Prologue

Before I died, I was a professor of philosophy. A devotee of Kierkegaard and critic of Nietzche my colleagues would call me. The realm of epistemology was mine to wander and it was in ethics I found a passion sweeter than wine. I was a lover of Dostoevsky and his hunt for the beautiful soul. And yet, I died an ugly death. Alone and forgotten with my wallet emptied, thieves ran from my bullet filled corpse. A lonely death and one filled with far less peace than most men deserve.

Perhaps, in return for such ignoble passing, the universe did indeed extend to me the onion of grace that wanton Gruschenka did gift to blessed Alyosha in Dostoevsky’s Brothers K. Who can say?

You might think trading the life of a simple professor for a superhero in a manga would be a simple choice, but I miss my old life. Terribly so in fact. Perhaps it is odd that I would wish to be in the body of my former self compared to who I became, but I miss pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I miss my plaid jackets with leather elbows and a colorful bow tie. I miss a good pizza or a burger. Hell! I would give anything for a proper taco. I miss the comfort I experienced. Most of all I miss my students.

Darren, a footballer with a kind demeanor who struggled so hard just to pass my course. I was so proud to give him the first A he ever received.

Annie, who’s parents had sent her to the USA from China and who spoke in broken English but adored my lectures and would always stay after class to work through some more advanced metaphysical concepts.

Joshua, with his insatiable thirst for knowledge and true desire to help his fellow man.

I miss them. I wonder what became of their lives?

When working in academia, there are usually two paths faculty tend to take: research or teaching. Now don’t get me wrong, nearly every professor does both, but you’ll find that academics tend towards one or the other. Most prefer research and only halfheartedly give themselves to the discipline of teaching. It is research that is the life blood of American institutions of higher learning and it is through research that these organizations are awarded federal grants. Student tuition certainly fills the coffers but it is funding research grants that keep the lights on. Academia, an introverted field as it is, tended to attract those who loved research. Not I.

It was in the classroom I found the freedom to truly pursue knowledge. In the blessed minds of my students I did learn more from them than all of Plato combined. For, in my students, I saw what it was to live and love. I saw what it meant to build relationships and that to pursue harmony with your fellow man is found not in dusty tomes but in the joy and heartache of a life lived well!

But I died. An ignoble death in a forgotten alleyway my corpse did lay. And though a new life was granted to me, what is so easily forgotten in the minds of those who wish for this power fantasy to exist is that my life before was REAL!

As real as flowers in an autumn bloom or the buzzing of a bee in spring so too my life before this change was real and it was no less valuable for its lack of power or character.

I lived and loved in all life’s passion and this new person I have become…please to those who read my memoir and wish they could be more than they are, do not forget that your life is far more real than words on a page or screen and it is truly worth living to its fullest extent. Because, to be real, is the greatest jutsu of all.

Chapter 1

I awoke to white. Such a cliche line to indicate I awoke in a hospital, but it does set the mood I suppose. The white sheets itched against my skin and sunlight caused my eyes to wince in pain. The smell of antiseptic assaulted my nose and I coughed slightly. My throat was parched and I felt as if my entire body ached.

I was relieved to be alive. I didn’t count how many bullets those punks filled my body with, but I was certain that I had met the end of my life. I smirked to myself.

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light…”

-Dylan Thomas

I had not gone into that good night and to hell with those who would have sent me there. I chuckled and once more felt my throat scratch. Water. I needed water. I immediately began to look for the remote that would call the nurse. I frowned. No such item existed. As I noticed I became aware of another oddity. The bed was flat with no option to raise or lift.

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It had been some thirteen years since I’d been admitted to a hospital (a nasty experience with appendicitis in my early high school years), but I’d been in the hospital recently to visit my mother. Dad had passed to Covid a few months back and she was on her last legs as well. My heart hurt. I felt the familiar grief of losing my dad pulse in my chest.

Father!

I clutched my head in agony as pain exploded from behind my eyes. It hurt so bad. The grief was nauseating and I felt close to vomiting, but the moment passed.

“What kind of pain meds do they have me on,” I silently wondered. My throat hurt.

Water. I needed water.

Slowly, I forced myself up to a seated position. I frowned. Something was not right. My shirt was a dark blue, something incredibly odd for one. And I was wearing both underwear and shorts it felt like. This was a far cry from the nursing gown I should be wearing with my ass cheeks hanging out.

The second wrong thing I noticed almost immediately after this was my hands. They were small and smooth with none of the small scars I’d accumulated over the years. There were some nicks and cuts where it seemed my hands had been sliced recently as if playing with knives.

Ting!

The sound of metal clashing as my body smoothly moved through the motions of throwing shuriken filled my ears with a memory and I felt the same sharp pain explode beneath my eyes.

“What the fuck,” I rasped out. I did my best to swing my legs over the side of the bed and felt bile rise in my stomach as I stared at two small legs and much smaller feet. The skin tone was off as well, paler than my tanned legs.

“Okay. Okay,” I silently breathed. What are my options here? Mad scientist stuck my brain in a new body? Possible though incredibly unlikely. Though would be cool for a ship of Theseus thought experiment. I grit my teeth. Focus damn it. Reincarnation? Much more likely than the mad scientist idea. I’d studied Buddhism early on during my religious phase and though ultimately decided on agnosticism had always held a deep respect for the faith. Though depending on who you talked to it was less a religion and more a way of life.

Focus. I recognized what was happening. My mind was going on tangents to protect myself from a panic attack. Focus on different things than the fact I’m currently in a young boy’s body. I was a boy right? Feeling a bit icky, I checked and was somewhat relieved to note that I was still indeed male.

I sighed and slowly took deep breathes. I needed to calm myself. Panicking would accomplish nothing. I slowly pushed myself off the bed. My feet touched the cool ground and I felt a bit wobbly but I caught myself against the nearby dresser. Pain. There was a lance of fire that shocked me that came from my left arm.

Why Itachi!?!

The headache returned with a vengeance and I felt myself vault forward to my hands and knees upon the cold sterile floor. Spit fell from my mouth as I dry heaved. Pain.

Foolish little brother.

I wretched again, my body convulsing and I felt as if I was dying again. Memories. Sasuke Uchiha. Sasuke Uchiha’s memories. The headaches started coming faster.

“When it’s just him and I, all he talks about is you.”

“Maybe next time, Sasuke.”

“To test my capacity.”

The memories came in a blur. And then…

Blackness.

Light.

I was laying in the bed once again, staring at the white ceiling. I…didn’t know how to feel. I had died. I knew this now. I had died and been reborn as Sasuke Uchiha of the Village Hidden in the Leaves. The deuteragonist of the anime Naruto. Hell. It’d been years since I watched the anime or read the manga, but there could be no denying the truth.

I stood. Slowly. And made my way to the faucet in the room just a few feet off the foot of my hospital bed. I shuffled slowly. The cold tile shocking my feet but I needed to see.

Staring back at me with dark hair and black eyes was Sasuke Uchiha. I felt his small eight year old memories in my mind. I knew the truth. I didn’t know what to do. Water. Yes. I needed water.

I turned on the faucet to cold. At least it seemed this world would have that technology for which I was grateful.

The memory of the massacre was fresh in my mind. So ever present and close. I could feel Sasuke’s grief over his family. My grief. I could feel his rage against Itachi. His hate against Danzo Shimura and Obito Uchiha. My rage. My hate.

I hungrily drank from the faucet. So thirsty. And as I lifted my head to stare back into the mirror, red eyes stared back.