Jogendra's POV
The transition from the aromatic haze of Hyderabad's streets to the damp, primal clutch of a forest hit me like a misfiled form slamming into an already overcrowded inbox. One moment, I'd been savoring the last crumbs of Bawarchi's biryani, plotting how to dodge Monday's inevitable deluge of memos; the next, I was sprawled on a bed of moss and twigs, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and pine. Truck-kun, that steel-plated trickster with a flair for dramatic exits, had apparently decided my life needed more than a vacation—it needed a full-blown reboot into a world I wouldn't have dared dream up, even during the tax department's most feverish audits.
The ghost of the truck's impact lingered in my joints, a faint ache that whispered of my unceremonious departure from reality. I hauled myself up, brushing dirt off clothes that weren't mine—a rough-spun tunic, patched pants, and a leather satchel slung across my shoulder like a makeshift briefcase. The forest hummed around me: birds chirped in staccato bursts, leaves shivered in a breeze that carried the promise of rain, and a lake gleamed nearby, its surface a mirror fractured by sunlight piercing the canopy. It was beautiful, almost postcard-worthy, but my bureaucratic instincts—honed by years of sniffing out trouble in dusty ledgers—screamed that serenity was a lie. Trouble was brewing, and I'd landed smack in the middle of it.
I edged toward the lake, crouching to scoop water into my hands. The cold stung, snapping me out of my daze, and I caught my reflection. It wasn't me—not the Jogendra I knew, with his receding hairline and perpetual chai-stained collar. Instead, a boy stared back, no older than twelve, with a mop of untamed black hair and eyes like twin shards of midnight. My breath hitched, and I nearly toppled into the water.
"No… this is a clerical error," I croaked, my voice pitching high and unfamiliar, like a junior clerk fumbling his first presentation.
The reflection didn't waver. I wasn't Jogendra, the Minotaur of Hyderabad's paper maze, anymore—I was someone else, someone younger, someone thrust into a narrative I hadn't signed up for. Panic clawed at my throat, sharp and icy, but before I could spiral into a proper existential breakdown, a jolt of agony ripped through my skull. It was as if someone had shoved a filing cabinet into my brain and started cramming it with unsorted documents—memories that weren't mine, vivid and searing. I collapsed to my knees, clutching my head as images flooded in.
A woman's face emerged first—gentle hands bandaging a scraped knee, a smile warm enough to melt the sternest tax officer's heart, a voice humming a lullaby that stitched calm into chaos. Then a battlefield—corpses littering crimson mud, the air choked with smoke and the clang of steel. And finally, a name that hit like a thunderclap: *Madara Uchiha*. The pain ebbed as suddenly as it had struck, leaving me panting, my mind a battlefield of its own where two lives clashed like rival departments over budget cuts.
I wasn't just reborn—I'd been catapulted into the Naruto universe, dropped into the Sengoku Era, a time of ceaseless war and shinobi bloodshed. And if that wasn't absurd enough, I was the son of Madara Uchiha, the Ghost of the Uchiha, a legend whose name could silence a room faster than a surprise audit. Me, Jogendra, master of rubber stamps and chai breaks, now tethered to a legacy of fire, fury, and familial dysfunction. I barked out a laugh, harsh and jagged, the sound bouncing off the trees.
"Truck-kun's idea of a lateral transfer?" I wheezed, wiping my eyes. "From beige memos to blazing jutsu? I'd file a grievance if I knew where the cosmic HR department was."
I sifted through the new memories, piecing together this body's history like a detective reconstructing a case file. My mother, Retsu, wasn't some footnote—she was a healer, a woman of steel wrapped in silk, who'd stumbled across My father Madara half-dead on a battlefield. She'd patched him up, and in the flickering light of a war-torn night, something had sparked—a romance as fleeting as it was fierce. My father Madara, ever the clan-first warrior, had left her, believing her lost when rogue shinobi razed their hideout. But My Mother Retsu had survived, pregnant with me, and raised me in the shadows, far from Uchiha eyes. She'd taught me healing arts, basic kenjutsu, and how to survive a world that chewed up the weak—skills I'd sharpened alone for four years after her death, driven by her final wish: find My father Madara and save the Uchiha from themselves.
Then, just as I'd steeled myself to track him down, fate—or Truck-kun—had intervened. Bandits had ambushed me, a blade had torn through my gut, and now here I was, Jogendra's soul stapled into this boy's body. A cosmic mix-up worthy of a government inquiry.
A sudden heat flared in my eyes, sharp and electric. I stumbled back to the lake, and my reflection stole the air from my lungs. Crimson irises glowed back at me, three tomoe spinning in each—the Sharingan, the Uchiha's fabled dojutsu, fully awakened. I blinked, half-expecting it to fade like a mirage, but it held steady.
"How in the name of Form 16-A…?" I murmured, voice quaking.
Was it the trauma of death? The flood of memories? Or some twisted parting gift from Truck-kun, a "welcome to ninja hell" bonus pack? Before I could dissect it, a chime rang in my head—clear, crisp, like the bell at the Secretariat's front desk.
*Ding!*
A glowing screen materialized in front of me, hovering like a memo from the future.
*[System Activated.]*
*[Welcome, Host. You have inherited the Uchiha Legacy. Quest: Find your father, Madara Uchiha, and unlock your full potential.]*
I gaped at it, my bureaucratic brain short-circuiting. A system? In a world of chakra and kunai? It was as if someone had bolted a video game HUD onto a historical epic and handed me the reins. I massaged my temples, a headache brewing that no chai stall could fix.
"Alright, Jogendra," I muttered, sucking in a breath. "Treat this like a government project. Step one: assess the mess. Step two: gather intel. Step three: file the chaos into order."
The screen was sparse—just the quest and a few cryptic options. No user manual, no helpline, nothing. Figures—I'd wrestled worse from the pension office. I rummaged through the satchel: a weathered map, a compass, some jerky, and a wax-sealed scroll. I broke the seal, revealing my mother's elegant script—a journal chronicling her life, her love for My father Madara, and lessons she'd left me. A treasure trove of primary source material.
"Jackpot," I grinned, settling cross-legged by the lake. "Let's organize this insanity."
My Mother Retsu's words wove a tapestry of a woman caught between devotion and defiance. She'd loved My Mother Madara with a quiet ferocity, even knowing he'd choose clan over her. Her final entries were a plea—find him, not just for her, but to steer the Uchiha from their path of endless war. The map showed the region: clans sprawled like rival departments, the Uchiha entrenched northeast in their stronghold. Reaching them meant crossing hostile territory, evading rogues, and surviving a world that didn't give a damn about my filing prowess.
"Step one: intel," I mused, tapping the scroll. "Where's My father Madara? What's the Uchiha's current mess? Step two: strategy—allies, supplies, a route. Step three: execution. Just like pushing a budget through committee."
A rustle in the underbrush yanked me from my reverie. I sprang up, hand instinctively gripping a kunai I hadn't noticed until now. The Sharingan flared, sharpening my senses, and I spotted them—four figures stepping from the trees, clad in mismatched armor, weapons glinting like audit notices in the sun. Bandits, likely kin to the ones who'd gutted this body before I'd arrived.
"Look at this," the leader drawled, a hulking man with a scar splitting his brow and a nicked katana in hand. "A kid alone in the woods. Easy loot."
I tightened my grip, adrenaline spiking. "You'd think so," I shot back, forcing a smirk. "But I've faced worse—like a clerk who lost my expense report three times in one week."
They hesitated, thrown by the quip, then charged. My body reacted before my mind caught up—Retsu's training surging through muscle memory, amplified by the Sharingan's clarity. I dodged the leader's wild swing, slashing my kunai across his forearm, then spun as a second bandit lunged with a spear. I parried, the impact jarring my arm, and kicked his knee, sending him sprawling. The third came at me with a dagger, but I sidestepped, hurling him into the lake with a splash that would've made a tax evasion case proud.
"Form 22-C: Rejected," I panted, turning to the fourth—a wiry woman with a short blade and a sneer.
She darted in, faster than the others, her knife grazing my tunic. I cursed, ducking a follow-up strike, and channeled chakra on instinct—a trick from My Mother Retsu's notes. Flames erupted from my palm, a sloppy burst that singed her arm. She yelped, dropping her weapon, and I tackled her, pinning her beneath my knee.
"Submit your appeal in writing," I growled, "or I'll escalate this to the clan head."
She spat a curse, and I knocked her out with a fist to the temple. The leader roared, back on his feet, katana raised for a killing blow. I rolled aside, the blade sinking into the dirt where I'd been, and sprang up, driving my kunai into his shoulder. He howled, staggering, and I finished him with a kick to the jaw that sent him crashing into a tree. The others—limping, soaked, or unconscious—stayed down.
*Ding!*
*[Combat Encounter Cleared. Reward: +15 Chakra Control, +10 Agility, +5 Strength.]*
I stared at the screen, then laughed—a raw, giddy sound that rang through the trees. "Stats? Really? What's next, a quarterly evaluation?"
Panting, I slumped against a trunk, the adrenaline fading into a buzz of triumph. This wasn't just survival—it was a mission, a saga. I was Jogendra, son of Madara Uchiha, armed with a system, a Sharingan, and a mind sharpened by years of bureaucratic warfare. I glanced at the scroll, then the horizon, where the Uchiha stronghold waited.
But the fight had stirred something deeper—My Mother Retsu's lessons, her love for My father Madara, her dream of a better clan. I wasn't just here to find him; I was here to rewrite their story, to turn a legacy of ash into something worth filing under "hope." And maybe, just maybe, I'd find a spark of that romance she'd clung to—a connection worth fighting for in this war-torn mess.
----------------------------------------------------------