Chapter Text
[. . .]
"Scars as deep as my grave."
[. . .]
Chapter 1
Rays of Blood
[. . .]
It takes time to manifest, but by the time Uzumaki Naruto comes to after realizing he had a life before and died, he's four years old and in the middle of a 'sparring session' against an adult that's on the verge of splitting his bones apart.
The position the older man with white hair has him in is similar to one distinct memory that unlocked too many truths a lifetime ago, resonant with the distinct language of Pain and prejudice. Both hands elope on top of each other, and though there is no bar going through his flesh and bones to keep them bound to the ground this time around, there is a foot in its place, crushing them.
Like a pile of bricks threatening to burst the blood out of his fingers, they continue to weigh with severe pressure on Naruto's muscles, and Naruto, all but four years old and in a silent state of derealization, decides that this situation has prolonged enough in the four minutes he remembers being beaten up and pinned into this very sorry state.
With a vindictive promise clawing his insides, he senses the profound, splitting ache inside his stomach, yanking at what he knows is Kurama's coils, and lifts his hands in a fury of fire and blood, sending the man hurting him for simply being kind to a kid his own age flying across the room.
Just like his memory, he prepares and allows the unbridled release of hatred to consume him, confused, angry, and dead.
Except he knows Kurama's influence is not negative anymore. Not to him. So the wrath that he should feel is shortlived, becoming blasphemous bewilderment when he rights himself on a balance only a Shinobi has right on his two feet, looking upon the intestines hanging out of the man that was harming him just a mere desi-second ago.
His expression blanks.
He looks at what he created impassively.
The man's body has become like the outside skin of a sausage that's broken and released the stuffed meat on the inside. It hangs from the weapons on the walls, drooping and smelling of foul urine and iron. Blood pools on the ground, trickling past the haunted, lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
The sight of it doesn't affect Naruto. He's seen far worse in his time as a Shinobi. In fact, looking at the man who hurt him, all he feels is pity. Pity because he didn't take the time to understand the situation and discover why he's abruptly being treated as such. Though why pity? Why bother talking to him? His young mind is still trying to grasp at straws of what is and what used to be, but Naruto knows better.
He knows better because he is not Gojo Satsumi with odd blonde hair and cursed whisker marks, he is Uzumaki Naruto.
Those thoughts don't linger for long.
Soon enough, as he turns around and faces the fluctuating energy that's hinting at surprise and something else greatly cynical, Naruto isn't present anymore.
No, time splits itself and Naruto collapses when all the memories of his past life come to him, invading his head in a beseeching, anguished, beg.
He falls on his face and lays there for a full minute with a killing headache before springing back up, blue eyes wide and yielded. His body shakes as his muscles cramp from the recollection of all the times he's thrown an attack, every time he's run, and every time he took the burden of helping others with a volunteering promise that he will never give up on because it is his ninja way. Because he is Uzumaki Naruto, the World's Most Unpredictable Ninja—he is Uzumaki Naruto, the Child of Prophecy—and he is Uzumaki Naruto, Seventh Hokage and father of the boy who killed him.
His breath hitches and his body shuts down into a frightening numbness.
He died.
He died, and somehow he's alive.
Alive, four years old, and somewhere else. Somewhere distinctly not Konoha.
This is not Konoha.
He knows he's not home. It doesn't smell like Ramen or his wife's lilac perfume. It doesn't smell like Boruto's burgers or Himawari's sunflower pot. This is not home because it smells like loneliness—like blood, like plastic, like wood.
So this is not home. The memories of this four-year-old body intermingle with his past life, using it as confirmation and he decides right then and there.
He will not repeat the same mistakes. He will not allow himself to be insulted, nor will he respond to violence with more violence. He's done enough time, and he is Uzumaki Naruto, and he loves people more than they will ever know.
And because he is Uzumaki Naruto, he vows to change the fear that has grown in the body of this child. He vows to change this place, and in turn, the world if it ever extends past it, because that is what he's best at.
He will not let sadness be his baggage. He never allowed it, and never will.
So he reigns in all the agony and recognition that he has died and will never see his people again, and locks eyes with the boy his age that watched him kill the poor excuse of a caretaker that he had.
"You're not weak," The boy with majestic eyes states with a neutral curiosity, gazing at him with a chilling blankness.
Naruto blinks slowly, gathering himself. "No, I'm not," He acknowledges, and though it's pitiful, he musters a genuine grin of confidence. He spreads it across his face, watches as the boy takes it in, and allows the power of his previous life to fester until he feels Kurama's trust swirling inside of him.
Everyone, including the boy whose eyes narrow slightly, feels the change in power that has now arrived in their world.
'Kurama,' Naruto immediately speaks into his head, and he hopes, desperately, pathetically—
'I'm here.'
And releases a breath. Bursting, ripping, his heart stops beating, lifting a weight off his chest.
He dares not cry.
Kurama is not gone, anymore.
'It was not supposed to be this way.'
'No,' Naruto agrees and his cheeks hurt from how much he's smiling. They hurt, and bits of tears water his eyes but not enough to fall. 'Welcome back, Kurama.' And that is all he can say because if he says more, he'll forget about what he's just done and face the consequences from inside his body, leaving this baby's body prone to death or attacks. That is all he will say because Kurama already knows the rest.
'It's good to be back.'
It is, he thinks, and knows Kurama feels his joy. He lets it explode inside his chest, allows Kurama to raise his own vocal of joy, and lets it marinate while he comes back to the task at hand.
The next thing he says is simple.
"What's your name?" He prompts, shaking off the grief and happiness pulling at his heart.
The boy that watched it all without a reaction tilts his head. The silence penetrates the air with a spike of superiority that does little to intimidate Naruto. It makes him laugh, a little, even.
When he continues to stare with his gelid aura, the boy decides he's had enough and answers him with something akin to respect. "My name is Gojo Satoru."
Naruto smiles and without warning, loops an arm around the boy's neck. He's much too happy to care about the tensing of this Satoru's body, much too happy to realize that he is the strongest thing living in this pathetic household of uptight pricks, much too happy to recognize that he is the first to be acknowledged by the Honored One, by the child of the 'Gods'.
Satoru does not smile. Satoru does not pull away.
"It's nice to meet ya! My name is Uzumaki Naruto, datteba'yo!"
Naruto turns him away from the body and out towards the door where many staff members watch in complete fear. Naruto's been used to it. Naruto doesn't care. Naruto smiles at Gojo Satoru with the intensity of a million suns. "Let's be friends!"
And though the boy does not reply, there is a bond made.
A reluctant one, a new one, but a bond nonetheless.
And so it begins.