The soft twang of the shamisen still echoed in my fingertips as I walked the winding dirt path back toward the Yamanaka compound from my music lessons. The instrument's wooden body had left the faintest imprint on my forearm where I cradled it during practice. My teacher, a grizzled old man who smelled faintly of sandalwood and pickled plum, said I was a natural. His words had been laced with a cautious kind of awe when I played through a complex progression without missing a note. He didn't know the truth—that my hands, these small, callus-softened hands, were dancing to muscle memory not from this world.

It was... strange. Frustrating. Like remembering how to ride a bike, only the pedals worked in reverse and the handlebars steered the wrong way.

The instrument from my past life had been bowed, not plucked. A B...? Contr...? The name refused to surface, hovering just outside the veil of recollection. My arm wanted to glide, not strum. The transition had made the early days of shamisen practice a grueling exercise in unlearning. Still, there was something soothing in the music, something about the act of creation that resonated with me.

My sandals crunched over the gravel as dirt turned into pebbles—the outline of the compound came into view, roof tiles catching the light of the late afternoon sun. My mind shifted, as it often did, toward more pressing matters.

The Yamanaka Clan's Mind Techniques.

Father had kept his promise—not just with the music, but with the training. Two months ago, I learned the Mind Jumble Technique. From there, he had wasted no time in introducing me to the Mind Body Disruption Technique.

Dad had demonstrated it on me. Now that had been something else. Feeling yourself freeze in place, your body no longer yours to command, was unnerving even when I knew it was coming.

Father had said mastering it was a necessary step before I could begin learning the Mind Body Switch Technique—and so I did. That led to him teaching me the Mind Body Switch itself, the most difficult technique I had encountered so far. It took weeks of painstaking practice, but in the end, it finally paid off.

Two days ago, I had projected my mind into a squirrel and managed to subjugate its consciousness. It was a thrilling experience—a blend of elation from finally executing the technique after weeks of practice and the surreal sensation of experiencing the world through a squirrel's perspective. Feeling its—my—heartbeat thrum like a frantic drum, nearly triple the pace of a human's, and the light, almost airborne quality of jumping several times my body length... it was exhilarating.

Now father believed I was ready to try it on a person.

My heart beat faster just thinking about it.

By doing so I would complete my family's coming-of-age rite at a bit over four years old. It felt too soon and yet, I craved it. Not for glory. Not even for the respect it would bring me within the clan. But because I was getting really, really tired of my hair.

Long, golden-yellow, thick enough to catch every stray gust of wind and stubbornly resistant to staying behind my ears. It constantly flopped into my vision when I read, tugged uncomfortably whenever I slept, and just last week had gotten caught on a wooden slat, nearly yanking me backwards. The clan tradition was clear: until you could successfully use the Mind Body Switch Technique on another person, you wore your hair loose.

But if I succeeded—

A ponytail.

Freedom.

As I stepped into the entryway of the compound, I saw Father waiting for me, arms crossed, posture relaxed but expectant.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

I nodded, keeping my voice steady. "Yes."

Without a word, he turned and led me past the threshold and back out into the village.

I jogged a few steps to match his stride. "Wait—aren't we going to practice the Mind Body Switch here?"

He glanced at me sideways. "Up until now, you've been practicing on animals and lobotomized clones. If you want to be considered truly proficient, you need to use it on a real human."

I frowned. "But who would I even use it on? There's no way I could use it on another Yamanaka and succeed. And anyone else... there's risk. If I mess up—"

"That's why we're not staying at the compound," he said, turning another corner. "The village has systems in place for this sort of thing. When a shinobi needs to test or refine a potentially harmful technique on a human subject, there are protocols."

We walked in silence after that, the narrow stone roads of the village stretching ahead in warm, winding paths. I could feel the gazes of passing villagers, curious but respectful.

Eventually, we came upon a squat grey building, square and utilitarian, its facade devoid of ornament. Above the entrance, carved deep into a thick slab of stone, were two words:

"Intelligence Division."

Father pushed open the door and motioned me in.

Inside, the building was cool and quiet, lit by soft white paper lanterns along the walls. A man with long brown hair sat behind a wide wooden desk, flipping through a sheaf of papers. He looked up as we entered, his expression shifting from neutrality to an easy smile.

"Well, well—Inoichi. On your day off, no less," the man said warmly, leaning back in his chair. "What brings you in?"

Father chuckled dryly. "Good to see you too, Hijiri. The wife's making meatloaf again, so I figured I'd spare Inosei and take him out for a bite. He wanted to see where I work, so we dropped by. Is the Experimental Techniques Lab unoccupied?"

"Well, I wouldn't wish Shikane's meatloaf on anyone. I heard there's a good ramen spot on Fifth Street. You're in luck—the ETL's open for the next two hours."

Hijiri leaned forward, folding his arms on the desk as his eyes dropped to my level.

"So this is little Inosei, huh?" he said, a curious grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Heard a lot about you, kid."

I offered a polite nod, unsure of how else to respond.

The room I soon found myself in was cavernous, the air heavy with sterilized chill and the faint tang of ozone. On one end sat a chair that looked like something torn from a nightmare—a dentist's chair, if the dentist had been more interested in restraints and surgical precision than root canals. Leather straps dangled from the armrests and leg supports, worn from use. The seat reclined at a slight angle, and a narrow halo of overhead lights bathed it in clinical white.

The opposite end of the room was entirely open. Scorch marks blackened the stone walls, jagged gouges carved into them like claw marks from some massive beast.

"This," Father said, his voice calm but laced with something heavier, "is the Experimental Techniques Lab. We use it to test new techniques—often ones too unstable or dangerous to risk on fellow shinobi."

I stared at the chair, then at the walls, my fingers curling slightly at my sides.

"So who do you test them on?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Prisoners. Death row, in most cases. People who've already been judged and sentenced."

The door behind us hissed open. A shinobi entered, pushing a stainless steel cart. On it lay a man, bound by thick leather belts, his limbs and torso immobilized. His eyes were closed—sedated, maybe—but his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

The shinobi worked quickly, unstrapping the body from the cart and transferring him to the chair with efficient, practiced movements. Buckles snapped into place, arms and legs secured, head tilted slightly back.

Father didn't look away. "They're given a choice—cooperate and live a little longer, or face execution immediately. Most of them take the chance. Some even survive."

I swallowed. The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a mantle—this was the cost of progress. The reality behind the village's strength.

Father walked over to the chair, secured a gag around the man's mouth, and pressed a single finger to his forehead. A moment later, the man's eyes snapped open and he thrashed against the restraints, his gaze wild and darting. Gradually, the panic in his expression shifted as he seemed to realize where he was. The wildness faded, replaced by a growing, unmistakable fear.

"You're ready, Inosei. Do it."

I took one last look at my father, his expression calm but watchful, then turned my gaze to the man bound in the chair. His eyes were locked on me now, wide and terrified. I exhaled slowly, forcing stillness into my hands as I stretched my arms out and formed the familiar hand sign—fingers curved to create a circle, aimed squarely at the prisoner.

I gathered Yin Chakra into a condensed orb that hovered in the space between my fingertips. It shimmered faintly, like ink swirling in water, pulsing with potential. I closed my eyes and focused inward, drawing up the essence of my self—my thoughts, my will, my mind, that which made me who I was.

I pushed my awareness through my chakra network, channeling it toward the glowing mass. More Yin Chakra surged forth, blacker than night, folding into the orb like shadows drawn to a flame. I could feel it—the technique activating, the mental slingshot pulling tighter and tighter.

Then, the snap.

My awareness launched outward, the room vanishing behind me. For the briefest moment, I soared—weightless, detached, flying through a tunnel of chakra and sensation. Then came the jolt.

My eyes snapped open.

But they weren't mine.

I saw my body slumping to the ground and my father step out in front of me, scrutinizing me for a second before removing the gag.

The moment my mouth was free, a strangled gasp escaped—one I hadn't meant to make, but the man's body was reacting, struggling, flinching at phantom pains. The sensory dissonance hit like a wave—his skin prickled, too tight; his lungs rasped, dry and sour with fear; and every muscle ached.

I wobbled in the chair, testing the restraints. They held firm. His body was heavier than mine, broader in the chest and shoulders, but weak with disuse. Even breathing felt alien.

My father's voice cut through the haze. "Don't fight it. Let the sensations come to you. Catalog them. Familiarize yourself."

I nodded—or tried to. The movement was jerky, uneven. I forced myself to still, focusing on each breath, the beat of this unfamiliar heart, the sluggish pulse behind my temples.

"Now speak," Father instructed. "Let us hear it."

I opened the man's mouth.

"I... I am Inosei Yamanaka," I said, the voice rasping, deep, and foreign in my ears. I swallowed. "Mind Body Switch Technique successful."

Father smiled with pride.

"You've done well," he said. "Now, reverse the technique."

I concentrated, pulling my awareness inward, tugging against the invisible tether that bound me to this vessel. The chakra slingshot reversed—pulling, pulling—

And then—

Snap.

I slammed back into my own body with the force of a crashing tide. My lungs filled with air like I'd been drowning. My eyes flew open.

I was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling lights.

And grinning.

No more loose hair for me.

I stood on a stool in the kitchen, rinsing the bowls we'd used for dinner. Mom was heavily pregnant, so Dad and I had taken on most of the housework. He had cooked tonight—making miso—so it was my turn to clean. Warm water ran over my fingers as I scrubbed, but my thoughts were far from the dishes.

Earlier today, I had successfully used the Mind Body Switch Technique on a human subject. That achievement marked more than just a rite of passage—it granted me access to advanced Mind Techniques and even opened the door for experimentation, modification, and potentially developing entirely new methods.

At the forefront of my mind now were mental enhancement techniques. The scrolls I'd previously studied mentioned them only in passing, warning that they posed serious risks to the user. Normally, that kind of disclaimer would be enough to dissuade me. But the benefits—heightened cognition, accelerated reaction time, increased awareness—were simply too valuable to ignore. The utility they offered was immense, especially for someone in my position.

I could almost feel the ideas forming, swirling in my head like ink dropped into water. Dangerous, yes. But undeniably alluring.

Then, without warning, a hand clamped around my shoulder.

I yelped in surprise, nearly dropping the bowl I was holding.

Father was there, crouched slightly to meet my height, his eyes wide and serious. "Inosei. Mom's water just broke. Grab on. We're going."

My stomach dropped. "What?! Now?"

He crouched further, presenting his back. "Now. Grab my neck and hold tight."

I didn't hesitate. I jumped off the stool and wrapped my arms around his neck just as he straightened and bolted out of the kitchen.

We flew through the hallway, the world blurring past in streaks of light and color. In the dining room, Mom—Shikane—stood leaning against the table, one hand on her swollen belly, the other gripping the edge of a chair. Her face was pale, teeth clenched, sweat beading at her brow.

"Got you," Father muttered, scooping her into his arms with practiced ease.

And then we were off again.

The wind tore at my hair as Father leapt across rooftops and dashed through the streets at a speed that left my stomach floating. I clung tighter, heart pounding not from fear, but from the sheer adrenaline of it all.

We reached the hospital within minutes. Medical-nin were already rushing out to meet us. Father barely broke stride as he passed Mom into their arms.

The medic-nin ushered us swiftly through the hospital, depositing me in a waiting room before guiding my mother and father down the corridor into another room. The waiting was excruciating, a slow crawl of hours that felt like days. Anxiety churned in my stomach, though logically I knew better than to panic. Despite being nearly a century behind my old world in terms of technology, the medical-nin here often rivaled—or even surpassed—the capabilities of entire teams of modern doctors. Their expertise, honed through chakra-assisted techniques and a deep understanding of the body's subtle energies, made them astoundingly effective healers.

Still, the sterile silence of the waiting room pressed in around me like a weight. The dim lighting cast long shadows, and every time a medic passed the frosted glass door, my breath caught in my throat.

I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, fingers tracing nervous circles on the hem of my shirt, listening—waiting—for any sign that things were going smoothly. A cry. A cheer. Anything.

At last, the door creaked open.

A young medic-nin stepped inside, her face lit with a bright, warm smile. "Inosei?" she asked gently. I stood immediately.

"Come with me. Your mother wants to see you."

She led me down the hallway, past rooms humming with soft chakra monitors, until we reached a door with a pale green curtain pulled halfway. She gestured me in.

Inside, the light was softer, almost golden. My mother lay on the bed, her hair damp with sweat, her face flushed but glowing. Dad sat beside her, one hand wrapped gently around hers.

And in her arms...

A small bundle of blankets, wriggling ever so slightly.

Mom looked up and beamed at me. "Come meet your little sister, Inosei."

My breath caught in my throat as I stepped closer, my legs moving almost on their own.

She gently pulled back the edge of the blanket.

The baby was so tiny—her cheeks full and pink, a tuft of pale blond hair poking out like spun sunlight. Her eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, catching the light.

I leaned closer. "She's beautiful," I whispered. "What's her name?"

Dad smiled, his voice full of quiet pride. "Ino."

The name wrapped itself around my heart like a ribbon.

Ino.

My little sister.

A/N:

Sorry this took so long. Anyways Ino is born! So I'm sure y'all can guess what's happening in the next chapter.