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Naruto - I Died And Replaced Sakura TINY.png
https://www.webnovel.com/book/34331540300630105
I don't know why, of all things, Naruto is what got my gears going. Well, I do. I uh...was in a pretty bad accident on this past Halloween. I have minor brain damage- I can't sleep more than 3-4 hours at a time, permanent double vision, my short term memory is basically gone. BUT I developed Hypergraphia (obsession with writing) as a result. I suppose I've always had it considering what a speedposter I used to be.
Anyway, this is my story! Sylvie has zero meta knowledge of the Naruto world and exists as a true Support to Team 7. Essentially, I am conducting narrative surgery on the Naruto story. I have like uhm....a lot written, series bibles, character guides, plot lines, etc. I am not trying to write "OC Naruto fanfic". I am trying to use my knowledge of the Naruto world, characters, lore, and Kishimoto's philosophies to pour cement in the plot holes and turn the entire Naruto series into one cohesive narrative.
I hope you give it a chance, I really, really like making it so far!
Here is a small preview of what the story is like from the start of one of my favorite remixes I have done so far: The Three Way Deadlock.
# CHAPTER 158 — Dead-Man’s Roppō
<Jiraiya>
Jiraiya noticed the silence first.
Not quiet—quiet was normal for old stone. This was something else. The wrong kind. Guards breathing too slowly, as if they’d been instructed. Banners hanging limp despite the draft the hall should’ve had. Even the echoes felt delayed, like sound itself was reluctant to come back once released.
For half a heartbeat, a stupid thought crossed his mind.
The castle is holding its breath.
Then—
CLACK.
The sound cut straight through the pause, sharp as a snapped bone.
Naruto flinched. “What was that?”
Another beat of silence. Almost polite.
CLACK.
Wood on wood. Hollow. Intentional.
Naruto’s shoulders tightened.
For half a second—just a fraction—he thought it sounded cool.
The realization hit him harder than the noise. His stomach dropped. His jaw clenched until it hurt. His nails dug into his palm like he could punish the thought out of himself.
What’s wrong with me?
“Hyōshigi,” Jiraiya said automatically, the word leaving his mouth before he’d finished the thought. His feet slowed. His spine tightened. “Festival clappers.”
Anko’s cigarette stopped halfway to her lips. “Festival ended yesterday.”
The rhythm started up again—too fast, then dragging, then briefly, horribly syncing with Jiraiya’s pulse before slipping out of alignment.
Naruto felt it too. His chest matched it for one beat before his body rebelled, heart stumbling like it had stepped on the wrong stair.
It wasn’t walking music.
It was an entrance cue.
Hyōshigi weren’t meant to summon enemies. They were meant to tell you where to look.
Naruto swallowed and hated that his eyes were already tracking the sound.
Jiraiya swallowed as his sensory perception flared, unbidden and angry. Chakra flooded the hall ahead of the sound, thick and layered and wrong. Purple, yes—but not alive in any honest way. It smelled like old battlefields and failed surgeries. Like a hospital room after the patient died and no one opened the windows.
Copper hit his tongue.
His eyes burned, watering like he’d inhaled solvent.
Whatever this chakra was, it hadn’t been born. It had been brewed. Sedative sweetness on the surface, frenzy roiling underneath. Not killing intent.
Intoxication, leaking into the room.
“It’s coming from the balcony,” Anko said quietly. Her hand dropped to her sword. “And it’s close.”
The doors at the end of the hall could have opened.
Jiraiya knew it in the same way you know when someone is choosing to be rude.
For a fraction of a second, the hinges screamed—
Then they gave up entirely.
The explosion tore through the entryway in a shower of cedar and stone, smoke rolling in thick and violet, heavy with incense and medicinal herbs burned too long.
And from inside the haze, a voice began to sing.
“Shinobu to wa…”
High. Familiar. Wrong.
Naruto froze.
He couldn’t look away.
He tried—blinked hard—but his eyes snapped back like they were on a string. The performance felt important, like missing a step would be a mistake, like if he didn’t watch closely he’d fail something without knowing the rules.
This is what real shinobi look like, a traitorous thought whispered.
His chakra stuttered.
Kurama shifted—not angry. Alert. The way a dog goes still when it smells something buried.
Jiraiya felt the recognition land like a hook under the ribs. He’d heard that song a hundred times—festivals, border towns, drunken nights when it was sung properly, reverently.
This wasn’t that.
The pauses were off. The syllables leaned where they shouldn’t. It was like hearing your own name pronounced just slightly incorrectly on purpose.
“Oni-zura naru… toku wa sukui ka…”
A figure emerged.
Not walking.
Performing.
The Roppō swagger—Kabuki’s exaggerated stride—played badly on purpose. One stomp landed perfectly, textbook precise. The next bent grotesquely, knee flexing too far, spine flowing like something without bones. Balance flawless even as joints violated their own limits.
Orochimaru.
White-painted face. Purple-lined eyes too bright. Kimono hanging loose like it had lost interest in staying on him.
He wasn’t mad.
He was parodying madness.
“Sake no zaregoto…” he crooned, holding the pose just half a second too long, daring correction.
CLACK.
Naruto flinched again—this time not from fear, but recognition.
Jiraiya’s eyes snapped to the sound.
Not to hands.
To guards.
To forearms.
To wooden bracers strapped where hands should have been.
The sound didn’t come from where hands belonged.
Understanding slid in cold and complete.
Orochimaru’s arms hung dead at his sides, necrotic, lifeless. He swung them like pendulums, smashing the wooden guards together with enough force to crack what bone remained beneath.
CLACK. CLACK.
He smiled as if he felt none of it.
Naruto’s breath caught.
He turned damage into an instrument.
The thought surfaced clean and sharp—and made him nauseous.
His throat burned. Iruka’s voice flashed in his head. There are lines you don’t cross, even if it works.
He swallowed hard, like he could force the thought back down where it belonged.
Orochimaru sang like someone who’d dissected a thing and put it back together wrong.
“To be a shinobi,” Orochimaru hissed, voice dropping wet and intimate, “is it the endurance of a toad… or the mask of a demon? Is that salvation you sell… or just a drunk man’s sermon?”
He stopped dead center of the hall.
Tilted his head back too far.
Crossed one eye inward.
The mie.
The room froze.
Guards flinched. Dust hung midair. Someone inhaled and forgot to exhale. Even Anko’s cigarette smoke hesitated, curling uncertainly, like it wasn’t sure it had permission to move yet.
Orochimaru slammed his arms together one last time.
CLACK.
“White hair like moonlight,” he recited, eyes locked on Jiraiya. “A savior’s mask worn by a demon. Does he seek peace now… or just another bathhouse wall to peek over?”
He giggled. Wet. Rattling.
Orochimaru wasn’t improvising.
He’d rehearsed this.
Jiraiya stepped forward without speaking, placing himself between the snake and the others. His chakra surged, furious and bright, but his body stayed still.
From the shadows, Tsunade emerged.
Her hand hit the stone wall hard enough to scrape. Her breath stuttered. Her chakra spiked violently—then slammed down, compressed until it hurt to sense.
She stepped into the light like someone approaching a grave she’d already dug.
“Shizune,” she said hoarsely. “Civilians. Now.”
Shizune bowed once and vanished with Tonton.
Anko dragged on her cigarette. No one laughed when she said, “Don’t do drugs, kids.”
The joke landed on stone and stayed there.
“YOU’RE SMOKING!” Naruto snapped, panicked.
“Coping mechanism,” Anko shot back, pointing with the cigarette. “That is a pharmaceutical disaster.”
Orochimaru’s neck extended, snake-smooth, snapping toward them.
“Anko-chan,” he purred. “You brought me presents.”
His gaze slid to Naruto.
Then past him.
“The Nine-Tails,” he whispered. “And the anomaly.”
Kabuto stepped out of the smoke behind him, already adjusting his glasses.
“I’m very sorry about this,” Kabuto said tiredly, like a man who’d already filled out the incident report. “Lord Orochimaru, the painkillers are scheduled. We should proceed to negotiations.”
“Boring,” Orochimaru hissed.
He looked at Jiraiya.
“Don’t you have a puddle to sit in?” he asked sweetly. “Or are you finally ready to dry off and die?”
Tsunade bit her thumb.
“No—Hime, not here—!”
Jiraiya bit his own.
“Summoning Jutsu!”
Three hands hit the floor.
https://www.webnovel.com/book/34331540300630105
I don't know why, of all things, Naruto is what got my gears going. Well, I do. I uh...was in a pretty bad accident on this past Halloween. I have minor brain damage- I can't sleep more than 3-4 hours at a time, permanent double vision, my short term memory is basically gone. BUT I developed Hypergraphia (obsession with writing) as a result. I suppose I've always had it considering what a speedposter I used to be.
Anyway, this is my story! Sylvie has zero meta knowledge of the Naruto world and exists as a true Support to Team 7. Essentially, I am conducting narrative surgery on the Naruto story. I have like uhm....a lot written, series bibles, character guides, plot lines, etc. I am not trying to write "OC Naruto fanfic". I am trying to use my knowledge of the Naruto world, characters, lore, and Kishimoto's philosophies to pour cement in the plot holes and turn the entire Naruto series into one cohesive narrative.
I hope you give it a chance, I really, really like making it so far!
Here is a small preview of what the story is like from the start of one of my favorite remixes I have done so far: The Three Way Deadlock.
# CHAPTER 158 — Dead-Man’s Roppō
<Jiraiya>
Jiraiya noticed the silence first.
Not quiet—quiet was normal for old stone. This was something else. The wrong kind. Guards breathing too slowly, as if they’d been instructed. Banners hanging limp despite the draft the hall should’ve had. Even the echoes felt delayed, like sound itself was reluctant to come back once released.
For half a heartbeat, a stupid thought crossed his mind.
The castle is holding its breath.
Then—
CLACK.
The sound cut straight through the pause, sharp as a snapped bone.
Naruto flinched. “What was that?”
Another beat of silence. Almost polite.
CLACK.
Wood on wood. Hollow. Intentional.
Naruto’s shoulders tightened.
For half a second—just a fraction—he thought it sounded cool.
The realization hit him harder than the noise. His stomach dropped. His jaw clenched until it hurt. His nails dug into his palm like he could punish the thought out of himself.
What’s wrong with me?
“Hyōshigi,” Jiraiya said automatically, the word leaving his mouth before he’d finished the thought. His feet slowed. His spine tightened. “Festival clappers.”
Anko’s cigarette stopped halfway to her lips. “Festival ended yesterday.”
The rhythm started up again—too fast, then dragging, then briefly, horribly syncing with Jiraiya’s pulse before slipping out of alignment.
Naruto felt it too. His chest matched it for one beat before his body rebelled, heart stumbling like it had stepped on the wrong stair.
It wasn’t walking music.
It was an entrance cue.
Hyōshigi weren’t meant to summon enemies. They were meant to tell you where to look.
Naruto swallowed and hated that his eyes were already tracking the sound.
Jiraiya swallowed as his sensory perception flared, unbidden and angry. Chakra flooded the hall ahead of the sound, thick and layered and wrong. Purple, yes—but not alive in any honest way. It smelled like old battlefields and failed surgeries. Like a hospital room after the patient died and no one opened the windows.
Copper hit his tongue.
His eyes burned, watering like he’d inhaled solvent.
Whatever this chakra was, it hadn’t been born. It had been brewed. Sedative sweetness on the surface, frenzy roiling underneath. Not killing intent.
Intoxication, leaking into the room.
“It’s coming from the balcony,” Anko said quietly. Her hand dropped to her sword. “And it’s close.”
The doors at the end of the hall could have opened.
Jiraiya knew it in the same way you know when someone is choosing to be rude.
For a fraction of a second, the hinges screamed—
Then they gave up entirely.
The explosion tore through the entryway in a shower of cedar and stone, smoke rolling in thick and violet, heavy with incense and medicinal herbs burned too long.
And from inside the haze, a voice began to sing.
“Shinobu to wa…”
High. Familiar. Wrong.
Naruto froze.
He couldn’t look away.
He tried—blinked hard—but his eyes snapped back like they were on a string. The performance felt important, like missing a step would be a mistake, like if he didn’t watch closely he’d fail something without knowing the rules.
This is what real shinobi look like, a traitorous thought whispered.
His chakra stuttered.
Kurama shifted—not angry. Alert. The way a dog goes still when it smells something buried.
Jiraiya felt the recognition land like a hook under the ribs. He’d heard that song a hundred times—festivals, border towns, drunken nights when it was sung properly, reverently.
This wasn’t that.
The pauses were off. The syllables leaned where they shouldn’t. It was like hearing your own name pronounced just slightly incorrectly on purpose.
“Oni-zura naru… toku wa sukui ka…”
A figure emerged.
Not walking.
Performing.
The Roppō swagger—Kabuki’s exaggerated stride—played badly on purpose. One stomp landed perfectly, textbook precise. The next bent grotesquely, knee flexing too far, spine flowing like something without bones. Balance flawless even as joints violated their own limits.
Orochimaru.
White-painted face. Purple-lined eyes too bright. Kimono hanging loose like it had lost interest in staying on him.
He wasn’t mad.
He was parodying madness.
“Sake no zaregoto…” he crooned, holding the pose just half a second too long, daring correction.
CLACK.
Naruto flinched again—this time not from fear, but recognition.
Jiraiya’s eyes snapped to the sound.
Not to hands.
To guards.
To forearms.
To wooden bracers strapped where hands should have been.
The sound didn’t come from where hands belonged.
Understanding slid in cold and complete.
Orochimaru’s arms hung dead at his sides, necrotic, lifeless. He swung them like pendulums, smashing the wooden guards together with enough force to crack what bone remained beneath.
CLACK. CLACK.
He smiled as if he felt none of it.
Naruto’s breath caught.
He turned damage into an instrument.
The thought surfaced clean and sharp—and made him nauseous.
His throat burned. Iruka’s voice flashed in his head. There are lines you don’t cross, even if it works.
He swallowed hard, like he could force the thought back down where it belonged.
Orochimaru sang like someone who’d dissected a thing and put it back together wrong.
“To be a shinobi,” Orochimaru hissed, voice dropping wet and intimate, “is it the endurance of a toad… or the mask of a demon? Is that salvation you sell… or just a drunk man’s sermon?”
He stopped dead center of the hall.
Tilted his head back too far.
Crossed one eye inward.
The mie.
The room froze.
Guards flinched. Dust hung midair. Someone inhaled and forgot to exhale. Even Anko’s cigarette smoke hesitated, curling uncertainly, like it wasn’t sure it had permission to move yet.
Orochimaru slammed his arms together one last time.
CLACK.
“White hair like moonlight,” he recited, eyes locked on Jiraiya. “A savior’s mask worn by a demon. Does he seek peace now… or just another bathhouse wall to peek over?”
He giggled. Wet. Rattling.
Orochimaru wasn’t improvising.
He’d rehearsed this.
Jiraiya stepped forward without speaking, placing himself between the snake and the others. His chakra surged, furious and bright, but his body stayed still.
From the shadows, Tsunade emerged.
Her hand hit the stone wall hard enough to scrape. Her breath stuttered. Her chakra spiked violently—then slammed down, compressed until it hurt to sense.
She stepped into the light like someone approaching a grave she’d already dug.
“Shizune,” she said hoarsely. “Civilians. Now.”
Shizune bowed once and vanished with Tonton.
Anko dragged on her cigarette. No one laughed when she said, “Don’t do drugs, kids.”
The joke landed on stone and stayed there.
“YOU’RE SMOKING!” Naruto snapped, panicked.
“Coping mechanism,” Anko shot back, pointing with the cigarette. “That is a pharmaceutical disaster.”
Orochimaru’s neck extended, snake-smooth, snapping toward them.
“Anko-chan,” he purred. “You brought me presents.”
His gaze slid to Naruto.
Then past him.
“The Nine-Tails,” he whispered. “And the anomaly.”
Kabuto stepped out of the smoke behind him, already adjusting his glasses.
“I’m very sorry about this,” Kabuto said tiredly, like a man who’d already filled out the incident report. “Lord Orochimaru, the painkillers are scheduled. We should proceed to negotiations.”
“Boring,” Orochimaru hissed.
He looked at Jiraiya.
“Don’t you have a puddle to sit in?” he asked sweetly. “Or are you finally ready to dry off and die?”
Tsunade bit her thumb.
“No—Hime, not here—!”
Jiraiya bit his own.
“Summoning Jutsu!”
Three hands hit the floor.
I am two arcs away from Sasuke's freakout now.
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