Honestly, I hadn't given much thought to what my quirk would be.
With chakra already in the picture, it felt secondary—like anything else would just slot in somewhere rather than define anything new. Useful, maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it wasn't going to change much.
That was the assumption I went in with.
A few months after I turned four, they took a group of us—same age bracket—to a quirk assessment clinic. Standard procedure. Routine enough that the staff treated it with all the excitement of filing paperwork.
Which, to be fair, it basically was.
I wasn't nervous.
Looking back, that probably meant I wasn't paying enough attention.
The wall-walking was the obvious one. Apparently, caretakers don't appreciate it when children treat walls like optional suggestions.
The eyes were the other.
The staff had labelled them a mutation-type trait—less because they understood it and more because it fit neatly into a box they already had. No one seemed interested in asking follow-up questions.
Which worked out great for me.
Nothing draws attention like curiosity. Nothing avoids it like paperwork.
The clinic itself was… aggressively forgettable.
White walls. Flat lighting. That sterile smell that clings to the back of your throat like it pays rent there. The kind of place designed to process people, not interact with them.
Even the doctor barely looked up from his clipboard.
At that point, I was about 60% convinced I could've been replaced with a cardboard cutout and he wouldn't have noticed.
We went through the standard measurements first.
Height: normal. Just over a meter.
Weight: not normal.
Twenty-four kilograms.
That should've raised more eyebrows than it did. I wasn't bulky. I wasn't even "solid." I looked like I'd lose a fight with a strong breeze.
And yet—there it was.
At the time, I didn't question it. Which, in retrospect, was a mistake. When numbers don't make sense, it's usually because they're trying to tell you something.
Or because someone messed up. Both were equally likely.
"Some strength-type quirks increase muscle and bone density," the doctor said, still not looking at me. "Enough to skew weight without visible change."
Ah.
There it was. A convenient explanation.
I appreciated those.
Once that settled, something else clicked into place—something I hadn't really examined before.
Wall-walking wasn't just sticking to a surface. It was staying there.
Maintaining posture on a vertical plane meant keeping your centre of gravity aligned, your core engaged, your steps controlled. It wasn't passive—it was constant load.
A normal four-year-old shouldn't be able to do that for long.
Even if they could stick.
Which, to be clear, they shouldn't.
"…Just to confirm," the doctor said, still looking at his notes, "would you be willing to perform a basic strength test?"
"What kind of test, sensei?" Nana-san, our caretaker, asked.
"Nothing complex. Just lifting some weights. We want to confirm if there's a strength-enhancing component. We'll also need a blood sample."
Ah. Of course. The classic combo.
Lift something heavy, then get stabbed.
Medical science was truly thriving.
Nana-san glanced down at me then.
It wasn't the kind of reassurance she gave the others—not softened, not guided. Just a quiet look, steady and deliberate.
Your choice.
For most of the other children, she wouldn't have done that. She would've explained it, simplified it, made decisions easy. Removed uncertainty.
But with me, she didn't.
By now, she knew I understood more than I should. Enough that she treated me differently—not openly, not in a way anyone else would notice, but in small moments like this.
I nodded.
That was enough.
The strength test was fine. Honestly, kind of interesting.
The blood draw was… less inspiring. I briefly considered protesting on philosophical grounds but decided against it. Mostly because I doubted it would work.
They brought out weights, increasing them step by step.
I stopped at twenty-five kilograms.
No chakra. No enhancement. Just baseline strength without any physical training.
Unless you count playing tag as training.
It wasn't difficult—just a limit I hadn't pushed past yet.
That alone would've been enough to raise questions in my past life.
Here, it just earned a note on a clipboard.
But it wasn't the only thing.
The injection mark disappeared almost immediately.
I noticed it before they did.
One moment: small puncture, slight redness.
Next moment: gone.
No sting. No mark. No "you'll feel this later."
Just… nothing.
I blinked.
Well.
That seemed important.
…Did Uchiha blood come with a complimentary healing package?
Because if so, that felt like something the ROB should've mentioned upfront.
We were sent outside while they processed the samples.
The other children had already settled into noise—talking, moving, distracting themselves—but I didn't.
I had a pattern forming.
The eyes.
The adjustment period—or the lack of one.
I should have struggled more with the Rinnegan. Instead, it had… integrated, faster than it had any right to.
The Sharingan sat behind it as well, active more often than not. I didn't even have to consciously trigger it anymore, I could but—it was just there, quietly processing everything around me. Movement, posture, micro-expressions… all of it reduced to background noise I'd already adapted to.
Then there was sleep—four, maybe five hours at most—and still no fatigue.
I was either incredibly healthy or violating several biological laws at once.
Possibly both.
The appetite.
The constant energy.
And the falls.
I'd slipped off my bunk more than once. I'd even landed on my head once.
Nothing.
No bruises. No soreness. Not even the courtesy of mild discomfort.
At that point, I was starting to feel personally disrespected by physics—or is it biology in this case?
The closest comparison I had was the Uzumaki physique.
High vitality. Strong body. Ridiculous stamina.
It fit.
A little too neatly.
Which meant I didn't trust it.
Because when something makes perfect sense?
It usually doesn't.
Still…
"Nana-san, Itsuki-san—please come in."
The assistant's voice cut through the room.
Nana-san stood, giving the others a quick look. "You all stay here for now, okay? We'll be right back."
A few nods and quiet yeses, after which we followed the assistant back inside.
The doctor was in the same position as before, flipping through a clipboard. He glanced up briefly as we entered.
"We've completed the analysis," he said, without buildup or pause.
"His quirk presents as a mutation-type with multiple expressions."
Nana-san didn't interrupt, but I could feel her attention sharpen slightly.
"Muscle and bone density are both elevated. That accounts for the weight discrepancy."
A page turned.
"Bloodwork shows accelerated cellular recovery, within expected ranges for regenerative traits."
Another note.
"Adhesion ability is confirmed. Visual mutation contributes to enhanced perception, though we can't quantify that precisely at this stage."
He finally looked at me.
"Overall, a composite-type mutation—physical enhancement, adhesion, and sensory improvement."
A brief pause.
"Quite stable and versatile."
That tracked.
Clean. Contained. Nothing that stood out as abnormal within the system.
Which meant I had a choice.
Leave it there.
Or add to it.
I already knew what chakra was capable of, and more importantly, I knew how it would be perceived here—not as something foreign, but as just another expression of a quirk.
That made it safer than it probably should've been.
Still, showing anything was a choice.
Even something small.
I weighed it for a moment, then spoke.
"There's one more thing."
Both of them looked at me.
"I can move something inside me. Energy, I think. I can control it."
The doctor's pen paused.
"Can you demonstrate?"
There was a brief hesitation—not fear, just calibration. How much would be "enough" without becoming "too much."
I settled on minimal.
Moulding chakra came naturally now. The process didn't even require conscious sequencing anymore—just execution.
A small sphere formed above my palm.
Compact. Controlled. Barely five centimetres across.
Yellow, rotating, Contained.
The air around it shifted slightly—not visibly, just a faint pressure.
Stable.
Deliberately unimpressive.
I held it for a second, then let it disperse.
A flash and then it's gone.
I lowered my hand.
That was enough.
No need to accidentally reinvent a war crime on my first check-up.
The doctor resumed writing almost immediately.
"Energy projection," he noted. "Emission-type behaviour. High control for developmental stage."
Nana-san watched a second longer before giving a small nod.
"Quite versatile," she said.
Not surprise.
Which made sense.
In this world, it wasn't anything unusual.
"No instability observed," the doctor continued. "No external discharge. No recoil. Good regulation."
His pen stopped.
"What would you like to name it?"
I paused.
That… was unexpected.
I glanced at Nana-san.
She smiled faintly.
Go on.
Right.
Naming it turned out to be more of a process than I expected.
Suggestions went back and forth—some practical, some… less so. The doctor even chimed in at one point, which didn't help nearly as much as he probably thought it did.
In the end, we settled on something simple.
"Life Force."
The doctor wrote it down without comment.
And just like that—
It was official.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note:
Fourth chapter here. hope you enjoy and please feel free to share your opinions about this story.
If you guys have a better name for his quirk then please feel free to suggest it. remember the parts that he has shown are: sticking to surfaces, increased strength and durability, self-healing, the eyes (Rinnegan and Sharingan) and ability to manipulate his life force. this is what is officially registered for his quirk.