Time is a resource, and like any good resource, Nanami Kento believed it should be budgeted efficiently.
Two years had passed since his "debut" at the sandbox. Two years of growth, two years of calcium intake, and two years of painstakingly slow progress. He was now five years old. In a normal world, he would be preparing for kindergarten. In this world, he was keenly aware that he was one year away from military enlistment at the Ninja Academy.
The "Great Stagnation" of his toddler years had evolved into what he now called "The Networking Phase."
His routine had shifted. Mornings were still for physical conditioning—though his mother, Haruka, still insisted it was just "aggressive playing." But his afternoons were spent at the park, conducting surveillance on the future leaders of Konoha.
Tsunade had become a constant variable in his daily schedule. She was loud, bossy, and possessed a gambling addiction that defied all laws of probability. Nanami had essentially become her unofficial accountant and voice of reason, a role he accepted with resigned dignity.
"Put the ryo down, Tsunade," Nanami would say, watching her eye a shell game run by an older Genin. "The hand is faster than the eye. You will lose."
"Not this time, Kento! I have a feeling!"
She would lose. She always lost. And afterwards, they would share a split popsicle while she ranted about unfairness, and he nodded, mentally calculating the inflation rate of village snacks.
The others were harder to pin down.
Jiraiya was less of a person and more of a localized weather event. Nanami rarely saw him stationary. The boy was always a blur of white hair and loud shouting, usually sprinting through the streets, climbing trees he couldn't get down from, or fleeing from shopkeepers after "borrowing" supplies.
Nanami had categorized him as High Energy, High Liability. He avoided the playground, preferring the chaos of the streets. Nanami respected the hustle, but not the lack of discretion.
Orochimaru was the complete opposite. Nanami had only caught glimpses of him. The pale boy didn't play. He didn't run. He stayed inside his house or sat in the deep shade of his porch, always with a scroll or a book.
On the rare occasions Nanami saw him, Orochimaru looked like he was dissecting the world with his eyes. High Intelligence, Solitary Confinement. A kindred spirit in introversion, perhaps, but Nanami sensed a darkness there that made his spiritual instincts itch.
It was a peaceful, if strange, childhood.
But peace, Nanami knew, was just the intermission between wars.
The morning the bells rang, the sky seemed to know what had happened. It was a weeping, grey, heavy, and suffocating.
There was no smell of baking bread in the house today. The ovens were cold. The sign on the bakery door had been flipped to Closed.
Nanami stood in his room, looking at himself in the mirror. He wore a simple black T-shirt and black trousers. It was functional. It was respectful. It fit the dress code of the day perfectly.
"Kento?" his mother called softly from the hallway. Her voice was thick, trembling.
"I'm ready, Kaa-san," Nanami replied, his voice calm.
He walked out. His father, usually so full of laughter and flour, looked hollowed out. He wore a black formal kimono that looked slightly too big for him, his shoulders slumped.
They didn't speak as they left the house. There was nothing to say.
The streets of Konoha were a river of black. Shopkeepers, ninja, civilians, children—everyone was moving in the same direction, drawn toward the Hokage's estate like iron filings to a magnet.
The silence was the loudest thing Nanami had ever heard. No one was bartering. No one was laughing. Even the usually rowdy Genin were walking with their heads bowed.
Hashirama Senju was dead.
The God of Shinobi. The man who built the village. The deterrent that kept the other nations at bay. Gone.
As they squeezed into the massive courtyard of the Administration Building, Nanami analyzed the tactical situation despite his grief.
The power vacuum is instantaneous, he thought, his eyes scanning the crowd. Iwagakure and Kumogakure have likely already mobilized their spies. The peace treaty was built on Hashirama's handshake. Without the hand, there is no treaty.
He felt a small hand grip his shoulder. His mother pulled him close, seeking comfort in her child. Nanami patted her hand awkwardly.
The ceremony was long. Incense smoke drifted through the air, stinging eyes that were already red from crying.
Finally, the crowd parted slightly at the front, and Tobirama Senju stepped forward to the podium.
He looked severe, his sharp features carved from ice. He didn't cry. He stood like a sentinel, his red eyes scanning the horizon as if expecting an attack right then and there. When he spoke, his voice wasn't warm like his brother's had been. It was sharp, clear, and cut through the humid air like a blade.
"My brother believed that the village was a family," Tobirama addressed the crowd, his gaze unyielding. "But families require protection. The Will of Fire is not merely warmth to comfort us. It is the strength to burn away the shadows that threaten our home. It is a burden of duty we all must carry, from the Hokage to the academy student. Today, we mourn the past. Tomorrow, we build the walls to protect the future."
Nanami shivered, a cold feeling settling in his stomach.
The hardliner, Nanami noted. Konoha is about to become a very different place. More efficient, perhaps. But colder. He speaks of the village like a fortress, not a home.
And then he saw her.
Standing next to the podium, clutching the hem of Mito Uzumaki's dark kimono, was Tsunade.
She looked tiny. The brash girl who yelled at dice was gone. In her place was a frightened five-year-old who had just lost her favorite person in the world. She wasn't crying loudly; she was shaking, silent tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks. She looked lost in the sea of black fabric, sniffling uncontrollably, wiping her nose on her sleeve in a way that looked raw and painful.
For the first time since his reincarnation, Nanami felt a pang of something that wasn't calculated. It wasn't a concern for the timeline or his retirement plan. It was just... sympathy.
He watched as Hiruzen Sarutobi—young, grim, and dressed in combat gear beneath his mourning sash—stepped up to place a white flower on the altar. Danzo Shimura followed, his face a mask of ambitious grief.
The cast is assembled, Nanami thought, the weight of the future settling on his small shoulders. The Sannin. The Professor. The Darkness of Shinobi. And me. The Baker's son.
The wind picked up, rustling the black clothes of the mourners like the feathers of a giant crow. The first drops of rain began to fall, mixing with the incense ash.
As the crowd began to disperse, the formation broke. Nanami gently pulled his hand away from his mother's grip.
"Kento?" she whispered.
He held up a hand to signal 'wait' and walked calmly toward the front. He navigated through the legs of adults until he reached the Senju family line. Tsunade was still standing there, head bowed, shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle a sob.
Nanami stopped in front of her.
She didn't look up. She was too busy trying to hide her face.
Nanami reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain, white handkerchief. It was crisp, folded into a perfect square—a habit from his old life that he couldn't shake.
He held it out to her.
Tsunade blinked, seeing the white fabric enter her vision. She looked up, her golden eyes red and puffy, filled with confusion and grief. She saw Nanami standing there, his expression neutral, his posture straight.
He didn't offer empty words. He didn't tell her it would be okay, because statistically, it wouldn't be. He didn't try to cheer her up. He simply waited.
Tsunade sniffled, reaching out with a trembling hand to take the handkerchief. She clutched it tight, pressing it to her face.
Nanami offered a single, stiff nod—a professional acknowledgement of her loss—and then turned on his heel. He walked back to his parents without looking back, the sound of the rain masking his footsteps.
I have one year until the Academy, Nanami told himself, clenching his small fists at his sides. One year until I am fed into the machine that Tobirama is building. I cannot afford to be average. Average ninja dies in the first skirmish.
He looked up at the Stone Faces. Only two were carved there now. Soon, there would be a third.
I need to master the basics. I need to unlock my chakra.
"Come on, Kento," his father whispered as he returned, placing a hand on his head. "Let's go home."
Nanami nodded, turning away from the altar.
The Prologue was over. The story was about to begin.