Naruto: One Eye Tenseigan

The faint hum of the village waking up stirred Tomaru from his sleep. Soft rays of morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale patterns across the walls of his modest room. 

He sat up slowly, his hand instinctively brushing his forehead, where a dull ache lingered. The dreams had become vivid again, pulling him into the life of the original Tomaru—a life that felt painfully real. 

These weren't just dreams. They were memories, fragments of a past marked by loneliness and quiet determination. 

Tomaru saw himself as a boy, barely three years old, sitting in a corner of the orphanage. His small hands clutched a worn stuffed animal with patched seams, the closest thing he had to a companion. Around him, other children played and laughed under the watchful eyes of the caretakers. They built towers from blocks, chased each other in games of tag, and jostled for attention. 

But Tomaru sat apart, his wide, curious eyes following their movements. He wasn't ignored entirely—on the contrary, he was often the first child visitors noticed. 

"He's such a beautiful child, isn't he?" one caretaker whispered, her gaze soft as she glanced in Tomaru's direction. 

"With that face, it's no wonder he gets the most attention," another replied. 

"I bet he'll be adopted in no time." 

Even as a toddler, Tomaru's appearance had stood out. His round face, framed by soft, messy hair, gave him a natural charm. Big, expressive eyes and an adorable smile made him seem more approachable than the other children. While the others tugged on visitors' clothes or shyly clung to the caretakers' legs, Tomaru had only to sit quietly.

---

It wasn't long before a civilian couple—a retired kunoichi and her husband—chose Tomaru to take home. 

Tomaru had been nervous when they took him home for the first time. The small house was nothing like the orphanage. It smelled of fresh herbs and spices.

They weren't wealthy, nor did they hail from a prestigious clan, but they were kind-hearted people who wanted to provide a child with a family. 

His new father was warm and energetic, a man who laughed easily and carried Tomaru on his shoulders during walks through the village. His mother was quieter, her movements deliberate and graceful. She introduced him to gardening, kneeling beside him as she showed him how to plant seeds and care for the tiny sprouts that grew in their small backyard. 

"Welcome home," she said softly one evening, kneeling to meet his eyes. She handed him a freshly picked flower, the petals still glistening with dew. 

"You belong here now." 

For the first time, Tomaru felt wanted. 

---

But that happiness was short-lived. 

Not even a year later, tragedy struck. Tomaru's father had been stationed at the village gates on a day meant to celebrate peace—a treaty signing between Konoha and Kumogakure. 

Tomaru remembered the excitement that morning. His father had been in high spirits, ruffling Tomaru's hair as he left for duty. 

"Be good for your mother," he had said with a grin. 

"When I come back, we'll pick out something sweet from the bakery." 

But his father never came back. 

Tomaru had been too young to understand the details, but he remembered the distant shouting, the clashing of metal, and the way his mother had grabbed him tightly when a messenger arrived at their door.

His father had died in a sudden skirmish. The details were murky—a misunderstanding, but it didn't matter. He was gone.

They built a small shrine in the house to honor him. His mother would light incense every evening, her hands trembling slightly as she prayed for his spirit. Tomaru didn't know what to say or do, so he knelt beside her, mimicking her movements. 

—

His sadness didn't stop there. His mother, already frail after his father's death, began to weaken further. Once a proud kunoichi who had survived the brutal Third Ninja War, she now struggled with injuries that never truly healed. She hid her pain well, but Tomaru could see it in the way she paused to catch her breath or winced when she thought he wasn't looking. 

Still, she persevered. She tended their small garden, told him stories at night, and smiled whenever he needed reassurance. Even as her health declined, she never stopped trying to shield him from the weight of her suffering. 

"You're going to be a strong shinobi one day," she told him one evening, her voice steady despite the exhaustion etched into her features. 

"Stronger than me. Stronger than your father. Promise me, Tomaru. Promise me you'll never give up." 

Tomaru nodded, clutching her hand tightly. He didn't know why her words felt so heavy that night, but they lingered in his mind like a shadow. 

---

It happened one morning, quietly, like the ending of a long, weary journey. 

Tomaru was in the kitchen, helping her set the table, when she suddenly collapsed. A pot clattered to the floor, the sound ringing through the small house like a warning bell. 

"Mother!" he cried, rushing to her side. 

She was lying on the wooden floor, her breaths shallow and labored. Her face was pale, her lips trembling as she fought to speak. Tomaru dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he cradled hers. 

"I'll get help!" he said, his voice trembling with panic. 

But her hand tightened weakly around his. 

"No, Tomaru," she whispered, her voice faint but filled with an almost unbreakable resolve.

"Stay with me. Don't leave me alone." 

Tears welled up in Tomaru's eyes and began to flow down his cheeks. He tried to blink them away, but they came faster, blurring his vision. 

"Mother, you'll be okay," he said, his voice cracking as he tried to reassure her. 

"You've always been okay." 

She smiled faintly, though the effort seemed to drain her. 

"I've tried so hard… to stay with you. I wanted to be here longer… to see you grow. To protect you." 

Tomaru's shoulders trembled, his tears falling silently now. He didn't want her to see him cry, but the more she spoke, the harder it became to hold back. 

"I'm sorry, Tomaru," she continued, her voice breaking. 

"I'm sorry I couldn't be a better mother. I wanted to give you more—more time, more love, more of everything you deserve." 

"You are a good mom," Tomaru whispered, his voice barely audible. 

Her trembling hand reached up to touch his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear. Her touch was so light, so fragile, it felt like she might disappear if he moved too quickly. 

"The world you're growing up in... it's hard, Tomaru. But you—" She paused, drawing a shaky breath. 

"You have to live. No matter how hard it gets, you have to keep going." 

Tomaru nodded silently, tears streaming down his face. His throat felt tight, as though any words he might have said were locked behind his grief. 

"I love you, Tomaru," she whispered, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. 

"I've always loved you. Don't ever forget that." 

"I love you too," he managed to choke out, his voice breaking as he gripped her hand tighter, willing her to stay. 

Her lips trembled into a faint smile, and for a moment, her gaze softened. Then her hand fell limp in his, her eyes fluttering closed as her breathing stilled. 

The room fell silent. 

Tomaru sat there, his tears falling freely now as he cradled her hand. The world around him felt cold and empty, the warmth of her presence slipping away like the final rays of sunlight at dusk. 

---

The funeral was a quiet affair. Tomaru stood in front of her shrine, the weight of the incense stick in his hand grounding him as he knelt and offered it to her memory. The neighbors whispered behind him, their words distant and meaningless. 

"She might have lived longer if Lady Tsunade were still in the village…" 

"But Tsunade left after the war. There was nothing anyone could do." 

"Poor boy. First his father, and now this." 

Afterward, the house felt impossibly empty. The garden she had nurtured began to wither, its once-vibrant flowers drooping and losing their color. Tomaru tried to care for them, kneeling in the dirt the way she had taught him, but no matter what he did, they wouldn't bloom again. 

At night, he sat by her shrine, clutching a small photograph of the three of them—his father's boisterous grin, his mother's gentle smile, and his own bright-eyed innocence from a time that felt like a lifetime ago. 

"I'll live," he whispered one night, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. 

"I'll keep going. I'll become strong. For you and Father." 

The words felt heavy, but they also gave him purpose. Even in his grief, he knew he couldn't give up. 

---

As Tomaru walked toward the Academy, Konoha slowly began to stir to life. The streets were a blend of quiet anticipation and early morning energy. Vendors along the paths opened their stalls, arranging fresh produce, glistening fish, and bundles of herbs, their movements brisk and practiced. The air carried a mix of scents: the earthiness of damp soil, the sweetness of steamed buns from a distant cart, and the faint metallic tang of early-morning dew clinging to rooftops. 

He passed a small training ground where two older shinobi were sparring, their swift movements a blur of precision and power. The sharp *clink* of kunai meeting echoed through the cool air, followed by the distinct crackle of a low-level Fire Release jutsu. The sight was mesmerizing, a glimpse into the skill Tomaru aspired to achieve one day. 

The Academy building loomed ahead, its stone façade modest but steadfast—a cornerstone of Konoha's future. The roof sloped gently, its edges adorned with decorative tiles bearing the village insignia. Children of all ages were beginning to gather in the courtyard, their voices blending into a hum of excitement and anticipation. 

---

Tomaru stopped just short of the gates, his fingers brushing the strap of his bag as fragments of his memories surfaced. He had been here before—not just today, but years ago, in the life of the original Tomaru. 

The memory was sharp and unyielding. He could see himself standing nervously outside the Academy gates for the first time, his small hands clenched tightly at his sides. 

The other children had already begun to group together, their laughter and chatter filling the courtyard. Many of them carried themselves with a confidence that came not from practice, but from lineage. Clan emblems adorned their simple training clothes—the Uchiha fan, the Nara deer's silhouette, the Inuzuka paw. 

To them, this was a natural next step in a long line of family tradition. Their parents had been shinobi, their grandparents too, and the legacy they carried gave them purpose and a sense of belonging. 

And then there was Tomaru. 

He had no special lineage, no clan name to bolster his standing. No secret technique passed down through generations, no ancient scrolls waiting for him at home. He was just Tomaru. 

He remembered shifting awkwardly, his gaze flicking between the other children as the weight of his difference settled on him. 

He remembered clutching the strap of his small bag tightly, his heart pounding in his chest as he took hesitant steps toward the Academy doors. The other children's chatter felt distant yet oppressive, their laughter like echoes in a vast, unfamiliar space. 

"They look so sharp," he had thought, watching one boy practicing hand seals with impressive fluidity. Another group was already talking animatedly about some techniques, their voices confident and assured. 

One boy with wild brown hair and an Inuzuka patch on his sleeve glanced his way, his sharp eyes narrowing briefly before he turned back to his friends. Another child whispered something, and the small group chuckled, their heads leaning together conspiratorially. 

Tomaru swallowed hard, his cheeks burning. He wasn't sure if they were laughing at him or at something else, but the feeling of not belonging settled like a stone in his chest. 

Tomaru had felt painfully out of place, like a threadbare doll among gleaming, pristine toys. He didn't have the legacy or the confidence to match theirs. He didn't even know what kind of shinobi he wanted to be—only that he wanted to be one. 

---

Standing at the gates now, Tomaru shook the memory away. The child who had once felt so out of place was a world apart from the person he had become. But those feelings of inadequacy still lingered at the edges of his mind, like faint echoes. 

The child who had once stood here, trembling with uncertainty, wasn't gone entirely, but he had changed. He hadn't been born into a legacy, and he had no clan techniques to boast of, but he had something else—an understanding of what it meant to endure. 

"I may not have their legacy," he murmured to himself, his voice low,

"but I'll make my own." 

With renewed resolve, he stepped through the gates, joining the flow of students as the Academy courtyard came alive around him.