Chapter 1: Arrival on a Cold Night
A dark, frigid night.
The cold wind drifted gently through the silence, carrying a sharp chill that pierced the skin.
Inside a wide, empty tatami-floored room, a silver-haired boy of about seven or eight stood silently off to one side. His expression was blank, his gaze fixed straight ahead, illuminated only by the dim moonlight filtering through the doorway curtains.
There, lying cold on the tatami mats, was the body of a man in his thirties, also silver-haired. Blood had pooled around him, seeping into the mats, staining them dark with dried crimson. The stench of death lingered thick in the air.
"Konoha... the Hidden Leaf Village, huh? What a laughably absurd world this is."
It felt like a fleeting moment—or maybe an eternity.
Only then did the boy's face twitch, a hint of mockery and helplessness crossing his features.
Just a nap on a lazy afternoon, that's all it was.
And yet, upon waking... he'd arrived in a world so brutal and bloodstained.
A world as sharp and cruel as the scene in front of him.
Year 42 of the Konoha Calendar.
The famed "White Fang of the Leaf" had committed suicide in his own home.
"So... am I Adam Sterling, the 28-year-old employee? Or am I the eight-year-old prodigy, Hatake Kakashi? Or... am I something entirely new?"
A flicker of confusion stirred in the boy's eyes. Two souls, fully merged, their memories seamless—both lives felt real, even clearer than his previous one.
The emotional conflict churned in his heart—intense, real, and impossible to suppress.
But regardless of what turmoil brewed inside, right now... he wore the face of Hatake Kakashi.
He was Adam Sterling—and he was Hatake Kakashi.
Or more precisely... a new Hatake Kakashi altogether.
"So tell me... why did you do it, 'Father'? Was it to protect me? Or did your beliefs just shatter completely? Don't tell me you really were that weak?"
The silver-haired boy slowly knelt beside the stiffening corpse. His expression was a tangle of emotion and complexity.
This was his father.
Memories of Sakumo Hatake filled his mind—every moment they'd shared, every bit of admiration and warmth Kakashi had felt. It was all real.
Sakumo had been his idol, his shining example, someone he revered above all.
Had it not been for the presence of another life's memories and emotional weight, the eight-year-old Kakashi would likely have been crushed under the grief of his father's suicide and the whispers of the village.
Not a day earlier. Not a day later.
It had to be tonight—so cold and heavy with death.
"No matter the reason… I'll make it right, Father. I'll get justice for you."
The boy—no, Kakashi—took a deep breath, determination hardening in his eyes.
He rose, walked to the far side of the hallway, and retrieved a white cloth from a storage room. He gently covered his father's body.
He knew very well—he was too weak to speak up.
Even in death, he couldn't claim his father's remains.
Because this wasn't just anyone.
This was the body of the "White Fang of the Leaf."
To Konoha's higher-ups, Sakumo wasn't a man. He was an asset—valuable, expendable, and ultimately disposable.
The Hatake clan wasn't a noble house.
There would be no legacy, no honors.
Only the cold hands of the village leaders deciding how to handle a hero's corpse.
Time passed slowly.
Kakashi stood still within the house, unmoving, until the first light of dawn spilled across the land.
Only then did he open his eyes.
He stepped into his room, changed into a pitch-black outfit, and expertly pulled on a mask. His eyes paused on the short chakra blade resting on his desk. After a brief moment of silence, he reached out, slung the blade across his back, and walked toward the front door.
Through the thin frame of the entrance, he could see the vague silhouettes gathering outside.
A flicker of cold irony danced in his eyes.
"To push my father to suicide… the darkness of Konoha really did go all out. And the Third Hokage? Even if you try to whitewash him, his inaction alone is enough to make him guilty. In my eyes… he bears even more blame than the ones hiding in the shadows."
"Power and authority… such filthy, pathetic things."
With that quiet thought, Kakashi pushed the door open.
The moment his small figure stepped outside, every gaze snapped toward him.
"Tch! Hatake Sakumo, hiding in your house again!? Are you just going to let your kid face us instead? No shame at all!"
"You call yourself the White Fang? What a joke!"
"Come out, Sakumo!"
"You disgrace! You're not worthy of being a Leaf shinobi!"
"You dare be mentioned alongside the Sannin!? You never deserved it!"
Their insults came like a flood—loud, angry, bitter.
It had started with a few. Then more joined. And before long, it had become routine for the village—spitting venom at a fallen hero until he was nothing but a rat scurrying through the alleys.
Kakashi wanted to laugh.
Laugh at the so-called leaders of the village.
Laugh even harder at the ignorant masses.
Words could kill. And Sakumo was proof of that.
Whatever the core reason for his father's suicide might be—there was no doubt.
The people's scorn was one of the key blades that drove him to it.
"So this is the village you died to protect, Father… how pathetic. How laughable."
Kakashi sneered in his heart.
Then, facing the sea of hostile glares as if he owed them something, Kakashi opened his mouth and said:
"Hatake Sakumo, my father, is dead. He took his own life—last night."
The words dropped like thunder.
The crowd froze.
Every insult, every scream died in their throats. Eyes widened in disbelief, like they'd just been slapped awake.
Only now did they notice the black mourning clothes.
The tone in his voice.
There was no lie. No drama.
Only the cold truth.
And suddenly, the crowd found itself speechless—staring, stunned, as if language itself had abandoned them.
Kakashi said nothing more.
He simply turned and walked away.
One small figure, wrapped in black, fading into the early morning light.
Headed toward the Hokage's Tower.
While those who had screamed and cursed stood frozen behind him—silent and hollow.
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