CHAPTER 1: A FLICKER OF FATE

One instant, he was certain he was alive—breathing air, eyes open, heart beating. Then, in the gap of a single blink, everything dissolved. It was as though the world had vanished in a rush of wind, leaving him in a place that felt emptier than the void between stars.

In this strange, lightless space, his eyes adjusted to reveal a massive archway looming in front of him. It wasn't merely large—it felt cosmic, as though it stretched beyond human understanding. Intricate patterns glimmered across the black stone, pulsing faintly like a silent heartbeat. Curiosity tugged at him, and although his mind whispered caution, he stepped forward. The moment his hand brushed the arch's surface, it parted with a slow groan, revealing a misty chasm beyond.

He crossed the threshold.

The world on the other side had no sun, no ground, no firmament. Everything was darkness stacked upon darkness, but within that darkness, a tide of living shadows waited. At first, they looked like silhouettes of people. But when they shifted and turned, he realized they had no true faces—only smooth, dark surfaces where eyes and mouths should be. They stood in loose circles, exchanging whispers that hummed like echoes in a cave.

He pressed into the crowd of murky figures. He was no longer entirely sure which shadow was "him" and which were "others," because he, too, had been reduced to a black outline. Yet he could still think and feel—particularly a confusing mix of fear and curiosity.

"It's almost my turn," said one shadow in a scratchy voice.

"I just want a peaceful place," muttered another, shoulders drooping.

"Peace? You won't find that in most worlds," scoffed a third.

He sensed that these beings were waiting for something important. The tension in the air crackled like electricity. Though no wind blew in this realm, he felt a slight pull guiding him toward the center, where a strange platform rose out of the black fog. On it stood several enormous wheels—each shining in shifting colors that made their runes glow in and out of sight.

A hush fell over the crowd as a figure near the wheel took a deep, bracing stance and spun it. The wheel's segments were labeled "Keep Memories" and "Forget Everything," though "Forget Everything" dwarfed the other slice by far. For a shadow desperate to recall its former life, the odds looked grim. And indeed, the spinning arrow slowed and landed on "Forget." That unlucky figure disappeared in a swirl of smoky darkness, presumably heading off to be reborn with no recollection of who it had been.

One by one, more shadows approached, receiving their lot from the wheel. At last, the pressing mass of silent watchers parted. He realized it was now his turn. Despite a nervous flutter in his chest (if a shadow could even have a chest), he made his way up to the wheel. It stood taller than he was, etched with flickering words that constantly re-formed themselves. He placed both hands on a metal lever at its side.

Something inside him urged him to tilt the lever at a slight angle. He didn't know why or how, but he followed the instinct. Then he pulled down, sending the wheel spinning in brilliant arcs. It whirled faster than any carnival ride he'd ever seen, sparks of dull white light dancing around the rim.

Finally, the arrow slowed. His entire form tensed as it wavered between "Forget Everything" and a sliver marked "Keep Memories." Just when it seemed about to tip the wrong way, an invisible force nudged it back—like a faint gust of wind too subtle to explain. The arrow quivered, then pointed toward "Keep Memories."

"Impossible!" someone muttered among the throng, but the outcome wouldn't change. He had won the right to remember who he once was.

Next came an even larger wheel, easily ten times higher than the first. Its surface was segmented into countless names and titles: some were familiar from stories he'd read or watched, others were unknown. Universes both magical and technological, peaceful and war-torn, jumbled together in cryptic script.

His turn came. He grabbed a new lever, exhaled, and pushed it with all his might. The wheel roared as it spun. He glimpsed faint glimpses: "One Piece," "Fairy Tail," "Naruto," "Attack on Titan," "My Hero Academia," "Harry Potter," "Star Wars," "Middle-Earth," "The Witcher," "Avatar: The Last Airbender"—he lost track as the blur quickened. Gradually, it slowed. The arrow skipped over a set of thin slivers, jumped across narrower black lines, then settled on a broad label: "Naruto."

A ripple of excitement and caution spread among the shadows. The Naruto world was famous for its powerful ninja, monstrous creatures, and dangerous wars. Depending on where and when one landed, it could be a true nightmare or an extraordinary opportunity. He swallowed, remembering bits of lore he'd once known. He would soon find out how real that place could be.

Two more spins awaited him. One decided he would transmigrate into an already-living body—someone on the verge of death, no less. Another determined details about who that person would be. The shapes on this wheel transformed ceaselessly: clan names, random ages, uncertain quirks. By the time the arrow found its final stop, he learned he was destined to inhabit the life of a badly injured orphan, a mere civilian child in the Hidden Leaf Village. Powerless. Alone. The nearby watchers audibly pitied him.

Yet something still glimmered in him—hope, or stubbornness. He felt that if he had any chance to break free from being a mere bystander, it would be with the final gamble that lay ahead.

The last wheel was set apart from the others, half-buried in dense smoke. It was the same height as he was, painted in deep colors of scarlet and midnight. Whispers rose in the crowd:

"Greed devours those who touch that wheel."

"Even if you get something good, the cost is too high."

"It's a trap."

He hesitated, staring at the swirling designs. But a mad impulse rattled his heart. He was already dead once, on the brink of a dangerous second life. Why not push his luck? Maybe a stroke of fortune could grant him the strength to survive in that violent new world.

Ignoring the gasps of onlookers, he spun the wheel.

This time the grinding of machinery was louder, and it felt as though the darkness itself trembled. A numbing chill slithered across his limbs as the arrow turned in a frantic blur. Square after square flew by, each naming some strange gift or curse from across countless realms. Some were petty, some were legendary. Then the spinning slowed, shuddered, and stopped on "Kinetic Control."

At once, a hush fell. Even those who had only half-listened now watched, transfixed. A thousand swirling lights converged on him, and he sensed that this ability—an odd fusion of movement and chakra—would let him manipulate momentum itself. But it came with a lurking danger. He felt it, a raw power that could consume him if he failed to manage it carefully.

Now that all spins were done, the platform beneath his feet lit up with a harsh glow, sending stripes of ivory-colored smoke around him. The crowd erupted with questions and demands—some in awe, some in envy. But the bright tendrils of mist wrapped around his shadowy form, carrying him away before anyone could intervene.

As he vanished, he caught a glimpse of two giant eyes peering at him from the deepest darkness. Their color was an unearthly blue, and sadness seemed to weigh them down. A soft pang of regret or affection radiated from them, as though they recognized him. Then the realm, the wheels, and the countless shadowy onlookers fell behind. Silence followed.

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He awoke to agony. Light from a broken sky pained his eyes. Coughing, he tasted dirt in his mouth. The rancid smell of smoke, blood, and rubble choked him. When he rolled onto his side, sharp debris dug into his hip. This was no dream. Everything felt too real. He tried to steady himself against the jagged ground and realized he was in a battered street lined with shattered wooden walls and collapsed rooftops.

Shinobi moved about, some wearing scraps of cloth with the Leaf symbol. A few carried children over their shoulders and barked orders at each other. Others hurried past with supplies for the wounded. He glimpsed the terrifying destruction left by the Nine-Tailed Fox. Only the night before—or perhaps minutes earlier?—that giant beast had ravaged the Hidden Leaf Village. And here he was, stuck in the body of an orphan who should have died in the chaos.

He tried to stand but stumbled, his muscles trembling with weakness. A wave of dizziness nearly made him black out. "Easy there," someone called—an older villager who was missing a sandal. "You're injured. Get to the relief tents in the courtyard." Then the man hurried on, drawn by more urgent matters.

Still dazed, he fought to gather his thoughts. Memories clashed—his life from before, and now bits and pieces from the body he occupied. This child had no family name to speak of, had grown up in the orphanage, and believed in protecting the village—an odd, innocent resolve that lingered in the corners of the mind. Now that will was his to carry on.

He breathed in shakily. Perhaps it was adrenaline or the swirl of foreign chakra, but he sensed movement in every part of the world around him. Debris shifting underfoot, flutters of cloth in the wind, the frantic steps of people rushing by. It was as though he could feel momentum itself passing through the air. A faint rush of energy tingled in his limbs. The laws of motion had become something he could touch and pull. Faint, but definitely real.

He remembered the name scrawled on that final wheel: "Kinetic Control." The idea thrilled and frightened him. Could he truly absorb momentum, store it, and release it as force? He sensed the risk as well: if he soaked in too much movement, it could explode from him uncontrollably. In a way, it felt like carrying unstable gunpowder inside his ribcage. One mistake, and he might blow himself apart.

Yet for all that fear, excitement glowed in him. He had survived and been granted a rare skill in a world where power shaped survival. Yes, he was just a gravely injured orphan in a destroyed village. Yes, he had no clan name or simple path to growth. But he still had memories from a life outside this reality—and an ability no typical genin had ever imagined.

"Get moving," he whispered to himself, ignoring the ache in his ribs. He had to find shelter, get medical treatment, and lay low until he understood how to control this new ability. If the village discovered too soon that he had a strange power, it might end badly. He needed to recover and learn in secret.

Turning a corner, he found a makeshift aid station where a few volunteers handed out water and bandages. A weary med-nin noticed him limping over, quickly disinfected a cut on his arm, and gestured to a row of temporary quarters for orphans. "That's where you wanna go," she mumbled. "But hurry—there's not much space left."

He thanked her and hobbled on. Smoke was still rising from many houses, and the smell of burnt wood stung his eyes, reminding him of tragedy. Despite all the devastation, the villagers were trying to help each other in whatever ways they could. He passed a small group of children, filthy and bruised, huddled around a volunteer who handed them soup bowls. Their eyes were rimmed with tears, but they were alive, determined to persevere.

He limped toward the makeshift shelter, doing his best to ignore the aching creaks and groans in his muscles. Each footstep kicked up fine dust from fallen wood and plaster. Even in his exhausted state, he couldn't miss the faint prickling on the edges of his consciousness—the swirl of living energy in the debris-choked streets, in the hurried steps of rescue workers, and in the frantic heartbeat of a wounded village. He'd never experienced anything like this before: that heightened sense of motion all around him. Yet part of him, a newly awakened part, recognized it as the first thread of "Kinetic Control."

He was not a kind soul by nature—he could feel that much in his bones. Whatever kindness the boy whose body he now stole had possessed, it did not belong to the man who had entered this world from the shadows. Still, he knew enough to pretend concern, to avoid standing out. Survival mattered more than heroism in his mind. So, he pasted on a weary look (not difficult while dragging an injured leg) and forced himself to speak softly to those he passed. They nodded back, too drained by tragedy to notice anything unusual.

When he finally entered the wide, ragged tent designated for orphans, the air was thick with the smell of bitter herbs and sweaty bandages. Rows of simple beds crowded the space. A few children dozed fitfully, while others clutched blankets, staring at the canvas roof. One older girl, her hair matted with ash, tried to offer him half of a stale rice ball. He accepted, muttered thanks, and settled onto an empty cot near the corner.

As he rested, the fresh memories of this stolen body threaded through his mind like an unwanted slideshow. Before the Nine-Tails attacked, the original boy had already been a student at the Ninja Academy—a half-step away from graduating and joining a genin team. Despite not being from any special clan, he'd had decent chakra reserves and the grit to practice basic jutsu with single-minded devotion. Day after day, he would stay late at the training field, flinging countless kunai or perfecting his Substitution Technique. The boy believed in the Will of Fire, that guiding principle of the village which encouraged protecting fellow Leaf citizens at all costs. He'd dreamed of becoming a proper shinobi—a hero.

His final memory was a blur of dust and roaring chaos. The monstrous fox had laid waste to huge swaths of the village, and with it came collapsing buildings and walls that crumbled under the beast's wild thrashing. Rather than hiding, the boy had rushed out to help guide a few trapped civilians to safety. He'd completed the Substitution Jutsu once to dodge falling rubble but mistimed the second attempt. A chunk of shattered ceiling struck his head. Pain, then darkness, then… emptiness. And now, someone else wore his body, reanimating it like a spirit with a different soul.

The man behind those eyes—this transmigrator—closed them, trying to block out the rush of sympathy that insisted on gnawing at him. He was not this boy, did not share that selfless heart. Still, with the child's memories burned into his mind, he couldn't fully shake away the remnants of the boy's determination or that persistent sense of loyalty to the Leaf. It was an odd, uneasy mix. Tolerable, for now.

A dull ache flared in his ribcage, and he forced himself to breathe evenly. The strain of trudging to the shelter had aggravated his injuries. But along with the pain came a faint trickle of energy from the stirring motion around him—people shifting, tools clanking, footsteps echoing beyond the tent flaps. It was as if he stood at the edge of a churning river, able to scoop up some of that kinetic flow if he dared. Absorbing it, though… that could be dangerous without practice.

He decided to resist any attempts at harnessing that power right now. He needed more information first. Grand ambitions and new abilities aside, if he carelessly tried to absorb all that frantic momentum in this chaotic environment, he might cause an explosion—collapsing the tent or injuring himself again. Far too risky with wounded orphans around and watchful med-nin just across the way.

Yawning, he stared at the ragged canvas overhead and tried to ignore the scattered moans and hushed sobs. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by a deep fatigue in every muscle. The med-nin would likely inspect him soon to see if he could return to the orphanage or—if luck was on his side—be left alone for a while. In that time, he could plot out his next steps. He would carefully test Kinetic Control in a safer, more private space. So what if the Will of Fire tugged at his conscience? He had always survived by his own rules. That wouldn't change now.

Even so, a nagging curiosity lingered. The boy who'd died in this spot must have possessed a genuine heart to face such a monstrous threat to save others. The new occupant felt no such human warmth—only cold calculation. But what if, in this place of powerful ninja, caring about someone was a path to new opportunities? Or, at the very least, a good disguise?

He let the question slip away into the recesses of his mind. For now, he would rest, recover, and grow. The Leaf Village was a land of secrets and politics, deadly missions and remarkable talents. A small corner of him itched at the thought of exploring those possibilities. After all, if he had this chance to command a rare ability and carry the knowledge from a past life, why waste it?

As he drifted toward sleep, half-listening to the shuffle of bandaged feet a few cots away, only one thing felt certain. From this moment on, he would do whatever it took to seize control of his new destiny. The boy who believed in heroism was gone. And in his place was a man unbeholden to the Will of Fire—someone willing to twist any advantage that Kinetic Control might bring. For him, this was only the first step.