It was supposed to be an ordinary night.
The air outside his apartment was thick with city smog, and the low hum of distant traffic was his lullaby. He had just turned twenty-four, the world's problems were as far from his reach as the moon, and the only thing weighing on his mind was how to scrape by enough for rent next month. Naruto had been his escape, the manga, the anime, the theories, the fanfics, he'd consumed them all like a starving man devours a feast.
He remembered falling asleep rereading the arc where Minato faced off against Obito, marveling at the speed, the stakes, the heartbreak. His last thought was how unfair it all was, how the characters were puppets of fate, dancing on strings pulled by cruel circumstance.
And then came darkness.
A void.
A cold so absolute it felt like his very soul had been frozen in place.
He had no body, no senses, no breath, only a drifting consciousness tumbling through an endless black. A million moments seemed to pass, or perhaps none at all. Time was meaningless here. He screamed, but there was no sound; he reached, but there were no arms. Only a single thought roared louder than the emptiness, 'Where am I?'
A light appeared in the distance, or was it within him? It grew, a pinprick that ballooned into a blazing sun, pulling him forward. Colors flashed across his vision, memories of his old life, his mother's face, a schoolyard, late-night ramen, lines of Naruto panels flickering like a dying projector. He tried to grab them, hold them, but they dissolved as he plunged into the light.
He fell.
And fell.
And—
There was screaming. Wetness. A heavy, suffocating weight pressed on every inch of him. His ears rang with sounds, real sounds, not the hollow echoes of the void. His chest burned, and a primal instinct forced his tiny lungs to heave.
A wail burst from his throat.
He was alive.
Bright lantern light seared his eyes. A thick mist hung in the air, curling in rivulets across rough wooden beams. Dark shapes loomed over him, faces blurred through watery vision. One figure, taller than the rest, cradled him with large, calloused hands. Another figure leaned in, delicate, pale, eyes like moonlit ice.
Words drifted through the haze, a woman's voice, exhausted yet gentle, whispering a name. "Kumio… my son…"
His thoughts screamed, 'Kumio? My name isn't Kumio! Where…where am I?'
A flood of sensation battered his newborn nerves. He felt the chill of the air, the stickiness of blood, the soft warmth of cloth swaddling him. His mind reeled, torn between two realities, the faint memories of adulthood and the overwhelming immediacy of infancy.
He tried to speak, to shout that this was a mistake, that he didn't belong here, but only a hoarse, pitiful cry emerged.
A man's voice rumbled close to his ear, deep and resonant. "He has your eyes, Rinazomi," he said. "And he's strong. Already so strong."
Strong? Kumio wanted to laugh, or sob. Instead, he felt his infant body shiver as something shifted inside him. It was like a dam bursting open, an ancient river of icy power flooding his veins. The air grew colder. Tiny crystals of frost began to form on the cloth around him. Gasps rose from the attendants gathered in the birthing room.
"His chakra…" someone murmured. "It's already manifesting!"
The man, Yuki Yoritada, Kumio realized with a jolt of recognition, looked at the woman with a mix of awe and fear. "This is beyond anything we expected," he whispered.
The woman, Kaguya Rinazomi, reached out with a trembling hand, brushing a delicate finger over Kumio's cheek. Bone-white protrusions momentarily sprouted along his tiny arm, withdrawing just as quickly. Her eyes widened, but then a tired smile spread across her face.
"He's ours," she said softly. "Ours… and the future of our clan."
His mind raced behind unfocused newborn eyes.
This was the world of Naruto.
The Mist, Kirigakure, judging by the chilling air and the mention of Yuki Yoritada, this had to be the Hidden Mist's feared Yuki clan. His father was the current clan head. His mother. the name Kaguya Rinazomi told him everything, was descended from the Kaguya, carriers of the dreaded Shikotsumyaku, the Dead Bone Pulse.
I've transmigrated, he thought, panic bubbling beneath his infant helplessness. But why here? Why like this?
And then, almost as if fate mocked him, memories of Naruto lore cascaded through his mind, the Bloody Mist graduation ritual, the wars that devoured children, the terror of Madara and Obito manipulating the world from the shadows. He knew what was coming, and he knew how many would die. Days passed.
Though his infant body limited him, Kumio's mind was sharper than any newborn's should have been. He recognized his father's commanding voice giving orders, his mother's gentle lullabies, the silent, cold halls of their ancestral compound nestled deep in a valley blanketed with perpetual snow. Mist curled through every corridor; icy winds howled beyond the walls. Servants bowed when his father passed. Shinobi in white masks moved like ghosts.
He learned quickly that the Yuki clan was not just powerful, they were afraid. Afraid of betrayal, of weakness, of outsiders. Every day, he heard whispers of the brewing war beyond the mist-shrouded mountains.
One morning, as pale sunlight filtered through thin paper windows, his mother carried him outside to a courtyard. Snow fell softly, but the air was electric with chakra. His father stood waiting, his hands weaving familiar seals.
Yoritada raised his voice. "Observe, Kumio. This is your birthright."
He finished his jutsu, and a wave of cold swept over the courtyard. Ice spikes burst from the ground, forming jagged spears that glittered like diamonds in the light. Kumio felt something deep inside resonate. The frost in the air called to him, as if it were an extension of his own soul.
A week later, as his mother played with him in the same courtyard, he felt a surge of chakra welling up unbidden. The moisture in the air thickened, condensing into a sheen of frost that spread from his tiny hands. His mother gasped as ice cracked across the stone beneath him. She scooped him up, eyes wide.
That night, Kumio heard heated voices through the thin walls.
"He's a prodigy, Rinazomi," his father's voice said, tense with excitement and fear. "The elders will expect much of him. They will demand it."
"He's barely a month old," his mother replied sharply. "Let him be a child."
"He cannot afford to be a child," his father countered. "Not in this world."
But Kumio knew, even then, his father was right. Peace would not come without power. His dreams of a safe, quiet life depended on surviving what was to come, the wars, the betrayals, the endless cycles of hatred. He would need strength to stop the Mist's purges, to protect his family, to stand against monsters like Obito.
And so, he resolved to train. Even as an infant, he tested his control daily, focusing his chakra to gather moisture, to shape frost, to strengthen the strange tingling in his bones. Sometimes his efforts left him exhausted, drifting into deep sleeps filled with dreams of his old life, flashes of city lights, the comforting hum of traffic, the glow of a computer screen.
But every time he awoke, it was to the soft rustle of snow and the faint scent of cold steel.
When he was three, the elders of the Yuki clan gathered to see him demonstrate his abilities. His father stood tall, pride and tension warring in his eyes. Kumio, small but eerily composed for his age, stepped into the center of the snowy courtyard. He spread his hands. Mist swirled around him, condensing into icy tendrils that spiraled into the air. He stamped his foot, and a blade of bone erupted from his wrist, frosted over with a thin sheen of ice.
A hush fell over the courtyard.
"He has both," one elder whispered. "The Ice Release… and the Dead Bone Pulse."
Another elder's voice trembled. "He could be the strongest of us all."
A third said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with greed.
That night, Kumio listened from the shadows outside his father's study. He heard words that chilled him more than any winter wind.
"He will bring our clan glory," said one elder. "Or he will bring us ruin."
His father's voice was quiet but firm. "He will bring us peace. I will make sure of it."
His mother's voice rose, angry and desperate. "Do not chain him to your ambitions, Yoritada. He is not a weapon."
Kumio's small hands clenched at his sides. He knew he could not change his lineage, nor the burden of power he carried. But he would not become a puppet dancing to the elders' strings. He would chart his own course, find a way to use his gifts to protect those he loved, and to forge a future beyond the blood-soaked cycles of war.
As the moonlight gleamed over the snow, he stared into the night sky and made a silent vow: he would break the destiny that condemned children to die before they lived. He would change the world.
And no matter how many obstacles fate threw in his path, no matter what price he paid, he would see it done.