The first breath tore itself from his lungs like a scream trapped beneath water. Air—cold, sharp, overwhelming—flooded into tiny newborn lungs. It hurt. Everything hurt.
He blinked through the blur of new eyes, vision shaky and unfocused. Shadows. Leaves. A sky fractured by branches like the ribs of some sleeping giant.
And then—
Small hands.
Seriously? A baby?
The thought came unbidden, more annoyed than frightened. His mind felt like patchwork—frayed memories, missing pieces, and the lingering aftertaste of a conversation that had rewritten his fate.
A conversation with… that thing.
Flashback
A silent void. No light, no shape, no time. A drifting soul, struggling to remember even the outline of its own existence. Its name had vanished. Its voice forgotten. Yet it remembered stories—anime, manga—echoes of a life defined by fiction.
Then came the light.
It split the darkness like a blade, revealing a figure too perfect, too symmetrical to belong to anything mortal. No gender. No face. Just a presence that crushed everything around it with serene authority.
"Your life in the mortal world has ended, young soul," the entity said, its voice vibrating through the emptiness. "But your will remains. Do you desire rebirth?"
"Rebirth? Where?" the soul asked, trembling.
The being didn't bother answering. Instead it listed rules—cold, fixed, immutable.
No overpowered abilities.
Only one talent, chosen blindly.
No hints.
No guarantees.
When the soul asked if it could choose the world, the being replied:
"You already have."
Some suppressed wish, some buried desire—what nonsense. And discovering that the chosen world was the Narutoverse felt like being shoved into a blender with the lid off.
The soul protested. The being remained unmoved.
Clan?
"Random."
Village?
"Random."
Ninja or civilian?
"Random."
Its composure cracked.
One last desperate question: "Can I at least choose the timeline?"
A pause.
Then—"Yes."
Hope flickered.
The soul chose: the era of the Sage of Six Paths.
Before nations. Before wars. Before everything spiraled.
"One more request," the soul whispered. "Will I reincarnate before or after Indra and Ashura are born?"
The being answered with the same dreaded monotone:
"Random."
The soul tried to curse—but darkness had already closed in.
End of flashback.
He came back to himself beneath the colossal tree, frustration burning hotter than fear. A newborn. I'm a newborn. That cosmic idiot could've at least made me a toddler.
He squirmed, trying to free himself from the basket when the faint sound of approaching voices reached his ears.
"—Ashura was born healthy, they say."
"Yes, Hagoromo-sama's second son. A blessed event."
That was his cue.
He inhaled—
—and wailed as loudly as his tiny lungs allowed.
The footsteps stopped.
"Did you hear that?"
"A baby?"
"Impossible. No settlements are this far out."
Leaves rustled. Branches parted. Three robed figures emerged—practitioners of early ninjutsu. Their clothing was simple, hand-woven; their faces bore the calm focus of people accustomed to balancing survival and discipline in equal measure.
One knelt beside the basket. His eyes widened.
"Look at him… I've never seen a child with features like this."
"Those eyes," murmured another. "Red as fresh blood…"
The kneeling man reached out—and jerked back as a shock of unfamiliar chakra surged from the child's skin.
A ripple of invisible energy pulsed through the clearing, bending the grass.
"What was that?"
"This child… he holds power."
The three exchanged uncertain glances.
"We can't leave him here," one said. "Hagoromo-sama will know what to do."
And so the world's first carriers of ninjutsu—the disciples of the future Sage of Six Paths—lifted the basket and headed toward their village.
The child, exhausted from the emotional storm of two lifetimes, slipped into sleep.
The settlement that awaited them was less a village and more a sanctuary carved into untouched wilderness. Wooden homes built from ancient lumber stood among terraced gardens, their pillars engraved with flowing lines—early, crude prototypes of what would one day become sealwork. Smoke curled softly from roasting fires. Children practiced throwing stones with focused breath, mimicking the chakra-flow exercises their master had taught them.
At the village center, Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki stood beneath a wooden arch, his presence calm and warm. His long hair flowed like silver mist, and his eyes—soft yet ancient—seemed to read every thread of fate at once.
The disciples knelt, lowering the basket.
"Hagoromo-sama… we found this infant beneath the sacred tree. He released a shock of chakra when we touched him."
Hagoromo's gaze rested on the baby. His expression softened into something gentle—knowing, almost nostalgic.
"I see," he murmured. "So the child has finally arrived."
The disciples exchanged uncertain glances.
"You… were expecting him, Master?"
"A dear friend visited me," Hagoromo replied with a faint smile. "Gamamaru spoke of a child who would walk a path woven with destiny. A child I was meant to raise."
He lifted the infant with effortless tenderness.
"From today, he is my son."
The baby stirred, eyes flickering open. Hagoromo met that crimson gaze and whispered:
"I shall name you Asahiko.
Asa—the dawn, the beginning of light.
Hiko—the child, the one who carries tomorrow."
His voice lowered, warm as the sunrise itself.
"You will be Asahiko Ōtsutsuki, the Child of Dawn. A bridge between light and shadow. A bringer of balance in a world yet unborn."
He placed Asahiko beside two small cradles where Indra and Ashura slept peacefully, their infant forms rising and falling with steady breaths.
The door closed softly behind him, and Hagoromo's smile lingered in the dim light of the humble home.
Outside, the wind stirred.
Somewhere far away, ancient forces shifted.
Destiny exhaled.