Beginning After the end

My first moments in this world were spent in the hands of masked figures, their touch clinical, their presence detached. The moment they carried me away from the birth chamber, I knew this was not an ordinary infancy. No warmth, no comforting voices-only silence, duty, and efficiency.

They placed me in a room that was slightly larger than a prison cell. Approximately three meters by three meters, I estimated. The walls, constructed of reinforced concrete, were dark gray and cold, devoid of any imperfections. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light above-a single ceiling fixture, weak, barely enough to illuminate the entire space. It cast shadows in the corners, creating an oppressive atmosphere. The floor was solid, either metal or stone, but covered with a thin straw mat. A measure to absorb moisture and maintain basic hygiene, nothing more.

The only furnishings in the room were a simple futon with a plain white blanket and a wooden table accompanied by a single chair. Minimalist. Functional. Devoid of excess. It was clear that this was not a nursery for a newborn-it was a permanent living space. I would grow up here.

On every wall, I noticed pieces of paper, each containing symbols and text. The same markings I had seen in the birth room. Patterns are important. Repetition signifies significance. These were not decorative. If they had been placed in both locations, then they served a function. Some kind of supernatural influence, perhaps. But without interaction, all I could do was hypothesize.

This was the entirety of my world. A sealed, artificial existence.

Time passed in a structured, mechanical manner. Every three hours, the door would open, and a masked figure always the same would enter. A nurse, presumably. She never spoke, never hesitated. Her routine was precise: feed, ensure stability, leave. The milk she provided was unusual. Denser than standard infant formula, likely enhanced with proteins, fats, and vitamins beyond conventional human dietary needs.

The fact that they were deliberately engineering optimal nutrition meant that physical conditioning was prioritized. They do not want a child. They want a result

Danzo never entered the room. Not once. This was expected. A figure like him. would not concern himself with the daily necessities of an experiment. His focus was on the outcome, not the process.

I also had not left the room since my arrival.

No windows. No ventilation that I could see. No exposure to sunlight, fresh air, or any environmental stimuli. Sensory deprivation? No. That would hinder development. They are controlling variables. Keeping external influences to a minimum, Luxuries like nature or fresh air would not be part of my existence.

The monotony of this cycle might have been unbearable for a normal infant. Crying would be the natural reaction to distress. But I did not cry. Not even once. Crying is a response meant to elicit care. There is no one here who will care. Therefore, it is an inefficient action.

The first step in my adaptation process was understanding the language. The text on the walls used familiar characters-Kanji, Hiragana, and Katakana. This suggested that the spoken language was likely Japanese or a close variant. However, reading alone was not enough. Without spoken words, I could not confirm phonetics, syntax, or dialectical differences.

It was only during a routine feeding that I heard my first piece of spoken language.

A guard was waiting outside when the nurse left. His voice was too muffled to discern the question, but the nurse's response was clear:

"Chakra growth is optimal."

Chakra, The word carried significance. Not just in the context of this world, but in my prior understanding of it.

In the spiritual traditions of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism, chakra refers to energy centers within the body-points that regulate spiritual and physical well-being. The Sanskrit translation of chakra is "wheel" or "circle," symbolizing the flow of energy through the body.

Here, the nurse was using it as a health parameter. A measurement. That meant chakra was not merely a philosophical concept-it had a tangible, measurable form.

Considering my circumstances, the most appropriate parallel would be the Hindu interpretation: chakras as regulators of physical, emotional, and spiritual energy. If that was the case, then in this world, the primary factor determining a person's capabilities was not simply physicality, but the development of chakra itself.

And since the guard had specifically asked about my chakra growth, it implied that this metric held more value than my overall physical condition. Strength, intelligence, skill-all secondary. Chakra is the only stat that truly matters.

Though my body was still in its infancy, it was not a reason to be idle.

By the end of the first month, I had begun controlling my limbs. Small movements-flexing my fingers, shifting my legs. My motor control was developing as expected. The next logical step was training.

My grip strength was my first focus. Squeezing my fingers into a fist, holding the tension, then releasing. Repeating. Muscular development at this stage was slow, but it was the only avenue available to me.

The body is a machine. It will adapt to stress.

There was one more element worth noting.

On occasion, when the nurse or a guard entered my room, I would sense something different. A change in presence. It was not something visible or audible-more like an instinctual recognition of an unseen force.

Fluctuations in chakra?

If chakra was an energy source linked to a person's state, then changes in emotional or physical conditions could alter its intensity. This was the most rational explanation. But without more data, it remained an incomplete theory.

The dim light above me hums faintly, its glow barely reaching the corners of my confined world. This place, my so-called room, remains unchanged-cold, unyielding, a space designed for function, not comfort. Three months have passed. Time, though difficult to measure without external stimuli, flows in a predictable cycle of feedings, observations, and silence.

Language has slowly begun to take form in my mind. At first, only fragments-sharp, direct commands spoken in a militaristic tone. The masked figures are efficient, speaking only when necessary. But patterns emerge in efficiency. I now recognize enough to confirm that this language is, indeed, nearly identical to Japanese.

A parallel universe? Historical divergence? Or something far less natural?

I consider Shibai's intervention. If he transported me to this world, would he have rewritten language as well? Implanted a familiar structure to ease the transition? The thought is intriguing but without purpose. For now, I discard it. Hypothesis without evidence is worthless.

I attempt speech. Air leaves my lungs, shaping sound, but not words, My underdeveloped vocal cords betray me. Expected, yet irritating. I sigh inwardly.

Instead, I focus on physical development. Crawling came earlier than expected, but inefficient movement is unacceptable. I refine it, minimizing unnecessary exertion. Sitting without support follows soon after. Control over my own body is limited, but steadily improving.

And then there's them.

There are others. I hear them, their footsteps outside my door, their presence shifting unnaturally. The air changes when they pass-dense, weighted, as if something beyond the physical lingers around them. This world does not follow the same laws as my own. That much is clear.

An experiment is required.

At exactly one minute before my scheduled feeding, I carefully crack my own finger, twisting it into an unnatural position. Pain flares-a dull, controlled sensation. Expected. Now, I wait.

The door opens.

The masked nurse enters, her movements precise. She does not hesitate when she sees my hand. Without a word, she places her palm over it.

A glow.

A soft green light envelops my finger, pulsing gently. Heat, tingling-a sensation unfamiliar yet strangely methodical. A pressure builds at the fracture site, as though something is reconstructing from within. Then, sudden coolness. The pain vanishes, replaced by mild discomfort, an odd fatigue within the muscle. A final itch-a sign of rapid tissue regeneration.

I observe everything.

A fracture that should take weeks to mend, healed within seconds. No medical tools, no external aid-only energy. Biologically impossible. Unless...

Chakra.

This is not mere supernatural mysticism. It resembles a secondary metabolic pathway, an integrated biological function. The body, by design, seems to harness this energy for healing. If so, its applications must extend beyond mere injury recovery. If chakra is a measurable health parameter, then... how. far does its influence reach?

She leaves. But before she does, she hesitates. Just for a moment.

"I've never met a child who didn't cry... Not even once since i became a medical-nin," she murmurs, almost to herself. Then, after a pause:

"You truly are Danzo-sama's son."

She exits.

Medical-nin.

A new term. Context suggests a medical profession, but "nin" implies something more-combat, discipline. A military structure with a dedicated medical division. I file it away for later analysis.

Changes occur gradually. The masked figures no longer remain consistent. Rotating personnel replace my caretakers, their presence shifting in and out without attachment. Feeding intervals extend-three hours become five. Efficiency at the cost of routine..

The change in schedule is not arbitrary. It is calculated. Conditioning? Resource management?

Or a test?

A test implies observation. Observation implies intent.

And then, one day, Danzo arrives.

His presence is suffocating.

Not in the literal sense, but in the way power lingers in the air around him. He does not radiate warmth or authority in the traditional sense. No. Danzo's presence is weight-an oppressive force that demands compliance.

He stands before me. His expression, unreadable.

I do not meet his gaze. A child that stares too intently is an anomaly. An anomaly invites questions. Questions invite complications. Instead, I turn my head slightly toward the wall, feigning disinterest.

Seconds pass in silence.

Then, he speaks.

"Failure is unacceptable."

Ah. Another checkmark in the comparison list.

The parallel between this man and my former father is almost amusing. The same rigid philosophy. The same cold pragmatism. A doctrine built on absolute efficiency. It would be laughable if not for the implications.

For a fleeting moment, an absurd hypothesis crosses my mind. Could it be... him? Both of us died at the same moment. Theoretically, a simultaneous reincarnation is possible. But the evidence does not support the claim.

First, my appearance remains unchanged. If it were truly my former father, he would have recognized me immediately. He would have spoken to me from the moment I was born, crafting a strategy within the very first breath.

Second, ambition.

If my original father had been placed in this world, he would not simply be a war strategist hidden underground. He would have already torn through the political structure, seized control, rewritten the entire system to suit his own ends. The man I once knew did not simply exist within frameworks. He created them.

And lastly... the aesthetics.

If my former father controlled this facility, this underground prison would be white. Cold, sterile, pure efficiency. The fact that it remains dark, industrial, unchanged, is proof enough. This is Danzo. Not him.

I discard the thought.

Still, Danzo's presence here raises its own questions. His age-mid-forties to fifties-makes the timing of my birth unusual. A child born at this stage in his life is not an accident. There is intent behind it.

But what?

A tool? A successor? An experiment?

It does not matter. Not yet.

For now, I observe. I wait, I learn.

And in time... I will understand.