Naruto: Mixed Heritage(Rewrite)

The wind had died down.

Renjiro lay sprawled across the cracked earth, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling as if the very act of inhaling was a battle all on its own.

He blinked slowly, fatigue washing over him like a weighted blanket. For a long moment, he didn't move. He just stared at the sky, painted in hues of amber and indigo as the sun dipped behind the distant mountains separating the Land of Fire from Takigakure. The stillness around him was absolute, save for the low rustling of leaves and his own quiet, uneven breaths.

Then the thought returned. Unwelcome. Persistent.

The Rasenshuriken.

He'd done it. Somehow. Through grit, sweat, and far too many soldier pills, he had managed to stabilize it with a chakra barrier and launch it at range. It was destructive. Devastating. Perfect for ending fights from afar against enemies he couldn't ensnare in genjutsu or overwhelm with barriers. And yet...

Renjiro exhaled deeply, his gaze narrowing as a different kind of weight settled over him—one that had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with guilt.

"The Rasenshuriken," he muttered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper, "was supposed to be Naruto's."

He clenched his jaw.

That jutsu… it wasn't just another tool in the arsenal. It was a legacy. A torch passed down from father to son. Minato had created the Rasengan, a jutsu formed purely of chakra and shaped through the most precise control imaginable. He never completed it, and never added nature transformation. That honour, that triumph, was supposed to be Naruto's. His contribution to his father's legacy. His proof of mastery. His breakthrough.

Renjiro shut his eyes, breathing through the ache in his chest. "Damn it…" he hissed.

Maybe this was why he'd always hesitated to use the Rasengan in actual battle. Not just because it wasn't his, not just because it took too much chakra control for someone who didn't have a tailed beast backing him up, but because somewhere deep down, it felt like he was taking something away from someone else. From the person it rightfully belonged to.

"But I need this," he said bitterly, eyes opening again. "I'm not Naruto. I can't afford to wait years to master something that could save my life now."

He sat up slowly, groaning from the effort, and looked at his right hand, still tingling from the Rasenshuriken's lingering feedback. He flexed his fingers, then turned his palm upward. "Fine," he murmured. "I'll change how it looks. Make the barrier opaque. Or mask it with another technique. Hell, I'll make sure no one ever walks away alive after seeing it."

His voice was cold now—detached.

"No witnesses… no legacy theft."

But the words tasted like ash in his mouth. He could lie to others. To the world. But not to himself.

He let his arm drop, then lowered his gaze to the battlefield he'd carved out with his own hands. All around him, destruction stretched in every direction. He'd unleashed devastation on the earth itself, yet what weighed on him now was the destruction of something far more fragile.

The timeline.

Renjiro frowned, jaw tightening.

"Too many changes…"

He could feel it—like cracks spider-webbing across the mirror of the world he once knew.

When he had first awakened in this world, he'd thought he could walk through history with a light step, alter things only when necessary. But that was a fantasy, wasn't it? The butterfly effect was real. And his wings were too big.

He thought of Obito—of how he'd remembered the boy 'dying' during a mission in the middle of the third Shinobi war, crushed by a boulder after a relentless Iwa pursuit. Rin dies shortly after, used by Kiri as a vessel for the Three-Tails. Their deaths had been tragic, yes, but they had been catalysts. They set Madara's grand plan in motion.

But now?

"Iwa is neutral," Renjiro whispered.

He could still remember the weight of his own decisions—the chaos he'd triggered that escalated tensions between the Five Great Nations. The Third Shinobi War had begun a bit earlier than in the original timeline.

"I pushed the world toward war," he said aloud, voice empty.

He remembered his confrontation with the Two Tails's jinchuriki. Upto to know he did not know if she really died or if she was still alive. The only thing that was seared into his brain was the cascade of consequences. Kumo, enraged. Suna, wary. Iwa—choosing to step back, calculating, watching. And Kiri… aligning with Konoha?

He let out a bitter laugh.

"If Rin is never captured… if Obito never breaks… Madara's plan never starts. That could be a good thing… right?"

But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at the edge of his mind. The plan might have been horrific, built on a dream of illusion, but it had united the shinobi world in a way that centuries of diplomacy hadn't.

And if not Obito…

"Then who?"

That was the terrifying part, wasn't it? Madara was too cunning, too persistent. If he couldn't break Obito, he might simply find another Uchiha—another pawn. Another vessel. And that… that would leave Renjiro blind to the future.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against his knees.

The consequences of being here, of knowing what he knew, were spiralling out of control.

"I regret what happened in Kumo," he admitted softly. "I shouldn't have gone after the Two-Tails."

That had been pride. Arrogance. The belief that he could tip the scales, preemptively neutralize threats. But in doing so, he had provoked the Raikage, shifted military movements, and changed deployment patterns. That single confrontation had rewritten months of possible futures.

And the worst part?

"It's too late to undo any of it."

He sat upright again, forcing his shoulders to square. He wasn't the same person he was when he first reincarnated into this world. He wasn't some anime fan playing ninja. He was in the world now, part of the story. And with that came responsibility.

"I need to contain the damage," he muttered. "Even if I've started the fire… I can stop it from spreading."

Damage control. That was the goal now. Not preservation of the past. Not a perfect mimicry of the canon. Just… stability.

He would keep an eye on key players. Watch for signs of Madara's influence. Manipulate from the shadows if he had to.

"I'll fix what I can," he promised himself. "Protect what matters. Even if the story's changing… maybe I can guide it to a better ending."

A spark of resolve lit behind his eyes again. For the first time in hours, he felt like he could breathe without the weight of guilt pressing down on his chest.

Then the thought hit him.

A cold, uninvited idea that rooted itself in the centre of his mind and refused to leave.

What if Obito doesn't 'die'? What if he survived because Iwa didn't send shinobis after Minato's team? What if Rin never becomes a Jinchūriki because Kiri is now friendly with Konoha?

Then Madara—still watching from the shadows—would look elsewhere.

Would he choose Shisui?

Itachi?

Sasuke?

Or someone worse?

Someone Renjiro didn't know, didn't recognize—someone whose actions he couldn't predict.

His stomach twisted. The future was already murky. If Obito didn't fall to darkness, then Madara might reach out for someone else. Someone even more vulnerable. Or worse…

Renjiro looked up at the sky, wide-eyed, breath catching in his throat.

"Should I…" he hesitated, barely able to finish the thought, "Should I hand-deliver Obito to Madara? Make him the monster we already know he becomes?"

He stared down at his hands, trembling slightly now. He couldn't believe he was even considering it. Condemning someone—someone who hadn't yet fallen—to become a pawn for a plan that would plunge the world into war.

Could he really do that?

Could he live with it?

The silence gave no answer.

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