The village whispered about him before he even knew what a name was.
He was not called Renjiro. Not yet.
To them, he was "that child," the cursed one, the bearer of the darkness that nearly destroyed their home. When he toddled through the streets, barefoot and curious, adults turned their faces away. Children were yanked back by wary parents, their eyes filled with the kind of fear reserved for things that lurked in the night.
He did not understand it at first.
He did not understand why the other children ran away when he reached out to touch their toys, why the shopkeepers shut their stalls when he wandered too close, why even the orphanage, meant for war-born orphans, refused to take him in.
All he knew was that he was alone.
The Shadows That Followed Him
Even as a toddler, he could feel it. The weight of something heavy inside him, curling in the depths of his stomach. It felt like a second heartbeat, slow and suffocating, a shadow lurking beneath his skin. At night, when the village lights dimmed and the world grew quiet, he would hear it.
A whisper.
A voice he couldn't understand, slipping through his dreams like oil on water.
Some nights, he woke up screaming, his tiny body drenched in sweat, his heartbeat racing like a trapped bird in his chest. The caretakers assigned to watch over him never comforted him. They simply turned away, muttering that he was cursed and that one day, they would all regret letting him live.
The Elder's Judgment
On his fifth birthday, the village elders called for him.
A child of his age should have been excited—turning five meant an official introduction to the village, meant stepping into the path of shinobi training. It was a time when parents gifted their children their first wooden kunai, when families celebrated.
But he had no family.
No gifts.
And what waited for him in the elder's chamber was not a celebration, but a sentencing.
He sat on his knees in the center of the dimly lit chamber, surrounded by stone walls etched with the village's history. Before him stood the Five Elders, their faces hidden behind ceremonial masks, their voices cold and absolute.
"Do you know why you are here?" the eldest among them asked.
He shook his head.
The elder's voice was like brittle paper. "You are here because you are dangerous."
The other elders nodded in silent agreement.
"The creature sealed within you is a remnant of an ancient force. It nearly destroyed our village. It took the lives of many, including your mother, Akane. You must understand... You are not like the other children."
His tiny hands clenched into fists.
"You will not be raised like them. You will not be trained like them. Your existence is tolerated because the village leader believes you may one day be useful. But understand this, child—" the elder leaned forward, voice thick with warning, "if you ever lose control... we will end you."
Silence.
Renjiro didn't cry.
He didn't flinch.
Something inside him settled that day—a quiet, wordless understanding.
He was not part of this village.
He never would be.
And if they only saw him as a weapon, then perhaps one day... he would become one.