A bizarre Ninja world: The revolution

[Eneel_M]

Late at night, in the Uchiha Compound of Konohagakure.

[You have obtained 70 soul fragments. Would you like to proceed with your first Stand draw?]

A ringing in his ears mingled with distant static, echoing through Henry's mind.

He sat there in a daze, slumped in a pool of blood. The stab wound piercing his chest was knitting itself shut, agonizingly slow, while the courtyard's gravel dug uncomfortably into his backside.

He dipped a finger into the blood on his chest.

Still warm.

His face went blank, a thousand jumbled thoughts boiling down to a single syllable:

"Huh?"

Shards of chaotic memory flooded his brain:

Uchiha Ryuji, 18 years old. A total slacker, utterly talentless. Dropped out of the Ninja Academy, he scraped by on the clan's bare-minimum welfare stipend—the black sheep of the Uchiha, a walking embarrassment.

Tonight, beneath a full moon, his predecessor had been boozing it up and stargazing when he spotted a figure crouched on a nearby utility pole.

And then...

Henry had logged in. Body-swapped right into the driver's seat.

"I... transmigrated?"

"Into the Naruto world?"

Naruto. Henry had heard the name before.

But that was it—just the name.

Hailing from a sleepy small town, he'd buried his nose in textbooks from the day he could read, with zero time for anime. His Naruto knowledge was surface-level at best, scraped from viral memes and online buzz.

He knew bits and pieces that had blown up online:

Naruto Uzumaki had the Nine-Tails fox sealed inside his gut.

Sasuke Uchiha's "Amaterasu"—that inextinguishable black flame.

And...

Well, the more adult intel on characters like Tsunade, Ino Yamanaka, and Sakura Haruno, courtesy of certain P-sites that started with "P."

But the actual plot? Zilch. He couldn't tell you the difference between a genin and a jinchuriki if his life depended on it.

Transmigrating into an anime world without a clue about the storyline?

How the hell was he supposed to play this game?

[You have obtained 70 soul fragments. Would you like to proceed with your first Stand draw?]

Lost in thought, the tinnitus finally ebbed away. The cold, mechanical voice returned, crisp and alien.

He let out a shaky breath, cracking a grin despite himself. "Whew. A system, huh? Thank god for small mercies."

He pulled up the system interface with a mental flick:

JoJo's Bizarre Stand System.

Derived from JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, this system catalogs every Stand that ever appeared in the series. Acquire them through gacha draws, then level them up and evolve their powers.

The JoJo series? Henry drew a blank there too. Never touched it.

Sensing his ignorance, the system had tucked a "Plot Recap" tab into the corner menu. Full access to manga Parts 1 through 8, ready to binge.

But comics could wait. He tapped into the draw screen.

Stands: psychic manifestations of a user's fighting spirit and mental energy. Supernatural entities that handle combat, defense, reconnaissance—whatever their wielder needs. They're as versatile as they are deadly.

One catch: As extensions of the soul, any damage to the Stand rebounds onto the user. Two halves of the same whole, bound tighter than blood.

The draw page bloomed with shadowy silhouettes of countless Stands. Below them: options for a single pull or a ten-roll batch. A sidebar tooltip laid out the basics:

"Normal Gacha Pool: Yields 4-5 Star Stands, upgrade materials, special items, and more. Costs 10 soul fragments per single draw."

"4-Star Examples: Stone Free, The Emperor, Hermit Purple, Silver Chariot..."

"5-Star Examples: Crazy Diamond, Metallica, Star Platinum (Time Stop disabled), Whitesnake..."

The list sprawled on, a dizzying array of options.

He zeroed in on that opening line. "Normal pool, eh? So there are limited-time banners or event pools too?"

The system stayed silent—no sass, no fanfare.

It just reprompted the draw confirmation. Then, a golden banner flashed across the interface:

[First Ten-Pull Guarantee: One 5-Star Stand!]

Now that was music to his ears.

No pity system in sight? Without this newbie mercy, he could've dumped a fortune chasing scraps.

The killer who'd offed his predecessor might still be prowling nearby. A guaranteed 5-Star would at least give him a fighting chance—something to hide behind while he figured out the rules.

He glanced at the top-right counter.

Soul Fragments: 70.

Ten per draw meant he was 30 short of a ten-pull. Not even close.

Fragment acquisition methods? Three options, crisp and clinical:





Defeat powerful enemies.



Alter world lines (shift the plot's trajectory).



Mortgage a portion of your own soul.

The first two were straightforward: Grind mobs, butterfly-effect the canon.

But soul-mortgaging? The fine print chilled him:

"Pledge a slice of your soul for fragments. Repay the full amount within 24 hours to reclaim it—or forfeit that soul quota permanently."

Current Soul Pledge Value: 500 fragments.

Five hundred. Fifty draws' worth.

'My soul's only blue worth a single 648 whale package?' Ryuji griped internally. (From here onwards, he shall be Ryuji.)

What happened if you defaulted? Lost creativity? Shorter lifespan? Black-hole emotions?

No clue. And he wasn't about to find out.

Ryuji was not the type to debt-dive for pixels. Or Stands, in this case.

He hauled himself up from the sticky blood, mind already mapping a survival plan:

Play it safe. Leverage the Uchiha bloodline and this busted system. Develop in the shadows. Bide time until he pulled a god-tier Stand. Then? No more soul-crushing overtime, no more scraping by—just enough cash for ramen runs, and a girl (or three) to cuddle up with on lazy afternoons.

The fantasy alone tugged his lips into a smirk.

"Ryji... s-save... save me..."

A feeble whimper from inside the house shattered the daydream.

Someone alive?

His brow furrowed. He shoved the door open and stepped into the dim room.

There, sprawled on the tatami mat, was a little girl of four or five. Twin horn-braids framed her tear-streaked face. A vicious gash across her belly wept crimson, soaking her clothes.

She stretched a trembling hand toward him.

He clasped it—icy, quivering, impossibly small. Flashes of borrowed memory flickered to life:

Her dad, KIA in some forgotten war skirmish. Mom, drowning grief in sake, lashing out at the kid in drunken rages.

His predecessor? A deadbeat through and through. But he had a soft spot for the village brats. He'd blow half his welfare check on candy, doling it out like a pint-sized Santa.

This one in particular—terrified of home—had latched onto him like a barnacle. Days spent crashing at his place: arcade games on the floor, sneaking bites of his instant noodles.

"When I grow up, I'm gonna marry Brother Ryuji!"

Her favorite line, delivered with gap-toothed glee.

Tonight? Another bender at home. She'd bolted straight to his door.

"Brother... I don't wanna die..."

The system's giddy rush evaporated like mist. In its place: a hollow ache.

No time for words. He scooped her up—feather-light, limp—and bolted for the door.

Doctor! Need a doctor!

He burst into the courtyard, feet pounding gravel. Halfway across, it hit him: the system. Some Stands could heal—Crazy Diamond's restoration, maybe. If he pulled lucky...

"Just hang on a sec, kid. We're gonna—"

The words died in his throat.

Her eyes had dulled to ash-gray. No rise and fall. No pulse.

She was gone.

Ryji barely knew her—the original's memories came in fits and starts, like a corrupted file.

But he was no shinobi savage. Just a guy from the modern world, schooled in the fragility of life. Watching that spark—vibrant, breakable—snuff out in his arms? It carved something raw into his chest.

The original Ryuji? Fair game, maybe. Adult waster, leeching Uchiha prestige. Someone snapping? Harsh, but... logical, in this dog-eat-dog world.

A five-year-old? What "threat" was she? Babbling nonsense and begging for sweets?

Caw—caw—

The harsh cry of crows yanked him back. Dozens wheeled overhead, blotting the stars. The night sky hung in absolute, suffocating black.

He wrinkled his nose. Stepping beyond the courtyard wall, the metallic tang of blood only thickened, coating his throat.

A lazy breeze tugged at the clouds. Moonlight spilled down, merciless.

And there it was.

Corpses. Everywhere.

Elders frozen mid-stumble. Youths twisted in final defiance. Infants, silent in their mothers' arms.

Not a soul stirred. The Uchiha Compound—a tomb.

Hiss scalp prickled, gooseflesh racing down his spine. "What the—? Did the Japanese roll through like it was Nanking?"

He stood frozen at the street's edge.

Behind him: the warm glow of Konohagakure's lanterns, oblivious and alive.

Ahead: the Uchiha sector, drowned in red haze. The wind clawed at his clothes, cooling the sweat on his skin—and half his resolve with it.

Fear first, sharp as a kunai. But fear burned off quick, leaving fury in its wake.

Not some sappy echo from Ryuji's ghost-memories. No.

This was pure, baseline human outrage. The kind drilled into every civics class: Life's not cheap. Massacring the defenseless? That's not "shonen grit." That's atrocity.

Naruto was probably no stranger to brawls and body counts—hot-blooded manga staple. But this?

Slaughtering grannies who could barely hobble?

Butchering toddlers fresh out of diapers?

'Who the fuck does that?'

Beasts. Only beasts.

"AAAAAHHHH!!!"

The raw scream pierced the night—not far off. A kid's voice, shrill with terror.

A survivor.

His leg twitched forward on instinct. Then locked.

The butcher who'd carved through a whole clan? God-tier. No ninja force from the village in sight meant backup—orders from on high, sweeping the mess under the rug.

Power. Pull. Premeditation.

Charge in, play hero for some random brat? Dice roll with his neck on the line.

Worth the gamble?

The doubt flickered—and died. He took that second step.

'Worth it? Fuck worth. I'm already ahead—transmigrated with a cheat code. What's one extra swing?'

Hiding? Curling up like a kicked pup? Nah. A grown-ass man without that spine? That's the real dog.

Ryuji surged forward, strides eating ground. Gale-force wind whipped his hair into a frenzy, but his gaze? Ironclad.

Deep in his pupils, a golden ember of resolve kindled.

In the midnight veil, it blazed like a noonday sun.

...

Itachi Uchiha loomed over his crumpled brother Sasuke, gaze a storm of icy detachment laced with feverish zeal.

The masked figure—Obito Uchiha, posing as "Madara"—leaned against a wall, arms folded, savoring the drama like front-row theater.

Then: the thunder of footfalls, barreling from the shadows.

Not steps, exactly. No cadence, no grace.

Breaths ragged, untrained. Amateur hour.

Ryuji exploded around the corner.

He clocked the scene: Tiny Sasuke, curled fetal and sobbing. Across from him: Itachi and the masked freak.

"A stray?"

Obito's hidden eye flicked to the blood crusting Ryuji's shirt. "Itachi, you slacking? Leftovers on the board. Want me to mop up?"

"Unnecessary."

Itachi slid his tanto free, voice flat as frost. "Didn't peg you for round two, Ryuji."

He knew the face. All too well.

Uchiha Ryuji: Clan punchline. Welfare king. The kid who turned "dead weight" into an art form.

Third Shinobi World War? Every able Uchiha shipped out—Fugaku's orders.

Ryuji? Prime fighting age, but weaker than a chunin washout. Zero ninjutsu, couldn't seal a scroll without fumbling. Logistics? Ha—they'd laughed him off the roster. He'd "served" from his futon, bingeing sake through the whole damn thing.

Wastewater levels like that? Infamous. A clan joke.

Sasuke's eyes—flicker of desperate hope—snuffed out at the sight.

"Ptoo!"

Ryuji hawked a bloody loogie onto the dirt. "Don't 'Ryuji' me, you animal. Save the buddy act for the grave."

He sucked in a steadying breath, then closed the gap. Gentle as a breeze, he ruffled Sasuke's dark mop.

"Go on, kid. Squat over there. I got this."

Ryuji wheeled on the duo, steel in his spine. To the system, a silent command:

"Pledge my soul. All of it."

Then...

"TEN-PULL, NOW!"