Chapter 4: Me vs. Math, Machines, and Mystery Rectangles
POV: Naruto Uzumaki (a shinobi stuck in the 21st century with absolutely no clue how Wi-Fi works)
"Issei, don't push yourself too hard."
That voice—so calm, so mom—came from the living room. I froze for a second, mid-chew on an apple slice, because the last thing I wanted was to sound suspicious. You know how moms have that superpower of instantly knowing when you're about to lie? Yeah, no pressure or anything.
"Yeah, Mom," I said, my voice probably too chipper. "I'm taking it easy. I just made new friends."
Okay, not exactly the full truth—I was trying to take it easy, and sure, I did make some new friends, but mostly because I was desperate to stop staring at the ceiling all day.
Miki, the real mom of this body, gave a soft smile from the couch. "That's good. Are they from around here?"
"Yeah, the Shirahama family," I said, trying to sound casual like I wasn't rehearsing every word in my head. I pulled out a packet of juice and a couple of apples to munch on, hoping food diplomacy would cover any weird vibes.
Miki paused, thinking. "I don't think I've met them before. You should invite them over sometime, okay?"
Smooth, Mom. Way to casually drop social expectations on a guy who's struggling not to accidentally reveal he's not actually your son.
"I will," I said, trying to sound confident as I practically bolted upstairs. A ninja never lingers after a social invitation.
From the living room, Miki chuckled softly and went back to her TV show, shaking her head just a little.
'My son has grown,' she thought, 'and he's making me feel needed again.'
She didn't know the half of it.
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Okay, so picture this: I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of Issei's room, sipping on a juice box like a five-year-old while munching apples like they're rations on a solo mission. In front of me? A history book. Not a fun one about epic battles or famous shinobi—nope. Just dry, printed words about dates and treaties and revolutions I didn't even know existed.
If boredom could kill, I would've flatlined ten pages ago.
"This is worse than D-rank missions," I muttered, flipping another page and pretending to care about the Treaty of Versailles. I mean, it didn't even sound like a place you could punch. Where's the drama? The action? The explosions?
Still, I kept reading, half-heartedly highlighting random sentences like I knew what I was doing. I didn't.
Then my eyes wandered around the room and landed on… it.
The mysterious black screen thing sitting on the desk like it was guarding some ancient secret. I had no clue what it did or why it was humming faintly like it was alive, but the book I'd skimmed earlier called it a computer. Not a trap. Not a scroll. Not a chakra-enhanced anything.
A computer.
Apparently, it was a magic box that knew everything—if you knew how to use it. Which, spoiler alert: I didn't. Not even close.
Then there was that smaller rectangle with buttons—some kind of mini version of the big one? Was it a control device? A weapon? A really advanced summoning scroll? I had no clue. So far, I'd avoided touching anything electronic in fear I'd accidentally blow up the house or hack into a government system just by pressing the wrong button.
Don't laugh. That has happened to me once. Long story. Involved a summoning jutsu, a microwave, and a very angry laundry demon.
Anyway, back to the present.
I rubbed my temples and sighed, flipping through more of Issei's schoolbooks. Math? Looked like forbidden Uchiha scrolls. Science? Might as well have been Martian. Even the health book was confusing—I mean, there was a diagram of something called the "nervous system," which I definitely didn't have time to decode.
The only thing I managed to understand was from the general studies book, which explained—finally—what a computer was supposed to do.
"A gateway to information," it said.
Great. So it was basically a talking library. But without lips.
'I'll have to ask Kenichi to show me how it works,' I thought, mentally noting to find a way to do it without looking like a total idiot.
I mean, what was I supposed to say? "Hey, can you teach me how to use that black screen thing because I'm a body-swapped shinobi from a different dimension and electronics are scarier than tailed beasts?"
Yeah, nope.
Still, at least I wasn't completely off the mark.
'I was right,' I thought with a smirk. 'There's no way I'm passing anything in this world without a teacher. Or five.'
One thing was certain—I was going to need help. A lot of it. Preferably with someone patient enough to explain how to turn on a computer without calling the fire department.
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"So I was right in assuming I was going to fail without a teacher," I muttered, dramatically, as if I were some tragic hero on the brink of defeat. Then I stood up like I was about to duel destiny itself. In reality, I took what's known in the Hidden Leaf as the Academy Stance. You know, knees bent, hands up, serious face—but with a juice box still on the desk. Very intimidating.
I stared at myself in the mirror on the closet door. I looked like a guy about to karate-chop algebra in the face.
This was the basic fighting style every shinobi learned at the Academy. And even though I hadn't used it for real in what felt like forever, it was burned into my muscles. Still, there was one teeny-tiny problem: this body—Issei's body—was not exactly battle-ready.
I stretched one leg out, feeling confident.
It trembled.
I threw a lazy punch.
My shoulder popped like a rusty door hinge.
Yeah. I was basically trying to upload high-level ninja data into a potato.
But I wasn't giving up. Nope. That's not the Naruto way.
I went through the easier moves first: stance shifts, basic punches, a few kicks that wouldn't qualify as embarrassing. Each movement was sharp in my head, but my muscles acted like they were learning to dance blindfolded in roller skates.
"Come on, body! You've got legs, arms, and zero kunai wounds. We can do this!"
The key was repetition. Every shinobi knew that. The more you practiced, the more your body stopped thinking and just did. Like how I could eat ramen with chopsticks blindfolded while dodging shuriken. (Don't try that. Very specific training.)
Bit by bit, I started adding in some of my personal flair—the little adjustments I'd come up with during real fights. A sideways step into a spinning elbow. A low duck into an upward palm strike. I even tried my signature "fall-back-then-kick-em-in-the-jaw" move.
It looked more like "fall-back-then-sprawl-like-a-dead-fish," but hey—baby steps.
After an hour of sweating, grunting, and occasionally yelling things like "Ow, my spine!" and "This was easier when I had chakra!", I finally collapsed face-first onto the carpet.
Victory? Sort of.
Defeat? Definitely.
"It's only… twelve?" I croaked, rolling over to see the clock blink 12:03 PM like it was mocking me.
So yeah—half-dead from ninja yoga, and the day wasn't even halfway over.
On the plus side, I hadn't broken any bones, windows, or furniture. On the downside, I was pretty sure my hamstrings were plotting revenge.
Still… there was something kind of nice about it. The quiet. The effort. The tiny progress.
It was like I was building myself up again, piece by piece. Even if the pieces were a little sore and whiny.
'One step at a time,' I reminded myself as I stared at the ceiling and willed my limbs to stop vibrating.
And then I reached for another juice box. Because training might be hard, but hydration is still the number one rule of survival—ninja or not.
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"What should I do?" I muttered, dramatically flopping onto the bed like I was in a soap opera (I'd just learned what those were, too). "Can't train—my legs feel like jelly. Can't read—my brain feels like jelly. I'm basically a jelly."
I sighed.
Seriously, how did normal teens survive this kind of boredom without throwing kunai at walls?
Then, it hit me.
The TV.
Or as I like to call it, The Mysterious Glowing Box of Unknown Magic That Shows You People Who Are Somehow Trapped Inside.
I'd seen Miki mess with it a couple times—pressing buttons, changing channels like some kind of summoner flipping through parallel dimensions. Ever since I spotted it, I'd been curious. What was it? How did it work? Was it secretly a genjutsu trap?
Only one way to find out.
I ninja'd—okay, walked like a tired human being—down the stairs and peeked into the living room. Empty. Score!
I dove onto the couch like a pro and grabbed the remote. Yeah, I knew it was called that. I was basically a tech genius now.
I pressed the red button like I'd seen Miki do, and bam!—light, sound, drama.
The screen came to life showing some guy crying in the rain while a girl stared dramatically into the distance, clutching a scarf. There were tears. There was music. There were at least three slow zooms.
"What jutsu is this?" I whispered.
After two minutes of watching people dramatically not say what they were thinking, I clicked the arrow button. Another channel. A guy yelling about taxes. Click. A cooking show—interesting, but now I was hungry. Click. A news anchor talking about a cat that stopped traffic.
"People watch this stuff on purpose?" I muttered. "Do they not have forests to train in or dangerous missing-nin to chase?"
Click.
And then…
Boom.
GIANT. FIGHTING. ROBOTS.
Flying through space.
Shooting lasers.
Punching meteors.
"WHAT IS THIS GLORIOUS MADNESS?" I gasped as I sat up straighter than I had all day. My eyes were glued to the screen as two massive metal warriors clashed, their weapons glowing, the background exploding in fireworks of sci-fi mayhem.
"Gundams?" I read the title out loud. "Are those like summoned armor spirits or something?"
I was completely entranced. They had backstories. They had rivalries. They had poses. And don't even get me started on the music. It was like my ninja battles but in space—with better hair.
One episode turned into two. Then three. Then the show changed—and suddenly it was Dragon Ball Z.
"Wait. He just screamed for five minutes and now he's glowing? That's a power-up move?! I need that. I need that in my life."
I sat there for hours, my mouth open in awe, as spiky-haired warriors blew up mountains with their screams and flying kicks.
The television—it was more than just a magic box.
It was a treasure trove of techniques, strategy, cool outfits, and power-up screams. Honestly, I could probably write a thesis on the tactical value of watching anime if I knew what a thesis was.
Upstairs, the front door clicked open and Miki came home.
She poked her head into the living room and saw "Issei" (that's me, still undercover, remember?) lounging on the couch with anime eyes and crumbs on my shirt.
"Back to your usual anime binge, huh?" she chuckled, walking past like this was just another Tuesday.
I gave a nervous laugh and nodded. "Yeah… totally my usual…"
But in my mind?
'So many techniques. So many ideas. So much yelling.'
Yes.
This box… this TV...
Was the greatest sensei I'd ever met.
Well, besides Kakashi and Jiraiya.