The room was small—barely big enough to fit a worn-out mattress, a broken desk, and stacks upon stacks of books. The walls were yellowed with age, peeling like old memories. The only light came from a dying bulb swinging slightly from the ceiling, its flicker as uncertain as the life it illuminated. In the middle of it all sat Zeno.
At 17, Zeno was nothing special to the outside world. His face was thin, his skin pale from lack of sunlight, and his body frail—his bones fragile, his health worse. His peers mocked him for always reading instead of working menial jobs to survive. "What's a book going to do for a street rat like you?" they would sneer. Even grown men had no shame laughing at the boy who believed knowledge could change his life.
But Zeno knew something they didn't: books were his only power.
He had read about the stock market, artificial intelligence, quantum computing, blockchain technology, and the rise of empires—from Rome to Google. He studied how Facebook connected billions and how Bitcoin disrupted banks. In his mind, he lived in the future while his body decayed in the present.
His mother had died when he was six. His father? No one knew who that was. He lived alone in a shack on the far edge of the city, surviving on water, cheap bread, and hope.
Tonight, he sat reading an old paperback titled "The Power of Systems: How Knowledge Creates Kings." His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from fever. He had been coughing blood for days, his breathing shallow, his chest burning. But he kept reading.
"If knowledge is power," he whispered, barely audible, "then I will be the most powerful man alive."
His hand dropped. The book slid from his fingers and hit the floor softly. And then—silence.
His last thought before his world went black wasn't fear or regret. It was a question.
"What if I could live again… somewhere I could actually use all this?"
---
Zeno woke up to the sound of rustling leaves and distant birdsong. He was lying on the soft grass, beneath a vast blue sky. He sat up with a start—and froze.
The trees were massive, with trunks wider than buildings. The grass was unusually green. And in the distance, there was… a wall. A massive wall. And beyond that, a village filled with people dressed in sandals, robes, and flak jackets.
"Where the hell… am I?" Zeno muttered.
And then, a cold breeze touched his face. It wasn't the air that shocked him—it was the realization that he could feel it. Truly feel it. His body—strong. His hands—smooth. His breath—steady.
He stumbled to a nearby lake and stared into the reflection.
This was not his sick, dying face.
He looked younger. Healthier. Almost like a kid again—maybe 12 or 13. His eyes were sharp, his hair cleaner, darker, and full. His body no longer hurt. No fever. No weakness.
That's when the memories began pouring in.
A new name. A new world.
Zeno. Citizen of the Hidden Leaf Village.
The world of Naruto.
The shock was immense. He remembered watching Naruto during his younger days—before life got too hard and survival took priority over anime. But now, the absurdity hit him full force. This wasn't a dream.
He wasn't a spectator anymore. He was in the show.
---
The days that followed were surreal. He explored the village with quiet awe. Konoha was bustling with life—shops selling kunai and scrolls, shinobi training in open fields, and kids his age learning hand seals. Chakra was real. Jutsu was real. Ninja were real.
But Zeno was different.
While the other kids focused on chakra control, he focused on possibilities.
He wasn't interested in becoming just another shinobi. Not because he couldn't—but because he had a plan.
He spent weeks analyzing the ninja world. Their tech was primitive. No electricity grids, no satellites, no internet. The entire world operated like a feudal society powered by magic. That was the opening.
Zeno realized something terrifying: this world was ripe for innovation. And he—armed with knowledge of the 21st century—was the only one who could do it.
He needed three things: power, influence, and a safe zone.
He started small. He built a crude battery using chakra-infused minerals. It worked—barely. But it was enough to power a small lamp. Then he created a simple receiver—an early prototype for a chakra-transmitted wireless signal. It was rough, but functional.
The foundation had been laid.
---
But Zeno knew better than to rush. One big invention and he'd draw the wrong kind of attention. He had seen it in history—how innovators were silenced or crushed by the systems they tried to improve.
He would start with something small. Something that didn't threaten the shinobi structure but still showed value. Something sweet. Something universal.
Chocolate.
It didn't exist here—not in the way he remembered. The villagers had sugar, they had nuts, some even had roasted beans from the Land of Rivers. But they had never seen a smooth, rich, sweet bar of dark gold.
He spent weeks working in secret.
He traded chakra-infused trinkets he crafted for ingredients—cocoa-like beans from traveling merchants, raw cane sugar, and a bit of cow's milk. He crushed, boiled, cooled, and molded. He failed the first few times—the mixture too bitter, the texture too rough.
But eventually, he got it right.
He wrapped the bar in thin parchment, sealed it with melted wax, and walked into the village square.
"Free sample," he said to the first curious child. "Tell your friends."
The reaction was instant.
Kids swarmed. Then teenagers. Then parents. The whispers began—"Where did you get this?" "Is this some kind of dessert?" "It melts in your mouth!"
By the end of the week, Zeno had a crowd waiting every day. He was making small batches and selling them for coins. Not too many. Just enough to buy better tools and bigger pots. A week later, he rented a room near the edge of the market and called it "Zeno's Sweet House."
By the end of the month, he had four helpers—orphans like he once was—wrapping, stirring, cleaning. He paid them fair. Fed them better.
He reinvested everything.
And within two months, the Hokage himself had a bar of Zeno's chocolate on his desk.
---
Zeno stood one evening on the roof of his new workshop, watching the stars.
He had done it.
He wasn't a ninja. He hadn't thrown a single kunai. But he had already begun reshaping the world.
With chocolate.
Not just for profit—but for attention. Influence. Proof.
Now, when he spoke, people listened. Merchants respected him. Parents thanked him. Even some genin from the academy came by to buy energy sweets before missions.
He wasn't done.
Chocolate was just chapter one.
In time, they'd know him not just as a sweet-maker…
…but as the boy who brought the future.