Two Worlds, One Life: Naruto and Marvel Cinematic Universe

John found himself in a white room, clothed in thin fabric that clung lightly to his skin. The material held a gentle warmth, like it had been resting under sunlight just long enough to be comfortable. The floor under his feet gave slightly, dense and smooth beneath his toes. The walls matched the floor—white, unmarked, solid.

The room was about the size of an average office. There were no windows. A white desk stood in front of him, its surface clean and cool-looking, with a faint satin finish that diffused the surrounding light. Two chairs flanked it, one on each side, positioned with precise symmetry. The chair nearest him remained untouched. The other faced him across the desk, angled as if someone had just stood from it.

For a moment, John stood still, frowning slightly as he looked down. No blood. No bullet holes. His skin was clean. His chest rose evenly. He actually felt… good. Light, even. No ache in his joints, no weight dragging on his breath.

He blinked.

Was this the afterlife?

As John looked left to right, taking in the uniformity of the space, his gaze returned to the desk—and there, seated in the chair on the far side, was an old man who hadn't been there a moment ago.

He had sharp, striking green eyes that caught the light like polished emeralds—almost unnaturally vivid. The rest of him looked like something out of a storybook: long white beard, deeply lined face, heavy brows, and calm presence. He might've passed for Gandalf if not for the simple white robes, nearly identical to the ones John wore.

The old man raised a hand in a quiet gesture, palm open, inviting John to sit. As he did, a flick of the fingers brought a glowing hologram into view above the desk. It hovered in the air, shifting and pulsing with complex text John couldn't make sense of—rows and columns of characters that blurred past faster than his eyes could follow.

Seeing no reason to refuse, John moved forward and lowered himself into the chair opposite the man, who didn't acknowledge him directly. His eyes remained fixed on the cascading data, expression unreadable. The hum of the hologram was soft but steady, like distant static, filling the space between them.

After a few seconds, the old man exhaled through his nose, amused. "Well," he said, voice calm and textured with age, "isn't this an interesting life you had."

He gave the hologram a small nudge, sliding it across the white desk with the ease of a paper folder. "Looks like you qualify for reincarnation."

The glowing screen rotated, the text shifting with it until it faced John directly. A message bloomed across the top in clean, sharp lettering:

Congratulations. Based on your life, your karma was…

Calculating…

A flicker passed through the display, and the screen glitched briefly.

Error. Recalibrating…

Calculating…

The old man—Gandalf in posture and eyes of emerald glass—watched without concern. He sat back slightly in his chair, hands resting on his knees, waiting for the system to do its work.

Calculating…

The numbers began rolling faster, symbols flashing, data layers folding over each other. John couldn't follow any of it. He had no idea what the language was or how it moved so fast. His fingers curled slightly on the edge of the desk.

The old man finally spoke again, his gaze steady. "You did a lot of things, John. Good and bad. It's taking time because you left behind an overwhelming number of ripples."

John's brow furrowed. Ripples?

His mind raced, trying to piece it together—where he was, what this was. Reincarnation? Karma scores? What kind of system needed this much processing power?

He leaned in a little, staring at the screen, confused.

What the hell was going on?

The man continued waiting, eyes calmly following the still-processing hologram. A few minutes passed. The symbols kept shifting across the glowing screen, flickering too fast to follow, layers of data folding in on themselves and refreshing without pause.

John sat in the chair opposite him, silent, watching. He didn't speak, didn't press. Questions would be answered in time. He'd always been good at reading a situation—better to let it unfold and see what it revealed.

The man gave a quiet breath, almost amused. "Most humans cry when they arrive. Or start demanding answers. Endless questions. Panic. Sadness. Anger. A flood of emotion. It's exhausting."

He glanced at John, his expression approving. "You're quiet. Measured. I like that. Given your record, it fits."

He waved a hand, adjusting the hologram's position. "Every action creates a ripple. That ripple touches others. Sometimes directly, sometimes many steps removed. It's not just what you did—we calculate what others did because of you. And what came after that. Intent is a factor as well. Why you did something weighs alongside what it caused."

The screen kept spinning, data flashing too quickly to make sense of.

"You've got a high complexity score," the man said, tapping a finger once against the desk. "Your karma output involves recursive attribution. Meaning… your actions caused ripples that caused others to act, and so on. It stacks."

John watched the motion of the screen, his posture steady. He said, calmly, "I killed people. Is that bad?"

The man looked up, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "If you killed Hitler before the Holocaust, would that be bad?"

"Positive," John replied without hesitation.

"Correct," the man said. "But then you have to account for the people you saved—and everyone they went on to affect. If one of them cured a disease, you get a piece of that. If one started a war, you get a piece of that, too."

John's gaze returned to the swirling data. Still calculating.

"All of them?" he asked.

"Yes," the man said, folding his hands. "Every last one."

They sat there, not really talking, which was fine with John. He never cared much for strangers. His eyes moved slowly, casually at first, then more deliberately—taking in the corners of the room, the texture of the walls, the spacing between the chairs. He noted the light, the silence, the weight of the air.

It was a habit. He realized, halfway through scanning the base of the desk, that he was doing what he always did—surveying, assessing, measuring escape routes that didn't exist. The posture of an operative. On guard even now.

He let out a breath and leaned back slightly, closing his eyes.

He was dead.

There was nothing left to prepare for. The thought settled in without emotion. Whatever came next would come. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he let it all go. Shoulders down, hands open, mind still. The chair was comfortable. The air was warm. Eventually, without meaning to, he drifted off.

Across the desk, the old man observed him in silence. At first, he'd sensed the tension—sharp eyes, calculating stillness, that exact operative stiffness etched into the body through years of survival. But then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The man had simply… relaxed. Closed his eyes. Fallen asleep.

That hadn't happened in a very long time.

The old man stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyes still bright as emeralds, gaze steady on the sleeping figure before him.

Eventually, John heard a voice telling him to wake up. He opened his eyes. The white room hadn't changed—same soft lighting, same controlled warmth in the air. The man was still across from him, seated behind the desk, eyes on a glowing display that hovered between them.

Congratulations. Based on your life, your karma was overwhelmingly positive.

You have qualified for reincarnation with your memories and experiences intact as the lone reincarnator in your iteration.

Calculating destination… Naruto

Calculating aid… Golden Finger

"Wow," the man said, glancing at the display. "That's pretty good."

A glowing signature line appeared in front of John, floating steadily just above the desk. It pulsed faintly, holding position.

"Looks like you get to go to the world of Naruto, and you get a Golden Finger," the man added. "Looks like you'll be a god in your iteration."

Wait… what?

John blinked.

Naruto. Like the anime?

And he got to keep his memories?

Golden Finger—some kind of system, maybe.

Iteration… whatever that meant exactly.

John leaned back slightly and asked, "What does all this mean? And how do I have overwhelmingly positive karma?"

He figured he didn't need to ask every specific question that came to mind. The man seemed to know what kind of person he was, as if he'd already read his entire life story.

The man sighed and shifted slightly in his chair, as if settling into a familiar explanation.

"Earth—all your imaginations, movies, dreams, comics, stories, you name it—are real places. You're connected to the multiverse, and it influences your imagination unconsciously."

He gestured toward the display.

"Each sequence, like Naruto, has countless iterations. You're going to one of them. Your own."

He adjusted the hologram slightly with two fingers.

"A Golden Finger is guaranteed power. A support mechanism, tailored to your nature. You'll decide when to activate it."

He rested both hands on the desk. "And yes, you keep your memories, skills, instincts. All of it. Earth is a reincarnation-producing world. Every Earthling gets one. Good karma brings good setups. Strong locations. Strong opportunities. Negative karma… well, there are places that are very unpleasant."

John blinked again, watching the display. The signature line still hovered there, steady and waiting as he soaked in all the information.

The man continued, voice even. "As for your positive karma—you started a movement that led to some radical changes. The laws that came from it had very good outcomes. The list's long. It outweighed the negative."

He glanced at the hologram, adjusting the data with a flick of his fingers. "You inspired a shift. People started holding each other accountable. That file you released… that was a doozy. And the video—just a man seeking vengeance against people with very negative karma. It reached further than you probably expected."

He looked back at John.

"The fact that you tried to do it the right way? That intent carried real weight. It boosted your karma score significantly."

John blinked. He remembered the file.

It had everything he'd collected—names, documents, footage. Details on companies, organizations, wealthy families, politicians, governments. Anyone with enough power to hide behind it. The setup was simple: if he didn't reset the timer, the contents would spread automatically across the internet. Redundancies, mirrors, dead-man switches. He'd made sure of it.

It had worked.

"That file was a real doozy," the man repeated. "Led to billions in fines and reparations. Countless new laws. Even a constitutional amendment in your home country."

He nodded once, more to himself than to John.

"You made Earth a much better place."

He exhaled, slow and steady, eyes still on the glowing signature line. Then something clicked.

"You said every Earthling gets this opportunity?"

The man blinked once, then nodded. "That is correct."

John felt his heartbeat shift—steady but heavier now. The chair under him suddenly felt more present, like he'd sunk into it a little deeper. He didn't rush the next words.

"What about Mary Ann?" he asked. "Where is my wife?"

His hands were still resting on the edge of the desk. The room hadn't changed, but the silence stretched a little longer this time. The soft hum of the display continued overhead.

He hadn't thought to ask before. Now it was the only thing on his mind.

John continued, voice steady. "I did all of this because of her. I'm sure she qualified for something similar."

He figured she must've benefited from everything that happened—because he wouldn't have done any of it without her. If his karma came out positive, then hers had to be as well.

The man blinked and shifted the hologram to his side. His fingers moved with practiced ease, flicking through layers of symbols John couldn't read. Streams of unfamiliar data scrolled past in tight, clean lines.

"She's in her lone iteration," the man said. "Unfortunately, you can't go where she is. Your path is set." He gave a small shrug, casual, like the outcome had been decided long before this conversation. "I'm powerless to help."

He turned the display back toward John. The signature line still hovered in the air, glowing softly.

"Please sign so we can continue."

John didn't move. His eyes stayed on the signature.

"I want to see her," he said. "Forget this."

"No?" the man asked, tilting his head.

"No," John repeated. "I want to be where she is."

The man let out a sigh, longer this time. "It doesn't work that way. There's nothing we can do. Please sign."

John said nothing. He didn't reach for the signature line. He just sat there.

The man groaned, shoulders dropping. The composure cracked. For a moment, he looked less like a cosmic official and more like a teenager denied something he expected.

"Look," he muttered, tone flattening, "we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you're going to Naruto."

The man was just another, part of the broader system. He couldn't siphon karma outright—not without consequence. The deals had to be fair, the outcomes within regulation. But if he structured them right, he could hold a little back. Just enough to benefit.

The official office setup had been doing wonders over the last fifty years. The polished white rooms, the calm demeanor, the structured process—it worked better than fear. He used to show up as some hulking being with ultimate power. That had its effect, sure, but the grandfatherly look, a clean desk, and a soft-spoken tone got better long-term results.

Now, he was just an old man at a desk, ushering people into their next path. And he had a feeling John was going to be very resistant.

And John had a lot of karma. A draw from even the outer edge of that pool would set him up for the next decade. He couldn't alter the deal in any way—but he could stall.

There were others like him, and they all competed for human karma—especially the positive. Clean karma, heavy with intent and consequence, didn't come often.

He wasn't about to give up without a fight.

He glanced at the timer.

John was technically frozen in time. Time here wasn't fixed—it bent and shifted, shaped by circumstance. And in John's case, he had a hundred years of frozen time to work with before the system escalated the file.

Plenty.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, watching John sit there, unmoving, still staring at the glowing signature line.

John sat there, not making any move. His intentions were clear, and obviously the man needed his signature. He wasn't about to move until he ended up where Mary Ann was.

"Look," the man said, "this is above me. I want to help, I do—but it's the computer, not me. If I could change—"

"Then get your supervisor," John said. "Let me talk to the person who's really in charge."

The bearded man sighed as he looked at John. He wasn't allowed to hurt him directly—especially not someone with so much positive karma. That would wreck his own karma. He wished he could just pull John's soul apart and reform it over and over—he'd give up in minutes.

He tried to tell him again that there was nothing he could do, but it didn't work. John had stopped responding and just sat there.

Eventually, he tried to egg John on, saying he didn't even want to end up where she was—said she was in a cultivation world where harems were common, and Mary Ann was a consort. None of it was true, but that usually got alpha males going.

John just sat there.

He tried a different tactic.

John still sat there.

John found that the nice old man became a real asshole the longer he didn't sign. He got ruder, more condescending. He even claimed Mary Ann was a consort in a harem.

That one got under his skin. For a moment, he got upset—but then he remembered: he had a Golden Finger. The man said he'd be a god in his iteration.

What did she get?

The man, meanwhile, looked again—really looked.

She was in the MCU.

Wow.

She'd actually given something up. Not a small thing—she gave up her Golden Finger. She got a different aid instead, a lower-tier one. The trade allowed a single person to be placed into her iteration, but the bridge had strict parameters. The system operated like code—everything had to match exactly.

There were three conditions: the person had to be named John, married to her, and have impregnated her in their previous life.

She only had her half.

The official who'd handled her reincarnation had barely siphoned any karma.

The bridge was the path between worlds. But the real cost wasn't the bridge itself.

It was everything that came with using it.

Time would need to stay fluid. That alone required absurd resources. John wasn't a god—his consciousness could only exist in one world at a time. For the system to work, his soul would have to live two separate lives in parallel, with no gaps and no lost moments. Perfect synchronization across both.

He would have to give up everything.

Hell no. He wasn't giving up his own karma.

Eventually, the man came up with an idea. Even if John somehow succeeded, he'd still walk away with a little karma.

Okay. Time to get to work.

As John sat there, mostly ignoring him, the man finally snapped—just enough to get John to start paying attention again.

"Alright, look. I can do what you want. But then I get nothing. It's a win-lose, and you get no aid. In Naruto, or the MCU, you don't want that."

John raised an eyebrow. What did he mean, he gets nothing?

"I can siphon some of your karma," the man said, voice flat. "And before you get in a tizzy, all of our kind do it. No, I won't explain—just listen."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Your soul needs to be stronger. Instead of spending karma, I can place you in a situation… and if you can maintain your sense of identity, you'll get stronger."

He waved a hand offhandedly. "And no, I'm not allowed to lie—only mislead. And before you decide not to trust me, I'll just tap out and take the sliver I can get. Then I'll make sure you get placed in the Warring States period in Naruto—with no aid."

That caught John's attention.

That wouldn't be good. The Warring States period was incredibly dangerous. He hardly knew anything about that era. He'd been hoping to start somewhere closer to the beginning of the anime—where knowing the series would actually give him an edge.

Finally, John spoke.

"How can we make this a true win-win?"

The man smiled as he looked at him.

There was a way. A real one. It would make John's soul stronger without spending karma—but it was nearly impossible. Still, if he succeeded, it would be a win. And if he failed… well, the man would still make sure he came out ahead.

"If you do this," the man said, holding up a small counter bell, "and you give up—if you ring this, I'll pull you out. But you agree to sign the original deal. No edits."

He set the bell gently on the desk in front of John.

"I'm going to place you in a void pocket. You'll have to maintain yourself there. Once you lose who you are and become nothing… well, that works out great for me. Your karma exists here, not in the void. So if you unravel, that's a clean separation. I'd be very happy with that outcome."

He smiled faintly, honest about it.

"And I'm telling you all of this clearly. Because if I do anything to harm you with bad intent, especially someone with your karma score, it would lead to karma backlash with bad intentions."

He drummed his fingers once against the desk.

"You need to understand—void erosion is real. It'll eat at you slow. Strip away everything unless you're strong enough to resist. And if you decide to tough it out and never ring that bell, but still lose yourself, you die. No reset. No reincarnation. You cease to exist."

John took that in. It tracked.

"Now, why this helps you," the man continued, "is because strengthening your soul through karma is expensive. Very. But if you succeed in the void, that part gets handled without paying anything. So that's a win for you—and a win for me if I still get something out of it later."

He tapped a few things on the floating screen.

"Mary Ann already paid. She gave up her Golden Finger to open a bridge for one person. You'll need your own to meet hers. You've got more karma than she did, but the cost is still heavy."

He leaned back again.

"Time is also a big cost. You're talking about consciousness shifting between two iterations, existing in both without skipping a moment."

He nodded once, as if confirming something already decided.

"I've got it set up so if you succeed—which is highly unlikely—you'll experience Naruto first, and then the MCU, basically hitting the story arcs, as you call them. Know this: you'll be born into both worlds from birth."

He pointed now, mapping it out in the air.

"So here's the setup. In the MCU, all your ninja powers and skills will transfer over—shinobi of the MCU. But in Naruto, you'll get a battle merit system that lets you buy draws with merit. You can also earn merits in the MCU too. Merits are earned by beating people. If you succeed, I'll explain it more. People like you love these types of systems.

But you can only afford it if we avoid strengthening your soul through karma."

John paused.

People like him?

"Do we have a deal?" the man asked.

John thought it through. It felt like there were pieces still missing—but it also felt like this was the move. There was some kind of trap here. Probably several. But he also sensed something honest buried in it. His instincts weren't panicked.

And he'd always trusted his instincts.

"Okay," John said. "Let's do the void thing."

The man nodded once, then casually tossed the bell at him with a flick of his fingers. It didn't clatter or bounce—it touched John's chest and sank in soundlessly, like it had slipped beneath his skin.

"Look inward," the man said.

John took a breath. The office light hummed faintly overhead, the room still white and warm. He closed his eyes, focused, and found it—an inner space, still and dark. A void. Floating in it, suspended and silent, was the bell. Small. Clear. Waiting.

"If you focus on it with the intent to ring, it'll do that," the man said, his voice calm and practiced.

John reached out with intent.

The bell rang.

A single note rang out—not loud, but flawless. Clean, smooth, and impossibly rich. It was beautiful in a way that didn't belong in an office or any normal place. If a single bell tone could be music, this was it. The sound seemed to settle in the room, touching the white walls, the desk, the very air with its weightless clarity.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said, and snapped his fingers.

The light vanished. The desk vanished. The warmth in the air vanished.

Blackness.

John was gone.