Chapter 1: The First BreathI woke up in darkness.
Not the poetic kind—this was the choking, festering kind. The air felt heavy, thick with damp rot, like I was breathing through a moldy sponge. The ceiling dripped with condensation, and the stone walls were slick with moss and mildew. I'd long grown used to the constant stench of decay, but it still clung to my nose like a parasite.
A dungeon. That's where I was. A cold, grimy pit beneath the earth.
For the past month—at least, I think it's been a month—I've done little else but sit in this four-walled cell. It wasn't much larger than a storage closet. Dirt-packed walls surrounded three sides. An iron-barred gate stood at the front like a final insult. Inside, I had the luxury of a thin cot and a corner toilet. No window. No mirror. No clock. Only time, and too much of it.
I should have been dead. I was dead.
And yet, here I was. Alive. Breathing. Heart beating.
The name they called me now was "Yuhara." But that wasn't my real name. Not the one I used to have—before whatever this is. Before this… second life.
I didn't remember dying, but I remembered what it felt like when I first stirred awake in this body. A shiver ran through my spine, and something unfamiliar yet mine pulsed inside me. A strange energy, a force. It coiled beneath my skin, moved with my breath.
That was when the memories came back—not of this life, but of the other one.
My life before. A life without chakra. Without jutsu. Without monsters or men who could destroy mountains with a glance.
I remembered TV screens, desks, city lights. The hum of electricity. The ache of hospital beds.
And I remembered Naruto.
That realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew this world. I'd watched it, studied it. But I had never imagined waking up inside it—especially not here. Not in Orochimaru's dungeon.
Orochimaru. One of the Three Legendary Sannin. A man obsessed with immortality, experiments, and forbidden jutsu. The devil of this world. And apparently, now… my captor.
It was hard to believe, even now. But denial was a luxury I couldn't afford. I didn't know how I ended up in this body. I didn't know what happened to the original Yuhara. But the bag of kunai tucked instinctively behind my waist said enough. Muscle memory had reached for it before my brain caught up.
I lifted the weapon and stared at its blackened, wedge-like blade. It was short—less than a dagger—but it gleamed faintly in the dim light of a flickering oil lamp beyond the bars.
In its reflection, I caught my face.
A young man—no, a boy—looked back at me. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Light gray hair fell to my chin, ragged and unkempt. My eyes were metallic gray, sharp, hollow. There was something unsettling about them, as if they'd seen too much… or not enough.
This wasn't my body.
But somehow… it was.
I had no memories from before I woke up here—none that belonged to Yuhara. No jutsu. No background. No explanation. Just a name, a kunai, and the chilling certainty that I wasn't safe.
I was still trying to wrap my head around it when I heard the footsteps.
They echoed down the corridor—slow, deliberate. Something about them made my blood run cold. They didn't sound like boots. More like… scales.
Then the footsteps stopped.
But the air changed. I felt it first—like a drop in pressure, a sudden chill across my skin. The atmosphere shifted, grew heavier, colder.
And then he appeared.
Orochimaru.
He stood outside my cell, pale as snow, long black hair cascading like oil over his shoulders. Purple eyeshadow framed his reptilian gaze, and in his thin fingers he held an oil lamp that cast shifting shadows across the walls.
"Good vigilance," he said with a low chuckle. His voice was dry, serpentine. My skin crawled.
I didn't move. Just watched. Listened.
"Your name… Yuhara, was it?" he continued. "Hmm. Chakra level: Chunin. From an obscure, exiled clan in a small nation. Nearly extinct now. Hunted by Sunagakure over a decade ago. A bloodline user of something with little information."
He tilted his head with a predator's interest.
"None of that matters anymore. Now, you are nothing more than one of my experimental subjects."
He said it so casually. Like he was discussing ingredients in a recipe.
I didn't speak. What could I say? My voice wouldn't have come out even if I tried.
He was telling the truth. Whatever past this body had, it was gone. I was in the hands of a madman who viewed humans as flesh-and-blood puzzles to pull apart.
Then, as suddenly as he arrived, he left. No explanation. No threats. He had no need for either.
And I was alone again.
For now.
I didn't know how I ended up here. I didn't know what Orochimaru planned. But I knew one thing:
If I wanted to survive, I had to escape.
And to do that, I needed chakra.
I sat down cross-legged, trying to feel that strange energy again—the one I'd sensed when I first woke up. It was still there, coiled deep inside, like a second heartbeat.
Chakra.
It pulsed in my gut, then flowed through my limbs, warm and electric. It wasn't something I understood, but it was something I felt. Real. It exists.
A month ago, I couldn't feel anything like this. But now, it was part of me. Mine.
There was no game system. No stat screen. No level-up chime or glowing quests. Just me, a stolen body, and a dungeon.
Still, it was something.
The hours passed slowly. I sat in silence, focusing on that flickering energy, hoping it would reveal something—anything—I could use.
Then I heard her.
The cell door creaked open.
I looked up instinctively. A woman stood in the doorway—stone-faced, silent. Her presence didn't radiate hostility, but she wasn't here to let me out, either.
"…What is it?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Check your tools and follow me," she said.
I blinked. "What… for?"
No answer. She just stared.
I stood. The kunai was still at my side. That meant I wasn't being led to execution.
Yet.
I got the message. Wordlessly, I stood and followed her.
We passed rows of other cells. The prisoners inside—pale, hollowed out, barely human—didn't even lift their heads. Nothing about this place felt alive. Eventually, we emerged into a wide circular chamber, its walls crusted with dry brown stains that were too dark to be dirt.
She stepped aside, motioned to the door.
"We're here."
The lights from above were too harsh, illuminating everything—especially the dried blood. I didn't need an explanation. Arena. Colosseum. A place where people died for someone else's curiosity.
I stepped inside anyway.
The door slammed shut behind me.
I wasn't alone. Across the chamber, another man waited. Broad-shouldered. Taller. Eyes already locked on me. It didn't take a genius to figure out what this was.
Then a voice echoed from above. Smooth. Cold. Amused.
"The rules are simple... only one of you survives."
Orochimaru.
I barely had time to register the words before the man charged. Fast. Too fast.
He wasn't just bigger than me—he was armed. The glint of a long blade flashed in the light, maybe eighty centimeters, nearly a sword. I reached for my kunai out of reflex. In comparison, it felt like a toothpick.
I didn't think—my body moved. Right foot braced, I dropped my weight, twisted low, and pushed off the ground, narrowly avoiding the blade as it sliced past me. My form was sloppy, but somehow, it worked.
Nerve reflexes I didn't remember having kept me alive for a second longer.
I looked up—met his eyes. Madness. Bloodlust. No hesitation.
This wasn't a fight. It was a hunt.
But I wasn't ready to die yet.
I pulled another kunai, took aim, and threw. Straight for his head.
It flew fast, accurate—but too obvious. He tilted his head, and it whizzed past harmlessly.
A heartbeat later, he was on me again. A sweeping step caught my ankle, locking down my escape. No grace. Just raw force.
He'd figured me out. I wasn't trained. I wasn't even a threat. That meant he didn't need to hold back.
His blade came down again, this time aimed at my neck.
I couldn't dodge. Not this time.
My mind felt blank and sharp all at once. Breathing slowed. Heart racing. Everything sharpened. The arc of the blade reflected in my eyes—cold steel tracing the air toward me.
And then time bent.
He was still moving, but I could see the gaps. The fractions between his steps. I raised my left hand. Fast. Too fast. Fingers wide, palm angled upward—and I caught the blade.
Metal screamed against bone. My fingers clamped around the weapon, halting its path inches from my throat. The edge bit into my skin, but it stopped.
I had no idea how I did it.
We were locked, weapon against flesh. But I knew I couldn't win a contest of strength.
Then I felt something—like a wire tightening in my mind. A pull.
I reached.
The kunai I'd thrown moments ago lifted off the ground behind him. It didn't fall—it flew.
It pierced his side with a dull thunk, sinking deep into his lower back. The man's body jerked. Pain overtook surprise.
His grip loosened.
I didn't wait. My right hand dove to the pouch on his thigh. Two kunai. I snatched them, shoved one into his leg just above the knee. He stumbled forward.
I moved with him.
As my arm passed his shoulder, I flipped the second kunai, blade down. My body twisted—then I drove it deep into the gap between neck and shoulder. The metal slid through flesh and bone, hitting something vital.
Blood burst out like a split pipe, splashing hot and thick across my chest.
I let go. Backed off.
He staggered.
I watched from a distance, breath shallow. He dropped to his knees, blinking at the wound in his gut like he couldn't quite believe it.
Then, just before he collapsed, he muttered, "Damn… shuriken…"
Wrong weapon. Wrong conclusion.
Above us, Orochimaru chuckled. I didn't need to see him to know he was smiling.
"Magnet Release," he said softly. "Interesting…"
Then quieter still, "This one might be worth keeping."