Hirito's fingers brushed across the edge of a stack of old scrolls, the rough paper and faint musty smell filling him with a peculiar sense of nostalgia. He'd been searching through a tall wooden cupboard, his eyes scanning the titles of the scrolls for anything that could help him. The names hinted at basic jutsu techniques, chakra control exercises, and even a few lessons on weapon handling—tools that might turn the power he felt within him into something he could wield.

But just as he pulled down a scroll labeled "Fundamentals of Chakra Flow," a deep, rumbling sensation in his stomach pulled him sharply out of focus.

He blinked, his hand freezing in place as he acknowledged the growling emptiness that had suddenly made itself known. Despite the whirlwind of motivation driving him to uncover the truth behind his parents' lives—and their deaths—his body had other, simpler needs.

Right. I still need to eat, he thought, almost amused by the thought that, powerful chakra or not, he was still at the mercy of basic human needs. The unfamiliar surroundings made him hesitate, but a part of him—likely a remnant of this body's memories—nudged him in the direction of the kitchen.

Allowing himself to be led by instinct, he moved with a sort of muscle memory, navigating through the small home as if he'd done it a hundred times before. Each step took him closer to a faint memory of warmth and familiarity—a place that had once been filled with voices, laughter, and the smells of home-cooked meals.

Finally, he arrived in the kitchen, a small space with modest shelves lined with simple ingredients and cookware. The faded wooden table and the neatly arranged utensils felt both strange and familiar, like pieces of a life he had never truly lived but somehow knew.

He found a bag of rice, a few eggs, and some basic seasonings in one of the lower cabinets, simple ingredients that reminded him of quick meals from his old life. His stomach rumbled again, this time louder, and Hirito took it as his cue to start cooking.

The act of cooking felt natural, and Hirito found himself cracking eggs and stirring rice with a rhythm that felt both automatic and comforting. As he focused on preparing his meal, he could feel his mind settling, the immediate task grounding him in the present.

It was strange, really—he had been thrust into a world of unknowns, burdened with the legacy of parents he never truly knew, and yet here he was, making fried egg rice as if he were just another person with an ordinary life. The thought made him chuckle softly, a brief, quiet sound that seemed to fill the empty kitchen.

Within minutes, the scent of warm rice and eggs filled the air, the aroma stirring something warm and peaceful within him. He slid the finished meal onto a simple plate, sat down at the small kitchen table, and took his first bite. The taste was plain but satisfying, each mouthful calming him, reminding him of a strange but comforting truth: whatever his purpose or destiny, he was still human.

As he ate, his mind drifted back to the vague memories he'd glimpsed upon waking. His parents had been more than mere villagers—they were Ninja's who had fought for Konoha, and they had given everything they had, right down to their lives. That was the legacy he carried, a weight he could feel in every pulse of his chakra. He felt a spark of determination igniting within him.

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I will make them proud. I'll honor what they sacrificed, he thought, each bite fueling not just his body but the resolve he felt growing stronger with each passing moment.

When he finished, he placed the plate in the sink, taking a moment to savor the feeling of fullness and calm that had settled over him. The simple meal had left him refreshed, focused, and ready to dive back into his plans.

He turned, intending to head back to the cupboard and resume his search through the jutsu scrolls, when a sudden knock echoed from the front door, the sound shattering the quiet calm of the room.

The knock was firm, steady, and somehow familiar, though Hirito couldn't place why. He froze, a sudden tension filling him as he realized he hadn't anticipated anyone's arrival. His fingers twitched at his sides as he considered his options, but curiosity quickly won out.

Who would be knocking here? he wondered, his mind running through possibilities as he moved toward the door. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and reached for the handle, pulling it open.

Standing there was an older man, his face lined with age and his eyes sharp and assessing. Hirito recognized him immediately: his grandfather. The memories he'd absorbed told him that this was the man who had raised him after his parents' deaths, a man who carried his own quiet sorrow and wisdom.

"Hirito," his grandfather greeted him, voice calm yet firm, the kind of voice that held authority even in its quietness. "I wasn't expecting you to be up so soon."

Hirito nodded, choosing his words carefully. "I… woke up with a lot on my mind," he replied, trying to keep his tone steady. He felt a strange mix of emotions—respect, gratitude, and a hint of sadness as he looked at the man who had taken on the role of both guardian and teacher in his new life.

His grandfather's eyes softened slightly, though his expression remained serious. "It's natural," he said, stepping into the small kitchen and glancing at the plate Hirito had left in the sink. "I know you're still dealing with… everything."

Hirito sensed the weight behind those words, a weight they both understood. Everything. The loss of his parents, the burden of their memory, and the unspoken expectation that he would someday live up to their legacy.

"Thank you," Hirito said, the words coming out more genuine than he had anticipated. "For everything you've done."

His grandfather inclined his head, acknowledging the gratitude without dwelling on it. "I'm only doing what's right. You're family. And family looks out for one another."

There was a pause, a moment of silence where the only sound was the faint creak of the floor beneath them. Hirito felt a question lingering on his tongue, one he hadn't been able to ask yet.

"Grandfather," he started, his voice quiet but steady, "my parents… did they ever leave behind anything? Notes, teachings, something that might help me understand what they were trying to protect?"

The older man's expression shifted, a shadow passing over his eyes as he considered Hirito's question. For a moment, Hirito thought he might refuse, but his grandfather simply nodded, his gaze settling on the cupboard Hirito had been searching through earlier.

"There are scrolls," he said finally, his voice low. "Your mother left them behind. Basic techniques, a few chakra exercises, and… some personal notes. She wanted you to have them if anything ever happened."

The words sank in slowly, like stones sinking into still water. Hirito felt his pulse quicken, a sense of purpose and anticipation stirring within him. His mother had left him a guide, something to help him navigate this path he had been set on.

"Thank you," Hirito whispered, the gratitude in his voice clear and deep. His grandfather gave him a nod, a silent acknowledgment of the bond between them, then took a step back toward the door.

"I'll give you time to read them," he said. "But remember, Hirito—you carry your mother's strength, and her will, but this path is yours alone. Honor her memory, yes, but walk forward on your own terms."

Hirito nodded, the weight of his grandfather's words settling within him, grounding him. My own terms, he repeated silently, feeling the resolve that had flickered to life during his meal now burning with steady strength.

As his grandfather closed the door, Hirito turned back to the cupboard, his gaze fixed on the scrolls waiting within. This time, he reached out with a purpose, fingers brushing over the old paper with a sense of reverence.

With a deep breath, Hirito unfurled the first scroll, his eyes scanning the words, his mind absorbing each line.