Well, home isn't far from here—just a short walk away. From the fragments of memory I've pieced together, I know I'm currently in the Land of Iron, and right in the middle of the Hatake clan's territory. To my disappointment, the clan's land is painfully small, almost insignificant compared to the larger clans around. And me? I'm twenty years old now, living in a time when the Hatake name is on the brink of extinction.
The clan members that remain barely number in the double digits—a pitiful sight for a clan. As I stepped into the compound, one of my fellow clansmen spotted me and greeted me with enthusiasm. Well, it was to be expected. I'm considered one of the more skilled fighters left in our dwindling family.
I asked him about the others. His face darkened before he answered.
"We lost four today."
I sighed deeply. Four gone… that leaves only nineteen of us left.
"Damn it…" I muttered under my breath.
From my memories of the future, I know the Hatake clan's fate all too well. There's Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang of Konoha, a genius among geniuses… and of course, Kakashi Hatake, destined to be the last of our name. But at this moment in time, they don't exist yet. Kakashi isn't even born—the only possibility of him lies within the bloodline of his grandfather.
If I don't interfere, the Hatake clan will meet the same grim fate I remember: crushed, scattered, reduced until only Kakashi survives. That's a future I refuse to accept.
"Damn it!" I cursed inwardly.
No matter how weak I might be right now, I cannot afford to waste this second chance. If I'm going to change the fate of this clan, I need to grow stronger—fast. The best path for me is clear: I have to start with the Breathing Styles. With them, I'll forge my foundation, and from there, I'll carve out a different destiny for the Hatake.
The sun had already begun its slow descent into the horizon when I finally arrived at the place I now called my house. It wasn't much by modern standards—wooden walls, a straw roof, and the faint smell of smoke clinging to the air from the fire pit in the center—but to the people of this age, this was comfort. For me, however, it was only the beginning of a new life. A life that demanded strength. A life where weakness meant death.
The memories of this body still echoed within me like a second voice, sometimes faint, sometimes loud, but always there. Hatake Tengen. That was my name now. I had to live with it, to shape it into something greater than the boy who once owned it.
The Hatake clan… yes, from what I remembered, they were swordsmen. Specialists in combat, their skill with the blade was something spoken of with respect, if not a little fear. And now, as fate would have it, I was one of them. My lips curled into a smirk.
"A swordsman, huh? Well, if I'm going to survive in this world—if I'm going to thrive—then I'll need to start from here."
I walked over to the corner of the room where a sword rested on a wooden stand. The sheath was plain, but I could tell by the faint shine at the mouth of the scabbard that the blade inside had been cared for. I reached out, my hand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation.
When my fingers curled around the hilt, a strange sense of belonging washed over me. As if the sword had been waiting for me. I drew it slowly, the soft shhhk of steel against wood filling the quiet room. The blade reflected the fading light, sharp and merciless.
Perfect for the Breathing Styles.
The knowledge of those techniques filled my head, like echoes from a book I had read too many times. The First Form… the Second Form… their names, their movements—they were mine now. I didn't know why or how, but I wasn't going to waste time questioning it. Instead, I stepped outside, where the dirt courtyard gave me enough room to train.
I took a deep breath, the weight of the sword firm in my hands, and let the world around me fade.
I raised the blade in front of me, my stance firm. My voice rang out, strong and certain.
(Ichi no Kata – Minamo Giri! First Form – Water Surface Slash!)
My body moved on instinct, the blade slicing through the air in a clean horizontal arc. The muscles in my arms burned slightly, but this body—Tengen's body—was far stronger than the one I had in my past life. It responded beautifully, the motion fluid and precise.
The sword cut through the silence with a whoosh, the sound almost musical. I reset my stance and repeated the movement, faster this time, pouring more strength into the swing. Again. And again.
The first dozen strikes came easily. The next dozen required more focus. By the fiftieth, my arms began to throb, sweat dripping down my forehead. Still, I continued. The repetition was burning the form into my very soul, forging muscle memory where there had been none before.
"Again," I muttered through gritted teeth, swinging the blade.
Another arc of steel, another flash of light.
By the hundredth repetition, my shoulders felt heavy, but I refused to stop. This world was cruel, and hesitation meant death. If I couldn't even endure this, how could I hope to survive the horrors yet to come?
The Second Form
When my arms felt like lead and my lungs burned from exertion, I shifted my stance. I planted my feet firmly into the ground, inhaling deeply until my chest expanded with oxygen. Then I raised the sword high, the tip pointing toward the sky.
(Ni no Kata – Mizu Guruma! Second Form – Water Wheel!)
With a shout, I spun forward, my blade arcing downward in a powerful vertical strike. The momentum carried me through, and as I completed the motion, dust kicked up from the ground where my feet slid against the dirt.
I breathed heavily, the impact reverberating through my body, but I couldn't help but grin. This was it. The beginning.
Again.
My body twisted and fell into the motion, the blade cleaving the air. I repeated it, each time focusing on the rhythm of my breathing, on making the flow smoother, more natural. The muscles in my core and legs screamed in protest, but I embraced the pain. Pain meant progress.
After dozens of repetitions, my movements became sharper, more controlled. The arc of the sword grew faster, my footing steadier. Each swing carved away the hesitation in my heart, leaving only determination behind.
Hours passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, yet I continued. My body was soaked in sweat, my breaths ragged, but my grip on the sword never faltered.
Over and over, I alternated between the two forms. The names echoed into the night like a mantra, my voice growing hoarse but never stopping.
My vision blurred with exhaustion, but my heart pounded with something else—excitement. Every swing, every motion, brought me closer to strength. Closer to survival.
At some point, my arms began to tremble so violently that I could barely keep hold of the sword. My knees threatened to give way. The blade felt heavier than it had hours ago, as though the steel itself was testing me, asking if I was worthy to wield it.
And I answered the only way I knew how.
With another swing.
The arc was sloppy this time, weak compared to the earlier ones, but it was a swing nonetheless. I forced myself to stand straighter, tightening my grip.
I stumbled during the motion, falling to one knee as the blade buried itself in the dirt. My chest heaved, sweat dripping down my face in thick droplets. For a long moment, I simply knelt there, staring at the sword half-buried in the ground.
Then, slowly, I pulled it free and stood again. My body screamed for rest, but my soul screamed louder for victory.
"This… this is only the beginning," I whispered to myself.
When I finally collapsed, it wasn't out of defeat—it was out of triumph. My body lay sprawled on the cool earth, the sword resting beside me. My muscles ached, my hands were raw from gripping the hilt for so long, but my spirit soared.
I had done it. My first training. My first step.
As I stared up at the night sky, stars beginning to dot the heavens, I couldn't help but smile despite the pain.
"This world won't break me," I muttered softly. "I'll break it first."
With that thought, I closed my eyes, the sound of my own breathing filling the silence, and drifted into exhausted sleep.