Chapter Text
The cold wasn't what he had imagined. There was no icy embrace of fear — just a numbing stillness spreading outward from where his legs used to be.
Gojo Satoru lay in the rubble of Shinjuku, the sky above him partially veiled by the dust of a battle that had redefined the meaning of "The Strongest." He knew this was the end. Sukuna's slash had been absolute — a technique that hadn't just cut his body, but the very space he occupied.
And yet, curiously, there was no anger. As crimson blood pooled around his torso, a soft, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips.
I guess this is it, he thought, his mind beginning to drift into a pleasant haze. I gave it everything. There's nothing left in the tank.
His only remaining concern wasn't for himself, but for the seeds he had planted. Megumi, Yuuji, Yuuta, Maki… his beloved, troublesome students.
"I hope this is enough," he murmured, though no sound escaped — only a bubble of blood popping at his lips. "Win, Yuuta. Win, Yuuji. Live… have long, full, happy lives. Better lives than mine."
With one final, titanic effort, fighting against the paralysis of approaching death, Satoru turned his face to the side, his cheek scraping against the rough, shattered concrete. He wanted to see his students one last time. He needed to know they were still standing.
But his vision, already blurring and darkening at the edges, found no jujutsu sorcerers.
There, pinned beneath a twisted piece of rebar, was a scrap of paper. An old promotional poster, torn and dust-stained, that must have flown from some destroyed collectible shop during the battle. The image was faded, but unmistakable.
A girl with vibrant blonde hair, wearing a glaring orange tracksuit, smiled defiantly from atop a giant frog's head.
Gojo's heart skipped a beat — not from death, but from a sudden, overwhelming wave of nostalgia.
Naruto.
She was the heroine of his favorite manga. The world knew Gojo Satoru loved Digimon, but few knew the deeper truth: his fanboy soul belonged to that airheaded ninja. He adored her unshakable determination, that solar radiance that seemed to burn away any darkness.
As Gojo's consciousness began to flicker out, like an old TV losing signal, he fixed his gaze on that illustrated smile.
Funny, he thought, logic dissolving into dreams. I always wondered what you'd do in my place. You'd probably shout, give a speech about never giving up, and punch Sukuna right in the face, wouldn't you?
Darkness swallowed his peripheral vision, leaving only the orange of her outfit.
I hope you're proud of me, my heroine, was his last coherent thought, laced with a childlike sweetness. I protected my precious people. I tried…
And then, Gojo Satoru's world ended…
… Or so it should have.
---
The first thing Satoru registered wasn't the void or the underworld, but a color: white. A ceiling. And it wasn't the ceiling of a modern Tokyo hospital, nor the aged wood of Jujutsu High. It was an unfamiliar wooden ceiling, with exposed beams he had never seen before.
He blinked, confused. I didn't die? Did Shoko save me? No… even she couldn't fix that.
He tried to sit up, bracing for excruciating pain — but his body didn't respond. The sensation was bizarre, as if he were disconnected from himself, heavy and clumsy.
Around him, figures moved. They were giants.
Giants? Curses? Satoru tried to activate his Six Eyes, tried to draw on Cursed Energy — but found… something different. An energy ran through him, yes, but it felt more physical, more vital.
He tried to speak. He had to ask where he was, who these enormous people were.
"—Aah… buu?"
Satoru froze. The sound that escaped his throat wasn't a confident, arrogant baritone. It was a high-pitched, wet babble.
Panic — an emotion he rarely felt — began to bubble up. With a monumental effort of concentration, he raised his right hand in front of his face, expecting to see his long, elegant fingers, calloused from battle.
What he saw was a bread roll.
A tiny, chubby hand, with dimples at the knuckles and soft, pinkish skin. He opened and closed his pudgy fingers in disbelief.
What… the hell… is this?!
"Oh, looks like the little one woke up." The voice came from above — deep and gentle.
Satoru, or whatever he was now, turned his head with difficulty. A man was leaning over his crib. He had long gray hair tied in a ponytail, and a kind, though tired, face with strong features. He looked like a warrior.
The gray-haired giant smiled at him, then turned, calling someone outside Satoru's field of vision.
"Come see, he's awake. Come meet your little brother."
Light footsteps approached. Satoru forced his eyes to focus, struggling against the still-developing vision of his new body.
A child approached the crib railing. The boy couldn't have been more than five. He had spiky silver hair that defied gravity, and covering half his face — a dark blue fabric mask.
Time stopped for Satoru.
That hair. That mask. That look of a dead fish in training.
The truth didn't just hit him; it crashed down like a meteor, crushing any logic he was still desperately clinging to.
That was a miniature Hatake Kakashi.
Satoru's mind short-circuited. If that was Kakashi… and that gray-haired man was his father… and he was the brother…
It can't be, Satoru thought, shock giving way to a hysterical euphoria bubbling in his tiny chest. I didn't just reincarnate anywhere. I reincarnated into the world of Naruto.
Memories of his youth at Jujutsu High flooded his mind. Him, sitting on the steps with Suguru, reading Shonen Jump, pointing at the blonde protagonist and declaring loudly, to his best friend's dismay: "Look at her, Suguru! When she grows up, I'm going to marry that girl! It's destiny!"
Suguru would roll his eyes and say he was delusional, that she was a 2D drawing.
Well, who's laughing now, Suguru?!
If Kakashi was five, that meant she hadn't been born yet. The protagonist. The love of his life (unrequited). The future Heroine of the Ninja World.
A gummy, absurdly wide grin spread across baby Satoru's face, making little Kakashi take a step back, mildly disturbed by his newborn brother's expression.
I'm here, Satoru thought, waving his chubby fists in the air in silent celebration. I have a second chance. And this time, I'm going to be ready. Wait for me, Naruto-chan. Your future husband has arrived.
---
Of course, the initial euphoria of having a second chance in the universe of his favorite — and perfect — heroine lasted exactly until the moment his bladder decided to function on its own.
Satoru discovered, in the worst possible way, that reincarnation doesn't come with an instruction manual — let alone control over basic motor functions. He, Gojo Satoru, once called "The Strongest," the man who walked through the skies and warped space with a snap of his fingers, was now reduced to a small, chubby, powerless creature.
Every time he felt that warm, uncomfortable dampness spreading through his diaper, a wave of shame crashed over him. And the humiliation only worsened when his new father — and heavens, how strange it was to process the concept of having a present, caring father — approached with that gentle smile to change him or give him a bath.
While Hatake Sakumo cleaned his bottom with the delicacy of an elite ninja handling explosives, Satoru squeezed his eyes shut, face burning.
Sukuna, please, where are you? he mentally begged, wishing the King of Curses would appear at that exact moment and give him another dimensional slash. Cut me in half again. Right now. I'd rather die than have my private parts dusted with talcum powder while I'm completely unable to protest!
But then, in the midst of the despair and the scent of lavender, her image would come to mind. That bright smile, the orange tracksuit, the unshakable determination.
Breathe, Satoru, he thought, swallowing his pride (or whatever was left of it). This is an investment. A small price to pay. Diapers today, wedding rings tomorrow. Accept the humiliation — it's all for Naruto-chan.
His new existence, however, began to raise suspicions. Not because he cried — after all, he was a Gojo, and Gojos don't cry over spilled milk — but precisely because of the opposite. Sakumo, worried about his youngest son's peculiar behavior, ended up requesting a house visit from none other than the legendary Senju Tsunade.
For Satoru, seeing the future Godaime Hokage there, in the flesh, leaning over his crib, was surreal. But for Sakumo, the concern was genuine.
"He's… too quiet, Tsunade-sama," explained Konoha's White Fang, a worry line creasing his forehead. "Kakashi was also a quiet baby, so that alone wouldn't alarm me. But this one… he smiles. Constantly. At nothing."
Sakumo pointed at the crib, where Satoru was, indeed, smiling at a stain on the wall, imagining what his first date with his future wife might be like.
"It's a very strange expression for a newborn," the father added, looking mildly disturbed.
Tsunade, with her usual medical efficiency, examined the little Hatake. She checked his reflexes, his eyes, his still-developing chakra flow. Satoru tried to appear as normal as possible — which probably resulted in just another gummy, toothless grin.
"There's nothing wrong with him, Sakumo," Tsunade declared, straightening up and crossing her arms. "His vitals are perfect. He's healthy as an ox. Apparently, you've just been blessed with an exceptionally happy baby. Or a smiley one."
Satoru let out a mental sigh of relief.
Diagnosis: Chronic Happiness caused by Acute Fanboyism.
But not everyone in the house was convinced — or charmed — by the newest family member. From the corner of the room, a small masked figure watched everything with narrowed, critical eyes.
"Father," Kakashi called, his childish voice carrying a brutal pragmatism. "Can't we return him?"
Sakumo sighed, already used to this.
"Kakashi, he's your brother."
"A puppy would be better," the little prodigy argued, pointing at Satoru with disdain. "Dogs have keen senses, they help on missions, and they're loyal. This one just smiles, shits, and sleeps. What's the tactical usefulness in that?"
If Satoru could speak, he would have given a two-hour lecture on Domain Expansion right then and there. But trapped in his baby body, his fanboy mind screamed in protest.
Listen here, you masked brat! I am the elite of jujutsu sorcery! I am the Honored One! Tactical usefulness? I'll show you tactical usefulness when I learn to walk!
But then, the anger would fade. Satoru looked at his grumpy older brother and remembered everything Kakashi would go through in the future. The loss, the pain, the loneliness. That antisocial behavior was just the beginning of the "weird and gloomy" phase that would shape the Copy Ninja.
That's okay, Kakashi, Satoru thought, returning to smiling at the ceiling, magnanimous in his mercy. I forgive you. You're just a child in your gothic-ninja phase. You don't know how amazing your little brother is going to be.
He tried to clench his fist in a silent vow, but his pudgy fingers only grasped at air.
But just wait until I have teeth and get out of these diapers, Satoru swore to himself. You're going to swallow those words, big brother. And you'll bitterly regret preferring a dog.