The last thing I remembered was the screech of tires and the crushing impact of metal against bone. Twenty-six years of a mediocre life, spent grinding through a dead-end office job, drowning in student debt, and finding solace only in anime and light novels. No family waiting at home. No legacy to leave behind. Just... darkness.
Then, light.
Not the warm, welcoming light of salvation. This was blinding, obnoxious, neon-purple light that hurt even my non-existent eyes.
"Well, that was anticlimactic," a voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere.
I tried to speak, but I had no mouth. Tried to look around, but I had no eyes. I was... consciousness floating in a void that smelled suspiciously like old gym socks mixed with ozone.
"Who are you?" I thought, hoping whatever this was could hear me.
"Random Overpowered Being," the voice replied cheerfully. "R.O.B. for short. Think of me as... a bored administrator of reality. You died. Truck-kun got you good. Classic isekai setup, really."
"I... died?"
"Very dead. Splat. But here's the thing — your soul had decent potential. Wasted on that world, honestly. So I'm offering you a reboot. Naruto universe. Warring States Era. Same age as some kid named Madara Uchiha."
My non-existent heart would have stopped if it existed. The Warring States Era? That was... that was brutal. Child soldiers, constant warfare, clans slaughtering each other over territory. Average life expectancy probably matched my commute time back in my old life.
"Why that era?" I asked.
"Because it's interesting!" R.O.B. sounded genuinely excited. "Plus, you get to meet the founders. Hashirama Senju! Madara Uchiha! The good old days before they built that village system. Drama! Bloodshed! Idealism!"
"I'll die within a week," I said flatly.
"Probably!" R.O.B. agreed happily. "But that's where this comes in."
A massive wheel materialized in the void — golden, glowing, covered in symbols I couldn't read but somehow understood. Skills, bloodlines, weapons, cursed techniques. It spun slowly, humming with power that made my soul ache. Some symbols glowed brighter than others: Mangekyo Sharingan, Wood Release, Tailed Beast chakra, Six Paths Sage Mode, legendary weapons like the Totsuka Blade.
"Spin the wheel," R.O.B. commanded. "One ability. One special trait. That's all you get from me. No mind control, no forcing you down a path, no hidden strings attached. You spin, you get what you get, and then you're on your own. Live two hundred years or die tomorrow — your choice entirely. I won't interfere again."
Two hundred years. A hard limit. No immortality, no endless existence. Just two centuries to make something of myself.
"And my appearance? My clan?" I asked, trying to gather more information.
"Randomized within parameters," R.O.B. said dismissively. "You'll have parents this time — real ones. Not great ones, probably, but real. People who will actually care if you live or die. As for looks... well, let's say you'll definitely stand out. Try not to get burned as a demon, yeah?"
I focused on the wheel. No tricks. No meta-knowledge advantage. Just... pure chance. The wheel had hundreds of options, some world-breaking, some barely useful. I could get something that would make me a god among shinobi, or something that would barely help me survive the first winter.
"Spin it," I said, making my choice.
The wheel exploded into motion, blurring so fast it became a solid golden disc. Symbols flashed by too quickly to track — Sharingan, Byakugan, Wood Release, Ice Release, Tailed Beast, Sage Mode, forbidden techniques, legendary weapons, cursed seals. My soul held its breath (metaphorically, since I had no lungs).
The wheel slowed.
Slower.
Slower.
It stopped on a symbol that looked like a silver crescent moon overlapping with a wolf's silhouette. The symbol pulsed once, then blazed with white light.
"Ooh, nice pull!" R.O.B. sounded genuinely impressed. "Demi-human physiology with RNG-game mechanics! Appearance template... Inuyasha, apparently. Silver hair, dog ears, enhanced senses, the works. Plus a secondary ability — chakra construct creation. You can eventually build a white wolf the size of a Perfect Susanoo, pure chakra energy."
"Eventually?" I caught that qualifier immediately.
"Oh, you're starting weak. Very weak. Baby-level chakra reserves, zero control, probably can't even make a wolf pup right now without passing out. That Susanoo-sized beast? That's endgame training. Madara-level mastery required. You've got the potential, kid, but potential means absolutely nothing without work. You'll need to train for years, maybe decades, to reach that level."
"And the lifespan?" I pressed.
"Two centuries. Your demi-human blood gives you longevity, but you're not immortal. No regeneration from fatal wounds, no immunity to disease. Use your time wisely."
The void began to dissolve. I felt myself being pulled, stretched, compressed into something physical. Sensation returned — cold air against skin, the weight of flesh, the rhythmic beating of a heart, the overwhelming pressure of existence.
"Wait!" I tried to call out. "What's my name? My clan?"
"Hideyoshi," R.O.B.'s voice faded into the distance. "Hideyoshi Shirokami. Clan of twenty-three survivors. Good luck! Try not to die immediately!"
Then, darkness again.
But this time, it was warm. Wet. I was... floating. Suspended in something comforting.
A woman's voice, strained and exhausted: "One more push... I can see the head..."
Pressure. Squeezing. Cold air hitting my skin in a shocking rush.
I opened my eyes for the first time in this world and saw a woman with dark hair and tired, kind eyes. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with conventional standards — she was covered in sweat, her hair plastered to her face, her breathing ragged. But she smiled down at me, and I felt something I hadn't felt in my previous life.
Love.
Unconditional, immediate, overwhelming love.
"He's beautiful," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Look at his hair... like moonlight. And his eyes..."
A rougher voice, a man standing nearby: "And those ears... the clan will talk. They'll say he's cursed."
"Let them talk," she said fiercely, clutching me closer. "He's ours. He's perfect."
I tried to speak, but only gurgling came out. I tried to move, but my limbs were useless noodles. I was... a baby. A newborn with the mind of a twenty-six-year-old man, silver hair that caught the light like precious metal, and what I suspected were very obvious dog ears poking from my head.
The Warring States Era.
Madara Uchiha's generation.
Two hundred years to live.
And somewhere in my soul, the potential to one day create something magnificent — a wolf of chakra that could stand against the gods themselves.
But first... I needed to learn how to walk. And talk. And not drool on myself.
The woman — my mother — cradled me close, humming a soft lullaby. Her name, I would later learn, was Yuki. My father, the rough-voiced man with worry lines etched deep into his face, was called Ren.
The Shirokami Clan.
Twenty-three survivors in a world that chewed up small clans and spat out their bones.
As I drifted to sleep in my mother's arms, lulled by her heartbeat and the warmth of her embrace, I made a promise to myself.
I would live.
Not just survive — live. Two hundred years of it. I would see the village system born, watch Hashirama and Madara's dream become reality, and maybe — just maybe — find something worth protecting in this brutal, beautiful world.
The wheel had spun.
Now, the game began.
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