Chapter 1: The Idiot, the Demon, and the Secret
"I want to have your baby!"
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Why did I say that? WHY?
A blonde girl with four ponytails stared at him, her face cycling through confusion, disbelief, and pure murderous rage.
"I—I'm sorry! I'm just nervous! What I meant to say was—please have MY baby!"
Her hand tightened around the giant folding fan strapped to her back.
"Could you repeat that?" Temari's voice was eerily calm. "I didn't quite catch it."
Hope flickered in his chest. Maybe she didn't hear—
"Please have my—"
BANG!
The folding fan connected with his ribs like a freight train.
Daimaru's body lifted off the ground. Then it flew. Then it tumbled. Twenty meters of sand and rock tore at his clothes and skin before he crashed through a crumbling mud wall.
Worth it.
No. No, it wasn't. What was he thinking?
Through the settling dust, a figure emerged—face painted with purple markings, a bandaged puppet strapped to his back. Kankuro looked down at the wreckage with the disappointment of a man who had seen this exact scene play out too many times.
"Hey. You dead yet?"
Daimaru pushed a chunk of brick off his chest and groaned. "Thanks to you, I'm still alive. I owe you one, brother-in-law."
"Who the hell is your brother-in-law?" Kankuro took a deliberate step back. "Don't infect me with your stupidity."
"You don't understand. The feelings I have for your sister—"
"Stop right there."
"—they're real. It's only a matter of time before she accepts—"
"She almost killed you."
"Temari's just shy!"
Kankuro stared at him. Then turned around and started walking.
"Wait! Where are you going?"
"Anywhere you aren't."
"Next time will be different! My feelings have already reached her heart!"
"From what I know of Temari," Kankuro called over his shoulder, "she thinks you found a new way to mess with her."
...Eh?
"No way..."
"You're on your own. Don't drag me into this again."
The puppet master disappeared around a corner, leaving Daimaru alone among the rubble.
Screw him. What does he know about love?
He picked a piece of debris out of his hair and limped home.
---
Night.
The winds of the Land of Wind howled like starving beasts through the desert. Sandstorms swallowed the sky, turning the moon into a blurry ghost behind layers of grit.
In Sunagakure, the wind whipped through every alley, every gap between buildings, producing shrieks that sounded like dying women.
Newcomers never slept on nights like this.
The villagers had learned to.
CRASH.
A scream cut through the wind—high, terrified, then abruptly silenced by the sound of collapsing walls.
Another one.
Daimaru sat up in bed, his bruised ribs screaming in protest.
Gaara.
The One-Tail's jinchuriki had been getting worse. More restless. On nights like this, when the wind howled and the sandstorm thickened, the demon inside him stirred.
And when Gaara lost control...
People died.
Daimaru watched through his window as lights flickered on in nearby houses, then immediately went dark again. Families huddled in the cold, praying. Waiting.
Don't go out. Don't make a sound. Don't attract his attention.
That was the unspoken rule of living in Suna.
Daimaru pulled the curtain shut.
---
His apartment was small—one room, a bathroom, a kitchenette that barely fit a stove. But it was his. After moving out of his grandfather's house, this cramped box had felt like freedom.
Now it felt like a cage.
He grabbed the dumbbells from under his bed and started lifting.
Twenty... thirty... forty...
His arm muscles burned. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging the cuts from Temari's fan.
Why did I say that?
He'd planned the confession for weeks. Rehearsed it in the mirror. "Temari, I've liked you since we were kids. Will you go out with me?"
Simple. Direct. Not insane.
Then he'd opened his mouth and... baby.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Fifty.
His arms gave out. The dumbbells hit the floor with a metallic clang that echoed through the thin walls.
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
"Idiot Daimaru! It's late! You want me to kill you?"
The girl next door had a voice like shattered glass—sharp and annoying.
"Saya, I don't have time for a dried-up heart like yours—"
"What did you say?! You incompetent scum!"
"Hmph."
He ignored the rest of her rant and stumbled into the bathroom.
---
The hot water hit his face, washing away dust, sweat, and the lingering embarrassment of the afternoon.
At least I'm not dead.
He pressed his palm against the cold tile wall and watched the water spiral down the drain.
The Chunin Exams aren't far off.
Sixteen years. He'd been in this world for sixteen years.
The memories of his past life had faded around the edges—the name he used to have, the face he used to see in the mirror. But the knowledge remained. The understanding of where he was.
Sunagakure. The Hidden Sand.
The weakest of the great villages.
He'd been born just as the Third Shinobi World War was ending, catching the tail end of Suna's crushing defeat at Kikyo Mountain Castle. His father—a minor character ninja—had come home broken and died before Daimaru could speak.
His mother worked odd jobs. His grandfather raised him as best he could.
And Daimaru had grown up hungry.
Not just for food—though there was never enough of that either. Hungry for power.
If I'd been born in Konoha...
He killed the thought before it could finish.
No point in whining. He was here. In Suna. With limited resources, no clan backing, and a body that had spent sixteen years sabotaging every mature decision his mind tried to make.
Because that was the real problem, wasn't it?
His mind.
He remembered being an adult. Cautious. Calculating. Patient.
Then he'd been reborn as a baby—trapped in a weak body with an undeveloped nervous system, unable to control his own limbs, let alone extract chakra.
And the body had changed him.
The possessiveness. The jealousy. The way he'd bullied other kids just to get Temari's attention—why had that seemed like a good idea?
The way he'd acted without thinking, again and again, like his past self was drowning beneath the hormones and instincts of adolescence.
I thought I had control.
He'd been wrong.
But now... sixteen. The body was fully developed. The neural pathways were set.
From here on, no more excuses.
He turned off the water and stared at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror.
A strong jaw. Sharp eyes. A body that had been forged through years of training, even when his younger self had been too stupid to train efficiently.
The Chunin Exams.
That was his chance. His opportunity to prove himself—not just to Suna, not just to Temari, but to the voice in his head that still remembered being someone else.
I won't embarrass myself again.
He dried off and stepped back into his room.
The wind was still howling outside. Somewhere in the distance, another scream rose—then cut off.
Gaara.
Daimaru lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
The demon container.
Everyone in Suna feared him. Avoided him. Whispered about him.
But Daimaru saw something else.
If I could get close to him... if I could understand him...
The thought was dangerous. Stupid, even.
But so was confessing to Temari.
Maybe the idiot inside me isn't completely wrong.
He closed his eyes.
Outside, the sandstorm raged.
And somewhere in the darkness, Gaara's sand was still wet with blood.