Darkness. Not the comfortable, familiar dark of closed eyes, but a heavy, pressing blackness that seemed to soak into the skin. Sound was muffled, indistinct, like listening through layers of thick cotton. There was a dull ache thrumming behind his eyes, a residual echo of… something fierce. Fire? Pain? He couldn't grasp the memory, only the phantom heat it left behind.
Slowly, painstakingly, he tried to peel open his eyelids. They felt impossibly heavy, glued together with grit and exhaustion. The first sliver of light was blinding, a painful lance against sensitive pupils. He squeezed them shut again, a low groan escaping his lips. The sound was… wrong. High-pitched, weak. Not his voice.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle beneath the lethargy. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was… Rain. Cold, stinging rain plastering his hair to his face. The slick asphalt reflecting blurry neon lights.
The gut-wrenching finality in her voice. "It's over, Alex. It's just… over."
Then the long walk home, the hollow ache in his chest, the bottle of cheap whiskey, and… nothing. Oblivion.
This wasn't oblivion. Oblivion didn't feel like this. This felt small. Confined.
He tried again, forcing his eyes open by sheer will, blinking rapidly against the assault of light. Gradually, shapes resolved. A ceiling. Wooden beams, stained dark with age and smoke, stretched overhead. The grain was tight, unfamiliar. Definitely not the popcorn ceiling of his cheap apartment.
Paper screens formed one wall, casting the room in a soft, diffused glow. The air smelled faintly of dried herbs, woodsmoke, and something else… damp earth?
He tried to sit up, expecting the usual protest of muscles stiff from a hangover or a night spent slumped in a chair. Instead, a wave of dizziness washed over him, so potent it stole his breath. His limbs felt like lead weights filled with cotton, responding sluggishly, weakly. He managed to prop himself up slightly on elbows that felt disconcertingly thin, his head swimming.
The room was small, spartan. A low wooden table sat near the screens, holding a ceramic bowl and a few bundled herbs. A worn sleeping futon lay rolled in a corner. His own bedding felt rough beneath his exploring fingers, a coarse linen or hemp. Definitely not his sheets.
A soft sound nearby made him freeze. A rustle of cloth, the quiet pad of feet on wooden floorboards. He turned his head, the movement sending another wave of nausea through him.
A woman knelt beside his futon. She looked young, maybe mid-twenties, but her eyes held an older weariness. Her hair was the colour of midnight, long and straight, tied back simply. Her features were fine, angular, with a pale complexion that seemed almost luminous in the dim light. She wore simple, dark clothing – loose trousers and a tunic that looked practical, durable. But it was her eyes that held him – dark blue, almost violet, and sharp with an assessing intelligence that seemed entirely out of place with the gentle hand she reached out to press against his forehead.
Her touch was cool, soothing against his skin, which felt strangely hot and tight. "Your fever has broken," she murmured. Her voice was low, calm, but with an underlying tension, like a drawn bowstring. "That's good. You were burning for three days."
Three days? His mind reeled. He tried to speak, to ask the questions screaming in his head – Who are you? Where am I? What happened? – but only a weak, garbled sound came out. His throat felt raw, scraped.
The woman offered a small, reassuring smile, though it didn't quite reach her watchful eyes. "Easy now. Don't try to talk yet. Just rest." She dipped a cloth into the ceramic bowl – water, he realised – wrung it out, and gently wiped his face. The coolness was a relief.
He watched her movements. They were efficient, precise. There was an economy to her actions, a lack of wasted motion that spoke of long practice. Practice in what? Nursing? Or something else? He noticed the calluses on her fingers as she smoothed the cloth over his brow. These weren't the hands of a simple village woman.
He tried to take stock of himself again. His body felt… alien. Small. His hands, resting weakly on the bedding, looked tiny, the fingers short and delicate. He flexed them experimentally. They obeyed, but sluggishly. He ran a hand over his arm – the skin felt incredibly soft, smooth, almost like… like a child's.
The panic returned, stronger this time, a cold dread creeping up his spine. This wasn't just a strange place. This was a strange body.
The woman seemed to notice his distress, the widening of his eyes. "Shh," she hushed, placing a hand gently on his small chest. "It's alright. You're safe now. Just rest and recover your strength."
Safe? The word hung in the air. Why wouldn't he be safe? Where were they that safety was a concern? He scanned the room again, noticing the way the paper screen door was shut tight, a simple wooden latch in place. He noticed the way the woman occasionally glanced towards it, her head tilted as if listening for sounds outside.
Later – he couldn't tell if it was hours or minutes, time felt fluid and strange – there was a polite knock at the screen door. The woman stiffened almost imperceptibly before calling out a soft, "Enter."
The screen slid open, and an old man stooped to enter. He was wizened, his face a roadmap of deep wrinkles, his back permanently bent. He wore simple, patched robes and carried a worn leather bag that smelled strongly of dried herbs. He nodded respectfully to the woman, his gaze kind but shrewd as it fell upon him.
"Kasumi-san," the old man greeted, his voice raspy with age. "Heard the fever finally broke. Good, good. Little Ryuu gave us quite the scare."
Kasumi. So that was her name. Ryuu. Was that… his name now? It felt foreign on his mental tongue.
Kasumi nodded, her expression carefully neutral. "He did, Kenji-sensei. Thank you for coming again."
The old physician, Kenji, shuffled closer, kneeling beside the futon with a grunt. "Let's have a look then, young man." His hands, though gnarled, were surprisingly gentle as he checked Ryuu's pulse at the thin wrist, peered into his eyes, felt the glands in his neck. He pressed lightly on Ryuu's small abdomen.
"Hmm," Kenji hummed. "Pulse is steadier. Eyes are clearer, less clouded. Still weak, of course, but the worst seems over." He opened his bag, rummaging inside. "His chakra flow felt erratic during the fever, dangerously so for one so young. Stabilized now, thankfully. Just needs rest and nourishment."
Chakra? The word snagged in his mind. It tickled a memory, a half-forgotten concept from… somewhere. Fiction? Games? It sounded strangely technical coming from this rustic old man.
Kenji pulled out a small pouch and sprinkled some dried, dark leaves into a cup Kasumi offered. She added steaming water from a kettle Ryuu hadn't noticed before. The aroma was bitter, medicinal.
"This brew three times a day," Kenji instructed. "And keep him warm. He's always been a pale little thing, the fever drained what little colour he had." He patted Ryuu's head lightly. "Rest up, little Ryuu. The world is harsh on small bodies."
Kasumi thanked the physician again, saw him out, and latched the screen door firmly behind him. She returned with the steaming cup, blowing on it gently before helping him sit up properly. His head still swam, but the dizziness was less intense.
"Drink," she urged softly.
He hesitated, eyeing the dark liquid suspiciously, but his throat was parched, and the weakness was profound. He allowed her to help him sip. It was intensely bitter, but warm, and seemed to clear his head slightly.
He watched her as he drank, this woman named Kasumi. His… mother? The thought was bizarre, unsettling. She moved with a quiet grace, but her eyes constantly scanned the room, lingered on the door. There was a coiled tension in her posture, even when she seemed relaxed. Like a predator resting, but never truly off guard. Why? What was she afraid of?
Over the next few days, a routine established itself. Sleep, bitter medicine, thin rice porridge spoon-fed by Kasumi, more sleep. His strength returned agonizingly slowly. He started exploring his new body's limits. He could sit up on his own now, wiggle his toes, clench his small fists. The disconnect between his adult mind and this child's body was maddening. He wanted to walk, to run, to do something, but his muscles were underdeveloped, his coordination clumsy.
He spent hours just observing. The small house seemed to have only two main rooms. Theirs, and a main living/cooking area. Everything was simple, functional, kept meticulously clean. There were no decorations, no personal trinkets, save for a small, smooth white stone Kasumi kept tucked away. He noticed she always wore long sleeves and trousers, even indoors when it was warm.
No one else had come to visit during this time, not even the old man. Kasumi would sometimes leave in the morning and returning not too long after.
Information was scarce. Kasumi spoke little, mostly instructions or reassurances. When he tried to form more complex questions, his childish vocal cords mangled the sounds. Frustration mounted. He knew things weren't right, that this wasn't his life, his world, but he couldn't grasp the specifics. The mention of 'chakra', the style of clothing, the architecture he glimpsed through the screens – it all felt vaguely familiar, like watching a half-remembered movie.
One afternoon, sunlight streamed more strongly through a gap in the screens. Kasumi was preparing food, her back to him. Driven by a desperate need for external stimulus, for information, he slowly, carefully slid off the futon. His legs wobbled, threatening to buckle. He steadied himself against the wall, his heart pounding with exertion. He took a shuffling step, then another, towards the screen door. He needed to see outside, properly see where he was.
"Ryuu!" Kasumi's voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet room. He froze. She was beside him in an instant, scooping him up effortlessly. Her grip was strong, unyielding. "What are you doing out of bed? You're not strong enough yet."
He struggled weakly, pointing a small finger towards the door, making insistent babbling sounds. He needed to see.
Kasumi sighed, a flicker of something – exasperation? Worry? – crossing her face. "Alright, alright. But only for a moment. And you must be properly covered."
Covered? He watched, confused, as she went to a chest and pulled out thick, long-sleeved robes, trousers, even soft cotton gloves and a wide-brimmed straw hat that looked ridiculously large for his small head. She dressed him quickly, efficiently, the layers feeling stifling even in the relative cool of the house. Lastly, she picked up a sturdy, dark blue umbrella leaning near the door.
"Stay close," she instructed, unlatching the door and sliding it open just enough for them to slip through.
He blinked, momentarily blinded by the brightness. They stood on a narrow wooden veranda. Before them stretched a small, overgrown garden patch, and beyond that, the dirt track of a path leading towards other simple wooden houses nestled amongst tall, dark green trees. Mist clung to the bases of the trees, and the air carried the salty tang of the sea mixed with damp earth. It looked like a poor, isolated fishing village, maybe? Definitely somewhere rural, somewhere… Japanese-esque?
Kasumi opened the umbrella, holding it carefully over his head, angling it against the sun, even though it was partly obscured by clouds. He looked up at her, puzzled by the excessive protection.
Then, he shifted slightly, trying to get a better view past her. His hand, covered by the glove, slipped out from under the umbrella's shade for just a second. Sunlight, pale and watery though it was, struck the back of his hand.
It wasn't just warmth. It was an immediate, sharp sting. Like touching a hot pan. He gasped, pulling his hand back instinctively, staring at the gloved skin. There was no mark, of course, but the sensation had been visceral, painful.
He looked down at his hands again, truly seeing them this time. The skin wasn't just pale, like Kasumi's. It was an almost translucent white, lacking any discernible pigment. He remembered Kenji-sensei's words: "...always been a pale little thing..." He remembered the bandages Kasumi sometimes applied with soothing balm when his skin looked red and irritated after his fever. He remembered the constant long sleeves, the avoidance of direct light.
The pieces clicked into place with a sickening lurch. The extreme pallor. The sensitivity to sunlight.
Albinism, or at least some severe form of it...
He wasn't just in a strange body, in a strange world. He was in a flawed body, one with a condition that made him vulnerable, marked him as different.
He looked up at Kasumi, at her dark hair and pale-but-not-white skin. She wasn't like him. He looked back at his own ghostly white hand. Where did this come from?
Kasumi seemed to notice his sudden stillness, the intensity of his gaze on his own hand. She pulled him a little closer, adjusting the umbrella's shade. "The sun is harsh here, Ryuu," she said softly, her voice lacking its usual edge, tinged with something that might have been sympathy. "Especially for you. We must be careful."
He didn't respond, didn't babble or point. His mind was racing, processing this new, unwelcome piece of information, adding it to the pile of unsettling clues about this world. Chakra. Strange clothing. Rustic Japanese setting. A cautious, skilled 'mother' hiding them away. His own flawed, albino body.
And deep within the recesses of his memory, triggered by the physician's word and the strange familiarity of it all, a name began to surface, whispered from the depths of forgotten manga panels and late-night wiki dives. A world of ninjas, hidden villages, and powerful, unique bloodlines.
He looked out at the misty, water-logged landscape surrounding the village. Reminded him of the description for one of the regions… water… mist… Kirigakure? Land of Water?
The name solidified, bringing with it a tidal wave of dread far colder than any fever.
Naruto.
He was in the world of Naruto.