A boy with white hair lay still, his body wrapped in bandages across his chest, head, and limbs.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
"Where… where is this place?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice dry and weak. "This doesn't look like any hospital I've ever seen."
"Damn that drunk driver," he muttered bitterly, jaw clenching. The image of screeching tires, a blinding pair of headlights, and the crushing impact replayed in his mind like a broken film reel. "Didn't even see it coming…"
Frustration surged through him, and he moved his arms and legs instinctively—then froze.
Wait. That was stupid.
I'm going to regret that in about three seconds.
He braced himself for a surge of pain—sharp, shooting, bone-deep pain—the kind he expected after being hit by a car. He shut his eyes, tensed every muscle, and waited.
But… nothing happened.
There was no pain. Not even a dull ache. His limbs felt completely intact.
He opened his eyes again, frowning in disbelief.
"How… how is this possible?"
To confirm he wasn't imagining things, he cautiously lifted his right hand and brought it to his face. He had a vivid memory of that hand taking the full brunt of the car's impact—he remembered the crunch, the numbness, the cold.
But what he saw made his breath catch.
This… wasn't his hand.
"What is happening…?" he whispered, his voice trembling with shock.
But before he could finish the thought, a sharp, blinding pain exploded in his head.
"Aaahh!" he cried out, clutching his skull as the agony intensified. It felt like his mind was being torn apart from the inside, like someone was forcing memories into his brain with a hammer.
Then—just as suddenly as it had begun—images started flashing before his eyes.
A boy. A name. A life that wasn't his.
Faces, voices, fragments of memories that didn't belong to him flooded his consciousness in rapid succession. The pain began to subside, replaced by a strange clarity. His ragged breathing slowed, and his grip on his head loosened as the pressure ebbed away.
He sat still, processing what he had just seen, felt, and somehow remembered. The haze of confusion that had clouded his face began to clear. His expression grew more focused, grounded in a sudden and inexplicable understanding.
He knew now why his hand had seemed so foreign.
Because it wasn't his.
He had transmigrated—somehow, impossibly—into another world. And not just any world.
The world of Naruto.
Not only that, but it was a time far before the events of the series. Naruto hadn't even been born yet. The world was still locked in the chaos of the Second Shinobi World War.
And the body he now inhabited belonged to someone named Santoryu Hatake, a member of the famed Hatake Clan.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"This has to be a dream," he murmured. "No… this is real. This is actually happening."
He slumped back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. There was fear, yes—but also something else. Not despair. Not even sorrow.
Relief.
"Damn… I used to read about stuff like this," he said to himself, voice low with disbelief. "People getting sent to another world... I never thought it would happen to me."
And yet, as strange and terrifying as it all was, there was a part of him that felt… okay with it.
His old life had never held much meaning. He had grown up in foster care, bouncing between families, never truly belonging anywhere. He hadn't harbored grand dreams or ambitions. There was no career, no deep relationships, no place to call home.
So maybe this—this wild, impossible second chance—was a gift.
Maybe here, in this world of ninjas and chakra and war, he could finally find something worth living for.
"Sigh…"
He exhaled deeply, his eyes narrowing as he began to ponder the life of the real Santoryu Hatake—the boy whose body he now inhabited.
Why did he die?
What kind of life did he live?
He closed his eyes and focused, allowing the fragments of memory to settle and reassemble. Slowly, the story began to take shape in his mind.
Santoryu had never been considered gifted in the ways of the shinobi. From a very young age—barely five—he had thrown himself into training, determined to master basic ninjutsu. While other children showed promise, Santoryu struggled. No matter how hard he tried, he failed to properly perform even the simplest jutsu. His chakra control was poor, his technique inconsistent, and his progress painfully slow.
But still, he never gave up.
His dream of becoming a ninja burned fiercely in his heart, stronger than any doubt. When the time came to enroll in the Ninja Academy, he had hoped that his hard work and determination would finally be recognized.
Instead, he was rejected.
The academy deemed him unfit—not because of his poor performance, but because of a medical condition. His left eye was partially blind, and everything he saw through it appeared blurred and indistinct. The instructors saw it as a fatal liability in combat and refused to accept him.
Crushed but not defeated, Santoryu took a bold step. Alongside his father, he went to plead his case before the head of the Hatake Clan: Sakumo Hatake, one of the most respected and powerful shinobi in all of Konoha.
At first, Sakumo did not agree. He was a man of high standards, and he had no reason to make an exception for a boy with neither talent nor health on his side.
But Santoryu refused to back down.
Day after day, he returned. With unwavering determination in his eyes and calloused hands from constant training, he stood before Sakumo and insisted that he would become a ninja—even if it killed him. He had no great bloodline ability, no genius for combat—but he had heart. He had fire.
Eventually, Sakumo relented.
Moved by the boy's persistence and unshakable spirit, he used his authority to secure Santoryu's admission to the Ninja Academy. It was an act of faith—and perhaps pity—but it changed the course of Santoryu's life.
Or at least, it was supposed to.
Santoryu had always been deeply grateful to Sakumo Hatake, the head of the Hatake Clan. After receiving a second chance from the renowned shinobi, Santoryu had vowed to repay that kindness with everything he had. He doubled his efforts, throwing himself into training with relentless determination. Day after day, he pushed his body and mind to the limit, determined to master even the most basic forms of ninjutsu.
But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.
No matter how hard he tried—no matter how much sweat, blood, or tears he poured into his training—he simply couldn't perform ninjutsu. Not even the simplest technique. His chakra resisted every mold and form, refusing to cooperate as if it were fundamentally broken. Ultimately, it became evident that he was like many ordinary civilians, born without any aptitude for ninjutsu.
The realization was devastating.
And yet, Santoryu refused to give up.
But the world around him wasn't kind. A few months ago, tragedy struck—the village was shaken by the shocking news that Sakumo Hatake had taken his own life. The same man who had once been hailed as a hero of Konoha, a beacon of strength and honour, had died alone in his home by his own hand.
In the days leading up to his death, the whispers had already started.
People criticized Sakumo openly, blaming him for a failed mission that, in their eyes, had cost the village a major advantage in the war. "Because of him, we lost everything," some had said. Others muttered crueler things. They questioned his judgment, his loyalty, even his worth as a shinobi.
For Santoryu, it was unbearable.
He argued—fought, even—with villagers who defamed the man he looked up to. He defended Sakumo's name at every turn, refusing to let his memory be buried under lies and resentment. But no one listened. Their minds were already made up.
After Sakumo's death, Santoryu's grief turned into resolve.
He swore to carry on his will—to prove that Sakumo's belief in him wasn't misplaced. He would train harder, rise higher, and change the opinions of those who had turned their backs on the man who had given him a chance.
But once again… fate was merciless.
Just yesterday, Santoryu was expelled from the Ninja Academy.
Even after two full years in the Ninja Academy, Santoryu had made no measurable progress. He had failed every basic ninjutsu assessment, lagged behind in physical training, and couldn't keep up with his peers. His continued presence in the academy became less of a hopeful story and more of a cruel joke.
To make matters worse, just the day before, Kakashi Hatake—Sakumo's own son and a prodigy by every definition—had graduated from the academy at the astonishing age of five. His achievement only highlighted Santoryu's failures in the eyes of everyone around him.
Yesterday, everything Santoryu had worked for—his sweat, his discipline, his dreams—was mocked openly.
The other children laughed at him, whispered behind his back, and some didn't even bother to hide their scorn. Among them was one particularly cruel boy who showed no sense of restraint or decency. With smug confidence, he mocked Santoryu to his face.
He ridiculed Santoryu's efforts, calling him a disgrace to the Hatake name. Then, with a sneer, he added that as a member of a side branch of the clan, Santoryu was only fit to be a farmer—not a ninja. He even went so far as to insult Sakumo Hatake, saying the great "White Fang" must've been a fool to waste his time helping someone so worthless.
That was the breaking point.
Santoryu snapped.
The grief, the humiliation, the constant struggle—it all boiled over. He lunged at the boy, fists flying in desperate fury. But the boy was stronger, faster, and far more skilled. The fight was one-sided. Brutal.
By the end of it, Santoryu lay broken and bloodied.
And that was the moment he died.
Because only after his final breath did he—the one from another world—awaken in Santoryu's battered body.
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