The wooden planks creaked beneath his feet as the boy walked across a narrow bridge spanning a gentle river. A cool breeze brushed against his face, carrying the faint scent of moss and earth. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his head—like a thunderclap inside his skull.
His steps faltered. The world tilted violently.
Before he could steady himself, his balance gave way, and he tumbled from the bridge into the shallow water below. The river was calm, the current weak no harm done, just a brief shock.
Frustrated, he pushed himself up, water dripping from his white hair. His gaze fell upon the river's surface, now still. Reflected back was a face both unfamiliar and deeply known sharp eyes, pale skin, and white hair as bright as snow.
His own name echoed in his mind like distant thunder: Satoru Gojo.
His mind began to whirl, spinning tales more vivid than reality. Limitless power, he thought, the Six Eyes—unmatched, invincible. He pictured himself standing atop mountains, bending space and time with a mere thought. Enemies falling before him like leaves in the wind.
Then, the fantasy deepened. He saw himself surrounded by admiration, countless followers, and many wives. Hinata's gentle smile, Tsunade's fierce strength, Sakura's fiery spirit, and Ino's graceful charm. all vying for his attention. Palaces, feasts, a life of effortless luxury stretching out before him.
He murmured softly, voice barely audible, "Hinata, your kindness keeps me grounded."
" Tsunade, your strength inspires me."
"Sakura, your fire fuels my spirit."
"Ino, your grace lights my path." His lips curved into a smile as if feeling their presence beside him.
Those passing by glanced at him strangely, their eyes lingering on the boy who walked with an unusual confidence and a wide smile. But he paid them no mind. Filled with excitement and happiness, he simply kept walking, lost in his own world.
After a moment of thought, he decided to head home. So sure of himself, he didn't realize he had no other route than the bridge he had just left behind. As he moved further away, the surroundings began to feel unfamiliar.
Without noticing, he had wandered off the path—and was already lost.
Starting to realize he might need to stop and get some information, Satoru slowed his pace. Suddenly, three voices echoed nearby, mocking a shy little girl.
"Look at the white-eyed weakling, haha!"
"Why does she even think she belongs to a noble clan? Pathetic."
"With those scary eyes, she probably scares even her own friends."
"You think she has any?"
They laughed cruelly. The girl trembled but tried to speak, her voice barely audible.
"I-I'm not like that…" she stammered.
"My clan is strong… my father always said so..."
Seeing the scene, Satoru stepped forward with a confident stride.
"Hey, trash! Fight me!" he shouted, advancing straight at one of the boys who was clearly older than him.
The older boys barely had time to process what was happening. One of them—taller, broader, clearly the leader—turned just in time to catch a fist right in the stomach.
Feeling the sting of the punch, one of the older boys doubled over, gasping for air. Another stepped forward, his eyes cold and mocking.
"Who the hell do you think you are? This isn't your fight. Stay out of it."
Satoru's gaze hardened. He took a deep breath, tightening his fists.
"I'm Satoru. And you're nothing but trash," he said, stepping forward boldly.
Without hesitation, he swung his fist toward the tallest bully. His punch cut through the air, but at the last moment, the older boy shifted just enough Satoru's fist missed its mark by inches.
Despite the failed strike, Satoru's mind raced, 'Nah, I'd win.'
The bullies and the girl watched him with a mix of irritation and surprise. How could such a small kid stand up to them with such fearless confidence?
The bully's expression twisted with fury as he lunged forward, pulling back his fist. Satoru braced himself, feet planted firmly, a confident smirk playing at his lips.
'This is it', he thought. My Six Eyes will activate any moment. I'll see his movements before they happen graceful, untouchable... like Gojo.
He watched the incoming punch with almost theatrical calm, expecting time to slow, expecting instinct to take over.
But time did not slow.
His vision didn't sharpen.
His body didn't react.
Instead—*bam.*
The fist connected squarely with his face. A clean, solid punch. Pain bloomed instantly across his cheek as his head snapped sideways. The world spun violently. And then dirt. Cold, rough, and far too real.
He hit the ground with an unceremonious *thud*, limbs sprawled awkwardly. For a moment, silence reigned.
Even the bullies stood frozen, blinking at the sight of the boy who'd charged in so fearlessly now lying flat on the ground, eyes wide in dazed shock. The girl gasped softly, her tiny hands over her mouth.
Satoru blinked up at the sky, mouth slightly open, his thoughts scrambled.
Where was my domain expansion?
Where was the infinity?
Where... was my power!?
A breeze passed, gentle and indifferent, brushing dust across his face. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped. It felt almost disrespectful.
And then, as if the universe hadn't humiliated him enough, his own voice escaped in a dry croak:
"...What the hell?"
For a few seconds, no one moved. The boy who had punched Satoru stared down at him, almost unsure if he had really fallen that easily. Then a sneer crept onto his face.
"Thought you were tough, huh?" he spat, stepping forward.
Satoru groaned and pushed one trembling arm against the ground, trying to rise. Dirt clung to his cheek, and his lip was bleeding. His legs shook, but he refused to stay down.
"I… I'm not done yet," he muttered, barely able to keep his balance.
"Not done?" another bully laughed. "You've gotta be the dumbest idiot I've ever seen."
"Must be brain damage from that punch," the third added.
Then came the first kick—hard and sudden, right to his ribs. Satoru gasped and dropped again. The second followed quickly, to his shoulder. The third slammed into his back.
He curled slightly but still pushed up again.
Each time he tried to rise, they knocked him down again—fists, kicks, insults raining down.
"Still think you're a hero?"
"Where's your big talk now, huh?"
"You should've stayed out of it, loser!"
Through it all, the little girl—Hinata—stood frozen nearby. Her hands shook as she watched, eyes wide with horror. She wanted to scream, to do *something*, but the words died in her throat. All she could do was watch as the strange boy who had stood up for her was beaten to the ground over and over again.
But he never stopped trying to rise.
Blood on his face, his clothes torn, breathing ragged—Satoru still reached for the ground, still pushed against it, even if his arms trembled and failed. His eyes, though glazed with pain, held the same spark of wild defiance.
Eventually, the boys grew tired. Their insults grew half-hearted. Their breathing grew heavy.
"Tch… freak," one muttered. "Waste of time."
"Come on. Let's go."
They walked away, casting one last glance at the crumpled boy behind them.
Satoru lay still for a moment, dust rising with each shaky breath. Then, with a low groan, he turned his head toward the girl still watching him in shock.
His voice cracked as he forced out a crooked grin. "Told you… I'd win…"
Satoru lay there for a moment, the taste of blood and dirt thick in his mouth, every breath a struggle. Pain pulsed in every corner of his body — ribs screaming, legs trembling, fists scraped raw from the fall and the beating.
But he didn't stay down.
With a low, ragged grunt, he pressed his hands into the ground again. His arms shook violently, but he pushed. Slowly. Painfully. One knee. Then the other. Until finally, swaying like a leaf in the wind, he stood.
His face was swollen, one eye nearly closed, blood dripping from his nose and lip. His white hair was matted with sweat and dust. He looked nothing like a hero — more like a battered ghost refusing to fade.
But he was smiling.
That same crooked, defiant grin stretched across his broken face as he turned his head toward Hinata.
She hadn't moved. Her small body was stiff with shock, her pale eyes wide with something like awe… and guilt.
He raised a bruised, shaking hand and gave her a half-hearted thumbs up.
"See?" he rasped, voice hoarse.
"Didn't even need infinity…"
Then he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on a nearby post.
But Satoru didn't walk away.
He stood there for a moment, swaying unsteadily, catching his breath. Then, dragging one foot after the other, he turned toward the girl.
Hinata stood frozen like a frightened animal, her small hands clenched tightly in front of her chest. Her pale lavender eyes shimmered with unshed tears, flickering between Satoru's bruised face and the ground as if she didn't know where to look. Her dark indigo hair framed her round, delicate face, the soft fringe barely brushing her brows. She wore a light kimono, just a little too big for her small frame, the sleeves nearly swallowing her hands.
She looked like she could barely speak—timid, fragile, like a single harsh word could make her cry.
Satoru stopped in front of her, still hunched and bloodied, forcing a smile that hurt his cheek.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, but kind.
She blinked, stunned for a moment, then gave the faintest nod—almost imperceptible.
"I… I'm fine…" she whispered, voice trembling like a leaf.
"You… you didn't have to…"
"I did," he cut in softly, then grinned again through the pain.
"They were jerks. You don't deserve that."
She looked down, lip quivering, and mumbled, "Thank you…"
Satoru exhaled, finally letting himself lean a bit on a wooden railing nearby. "Anytime. I've got your back, white eyes."
Her eyes widened a little at the nickname, not sure whether to be offended or… oddly touched.
Before Satoru could say anything more, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the path. A man in a dark, formal shinobi robe approached—a Hyuuga clan guard, judging by the crest on his vest and the same pale, stoic eyes Hinata had. His expression was severe the moment he saw Satoru, battered and filthy, standing beside the young heiress.
"What happened here?" the man asked sharply, stepping between them and placing a protective hand on Hinata's shoulder.
"Who did this?"
His eyes locked on Satoru, gaze sharp and accusing.
Satoru barely managed to stay upright, but he didn't flinch. He tried to speak—but before a word escaped, Hinata tugged gently on the guard's sleeve.
"It wasn't him," she said softly but clearly.
"He… helped me."
The man blinked, visibly taken aback. He looked at Satoru again, this time with a slight shift in posture—less threatening, but still watchful.
"…I see."
He nodded, then turned to Hinata.
"Come. Your father will be worried."
Hinata hesitated. Her eyes lingered on Satoru—on his bruises, his swollen lip, his defiant but unsteady stance. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something more. But instead, she simply gave him a deep, respectful bow.
Then she followed the guard down the path.
Satoru stood there a moment longer, watching them disappear around the corner. The wind picked up, brushing through his white hair. His entire body ached. He tasted blood every time he swallowed.
And still… a small grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.
He turned and started limping down the road toward home, every step a reminder that pain was real, and so was humiliation.
But even through the soreness and dust and bruised pride, he muttered to himself, voice low and dry:
"…Yup. Definitely Satoru Gojo."
His laugh came out as a whezee.