The last thing Zuberi remembered was the smell of rain.
It clung to the cracked asphalt, soaked through his hoodie, and smeared the world outside his windshield into streaks of gold and gray. His car crept along the curved freeway, wipers doing their best to hold back the downpour. Music played low — one of those nostalgic Naruto theme songs he always looped on rainy nights. The kind of track that made you think of old friendships and far-off dreams.
He glanced down to change the track.
Headlights bloomed.
Too close.
A horn screamed. Tires shrieked. Metal folded.
And just like that, everything stopped.
There was no pain. No weight. No sound.
Only stillness.
Zuberi opened his eyes — or something like eyes — and found himself floating in a sky that didn't belong to any world he'd known.
Clouds curled beneath his bare feet like smoke. The air buzzed, alive with pressure. Not warmth. Not cold. Just... presence. Above, bolts of lightning traced lazy arcs across a purple-gray firmament, vanishing into eternity.
He stood still, unmoving, yet unafraid.
Am I dead?
He didn't need to ask out loud. The thought echoed, and the answer came not in words but in understanding.
Yes.
Footsteps.
From the fog ahead emerged a figure. Tall. Cloaked in white robes etched with symbols that shimmered like stars. He wasn't glowing, exactly — more like the light bent around him, like the air knew better than to ignore him.
His voice rolled like distant thunder.
"You have reached the threshold."
Zuberi stared. "...You're real?"
"In ways that matter," the figure said, smiling faintly. "Your time in the previous world has ended. Too soon, perhaps. But not without meaning."
Zuberi's throat was dry — though he didn't think he had a throat here. "This… this isn't how it's supposed to go."
"No," the being agreed. "But few ever walk the path they expected."
Silence stretched between them. Not empty — filled with questions Zuberi didn't know how to ask.
Then the being continued. "You spent your life fascinated by worlds not your own. Fiction, you called it. A form of escape."
Zuberi swallowed. "Naruto."
A memory stirred. Watching fights late into the night, cheering for characters, crying at deaths that weren't real. That world had felt so alive to him. More than his own, sometimes.
"Yes," the being said. "The shinobi world. A place of war, pain… and growth. You admired it."
Zuberi chuckled bitterly. "I admired the cool jutsu. The underdog stories. I didn't envy the trauma."
"And yet, here you are," the god said. "On the edge of rebirth. The question is not whether you deserve it, but whether you'll make it matter."
Zuberi hesitated. "So... you're giving me a second life?"
"If you choose it."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch," the god replied. "But the world you enter will not adjust for your presence. You will not be the center. You will not be safe. The shinobi world is cruel — beautiful, yes, but cruel. Do you still want it?"
Zuberi didn't answer right away. He thought of his old life: the friends, the struggle, the years of feeling like something was missing. He had always wanted more — not riches or fame, just meaning. Purpose.
Finally, he met the god's gaze.
"Yes."
The being nodded. "Then choose your gift."
Zuberi didn't need long. "Lightning Body. A body that naturally produces and conducts lightning chakra. Enhanced reflexes, chakra flow, internal power — but with limits. If I overdo it, it burns me from the inside."
The god looked… pleased. "Not greedy. That is good."
A ball of crackling energy formed in the being's palm — not just chakra, but intent. Lightning, pure and waiting.
"This gift will shape your new body. You will be born into the Kaminari Clan — a fading lightning bloodline in Kumogakure, the Village Hidden in the Clouds. You will carry their legacy… and your own."
Zuberi's heart — or whatever he had in this form — skipped.
The ball of lightning surged toward him.
He didn't flinch.
The first thing he felt was cold.
Then: pressure. A crushing weight, like being pulled underwater.
He gasped — but it came out as a shriek.
Hands held him gently, lifting him into warm arms. Voices — muffled, melodic, speaking Japanese. A woman's voice broke into soft, exhausted laughter. Tears.
A man's voice rumbled, low and proud. "He's strong. Look at that cry."
Zuberi tried to move, but his limbs were weak. Tiny.
I'm a baby.
His mind screamed in realization, but his body only squirmed.
The woman — his new mother — pressed him to her chest. Her skin was warm and dark like his, her braids brushed softly against his forehead. She smelled like rain and herbs.
"You're safe," she whispered.
He didn't understand the words — not yet — but the emotion was clear.
He was home.
The Kaminari Clan
The Kaminari lived high in the cliffs overlooking Kumogakure — not in power, but in memory. Their compound was simple: wooden beams, wind chimes, stone paths worn by age. Symbols of lightning were carved into doorposts, worn smooth by time.
They were once proud — an ancient clan with deep roots in lightning chakra. But the wars had taken their numbers. Now, they were few. Watchful. Quiet.
Zuberi grew under stormy skies.
Though a child in body, his mind was still whole. The duality was disorienting. Nights were the hardest — lying in a crib, unable to speak, trapped in silence with the weight of two lives pressing down.
But slowly, gently, he adapted.
His parents — Akari and Daisuke Kaminari — were kind. His mother sang to him each night, her voice soft as falling rain. His father was a man of few words, but carried Zuberi with quiet pride through the gardens each dawn.
By age three, Zuberi had learned to speak.
By four, he could feel the hum of chakra beneath his skin. Lightning. Always lightning.
One morning, during basic clan meditation, Zuberi sat cross-legged beside his father. His fingertips buzzed faintly as he reached inward, tracing the flow of energy through his limbs.
"You feel it?" Daisuke asked.
Zuberi nodded. "It's... alive."
Daisuke smiled faintly. "That's your bloodline. The Kaminari were once known for it. You might restore that name one day."
Zuberi looked at his hands, tiny but steady. "I want to learn to control it."
His father nodded. "Then start by listening."
From that day on, Zuberi trained every morning. Slowly. Patiently. Balancing leaves on his palms. Practicing breathing. Listening to the air.
No flashy jutsu. No shortcuts.
Just discipline.
Just humility.
And always, above him, the sky whispered.
Thunder echoed across the peaks.
As if waiting.