Akemi was cleaning the kitchen, her dark blue Uzumaki clan tunic stained with water and sauce on the sleeves. The whirlpool symbol, embroidered in red on the back, gleamed in the firelight—a reminder of her heritage and the betrayal she carried in silence. She shot me a glance, her green eyes flashing with an unspoken question, but I shook my head. Not yet, Akemi. I need to talk to him first.
"Riki!" I called, my voice echoing down the narrow hallway leading upstairs. "Come down. We need to talk." The sound of hesitant footsteps answered, each creaking step like a warning.
Riki appeared at the top of the stairs, his small silhouette framed against the dim light. He wore a plain gray tunic, short enough not to hinder his movements, with the whirlpool symbol stitched in red thread on the chest. His red hair—Akemi's legacy—was disheveled, and a black cloth headband kept the strands away from his dark eyes, which burned with an intensity no seven-year-old should possess. His hands, clad in fingerless gloves, trembled slightly, but he hid them in his sleeves—a gesture I didn't miss.
The house was a rustic refuge, carved into the rocks of the Valley of Hell. The interior walls, reinforced with wooden beams, bore cracks where the valley's moisture seeped in. Handwoven rugs, faded by time, covered the floor, and a crooked shelf in the corner held scrolls, dried herbs, and a single framed photo: me, Akemi, and Riki, taken two years ago, when he could barely hold a kunai.
The hearth was the heart of the home, its orange glow reflecting off the worn surfaces, but not even its warmth could dispel the chill I felt when I thought of the diary hidden under my mattress.
Riki descended the last step, stopping a few paces away. "What is it, Father?" he asked, his voice calm but with a calculated edge that set my shinobi instincts on alert. He crossed his arms, his body relaxed, but his eyes locked onto mine, as if reading every wrinkle of worry on my face. He's not just a boy, I thought, the weight of the diary burning in my memory.
I sat in a chair at the dining table, gesturing to the one opposite. "Sit, Riki." He obeyed, moving with near-military grace, each step precise, as if trained never to reveal weakness.
I pulled the diary from my tunic's inner pocket, the worn leather warm against my palm, and set it on the table with a thud that rang like a verdict. "I want the truth. About this. About your dreams."
Riki didn't blink, but his fingers twitched for a fraction of a second—a tell only a trained Uchiha would notice. "My dreams?" he repeated, tilting his head, his voice soft, almost innocent. "They're just nightmares, Father. I write them down so I don't forget." He smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and a shiver ran down my spine.
He's testing me.
"Nightmares don't describe Kage summits, Riki," I countered, my voice firm but laced with doubt. "You wrote about Danzō—how he manipulated Iwa, Kiri, and Kumo to destroy Uzushiogakure, about the letters he sent promising Konoha would turn a blind eye. And Sakumo…" My throat tightened. "You wrote that Root broke him with rumors. How do you know this? These things happened before you were born."
Riki looked down at the diary, his fingers tracing the leather as if choosing each word with care. Is he calculating? My Sharingan nearly activated on instinct. Then he lifted his gaze, and there was vulnerability in his eyes—a sadness so convincing it almost made me forget my suspicion. "I see things, Father," he said, his voice trembling just enough. "Ever since I started training with the elders' seals six months ago, the dreams began. Flashes… images. Meetings in caves, that Danzō with his cane, Kages talking about destroying the Uzumaki. And Sakumo…" He hesitated, biting his lip. "I saw him crying, a knife in his hand. He was alone. I don't know why I see it, but I do. And it feels real."
I wanted to believe him. But something in his posture, in the way he modulated his voice, reminded me of an ANBU operative—someone trained to manipulate truth. "Riki, this isn't normal. These 'dreams'… are you saying they're prophecies? That you see the past? The future?"
He leaned forward, his eyes blazing with an intensity that pinned me in place. "What if they are, Father? I know I'm not the first. In our clan's lessons, we learned about Konoha's history—the Legendary Sannin, the toads of Mount Myōboku, the prophetic abilities some shinobi possess. In our world, there are things we can't explain. The Sharingan, fuinjutsu, the bijū… Why not dreams that show the truth?" He paused, letting the words hang, then dropped his voice to a whisper. "I've seen more, Father. Things I haven't written. And we can use them to free our people." His eyes welled up, and my heart stalled.
"You've seen the future?"
Riki looked away, as if fighting tears, but I caught the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth—a sign of control, not weakness. "I don't know. But if it's real, we need to prepare. Danzō is dangerous. He's already destroyed so much… What if he comes for us? For the valley? For the Chinoike?" He met my gaze again, and now there was pleading in his eyes—a performance so flawless it convinced me. "I just want to protect you and Mother."
I stood, torn between love and suspicion. He's my son. But those words… He knew exactly what to say.
I grabbed the diary, gripping it tightly. "Riki, if these dreams are real, you can't carry this alone. You must tell me everything. Promise me." He nodded, eyes still wet, but there was a shadow of satisfaction in them—so subtle I almost missed it.
"I promise, Father," he said, rising to hug me, his small body shaking against mine. But as I held him, a chill ran through me. He's steering me. And for the first time, I feared my own son.
POV: Riki
Riki couldn't let the future he knew repeat itself.
In his past life, he'd been an elite soldier, a mentalist trained to manipulate minds with surgical precision. Reincarnated into this world—with memories of a reality where Naruto was just a story—he knew what was coming: the war's end, Obito's attack on Konoha, the Uchiha massacre.
But above all, he knew Tekka, his father, was an anchor he'd never had before. I won't lose him, he'd vowed six months ago, when he began faking nightmares and planting "prophetic" seeds in the diary to guide Tekka.
In that hug, Riki calculated every move. He knew Tekka, with a father's blind love, would never suspect him. Prophecies are plausible here, he'd reasoned, exploiting the ninja world's superstitions. Every word, every fake tear, was a tool to reshape fate. He needed Tekka to believe—to act against Danzō, to protect the Uchiha. If I play this right, I can save them all. But the secret of his reincarnation stayed locked in his heart. If they learn what I am, I'll lose them. And I won't risk that.
The hearth crackled, the lantern swayed, but for a moment, the house seemed to hold the weight of the future. Tekka released Riki, his eyes alight with fear and resolve. "We'll protect our family, Riki. Together." And Riki smiled—a smile that hid the strategist behind the boy—knowing the first step of his plan was complete.
Later That Night
After the conversation, Riki retreated to his stone-walled room, his mind racing. The plan was in motion: Danzō's destruction, Uzushiogakure's rebirth, the Whirlpool Country's restoration.
Tekka hasn't read the full diary yet, he mused. His questions were about Uzushiogakure and Danzō. But there's more. When he reads what Danzō has planned for the Uchiha… everything will change.
The night deepened, the silence thick. Riki lay awake, eyes fixed on the stone ceiling, his mind working with veteran strategist's clarity. Today, he'd taken another step toward the future he needed—one where Danzō fell, and the Whirlpool rose from ashes.
In his bed of furs, Riki stared into the dark. The cold didn't bother him; he'd slept on warfronts in his past life. This was comfort.
Tonight, he'd go further. He'd play on his father's emotions. He'd ignite belief in the Uchiha's skepticism.
It's for him… for us. If I don't do this, Tekka dies. Everyone dies.
Time was his enemy and his weapon.
Then—a muffled sound. Whispers. They started low, like wind through cracks.
"When the golden lightning splits the sky…" Riki murmured, eyes half-lidded, body trembling under the covers. "The Leaf will be consumed by devastation… And from the shadows, the unchained beast will rise…"
The words looped like a cursed prophecy, teetering between whisper and lament. They sounded ripped from forbidden scrolls.
Next door, Tekka jolted awake. His instincts roared. It was the first time he'd witnessed the "nightmares." The tone, the phrasing—there was something wrong about it. Something unnatural.
He rose silently, grabbing the short blade beside his bed, and moved toward Riki's room. But before he reached the door, the murmurs became screams.
"WHEN THE GOLDEN LIGHTNING SPLITS THE SKY… THE LEAF WILL BE CONSUMED BY DEVASTATION!"
The shout tore through the house like a kunai through flesh.
"Since when does my son have these dreams?" Tekka whispered, following the sound.
Before he could reach the door, Riki's voice rose to a frenzy:
"When the golden lightning splits the sky… The Leaf will be consumed by devastation…!"
The screams crescendoed.
Akemi, now awake, rushed down the hall. Her long red hair flowed loose over her black nightgown, her crimson eyes wide with worry. "Riki!" she called, kneeling beside the bed. "Wake up! I'm here—it's okay!"
The boy arched his back, screamed once more… then fell abruptly silent, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm too calm, too rehearsed. The act was perfect.
The plan was working.
Tekka entered seconds later, his expression hardened—but concern cracked his composure. His eyes scanned the scene: his son's trembling body now still, breathing even, face blank. But the sweat on Riki's neck and the residual tremors didn't lie.
This had been real.