I was eight years old the first time I died.
Technically, I was in second grade. Practically, I was somewhere in the woods behind my cousin's house, staring at the underside of a fallen log and trying very hard not to throw up at the sight of my own blood.
There was a lot of it.
"Okay," I whispered, because no one else was there to say it. "This is… not great."
The day had started normal enough: bored adults, a backyard cookout, and my cousin daring me to follow him into the trees because only babies stayed near the house. I wasn't a baby, so I went. Obviously.
The plan had not included the part where the old, half-rotten plank bridge over the little creek decided to retire the second I stepped on it. Wood splintered. I fell. Something sharp tore into my leg on the way down.
Then there was mud and pain and the realization that I'd landed on something jagged enough to make the world go white around the edges.
By the time I dragged myself out of the water, my left leg looked like special effects from a horror movie. My cousin was gone—either he hadn't noticed I'd fallen, or he'd panicked and run back without me. Neither option made me feel better.
I tried to shout. My voice came out small and thin and got swallowed by the trees.
So I did what any sensible eight-year-old would do: I crawled for a while, then collapsed next to a log and decided to take a quick break from existence.
The air smelled like wet dirt and leaves. The sky between the branches was bright and uncaring. My leg throbbed in time with my heartbeat, except the beats were getting slower, like someone was turning a volume knob down.
This is bad, I thought, with the same dry clarity I used for math homework. Like… capital-B Bad.
I knew enough about bodies to realize that losing a lot of blood in the middle of nowhere was not in the "walk it off" category. I wondered how long it would take someone to notice I was missing. An hour? Two? By then…
My fingers were going numb. That seemed rude.
I stared at my hand, fascinated by how distant it looked. Pale, smeared with red, a little too thin. It didn't feel like it belonged to me. Honestly, most of my body felt like that on a good day—like I'd been issued the wrong model by mistake—but today it was extra literal.
The edges of everything blurred.
Somewhere far away, someone might have been calling my name. The sound wobbled, stretched, then snapped.
For a second, there was just… drifting. No forest, no log, no weight. Just the sense of falling without moving, like when you miss a step in a dream and your stomach drops out—but stretched into forever.
Colors smeared together. Green, grey, something gold. I caught quick, disjointed flashes as if somebody was flipping through channels too fast: a stone cliff with faces carved into it; paper charms fluttering in the wind; a spiral symbol, simple and bold, like a doodle in the margin of a notebook.
Then pain slammed back in.
Not the sharp, tearing pain from before. This was hot and buzzing, spreading from my chest out through limbs I hadn't realized I'd gotten back. My heart hammered hard enough to hurt. Air scraped into lungs that felt wrong and right at the same time.
Voices crashed over me.
"—still alive, somehow."
"Chakra response is stabilizing. Keep pressure on the wound."
"Poor kid. No ID, no guardian… another stray, just what we needed."
A bright light cut into my eyes. I squinted, tried to flinch away, found I couldn't move much. Everything felt heavy. My leg hurt in a way that said "stitched" instead of "open," which was an improvement, but the rest of me buzzed with leftover terror and something else—like my skin didn't quite fit.
I blinked up at a ceiling made of clean white plaster, not peeling farmhouse paint. The air smelled like antiseptic and herbs, not damp leaves.
A shape leaned over me—someone in a green vest over dark clothes, with a cloth band across their forehead. On the metal plate in the center of that band, a symbol was carved: a stylized leaf, spiraling inward.
My brain, fuzzy as it was, recognized it before anything else.
No way, I thought.
"Hey," the person said. Their voice was calm, but their eyes were tired. "You're awake. Try not to move too much."
Their features were sharp, their hair pulled back. A mask hung loose around their neck, the kind you could tug up in a hurry when things went bad. The vest was the real problem, though. I'd seen that vest hundreds of times before. Not in person.
On a screen.
In anime.
"Where…?" My voice came out croaky, like a frog who'd smoked half a pack.
"You're in Konoha Hospital," the stranger said. "You were found near the village border. Badly injured, severe blood loss. Lucky for you, an ANBU patrol was passing by."
Konoha.
The word landed like a kunai.
Hidden Leaf Village.
My chest tightened. For a second, I thought I might be having a panic attack. Or another heart attack. Or both.
This had to be a hallucination. Brain hypoxia plus childhood obsession equals one last nerdy fever dream. That was logical. Sort of.
The medic—had to be a medic-nin, didn't it—checked a clipboard, then frowned slightly.
"We still don't have a name for your file," they said. "Do you remember it?"
That caught me.
I knew my real-world name. It sat heavy on my tongue, wrong in a way I'd never had words for but had learned to live with. Saying it here, in a world where I'd just heard "chakra" used casually, felt like dragging that wrongness over the edge with me.
The nurse looked down and started writing something, muttering under her breath, "She appears to have some issues with memory recall..."
She? I thought. She...?
My gaze drifted, unfocused, to the window beside the bed.
Beyond the glass, over the rooftops of the village, huge stone faces stared down from a mountainside. Four of them. The First, Second, Third, and Fourth Hokage. The last one—sharp jaw, serious eyes, hair like a golden hedgehog—
My heart did something weird and complicated.
I swallowed.
"…Sylvie," I said, before I could overthink it. The name slid out smooth, like it had been waiting in the back of my throat this whole time. "My… my name is Sylvie."
The medic blinked, then wrote it down without comment.
"Well then. Welcome to Konoha..." The nurse fumbled with the sounds of my name, as if it didn't quite fit their tongue, "Sylvie."
They moved on to check something by my bedside. I stared at my hands.
They were small. Smaller than I remembered. The skin was paler, smoother. The angles… different. The proportions of my wrists, the way my fingers tapered. My arms disappeared into a hospital gown that hung off me like a sheet, but I could feel the shape of my body underneath it in a way that made my brain stutter.
Girl, a part of me whispered, with the same simple, stunned certainty as Konoha.
I should have freaked out about that. Another day, another life, I probably would have. But I'd already bled out in one forest and woken up...somewhere else? The usual hierarchy of concerns had been thoroughly scrambled.
So I did what I always did when reality got too big: I shoved the feeling into a labeled mental box—Deal With This Later—and slammed the lid.
Something cramped low in my chest anyway, a knot of nerves and… relief? I ignored it as best I could.
"Any headaches? Dizziness?" the medic asked.
"Uh. All of the above," I said. My voice sounded higher than I remembered, too. Of course it did.
They made a face that said "standard" and "problem" at the same time, then gave me the usual instructions: rest, don't try to get up alone, someone will bring food, blah blah, if you see double call for help. Then they left, closing the door softly behind them.
The room went quiet.
I lay there, listening to the faint sounds of the hospital—footsteps, distant voices, the clink of metal. Underneath it all was something subtler, like static on a radio just off-station. A sense of… pressure. Presence. As if the air itself was crowded.
Maybe that was just blood loss and panic. Maybe it was chakra. I didn't have a manual for "you have respawned in a ninjaverse, congrats."
My eyelids drooped.
The door to my room banged open.
"Hey, hey, you can't just—"
"I just wanna see—!"
A nurse's protest cut off as a small shape darted past her and skidded to a halt beside my bed.
He was shorter than me by a little, all sharp angles and messy blond hair, blue eyes too big for his face. His clothes were scuffed. Bandaids crisscrossed his cheeks like he collected minor injuries as a hobby. A pair of ragged goggles hung around his neck.
For some reason, just having him that close made the air feel louder. Not sound—something else. Like standing near a generator you couldn't quite hear, only feel buzzing in your bones.
I didn't need the whisker marks on his face to know who he was.
My throat tightened.
The nurse caught up, panting. "Naruto! You can't just run into patients' rooms—"
He ignored her completely, leaning in close enough that I could see every freckle.
"Whoa," he said, eyes wide. "You're the new kid they found! They said you almost died. That's so cool!"
I stared at him.
Of all the possible afterlives or reincarnation setups, I had to land in the one where child soldiers were standard issue and this disaster goblin was the universe's chosen protagonist.
The universe absolutely had a sense of humor.
"I—" My voice cracked. I coughed, tried again. "I almost died. That part wasn't the cool bit."
He grinned, unbothered.
"I'm Uzumaki Naruto!" he declared, too loud for the tiny room. "Believe it!"
The nurse groaned like she'd heard that line a hundred times already.
Despite everything—the pain, the terror, the way my entire existence had been rerouted to another world—I felt a laugh try to climb up my throat. It came out as a broken little huff, but it was something.
"I'm Sylvie," I managed. My voice shook, but I met his eyes. "Nice to meet you."
His grin somehow got brighter. For a split second, the exhausted, empty parts of me warmed under it, like someone had cracked a window in a stuffy room and let real air in.
Somewhere far above the hospital, stone faces watched the village with blank eyes. Somewhere deep beneath it, an ancient fox curled in chains and seethed.
I had died in the wrong forest.
Somehow, I'd ended up in the right world.
And I had the terrible, exhilarating feeling that things were only going to get more complicated from here.
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Several years would go by and- the orphanage was… fine. Bed, food, chores, rules. Better than my old life, worse than dying in a cool, dramatic way.
Kids here moved like they were waiting to be yelled at. Flinch first, talk second. I recognized the posture; I'd grown up in it.
If this was the good outcome for a kid in this world, what did that make Naruto? I didn't have any illusions left about "loving families," but maybe I could help make a world where kids at least didn't have to survive it alone.