Naruto: The Viking Thorfin Becomes a Inuzuka In The World of Shinobi

The air in the Root compound had always been thick with tension, but now it felt even heavier. The children, now marked by the cursed seals and bound to Danzo's will, were given new instructions. They were no longer mere orphans or nameless shadows in the background; they were now Root agents, and as such, they needed to be treated as such.

Each child was assigned a new identity, a code name—one that would replace their old names, stripping them of any remnants of who they had once been. It was a subtle but powerful form of control. The old selves were gone; now they were only instruments of Danzo's will.

Thorfin, the boy who had fought so hard to maintain his sense of self amidst the chaos, was now known as Toru.

The name felt foreign on his tongue. It wasn't the name he had grown up with, and yet it felt like it was meant for him. The curse seal on his tongue burned as if trying to remind him of that very fact.

"Toru," he murmured to himself under his breath, feeling the weight of the new name settle over him like a shroud. It was like a mask that concealed everything he once was, everything he could still be if given the chance.

As the other children were assigned their codenames, Toru noticed a shift in their demeanor. They were all becoming blank slates, all drifting in the same direction. There was no room for individuality here, no room for weakness.

The next part of the procedure came shortly after. Each child was given a partner—a companion who would remain with them in the Root compound, someone they would share living quarters with, train with, and fight alongside. There would be no more solo missions, no more personal time. Every waking moment would be spent in service to the organization.

Toru's partner was a boy from the Inuzuka clan. He had a strong, yet weary presence, his hair tied back in the typical style of his clan. His eyes were sharp, his movements quick, as though every part of him was constantly alert. It was clear he had been trained to survive, just like Toru, but there was something more there—something that made Toru uneasy. His name was Taro, a simple name that felt heavy for the boy who carried it.

The two were led to their shared quarters. It was a small, stark room—barely furnished, with only the barest essentials: two thin mattresses on the floor, a small table in the corner, and a few shelves that were devoid of any personal belongings. It was nothing like the rooms Toru had once imagined for himself. There were no windows to look out of, no warmth in the air. Just cold, sterile walls.

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Neither of them spoke about what had just happened—the cursed seals, the painful injections, or Danzo's chilling words. They knew the rules. Speaking out of turn was a dangerous game to play, especially when it came to Danzo. The punishments for disobedience were severe—too severe to even consider.

But that didn't mean they couldn't talk at all.

After a while, Taro shifted, the tension between them easing just a fraction. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he, too, understood the danger of speaking too freely.

"So," Taro began, his eyes focused on the floor. "How long do you think this will last?"

Toru glanced over at him. He wasn't sure if the boy was asking about their training, the compound, or their lives. It didn't really matter. Everything felt indefinite now. Every moment was just another tick of the clock in a world where time didn't seem to mean much anymore.

"I don't know," Toru replied softly. "Does it matter?"

Taro gave a small shrug, the weight of their situation evident in his expression. "Maybe not. But we've got to make it through somehow, right?"

Toru nodded, though he didn't have much faith in their survival beyond the next training session. It was a brutal, oppressive system, and while there were moments when the children were allowed to rest, it always felt like they were one misstep away from losing everything. The training was relentless. Danzo's vision, however twisted it may be, was the only thing that mattered. And no matter what they might wish for, that vision was never going to change.

They didn't talk about their past lives, their families, or their memories. Danzo had made it clear what would happen if they did. There were strict rules in place, all meant to keep them loyal to the cause. They were never to speak ill of him. They were never to question his orders, even in the slightest. And most importantly, they were never to speak of their training to anyone—not even each other, if it could be helped.

It wasn't long before the silence between them grew comfortable in its own way. They had nothing else to offer each other. No memories to share, no future to look forward to—only the present, and the endless days of training that awaited them.

At night, as they lay on their thin mattresses, the sounds of the compound—footsteps echoing down the hallways, the distant murmurs of Root agents—faded into a dull hum. It was during these hours, when the weight of the day began to settle and their bodies ached from the constant physical demands, that the two boys spoke in hushed tones, carefully choosing their words.

"Do you think we'll ever be free?" Taro asked one night, his voice tinged with something like bitterness.

Toru closed his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts that stirred within him. "What does freedom even mean anymore?"

Taro didn't respond immediately, but Toru could feel the question lingering in the air. Both of them knew that the answer didn't matter. No matter how much they wished for something more, something better, they were bound to this place—this life. And for now, their only option was to survive.

They would never discuss their fears, their hopes, or the bleakness that stretched out before them. But there, in the dark, the two boys found a small comfort in knowing that they weren't alone in their thoughts. No one else could be trusted with these fragile moments.

It was a quiet rebellion, in its own way. But it was all they had.

It was another day in Root, another day of shaping the children into tools, and another day for Thorfin to lose himself in the familiar weight of the kunai in his hand. But today was different. Today, the kunai felt right, like a part of him, like it had always been there. There was no hesitation, no anxiety about throwing it, as if his body remembered something more.

The instructor's voice cut through the silence, sharp and demanding. "Today, you will test your precision and your control. You will fight with everything you've been trained to become. Failure will not be tolerated."

Thorfin didn't flinch. His body was already in motion, moving to the familiar rhythm of the kunai, feeling its weight shift from hand to hand. He had been through this countless times before, and yet this time felt different. It wasn't just about throwing a weapon—it was about the instinct that called to him from somewhere deep within.

His fingers gripped the kunai with a fluid motion, drawing it from the pouch on his belt. The cold steel was an extension of his will, no longer just a weapon but something more, something he had known far too well in another life. The blade, its edges smooth yet deadly, seemed to hum in his hand, as if it was eager to fly.

"Begin."

The command was no more than a whisper in the wind, but it was enough. Thorfin took a step forward, his mind sharp, his body already calculating the perfect trajectory. His hand moved through the air with practiced grace, a flick of the wrist and the kunai was released. The blade spun end over end, cutting through the air with a deadly silence before it embedded itself perfectly into the target's heart.

It was too easy. Too natural.

The instructor's voice was cold as he inspected the results, though his eyes betrayed a hint of approval. "Good. But we are not done yet."

The ground around Thorfin shifted, and suddenly, a row of dummies sprung to life, each one moving at varying speeds, weaving through the air in unpredictable patterns. He had faced these targets before, but today there was a sharpness to his focus, an awareness in his body that seemed beyond his years.

The second round of throwing was more challenging, but Thorfin didn't feel fear, only a familiar thrill—like a hunter poised for the kill. His kunai moved as if guided by invisible strings, each throw a perfect strike. The dummies spun and jerked, but the blades hit their marks with flawless precision. There was no thinking, no hesitation—just action, fluid and quick.

And then, something strange happened.

As Thorfin released another kunai, he felt it—the faintest flicker of déjà vu. His body moved almost without him, and he could see the kunai's path as clearly as if he had already lived through this moment a thousand times. The kunai hit its target, but it wasn't the target that held his attention—it was the way his arm had moved, the way his body had known exactly how to execute the throw, down to the smallest detail. He could feel the instinct that came with it, the familiarity of the motion, as though the blade had once been an extension of his soul.

There was no time to dwell on it. The instructor's voice cracked through his thoughts. "Good. You're beginning to show potential."

But Thorfin was lost in the sensation. His mind drifted, and for just a moment, memories from a life he couldn't fully understand began to surface—a time long past, a life where the blade had been his constant companion. The way it had felt in his hands, the way it had moved, the sensation of battle, of blood, of survival. He had known this before. He had been someone else.

"Next," the instructor barked, snapping Thorfin back to the present, "hand-to-hand combat. You will fight your partner. This is not a test of strength—it is a test of control."

Thorfin's partner, a boy from the Inuzuka clan named Shiro, stood before him, his body coiled with the same readiness. Shiro's posture was defensive, but Thorfin could see the glint of challenge in his eyes. He would be a formidable opponent, but Thorfin didn't feel anxious. His mind was clear, his muscles at ease. The kunai had already given him the confidence he needed.

The fight began, and the world around them seemed to fall away. The sounds of the others faded into a dull hum, and all that mattered was the fight—control, precision, and instinct.

Shiro moved quickly, his hands weaving through a series of well-practiced strikes. But Thorfin was faster, his body flowing like water, anticipating each move before it happened. He dodged and countered with fluid grace, his feet barely making a sound as they touched the ground. It was as though he had done this a thousand times before. No fear. No hesitation. Just the rhythm of the fight.

His fists flew with controlled power, and when Shiro tried to block, Thorfin redirected his strikes, using his opponent's movements against him. Every motion was purposeful, precise. He wasn't just fighting—he was moving like a shadow, like a force of nature.

But it wasn't just the physical aspect of the fight that was natural to him—it was the mental. As Shiro lunged forward, Thorfin could feel the shift, the slight movement before it happened. He wasn't just reacting to Shiro's attacks; he was anticipating them, guiding his own body in a way that felt too familiar. Every block, every strike was guided by something deep inside, something that felt as if it had been forged in a past life.

In an instant, Thorfin found himself behind Shiro, his arms locked around his opponent in a perfect hold. It was a simple maneuver—no fancy jutsu, no overwhelming strength—but it was effective. The hold was tight, unbreakable, and it was over before Shiro even realized what had happened.

The instructor stepped forward, his eyes calculating as he looked at Thorfin. "Impressive. But you must remember, it's not just about the physical. It's about control—mental, physical, and emotional. Do not let your instincts be your downfall."

Toru's breath was steady as he looked up at the instructor, his body calm despite the heat building in his chest. He had won, yes, but there was still a lingering sense that he was not fully in control. There was something else at play—a presence, an awareness—that he couldn't quite grasp.

That night, as he lay on the thin mat in his shared room with Shiro, the air thick with silence, the feeling of déjà vu lingered in his mind. He could still sense the weight of the kunai, the fluidity of the movements, and the control he had displayed. It was as if he had lived this all before. The memories were like ghosts, fleeting but insistent.

He closed his eyes, trying to push away the sensation, but a flicker of something—something darker, something from the past—stirred in his chest. He couldn't explain it, but he knew this: The blade had always been his, and it would always call to him, no matter how many times he was reborn.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the blade would be the key to his freedom.