The last thing I remembered was the sharp crack of my skull against concrete, the cold rain on my face, and concerned strangers hovering over me at a bus stop. Then, darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in a pristine white room, face-to-face with an elderly gentleman who introduced himself simply as God.
"Congratulations!" he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're fortunate enough to receive five wishes."
I pondered the absurdity of my situation. As if reading my thoughts, he chuckled, "Don't fret—I've witnessed far more peculiar circumstances. Now, state your wishes."
With measured deliberation, I made my choices. "I wish to be reborn as Konan," I said, the name resonating within my soul. My subsequent wishes flowed naturally: instant mastery of my abilities, divine chakra control, water manipulation, and the complete sealing knowledge of Mito Uzumaki, to be unlocked upon reaching age ten.
God arched an elegant eyebrow. "Why not wish for a system or more formidable abilities?"
I offered a knowing smile. "Would you even grant those?"
"No."
"Then why squander a wish? Besides, raw power without proper development rings hollow. As the saying goes,
His laughter cascaded through the pristine chamber. "Indeed. Such wisdom serves you well."
Darkness enveloped me once more, followed by the peculiar sensation of being pulled, squeezed, and thrust forward. Light seared my new eyes, and through the haze, I discerned two figures: a woman with lustrous dark purple hair—my new mother, Maria—and a tall gentleman with light brown hair—my father, Yuu.
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Life as an infant in Amegakure proved both captivating and vexing. The perpetual rain outside our modest dwelling became my constant companion, each droplet a poignant reminder of my previous life's end and this one's genesis. While other infants grappled with basic motor skills, I secretly experimented with water manipulation, using it to fortify my diminutive form. By five months, I was crawling—a "prodigy," my parents whispered anxiously, careful to shield my accelerated development from prying eyes.
Maria and Yuu crafted a sanctuary of love despite Amegakure's harsh reality. Mother would sing ancient melodies while creating exquisite paper flowers, teaching me the subtle artistry of folding. Father, a skilled woodworker, demonstrated his craft while I observed with calculated interest rather than mere childish wonder. Though war drove us to the slums, we discovered ways to flourish. I trained in solitude, melding paper and water manipulation into unprecedented forms.
Everything shattered on that tempestuous night when I turned five. The explosions arrived without warning, decimating our carefully constructed peace. "FIRE STYLE: FIREBALL JUTSU!" The enemy's cry pierced the rainfall. My father's response rang clear: "KONAN, RUN!" Those words became their final gift to me before darkness claimed them.
I stood amidst the ruins of my former home, my purple and red dress tattered and stained with ash. The relentless rain couldn't cleanse the devastation before me: charred remnants where homes once stood, defiant smoke rising against the downpour. Employing water manipulation, I fortified my small frame against the bitter cold while my paper jutsu crafted temporary shelter.
The initial weeks of solitude tested the wisdom of both my lives. I foraged for sustenance, utilizing my abilities to establish secure havens in Amegakure's surrounding forest. My paper butterflies became my sentinels, monitoring bandit patrols while I cultivated my strength. Father's emergency provisions sustained me briefly—soon, nature's bounty became my lifeline.
By age seven, I had established a formidable community. Standing before gathered refugees in our concealed forest sanctuary, I commanded respect through calculated strategy rather than brute force. My attire remained purple, now adorned with intricate paper flowers reminiscent of Mother's creations, each petal harboring a sealed jutsu for protection.
They bestowed various titles upon me—Forest Spirit, Little Shadow, Commander—but such appellations held little significance. What truly mattered was the hope we were cultivating—the foundation for change taking root in Amegakure's saturated soil. Every refugee sheltered and every child protected represented another step toward the future my parents died believing in.
The rain still falls in Amegakure, but now it falls on my terms. In my forest, on my people, under my protection.