The night was cold, the air thick with the scent of rain and blood. The Kyuubi's roar shook the earth, its massive tails carving through the landscape like blades through paper. Konoha was under siege, its greatest shinobi locked in desperate battle against the rampaging beast.
Inside a dimly lit room, a newborn wailed—his first breath drawn amidst chaos. Namikaze Minato had just sealed the Nine-Tails into his son, sacrificing himself and his wife in the process. But as the Shinigami's grip closed around his soul, something… shifted.
A presence, vast and unfathomable, stirred within the infant Naruto.
It was as if the very fabric of reality bent for an instant, allowing a sliver of another world's power to seep into him. The essence of Dracule Mihawk, the greatest swordsman of the seas, merged with the newborn's soul—not just his skills, but his instincts, his will, the very pinnacle of his being.
Naruto's cries ceased. His tiny fingers twitched, curling as if grasping for a blade that did not yet exist.
Three Years Later
The Third Hokage sighed as he watched the blond toddler from the shadows. Naruto was… different. Most children his age stumbled over their own feet, babbling nonsense. But Naruto? His steps were measured, his gaze sharp.
The old man had noticed it early—the way the boy moved with unnatural grace, the way he would sometimes stare at the horizon as if searching for something beyond the village walls. And then there were the sticks.
Every time Naruto found one, he would swing it—not wildly, not like a child playing, but with precision. A downward slash, a horizontal cut, a thrust. Over and over, until his tiny hands blistered.
Hiruzen had dismissed it at first, chalking it up to an active imagination. But when he saw Naruto, at barely three years old, cleave a falling leaf clean in half with a twig… he knew.
Something was inside that boy. Something extraordinary.
Five Years Old
Naruto stood in the middle of an empty training ground, a wooden practice sword in hand. The other orphans avoided him—not just because of the whispers of the Kyuubi, but because of the way he carried himself. Too calm. Too knowing.
He exhaled, raising the sword.
"Haki…"
The word slipped from his lips, foreign yet familiar. He didn't fully understand it, but his body did. His muscles remembered what his mind could not.
The blade came down in a perfect arc, splitting the air with a faint hum.
A crow perched on a nearby branch tilted its head, beady eyes watching.
Itachi Uchiha had been observing the boy for weeks now.
"Interesting," he murmured before vanishing in a flutter of feathers.
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To Be Continued…