered on the scrolls, narrowing. He let out a quiet sigh before setting the fire release jutsu aside. He didn't plan to learn them until his chakra control and hand seals reached a passable level.
The reason was simple. Fire release jutsu were too destructive, and he didn't have anyone to watch over him while he practiced.
He turned attention back to the medical ninjutsu scrolls. His fingers traced the delicate strokes of his mother's handwriting as he fell into thought.
He had never considered walking the path of a pure medical-ninja. But this was his mother's legacy, and it felt wrong to discard it—especially considering these techniques could one day save his life.
Besides, the potential of medical ninjutsu wasn't low. The knowledge gained in the process would also help immensely if he ever decided to delve into research later.
Still… for now, it will have to wait, Obito thought, setting the scrolls aside.
Ever since Tsunade's reforms, the Academy had screened children with potential for medical ninjutsu at an early age. But from what he had heard from Rin, the path demanded far more than just chakra control.
A true medic-nin had to be a doctor first, with sufficient knowledge in anatomy, physiology, pathology, and pharmacology. Only then could one use medical ninjutsu effectively.
Fortunately, the Academy library held beginner texts on each of these subjects. Obito planned to hone his theoretical base there before delving into medical ninjutsu.
Now only a single book remained on the desk. Obito lifted it, opening the worn cover.
His brow furrowed. The handwriting was terrible, almost unreadable. Yet as his eyes traced the words, his breath caught in his throat.
These were his father's notes.
Insights into the nature transformation of fire-attribute chakra!
The lamp's flame flickered, casting long shadows across his desk.
Straightening in his chair, Obito leaned closer, the pages reflecting in his eyes as he read on.