Clang.
Steel met steel, echoing into a vast, endless void. Arashi ducked low, twisting just in time to avoid a backhand from his opponent. Blood dripped from a gash above his brow, sweat clung to his neck, and his breathing was ragged—but his eyes remained calm, calculating.
Across from him, Itachi Uchiha stood motionless, Mangekyō spinning slowly, his movements as effortless as water. Every step, every shift in weight, spoke of instinct honed to perfection.
"You've improved," Itachi said, voice low and even. "But that isn't enough."
Arashi didn't reply. He couldn't. His throat was raw from exhaustion. He launched forward anyway, aiming a kunai toward Itachi's heart—but in the blink of an eye, the world collapsed around him.
Mountains crumbled. The sky turned into falling mist. The battlefield dissolved into shadow.
And then... nothing.
Arashi opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was canvas, supported by worn wooden beams. He could hear the muffled din of shinobi voices outside, the rustle of tents, and the occasional clatter of armor. A field medical tent. His body ached everywhere—ribs bruised, left arm wrapped in tight bandages, and a dozen scratches covering his chest and neck.
He slowly sat up, hissing at the sting in his ribs.
Another day. Another warfront.
His mind, however, wasn't focused on the pain. It was on the familiar presence that entered moments later.
"Still alive, huh?" came a voice roughened by long years of battle.
Arashi turned his head to find Sakumo Hatake, standing at the entrance, arms crossed, his ever-present tanto strapped across his back. His father. The White Fang of the Leaf. His shadow loomed larger than any other in the camp—feared by enemy nations, and whispered about even among their own.
"You're lucky," Sakumo continued, stepping inside. "That Earth Release user nearly crushed your lungs. You were unconscious for two days."
Arashi's expression didn't change. "He was fast. Didn't expect a shinobi that size to move like that."
Sakumo watched him, not with anger, but concern. "You're only thirteen, Arashi."
"I know."
"You act like you're older."
"I am."
Sakumo narrowed his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder."
Arashi's lips curled faintly into a dry smile.
If only you knew.
He wasn't truly Sakumo's son—not originally. He was a man from another world, from modern-day Earth. He remembered cities filled with cars, the smell of gasoline, and the blue glow of screens. He remembered dying. How, he didn't know. Maybe a heart attack. Maybe an accident. All he knew was that when he opened his eyes again, he was in a new body, clutching a wooden kunai, and living under the name Arashi Hatake.
A child prodigy, they whispered. But he wasn't a genius—he was someone who had lived two lifetimes, and he used every scrap of that knowledge to get ahead. While other kids played with sticks, he was learning battlefield formation, chakra theory, and assassination patterns from the shadows of ANBU instructors.
He was also hiding his true weapon.
Buried deep in his mind was a space that didn't belong in this world—a mental training realm, a personal dimension where time flowed differently. One day in the real world equaled a full month inside that space. There, he could summon any fighter his memory could replicate—ninja, pirates, warriors, swordsmen—and learn from them. Not their powers, but their movements, reflexes, pressure, instinct. Their martial understanding.
He had trained with Zoro, fought Goku hand-to-hand, studied Madara's taijutsu, and broke bones against a simulated Might Guy. He wasn't copying flashy techniques—he was forging something that transcended the systems of each world.
"Rest up," Sakumo said, pulling him from his thoughts. "We leave tomorrow. The border's unstable. I don't like it."
"Understood."
Sakumo nodded once and turned to leave, pausing only to add, "Don't carry everything alone, Arashi."
But he would. He had to.
Because this time, he refused to lose everything.
Later that evening, Arashi wandered through the camp. The night was quiet, but tense. The war had changed everyone. Konoha's youth were drafted into death before they understood life. He passed injured jonin, medics hauling stretchers, and chūnin sharpening their weapons beneath flickering lanterns.
Near the edge of the woods, he saw him.
Kakashi.
Only five years old. Silent, alone, small.
He sat cross-legged in front of a crude wooden marker planted in the ground—their mother's grave. She had died giving birth to Kakashi. Arashi remembered the story vividly, though technically, he hadn't lived through it. It was one of those inherited memories that came with the body.
Kakashi didn't cry. He just sat there, eyes too old for a child.
"You should get some sleep," Arashi said quietly, stepping beside him.
"I will."
A pause.
"Do you miss her?" Kakashi asked.
"I do."
Another pause.
"Will Father die too?"
Arashi clenched his fists in his sleeves. "No."
"How do you know?"
"Because I won't let it happen."
Kakashi stared at him, those gray eyes watching with quiet intensity.
"You're weird lately, nii-san."
Arashi smiled faintly. "Good weird or bad weird?"
"I haven't decided."
"That's fair."
They sat in silence a few more moments, the wind rustling leaves overhead.
"Try not to forget this," Arashi finally said. "There are things warmer than war. Like sunlight. People. Smiles. Hold onto them."
Kakashi blinked, confused. "Why?"
"Because when the war ends, you'll need something to remind you that you're human."
Then he stood and walked away.
He couldn't let his brother become the same bitter weapon he was in the anime. Not if he could change it.
The next morning, a message arrived.
A messenger hawk descended into the camp, scroll bound to its leg. Sealed with the Hokage's emblem. Classified.
Sakumo unrolled it beside the command table. Arashi leaned over his shoulder, eyes scanning.
Mission details: Covert operation. Deep infiltration. Two-man team recommended. Targets: Hidden Sand convoy. Suspected to be supplying poisons and forbidden jutsu components.
Approval signature: Hiruzen Sarutobi.
Arashi's gut twisted. Something about it felt wrong.
"They're splitting our unit on purpose," he muttered.
Sakumo frowned. "Trying to isolate us."
"They're afraid of your name."
Sakumo didn't deny it.
"I'll go alone," Arashi offered.
"No."
"I can handle it."
"You're too young."
"I'm not."
Sakumo finally looked him dead in the eye. "You've changed, Arashi. You act like a man who's already seen too much."
"Maybe I have."
The older Hatake studied him, saying nothing.
That night, Arashi left.
He didn't wait for permission. He moved through the shadows, slipping past patrols, making his way to the convoy route marked in the scroll. He couldn't trust the Hokage's orders. Not anymore. Not when Danzo Shimura was in the picture—always lurking, always watching.
He reached the forest near the Wind Country border by dawn.
The enemy was already there.
Five Suna shinobi, lightly armored, guarding a slow-moving wagon. No visible poison crates. But chakra signatures were high. Two jonin, three chūnin.
He waited until they rested. Then he moved.
One blade. One strike. One corpse.
He used misdirection, tripwires, and noise bombs to isolate them. Kill without mercy. Kill without hesitation.
The second dropped to a kunai driven through the spine.
The third tried to counter, but Arashi dodged, redirected, and shattered his trachea with a strike to the throat.
The last two fought back—hard. One used wind blades, slicing trees with crescent arcs. The other summoned a puppet rigged with hidden senbon launchers.
Arashi adapted, let them bleed chakra. Dodged just outside lethal range. Waited.
When they hesitated, he struck.
Thirty seconds later, the fight was over.
Only one was left alive—barely.
Arashi knelt beside him, pressing a blade to the man's neck.
"Tell your leaders," he whispered coldly, "that the Silent Fang walks in their forests now."
Then he vanished into the night.
—
Back in Konoha, whispers stirred.
A new Hatake was on the rise.
Not a blade of honor like Sakumo. Not a child genius like Kakashi.
Something else. Something colder.
Danzo's spies reported to him that night.
"A boy, barely a teen. Five Suna dead. No injuries. No traces."
Danzo's fingers tightened on his walking stick.
"How… interesting."
To be continued.