Two years old. That milestone crept up on me like the mist that always blankets Kirigakure—slow, insidious, and impossible to ignore once it's there. I'd spent my first year as little more than a helpless observer, my adult mind trapped in a body that could barely roll over, absorbing the world around me like a sponge in a downpour. The second year had been about dipping my toes into the family dynamics, learning to toddle, babble, and interact just enough to blend in without raising suspicions. But as my second birthday came and went—a quiet affair with the mothers clustering around a small cake made from scarce flour and imported fruits, my half-siblings clapping as I "blew" out a single flickering lantern flame with their enthusiastic help—a cold, unrelenting realization settled deep in my gut like a lead weight. This world is dangerous. Far more than I initially grasped. Kirigakure isn't some peaceful haven; it's a viper's nest where the weak are culled without mercy, where strength isn't a luxury—it's the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave in the fog. I'm just a toddler, my legs still wobbly, my hands too small to grip anything substantial, but in my mind, I'm Erick, the man who endured the blistering sands of deployment, the relentless grind of MIT, and a lifetime of self-reliance born from neglect. I know what's lurking out there: wars that devour entire villages, betrayals that cut deeper than any blade, and an era of blood that could be raging right now or simmering just beneath the surface. If I don't start preparing now, accelerating my growth in any way possible, I might not survive long enough to uncover the truths of this place or make any meaningful impact. I might not survive at all.
The thought gnawed at me that night, long after the compound had fallen into its usual hushed rhythm under the eternal veil of mist. My mother had tucked me into my small bed, her flaming red hair catching the faint glow of the lantern as she leaned over, singing that soft, unfamiliar lullaby from her distant homeland. Her voice was a rare source of warmth in this cold, damp world, a reminder of the vitality she carried—something I suspected was tied to her mysterious origins. But sleep evaded me like a slippery eel. Instead, I lay there in the dark, staring at the damp stone ceiling, my tiny hands clenched into fists under the thin blanket, my mind racing with strategies and memories from my past life. I needed a way to defend myself, to build a foundation of power that could protect this fragile body. But how? A two-year-old can't wield a sword without toppling over, can't throw punches that land with any real force, can't even run fast enough to escape a casual pursuit. Physical training would have to wait until my muscles caught up. No, the real key here—the supernatural edge that turns ordinary shinobi into legends—is chakra. That elusive, intangible energy, a fusion of physical stamina and spiritual will that powers every jutsu, every superhuman feat in this world. In my past life, there was nothing remotely like it—no magic, no ki, no mystical force to bend reality to your whims. Just science, logic, and the cold precision of code and circuits. Here, it's different. I've felt hints of it before, a faint hum deep inside my core, like an electric current idling in the background, waiting to be switched on. It's new to me, alien to my reincarnated soul, and that very novelty makes it stand out starkly against the backdrop of my ordinary human memories. Like noticing a foreign object embedded in your body after an accident—you know it's there because it wasn't before, and it changes everything about how you move, how you feel.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and evenly, just as I'd recalled from those late-night binges on Naruto episodes and manga scans in my old life. Focus inward. Block out the external distractions—the distant drip of water seeping through the stone walls, the faint snores from my mother's room next door, the occasional creak of the compound settling under the weight of the mist. Search for the flow, the source. At first, it was frustratingly empty, a void that mocked my efforts. Just my heartbeat thumping steadily in my chest, the rise and fall of my small ribs with each breath. But then, as I persisted, a warmth bloomed in my lower abdomen, spreading outward like hot tea sipped on a freezing desert night from my deployment days. It was subtle at first, almost elusive, but unmistakable once I latched onto it. Chakra. My chakra. It felt like a lazy river coursing through me, untamed and meandering, full of raw potential but lacking direction or control. I mentally prodded it, trying to stir the waters into motion. A tingle shot up my spine, prickling my skin—success? Or just my overactive imagination? No, it was real, tangible. Easier than I had anticipated, perhaps because of my unique perspective as a reincarnated soul. In my past life, I had no such energy to compare it to; now, its presence was a glaring anomaly, a new "limb" that my mind could isolate and explore. Add in the Hoshigaki blood running through my veins—known for its brute power and resilience—and whatever mysterious vitality my mother carries (those Uzumaki-like traits that I can't quite pin down yet), and it made sense why it responded so readily. Step one: located. A small victory, but one that ignited a spark of hope in the darkness.
But locating the chakra wasn't the same as commanding it. That was the real challenge, the grind that would test my patience and resolve. I needed a practice method—something simple, discreet, that I could do in the secrecy of my bed without alerting the ever-watchful eyes of the compound. The leaf exercise came to mind immediately, a foundational drill I'd seen described in countless Naruto scenes and fan discussions. Sticking a leaf to your forehead using nothing but precise chakra control. It's basic, almost mundane for academy students, but perfect for my situation: no fancy tools or equipment required, just mental focus and persistence. No one would suspect a toddler playing with leaves. But where to get the leaves in the first place? The compound isn't a lush forest; it's a fortified stone labyrinth designed for defense, not leisure. There's a small garden that Yori, the sixth wife, tends with meticulous care—herbs for cooking, a few hardy vegetables that thrive in the damp soil, and some low bushes planted for shade and a touch of green in this gray world. Those bushes have leaves: green, sturdy, with just enough surface area to test adhesion. I couldn't just ask for them; that would raise questions or, worse, invite scrutiny. So, I planned my first "heist," a childish act of stealth that felt ridiculously thrilling for someone who'd once navigated military patrols.
The next day, during the afternoon when the mothers gathered in the courtyard for their usual circle of conversation—sharing village gossip, complaining about the endless humidity, or exchanging tips on child-rearing—I "wandered" innocently closer to the garden edge. Pretending to chase an imaginary butterfly or bug, toddling with exaggerated clumsiness to sell the image of a curious baby, I plucked a small, fresh leaf when their eyes were turned. My heart raced as I tucked it into the tiny pocket of my simple tunic, not from fear of punishment (what would they do to a two-year-old?), but from the excitement of secrecy, of taking that first step toward independence. No one noticed; they were too busy laughing at one of Kaho's stories. Success. That night, alone in my bed after the lanterns dimmed and the compound fell into its nocturnal hush, I pulled the leaf out. It was cool against my skin, slightly damp from the mist that permeates everything here, with a faint earthy scent that reminded me of the gardens back in California—another life, another world.
I held it to my forehead, closed my eyes, and channeled. Make it sticky. Focus the chakra like glue or a magnetic field. Simple in theory, right? Wrong. The leaf slipped off immediately, fluttering to the floor with a soft rustle that seemed deafening in the silence. I tried again, building the warmth in my core and pushing it upward through my neck, imagining it pooling at my brow. A faint tingling spread across my skin, but... drop. It fell again. Frustration bubbled up inside me, hot and familiar from my past life's failed experiments in the robotics lab—circuits that wouldn't connect, code that threw endless errors. Why is this so damn hard? In the stories, kids like Naruto struggled because they were hyperactive or lacked focus, but I have an adult mind—discipline forged in deserts and deadlines. I should have an edge. But no. My chakra felt wild, turbulent, like a raging torrent rather than a calm, controllable stream. Maybe it's the Hoshigaki influence—raw, overwhelming power that's hard to finesse without practice. Or perhaps the vitality from my mother's side making it overflow, like too much current in a wire. Whatever the reason, it wasn't sticking. I retrieved the leaf from the floor, careful not to crinkle it too much, and tried a third time. Same result. Exhausted, I hid it under my pillow for the next night and forced myself to sleep, mind swirling with adjustments for tomorrow.
For the first two months, it was a relentless cycle of failure, persistence, and small adaptations. Every night, after ensuring the compound was truly quiet—the soft snores of my mother in the adjacent room, the occasional patrol footsteps fading into the mist—I'd retrieve my hidden leaf (I started stashing a small collection under my mattress, rotating them as they wilted to avoid suspicion). Focus, channel, fail. The leaf would twitch sometimes, its edges curling slightly as if teasing me with potential, hovering for a fraction of a second before plummeting to the ground. I'd curse mentally—profanities from my past life that no two-year-old should even conceive of—then pick it up and try again, varying the intensity, the visualization. "Like a vacuum," I'd think. "Pull it in." But it slipped away like sand through fingers. Frustration mounted, but so did determination. This wasn't just about sticking a leaf; it was about control, about turning this alien energy into a tool. Disposal of the used leaves became a mini-operation in itself—I couldn't leave evidence scattered around. During daytime "play" sessions in the courtyard, I'd crumble the old, wilted ones and scatter the pieces into the garden soil, pretending to "help" Yori plant seeds or water the herbs. She'd smile down at me, ruffling my hair with her calloused hands: "Good boy, Arashi. You like helping, huh?" If only she knew the truth. The irony wasn't lost on me—using the garden as both source and dump site, all under the guise of innocent toddler antics.
The breakthrough came when I realized sticking the leaf directly was too advanced for my raw control; I needed to backtrack to the fundamentals. Circulation first. Lie still, breathe evenly and deeply, push the warmth from my core through my body like blood flowing through veins—to my arms, my legs, my fingers and toes, and then loop it back to the center. Like testing a circuit in one of my old robotics projects, ensuring the flow was smooth before adding complexity. At first, it was exhausting—sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool night air, my head throbbing like a migraine from the mental strain. I'd wake up the next morning drained, my small body aching as if I'd run a marathon, but I persisted. A week in, I felt it move reliably to my hand. My fingers tingled, pins and needles but under my command. Progress—sweet, hard-earned progress.
I switched the test to my hand for simplicity. Place the leaf on my palm, visualize the chakra as a vacuum—pulling inward, creating suction without physical force. The first attempts were dismal: the leaf sat limp, unmoving, mocking me. Then, a flicker. The leaf's edges curled slightly, as if caught in a gentle breeze. My heart leaped in my chest—that was it! More focus, more nights of silent, sweat-soaked concentration. After several days, it stuck—for a single second. Then two. By the end of the month, I could hold it for ten seconds solid, the leaf adhering firmly as if glued. Triumph surged through me like a wave crashing on the shore, a rush of adrenaline that made me want to whoop in victory. But I suppressed it, biting my lip to stay quiet. I did it. Now, transfer the skill to the forehead. That proved harder—the distance from the core chakra point in my abdomen felt longer, the control required finer, more precise. But I adapted, visualizing the flow snaking up my neck like a river finding its path, pooling at my brow like a dam ready to release.
When it worked the first time—the leaf holding firm for five whole seconds without budging—I nearly lost control and laughed out loud, a genuine, childlike giggle bubbling up before I clamped down hard on it. The sound escaped as a muffled squeak, but thankfully no one stirred. I lay there in the dark, heart pounding, the leaf still stuck as I carefully peeled it off. This was power. Real, tangible power that I could build upon. The danger of the world felt a fraction less immediate; I had a spark now, a foundation to cultivate.
As the months rolled on, I refined the exercise relentlessly. My chakra began to feel less like a wild hose spraying uncontrollably and more like a faucet I could twist to adjust the flow—slow for precision, strong for bursts. Stealing leaves became a well-oiled routine: a quick, innocent pluck during courtyard playtime when the mothers were distracted by conversation or the older siblings' training sessions. I'd hide them in my pockets or sleeves, smuggling them back to my room like contraband. Practice variations crept in—sticking the leaf to my arm, my cheek, even my knee—to build versatility and adaptability. Failures still happened; some nights, exhaustion from the day's "play" won out, and the leaf dropped repeatedly despite my best efforts. But each setback was a lesson. "Patience, Erick," I'd remind myself internally, drawing on memories of debugging code that refused to run or tweaking robotic prototypes until they hummed to life. "This is just another system to hack, another puzzle to solve."
By the time my third birthday approached, I could stick two or three leaves at once on my forehead, holding them steady for minutes on end. The control was improving daily, the chakra responding more fluidly to my will. It wasn't mastery—not by a long shot—but it was a start, a secret weapon growing in the shadows.
The birthday itself was a warm, vibrant contrast to my solitary nights of practice. The mothers pulled out all the stops, preparing a feast that filled the main hall with mouthwatering aromas. A bigger cake this time, decorated with berries from Yori's garden and a swirl of cream that Rina had somehow procured from the market. They fussed over me endlessly—Hanae leading a chorus of birthday songs, Miyu braiding a small crown of fresh leaves (the irony made me smirk inwardly), Kaho telling a special story about a "brave little storm" who conquered the seas. My half-siblings joined in, clapping and cheering, Daigo lifting me high on his shoulders for a "victory lap" around the hall. Father was absent—off on another mission, his presence felt more in the stories they told than in person—but the family felt whole, united in that strange, unbreakable way.
As I "played" with the gifts—a wooden toy sword from Rokuta, a shiny stone from Nao—I couldn't help but think: This is the beginning. The storm is awakening within me. And when it's ready, nothing will stand in its way.
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