Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage, often came to visit. Not every day. Not frequently enough for Naruto to expect him, but enough that the boy never forgot the old man's presence. The Hokage would arrive with a gentle knock, always carrying something—scrolls, ink, brushes, sometimes even small wooden toys. Things for Naruto to do. Things to keep him occupied.
Naruto never asked for gifts, never expected them, but he never refused them either. If the Hokage was giving, Naruto would take. That was the way of nature. You took what was given, but you never demanded more than what was offered.
The visits were... pleasant.
Naruto didn't really understand the concept of affection in a human sense. He had been an animal more times than he could count. He had been petted, scratched behind the ears, held close for warmth, and given food in return for companionship. Humans did not do that to other humans, at least not in the same way.
Still... Hiruzen's presence was nice.
It was like the sun in the middle of winter. Not warm enough to drive away the cold, but warm enough that you could feel it on your skin, just barely.
Naruto would sit cross-legged on the floor, painting with the materials the Hokage brought him. His hands were small, his fingers clumsy, but his strokes were precise. His drawings were never pretty, but they were detailed.
Sometimes he drew the animals that visited him.
Other times he drew things from his dreams.
Not his dreams, but the dreams of his past lives.
A flock of Archaeopteryx in flight, their feathered wings blending with the sky.
A jaguar stretched out on the branch of a tree, golden eyes glinting in the moonlight.
A wolf standing on the edge of a frozen river, nose raised to the wind, waiting for something that would never come.
Hiruzen never asked what the drawings meant.
He simply looked, nodded, and told Naruto he had a good eye for details.
Then he would talk.
The Hokage liked to talk.
Naruto liked to listen.
The old man would tell him stories about the village, about its founding, about the people who had shaped it.
The Hokages of the past.
Hashirama Senju. The First Hokage.
Tobirama Senju. The Second Hokage.
Minato Namikaze. The Fourth Hokage.
Naruto said nothing as Hiruzen spoke, but inside, he felt a strange, cold amusement.
Because he had seen them.
Hashirama.
Tobirama.
Minato.
He had watched Hashirama fight that red-eyed man, his massive wooden structures rising like mountains, the earth itself bending to his will. He had died in that battle, his tiny Archaeopteryx body reduced to nothing by the shockwaves of their fight.
He had seen Tobirama too, standing amidst bodies, water turning to spears in his hands, fighting against men whose skin was dark and cracked like the earth in summer.
And Minato...
Minato had given him this life.
Minato had died so that he could live.
Minato was his father.
But Hiruzen never told him that.
It was odd.
The Hokage spoke of Minato with admiration, with pride.
But never once did he say, This man was your father. This man loved you. This man died for you.
Naruto never asked.
He never asked because he did not need to.
Because he remembered.
Because when he dreamed, he dreamed not only of his past lives but of the day he was born.
He remembered the cold air, the blood, the fear.
He remembered a woman with red hair and a man with golden hair, standing before a monstrous fox with blazing red eyes.
He remembered the pain of a seal burning into his skin, of his tiny body being changed as something vast and powerful was forced into him.
He remembered Minato's voice, quiet and sad.
"I'm sorry, Naruto."
He had been sorry.
And then he had died.
Naruto did not hate him.
But he did not mourn him either.
Minato had made a choice.
A choice that left Naruto alone.
That was simply the way of things.
Hiruzen spoke of the Hokages as heroes.
As men who had given everything for the sake of the village.
And maybe they had.
But Naruto had seen things that did not fit Hiruzen's stories.
He had seen heroes destroy forests, cutting down trees and driving animals from their homes.
He had seen heroes slaughter entire clans, their blood soaking into the earth.
He had seen heroes kill creatures they did not need to kill, not for food, not for survival, but because they could.
And even now, in this life, he had seen heroes try to kill him.
A baby.
A child who had done nothing.
It was strange.
Why would heroes do such things?
He did not ask Hiruzen.
Because Naruto was not stupid.
He knew that humans did not always like to hear certain questions.
They did not like to be forced to think about things they had already decided were true.
So he said nothing.
He listened.
He painted.
And when the Hokage left, he went to water his cactus.
Neko and Weasel returned shortly after.
The ANBU never stayed when Hiruzen was here.
They left and came back like clockwork.
Naruto did not ask why.
He simply accepted it.
Life moved forward.
Seasons changed.
And Naruto kept waiting.
For what, he did not know.
But he knew something was coming.
Something inevitable.
Like the turn of the sun.
Like the pull of the tide.
Something was coming.
And Naruto would be ready.
—ToT—
Naruto sat on the floor, absently tracing his fingers over the grain of the wood. His cactus sat on the windowsill, soaking in the weak afternoon light. Neko and Weasel were somewhere nearby, unseen but present. They were always present, even when he couldn't see them.
Hiruzen sat across from him, cross-legged like an old monk, his eyes kind yet sharp, watching Naruto as if waiting for something.
And then, the question.
"Do you want to be a Shinobi, Naruto?"
It was an odd thing to ask.
Naruto tilted his head slightly, fingers pausing their absent movement over the wood.
Want?
Did he want to be a Shinobi?
No.
Not really.
Shinobi were killers.
They lied, stole, betrayed, destroyed.
Even their heroism was built on the backs of dead men, of slaughtered enemies, of victories that came at a price someone else had to pay.
Shinobi were the ones who hunted animals for sport. Shinobi were the ones who burned forests and cut rivers in half with their power.
Shinobi were the ones who had killed him before.
He had died so many times because of Shinobi.
Sometimes he had been prey. A deer caught in the woods, running for his life only to be brought down by a well-aimed kunai.
Sometimes he had simply been in the way. A bird caught in the wrong storm, a fox curled in its den when the earth split open and the fire swallowed him whole.
Even in this life, his enemies had been Shinobi.
The drunk Jōnin who had slipped into his apartment, muttering about avenging his lost comrades.
The faceless masked ones who had tried to put a kunai through his heart while he still lay in his crib.
The ANBU who killed them before they could succeed.
And even now, the two Shinobi standing watch over him, hidden but always there.
Naruto did not want to be a Shinobi.
But...
If he wasn't a Shinobi, what was he?
Weak.
Prey.
Nothing.
He had spent many lives on the bottom of the food chain.
He had been hunted, devoured, crushed beneath forces greater than himself.
That was nature.
The weak perished.
The strong survived.
Naruto wanted to survive.
Even now, when he had no pack, no herd, no flock to protect him, he wanted to live.
And the only way to live in a world ruled by Shinobi... was to become one.
So he looked Hiruzen in the eye, voice steady.
"Yes."
For a moment, the old man simply looked at him.
And then his face lit up.
Happiness.
Relief.
Satisfaction.
As if he had expected something else.
As if he had feared rejection.
Naruto didn't understand it.
Why should Hiruzen care if he became a Shinobi or not?
But the Hokage's happiness was clear.
He smiled, nodded, reached out a wrinkled hand to ruffle Naruto's red hair.
"Good, good."
Naruto let it happen.
The old man's hand was warm.
A strange warmth.
Like the sun on a cold morning.
And then, just like that, the visit was over.
Hiruzen left, walking with the careful, measured steps of an old man carrying too much weight.
And when the door closed behind him, something changed.
Naruto could feel it.
Like a shift in the air.
Like the moment before a storm.
The next day, the ANBU unlatched the locks on his door.
"You're allowed to leave now."
Naruto stared at them, then at the open door.
Allowed.
As if he had been a prisoner all this time.
Perhaps he had been.
He looked at Neko, then at Weasel.
They were watching him.
Waiting.
If he took a step outside, he knew—everything would change.
He wondered...
What would have happened if he had said no?
Would they have kept him locked away?
Would the Hokage have looked at him with sadness instead of joy?
Would his cage have remained closed?
He did not know.
He would never know.
Because he had chosen yes.
And now, his world was about to grow bigger.
Naruto stepped forward.
Through the door.
And into the unknown.
—ToT—
Naruto didn't react when he was yanked back, didn't fight against the grip on his collar, didn't say anything when the ball was stolen from his hands.
He just stood there, blinking as the child hesitated, looked between him and the adult before clutching the ball tight and running away.
The words rang in his ears.
"Stay away from this kid!"
He tilted his head slightly.
A warning. A command.
A fear.
Naruto dusted off his clothes and walked away.
He knew this feeling.
It was the same as when the newborn runt of a litter was pushed aside, denied food, denied warmth, left to die in the cold because it was too weak, too sickly, too different.
The villagers stayed away. Kept their distance. Their whispers slithered around him like unseen snakes, filled with things they didn't want him to hear but said anyway.
"Demon child."
"Stay away from him."
"Monster."
Words didn't hurt Naruto. Words were just sounds, just vibrations in the air.
But what was in those words— the hate, the fear, the disgust— that was what interested him.
They knew.
About the Fox.
The thing that lived inside him, the thing that had taken so many lives.
They looked at him and saw it.
Not a boy. Not a child. Not a person.
Just a cage for the monster they all despised.
Naruto walked through the village, taking it all in.
The way people avoided him.
The way their eyes flicked toward him and then quickly away.
The way their bodies tensed, as if waiting for him to do something terrible.
They were like animals sensing a predator— or rather, sensing something they thought was a predator.
They feared him.
Interesting.
He did not mind.
Fear kept animals alive.
It kept them cautious, made them stay away from things that could hurt them.
If they feared him, they would not try to kill him.
At least, not so openly.
He kept walking, letting his feet take him where they wanted to go.
Away from the humans, toward things that made more sense.
The animals.
The strays.
A dog with a missing ear, a cat with matted fur, a crow with one cloudy eye.
They did not fear him.
They did not flinch away when he reached out a hand.
They understood him.
Not in words, not in speech, but in a way that went beyond language.
They had been hurt before.
They had been cast aside, abandoned, unloved.
Just like him.
Naruto sat down beside them, watching as they curled up near him, as they settled into the warmth of his presence.
He stayed with them for a while, until the sky began to darken.
And then he left.
Because there was something else he wanted to see.
The trees.
The hulking trees that loomed over the village like silent giants, ancient and powerful.
The trees he had only seen from a distance, never up close.
The trees that felt right.
Like home.
He stepped toward them, drawn in by something he could not name.
The scent of leaves, the weight of the air, the hum of life that pulsed through the roots buried deep in the earth.
He wanted to climb.
To go up, up, up.
To see the world from the branches, to touch the sky like he had when he had wings.
But before he could take another step, a presence flickered behind him.
"Time's up."
Neko.
Naruto stilled, eyes lingering on the trees for a moment longer before turning away.
He did not argue.
There would be a next time.
There was always a next time.
He walked back toward the village, toward the cage that was his home, leaving behind the whispers, the strays, and the towering trees.
For now.
—ToT—
Naruto decided that the old man deserved a gift.
It was only fair.
The Hokage always brought him things— paints, books, sometimes even sweets if he wasn't in a rush. So, in Naruto's mind, it only made sense to return the favor.
But what could he give?
Food?
No, humans liked food, but the Hokage barely had enough time to sit down and enjoy it. He always seemed to be rushing from one place to another, never staying longer than fifteen minutes before duty called him away.
Something else, then.
Something that would last.
His gaze drifted to the paints, the brushes, the blank canvases stacked neatly in the corner of the room.
Oh.
He could paint.
The thought settled in his mind like a stone sinking into water.
Yes.
That would be his gift.
And so, through the quiet hours of the night, under the watchful eyes of Neko and Weasel, Naruto worked.
He did not need references.
He did not need to think.
His hands moved as if guided by something unseen, as if the images had always been there, waiting to be put on canvas.
Brush strokes smooth and deliberate.
Colors mixed and layered, shadows deepened and light captured.
Neko and Weasel said nothing, only exchanged glances as the painting took shape before their eyes.
Because it was not a painting of flowers or trees.
Not a picture of animals or the village or anything a four-year-old should have been interested in.
It was a battle.
A scene from a time long past, rendered in startling detail.
By dawn, it was finished.
A three-foot by three-foot oil painting.
Naruto cleaned his brushes, wiped his hands on a rag, and carefully set the painting aside to dry.
Then he waited.
The Hokage arrived, as he always did.
With a warm smile, with gentle words, with his usual presence that never lingered for long.
But this time, Naruto had something for him.
A trade.
He picked up the painting, walked over, and held it out.
Hiruzen looked surprised. "For me?"
Naruto nodded.
A pause, then the old man took it with careful hands, eyes soft with warmth. "Thank you, Naruto. Let's see what you—"
The words stopped.
His breath caught.
His face froze, not with happiness, but with something else.
Shock.
Why did he look more stunned than pleased?
He knew Naruto could draw.
So why...?
The Hokage stared at the image in his hands, his expression unreadable.
"Naruto," his voice was slower now, measured. "What is this?"
"A painting," Naruto answered simply.
"What is in the painting?"
Naruto blinked.
That was an odd question.
He had painted what he saw.
He had painted what was there.
"Hashirama Senju fighting," he said.
The silence in the room stretched thin, taut like a pulled thread.
Hiruzen's fingers tightened around the canvas.
"And... who is the other man?"
Naruto frowned slightly, tilting his head.
Did the old man not recognize him?
Hashirama had yelled that name— had screamed it during the fight.
That was why Naruto remembered it so well.
"Madara," he said.
Neko inhaled sharply behind him.
Weasel's shoulders stiffened.
The tension in the room grew heavy, pressing against the walls, against the air itself.
Hiruzen slowly set the painting down on the table, his gaze unreadable.
The details were too perfect.
The bird's-eye perspective too precise.
Hashirama Senju, standing atop his wooden Buddha statue with a thousand hands.
Madara Uchiha, atop the Nine-Tailed Fox, its crimson fur bristling, its eyes burning with fury.
A scene from the past.
A battle Naruto should not know about.
"Naruto..."
The Hokage's voice was careful now.
His words chosen with deliberate precision.
"How do you know about this?"
Naruto tilted his head again, considering.
Would they believe the truth?
That he had been there?
That he had seen it happen, not from books, not from stories, but with his own eyes?
That he had died in that battle, torn apart by the Fox's power?
No.
They would not believe it.
So he simply said, "I just know."
Silence.
Deep.
Lingering.
Hiruzen studied him, searching for something in his young face.
But Naruto remained still, expression blank, gaze unwavering.
At last, the Hokage sighed, shaking his head slightly.
He said nothing more.
Instead, he looked down at the painting again, running his fingers over the textured oil strokes.
After a moment, he carefully wrapped it, handling it with the same respect he might give an ancient relic.
"Thank you, Naruto," he finally said, voice quiet.
And then he left, taking the painting with him.
Naruto watched him go.
He did not understand why the Hokage was so shaken.
It was just a painting.
Just a memory.
Just something he saw.
And yet, the weight in the air told him that it was more than that.
Much more.
Naruto sat back down, picking up his brush again.
There were other memories.
Other things he had seen.
He dipped the brush into color, the scent of oil and pigment filling the air.
He had more to paint.
—ToT—
Itachi Uchiha—Weasel—had seen many strange things in his young life.
But nothing quite like this.
He watched in quiet disbelief as the four-year-old boy painted with the precision of a seasoned war artist, his tiny hands moving with careful intent.
Stroke by stroke, the images came to life.
And they were not the innocent drawings of a child.
They were memories.
They were secrets.
S-rank secrets.
Things only high-ranking Shinobi should know.
Things only those who had witnessed them firsthand could possibly recall.
Yet Naruto Uzumaki, a child who had never left his apartment before recently, was painting them with horrifying accuracy.
Itachi's fingers twitched.
He knew these scenes.
He had seen them himself.
The Third Great Shinobi War.
The battlegrounds where men and beasts alike had been slaughtered.
Forests reduced to smoldering wastelands.
Rivers dried up.
Mountains shattered by explosive jutsu.
And worst of all—
The night the Nine-Tailed Fox attacked.
The night the Yondaime Hokage had stood atop a massive toad, facing the raging beast with his Hiraishin flickering like golden lightning across the battlefield.
Naruto painted it all.
Not in clumsy, childish strokes, but with chilling precision.
Every line was deliberate.
Every detail exact.
The sheen of blood on kunai.
The despair in the eyes of dying men.
The raw terror of those caught in the crossfire.
Itachi swallowed.
He wasn't alone in his shock.
Neko was as still as a statue, her cat mask concealing her face but not her body language.
Her shoulders were tense.
Her breath uneven.
She, too, understood what they were looking at.
Even the Hokage—the ever-composed Hiruzen Sarutobi—had been shaken when Naruto gifted him a painting of Hashirama Senju's battle with Madara Uchiha.
And now this?
This was something else entirely.
This was insanity.
Itachi's eyes traced the brushstrokes, noting the gore.
The violence.
The realism.
Naruto did not censor anything.
The screams of the wounded.
The severed limbs in the mud.
The way blood soaked into the earth, dark and heavy.
It was all there.
How?
The child's glowing sapphire eyes remained fixed on the canvas, his expression neutral, unbothered by the horror he was bringing to life.
He did not hesitate.
He did not pause.
He knew what he was painting.
And that—more than anything—unsettled Itachi to his very core.
How could a four-year-old know these things?
The answer should have been simple.
He was a Jinchūriki.
The Nine-Tails was sealed inside him.
Maybe—just maybe—some of these memories were leaking through.
But that didn't explain everything.
It didn't explain the sheer breadth of his knowledge.
The Third Shinobi War had happened before Naruto was even born.
How would the Nine-Tails have memories of that?
The Kyuubi had been sealed away at the time—inside Kushina Uzumaki.
Itachi's fists clenched.
There was only one question on his mind.
One question that no one had the answer to.
"Naruto Uzumaki… what are you?"
The boy did not notice the tension in the room.
Or if he did, he did not care.
He continued painting, moving onto another canvas without pause.
Weasel and Neko did not stop him.
They only watched.
Because what else could they do?
The Hokage needed to know about this.
He needed to see this for himself.
Itachi silently committed every brushstroke to memory.
Because he had a feeling—
A dangerous feeling—
That this was only the beginning.