Shinji: The Disastrous

A single cricket chirped in the dark when Shinji's eyes flew open. The house, still heavy with sleep, felt too small to hold the restless thump of his heart. Careful not to wake Hana or Mother, he slid from the quilt and tiptoed outside.

Night clung to the yard, cool and damp. Shinji padded to the shed, pushed the warped door aside, and froze, chilled by the smell of dust and old wood. `Time to get serious.` He stated. 

He had pictured making a grand training ground, ropes, hurdles, painted lines, targets. But he knew he had to start small. He reached for the longest bamboo pole he could find in the shed. Even stripped of branches it was awkward, thick as his wrist and nearly twice his height.

After a little struggle he wrestled it free, the pole jabbed the rafters, showering him with dust. His arms shook before he'd taken three steps. At the edge of the vegetable rows he found two squat field stones and rolled them, one slow shove at a time, toward the old plum tree. Each rock stole a gasp of breath.

By the time he balanced the pole across the stones, dawn light had grown pale pink. The pole sagged a little in the middle, but it stayed in place. A beam, nothing more, but he had to start somewhere.

Shinji knelt, palms on thighs, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The earth felt as though it might tilt him off the planet if he moved too fast.

When his head steadied, he limped to the riverbank for stepping stones. Five flat rocks lay half-buried in the sand. Lifting even one sent pain burning up his side. He managed two, then rested, his heart pounding as if it wanted to leave his body, before dragging them back in slow looping paths that would have looked comic to any bird overhead. He set the stones a stride apart in a wobbly line. A child could hop them in second, right now he doubted he could manage it himself.

He straightened, wiped muddy hands on his robe, and noticed dawn had fully come. The small course, one balance beam, five buried stones, looked so childish he feared Ren and Hana would laugh.

He slipped back toward the house, sandals silent on the damp boards of the porch. Hana still slept in a loose curl, her braid splayed over the quilt, mother lay on her side, arm draped where Father used to be. The emptiness beside her made Shinji's chest pinch.

As he eased the door shut, the hinge squeaked. Sada's eyes opened at once, sharp, worried, and already reading every smudge on his robe.

"Shinji?" her voice rasped with sleep. "Where were you?"

He offered the smallest bow he could manage without wobbling. "Just some fresh air, Mother. Couldn't sleep."

She rose onto one elbow, moonlit hair falling over her shoulder. "Fresh air," she repeated, gaze flicking from his muddy knees to the red scrape on his wrist. "At this hour?"

"I I wanted to stretch," he said, which was absurd even to him. "The clinic said exercise helps."

"Not before dawn." She unfurled from the quilt and crossed the room barefoot, the floor creaking under her weight. "Let me see that scrape."

"It's nothing." He tried to tuck the wrist behind his back. She gently caught his arm and inspected the thin ribbon of blood.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the wound. "You have barely healed. Next time wake me. I'll fetch water or watch you… stretch." A faint smile softened the scold.

He nodded, ashamed yet oddly happy at the concern. "I'll lie down. I promise."

Sada pressed her forehead to his for a heartbeat, then gathered a strip of clean cloth, wrapped the scrape, and guided him to his mat. The quilt was still warm, scented faintly with mulberry soap. Hana stirred but didn't wake.

Shinji lay back, pulse drumming behind his temples. The ceiling reeds wove tangled shadows in early light. At first fatigue tugged his eyes shut, but his mind skittered like a beetle on glass.

He knew too much about this world.

In his old life, Naruto had been entertainment, a swirling mess of courage, friendship speeches, and villains turned allies by a heartfelt talk. Talk no jutsu, fans had joked. Words winning wars. He'd laughed along.

Now he lay in the same universe, and words had saved no one. Not his father. Jiro hadn't fallen to persuasion or deep conversation, he'd died to claws and blood on dirt. No speech could have changed that.

A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. Fatherless again. Some people have a knack for math, others for languages; apparently, I have one for dead dads. Dark humor felt wrong, yet it eased the heartpain.

He thought about the monsters of this world, the Sannin, the Akatsuki, and the Kages. And him? he was, just a fatherless child who didn't even know his exact age, with some meager chakra. His goal was simple, stay as far away from those monsters as possible and train so that, if they ever came here, he could protect himself and his family. Maybe he could build a small army out of the village kids and turn them into ninja, but he quickly shoved that idea aside; it was a sure way to attract unwanted attention and die.