The fabric of space tore open, and a handsome man clad in dark cultivator's robes stepped through the rift. Suspended high above the world, his arrival went unnoticed by all below—silent, invisible, and undisturbed.
His gaze swept downward, and as his eyes fell upon the unfolding events below, a faint smile touched his lips. There it was—the most iconic scene in this world, playing out exactly as he remembered it.
"I acknowledge this chakra of yours! No one who surpasses you at taijutsu! I declare that you are the strongest of them all!" A white-haired man let out a thunderous shout, and in the blink of an eye, a colossal red dragon aura erupted nearby, surging forth like a tidal wave unleashed.
It charged toward him with violent fury, its presence shaking the very air. The sky trembled beneath the weight of their power, and a cataclysmic clash followed—blinding, deafening, unforgettable.
Dust billowed into the heavens, mountains split apart, and the world itself seemed to cry out in protest.
Yet high above it all, suspended in the sky like a silent witness, the handsome man in dark robes stood unmoved.
His expression remained serene, untouched by the chaos below. His eyes, calm and distant, barely acknowledged the spectacle.
This was not the moment he had come to see.
Time rewound, and the past became the present once more.
"I guess it's time for me to have some fun," the handsome man muttered as he descended slowly from the clouds, his long robes billowing in the wind like banners of defiance.
Below him stretched a familiar landscape.
He did not rush. There was no need to. Each step he took into the forest was deliberate, slow, and quiet—like a man walking into his own grave, or perhaps, into his long-awaited freedom.
The leaves rustled underfoot, birds chirped overhead, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, he allowed himself to hear them.
He was tired. Not the kind of tired that could be cured by sleep, but the bone-deep exhaustion that only timeless suffering could bring.
After eons of wandering from one universe to the next, chasing an answer that always slipped through his fingers, he had come to a bitter realization: someone—something—was laughing at him.
Mocking him. A cosmic joke with him as the punchline. A puppet dancing endlessly on a divine string.
And yet, he no longer cared.
There was peace in surrender. Not the surrender of defeat, but of acceptance.
If he was truly trapped in an endless loop of rebirth and reincarnation, if the stars themselves conspired to keep him running in circles, then so be it. Let them watch. Let them laugh.
He would not break, but he would stop playing their game.
He would live.
It was almost comical, really. For all the power he wielded—enough to crack stars and bend time—he had never truly lived.
In all the trillions of years since his first awakening, he had been consumed by his quest.
Countless lifetimes, endless forms, unimaginable knowledge—and through it all, he had remained untouched, unspoiled, and completely alone.
He was still a virgin. Not just in body, but in experience. He had never loved. Never held someone through the night. Never danced in the rain or laughed until he cried.
His days had been consumed by ascension, mission, power, purpose. Never peace.
"Now... it will be different," he said aloud, his voice firm, resonating with quiet conviction. A small smile tugged at his lips, the kind that hadn't been there in epochs.
He stopped to inhale deeply, savoring the scent of pine and earth—details he'd ignored for too long.
He would find joy in the little things. He would taste food without worrying about poison. He would speak to strangers without suspicion.
He would lie under the stars and wonder—not about destiny, but about dreams.
For the first time, he wasn't seeking to break free from his prison. He was going to decorate the cell.
And perhaps, in doing so, he might finally discover what had eluded him all along.
In time, he arrived at a towering gate—imposing and weathered, yet familiar in design. He was just about to take another step forward when a sharp voice cut through the still air.
"Halt! State your business in Konoha!"
A ninja dropped down in front of him, kunai in hand and eyes sharp with suspicion.
The handsome man smiled, unfazed. "Hello there. I'm here looking for a job," he said, his tone light and energetic, as if this were the most casual thing in the world.
The guard didn't respond immediately. His eyes narrowed as he studied the stranger's tall figure and composed demeanor.
There was no headband, no visible weapon, and no familiar chakra signature—nothing that would hint at his origins. The silence stretched before the ninja quickly gestured.
Moments later, three more shinobi appeared, surrounding the stranger in a practiced formation. Tension filled the air.
"Name and village affiliation," one of the new arrivals demanded.
"Donald," the man replied, grinning confidently. "I'm a civilian. Came from beyond the seas."
The answer only deepened their confusion. His clothes were foreign, his speech strange yet fluent. They couldn't tell if he was joking or simply eccentric.
"And what kind of job are you looking for here in the village?" another ninja asked, more cautiously this time.
Donald's grin widened as he casually placed his hands behind his back, standing tall. "I want to be the Hokage's personal bodyguard."
The silence that followed was deafening.