POV Yuji)
I raised my forearm just in time, catching his punch before it smashed into my face. The impact rattled through my bones, shaking my entire body—but I held firm.
Too strong to block head-on. I need to move smarter.
He was big—fat, bulky, and powerful. But that size came with a cost. He was slower. Clumsier. And, more importantly, he was starting to tire.
Since the fight began, I'd taken a few hits—nothing major—but the small bruises and strains were stacking up. I could feel them. Still, I knew I was in better shape. He was losing stamina, and fast.
One thing I'd learned in this world was that age didn't matter. A ten-year-old could take down a thirty-year-old if they trained harder, fought smarter. Chakra changed the rules. Here, willpower and training meant everything.
And I was not losing again.
A heavy fist came crashing down, aiming to flatten me. I leapt to the side, landing on the wooden fencing of the colosseum, using it like solid ground. Chakra surged through my feet for grip. Then I launched myself forward like a missile, my fist cocked back.
My knuckles connected with his face—hard. I felt something snap.
His nose exploded with blood, spraying across his face and down his shirt. He stumbled back with a roar, but I didn't give him a second to recover.
I surged forward, tackling him to the ground. He hit the dirt hard, and I landed on his chest, pinning him.
Then I started punching.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Blood splattered across my fists and face. I didn't stop. Not yet. His arms flailed, trying to throw me off, but I hammered down another blow—teeth cracked under my knuckles.
His mouth moved, probably begging, but I didn't hear a word. My blood was boiling, my heart was racing, and my fists kept flying.
Finally, with a loud grunt, he swung his thick arm and managed to knock me off. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of me. The arena's dirt floor scraped at my back.
Cheers echoed all around.
"Night!"
"Big K!"
The crowd roared, but I blocked it all out. My eyes stayed locked on him as he pushed himself to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, his face a mess of swelling and cuts.
"I'm going to kill you!" he growled, eyes full of rage as he charged.
I smirked, wiping the blood from my chin. "Don't say that—your wife might be sad."
His face twisted with rage.
Perfect.
One thing I learned in the colosseum: nothing throws a fighter off more than getting inside their head. Taunting was normal here—it was part of the fight. And I could see it worked. His fists were no longer focused. His technique was gone.
He was fighting angry.
I waited until the last second—then ducked.
His punch swung wide, missing me by inches. I drove my knee straight into his gut, chakra-enhanced, knocking the wind out of him. Then I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck, sending him sprawling to the ground.
I jumped on him again—this time with both knees to his ribs. He screamed.
My fists followed. Relentless. Brutal.
Blood sprayed. The crowd noise faded. I couldn't even hear my own breathing anymore—only the beat of rage in my ears.
When the announcer finally called it, I was still swinging.
"WINNER—NIGHT!"
I stood slowly, chest rising and falling, covered in blood—most of it his. My knuckles were raw. My arms were shaking. But I was standing.
And he wasn't.
I didn't smile. I didn't celebrate.
I just walked off the arena floor, fists still clenched, head held high.
This wasn't about glory.
It was about never losing again.
——————————————
After the fight, I sat in silence while the medical ninja worked on me. Her hands glowed with soft green chakra, knitting skin and easing the aches in my muscles. It was a strange feeling—warm and cold at the same time—but I'd grown used to it by now.
Still, as her jutsu did its work, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Tomorrow…
It was my first day at the Academy.
In this world, once you turned five, you became eligible to apply for admission into the Ninja Academy. And last week, I'd finally crossed that milestone. Five years old—officially.
We'd celebrated in the simplest way possible: a hot bowl of Ichiraku Ramen.
Ever since I learned I was reborn in this world, I always wanted to try it. It felt like a rite of passage. Sitting at the same stall Naruto once did. Tasting what he once loved so dearly.
It was good—comforting, even. But it wasn't mind-blowing. Honestly, I preferred barbecue. The ramen had heart, though… and maybe that's what mattered to Naruto.
It wasn't the taste.
It was the memories.
"Alright, you're good to go," the medic said, pulling me from my thoughts. "There weren't many injuries to begin with. Just surface damage."
I nodded, offering a quiet "Thank you."
Medical treatment here was provided freely—especially for fighters in the colosseum. Injuries were expected, almost guaranteed. Some didn't leave the arena walking. I was one of the lucky ones this time.
I changed out of my bloodied clothes and back into my casual gear—black shirt, light pants, nothing fancy. I tucked the envelope of prize money into my pocket. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to get by. My fists paid better than some jobs around here, especially for someone my age.
The sky had already turned deep blue by the time I stepped out of the medical facility. Night had crept in quietly, washing the village in silver moonlight and the soft glow of lanterns.
The streets were quieter now, but not dead.
Vendors were still cleaning up their stalls, some selling late-night skewers to shinobi fresh off duty. A pair of kids chased each other down an alley, laughing without a care in the world. From a nearby open window, I caught the faint sound of a woman humming while washing dishes. The scent of grilled meat and old wood smoke lingered in the air.
This was the life of civilians. Normal people.
People who didn't have to bleed in the arena, who didn't need to train with blades before they could read.
It wasn't a life I hated. It just wasn't mine.
I adjusted my shirt and kept walking, my pace slow. The envelope in my pocket felt heavier than it should've. A small stack of cash, earned with bruises and blood. I'd keep it—use it wisely. I wasn't about to hand it over. Uncle never asked for it, anyway. He said a shinobi should learn to manage his own rewards.
By the time I reached our part of the village, the lanterns had thinned out. It was quieter here—more shadows than light. Our house was simple, tucked between a few others built from stone and aged wood. Not rich. Not poor. Just… sturdy.
I pushed open the door.
Inside, it was dimly lit, a small oil lamp casting flickering light on the walls. Uncle was sitting at the table, arms crossed, eyes locked on nothing in particular. Just… staring.
He didn't even look up as I entered.
"You're late," he said simply, his voice low but calm.
"I won," I replied, taking off my sandals. "Didn't get hurt too bad."
A long pause.
"You always say that," he muttered, and finally turned to face me.
There was no lecture. No scolding. Just those eyes—sharp and tired, like he'd seen this all before. Maybe he had.
I walked to my room, closed the door behind me, and sat on the edge of my bed. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left now was quiet and the low hum of pain in my knuckles.
I pulled the envelope out and slipped it under the loose floorboard near my bed—my little hiding place. It wasn't much, but it was mine.
The village outside was still moving, still breathing. But my world had already gone still.
Tomorrow, I start at the Academy.
What will the Academy be like?
Will the other kids be strong? Will they be normal?
Uncle told me I was already at a Genin's level, maybe even above when it came to taijutsu and chakra control. He said if I wanted to, I could easily graduate early.
But that wasn't the point.
I didn't just want to pass through the Academy—I wanted to experience it. The friendships. The rivalries. The missions. The lessons. Maybe even the pain. All of it.
Because I knew something most of those kids wouldn't:
The world beyond the Academy is cruel.
And if I don't sharpen myself now, I'll break later.
Still, I wondered… would I fit in?
Most of them were just five or six—fresh, clueless. I wasn't like them. I had memories. Burdens. Losses. I knew things a child shouldn't.
But maybe that was okay.
Maybe this was a chance to build something real. A life.
A new kind of fight.
And I'll be ready.