There were nights in Konoha when the sky didn't feel like it belonged to this world. Nights when the stars flickered like old memories trying to return. On such a night, under the ghostly silver light of a waning moon, the air split open above the outskirts of the Hidden Leaf.
There was no sound, only a silent distortion—as if the world itself hiccupped. And from that fissure, something fell.
No one saw the flash. No one but the crows.
He hit the earth hard, in a clearing by the Naka River. Smoke curled off the torn fabric of a once-white lab coat, now burnt and soaked in blood. The man groaned as he pushed himself to his knees, coughing violently. His spiky blue hair was singed at the edges. A broken flask hung by a strap from his belt, leaking faint traces of a glowing substance onto the forest floor.
"Shit," he muttered. "No coordinates. Last charge. Goddamn multiversal dead-end..."
His voice cracked with fatigue and fury. Around his neck, a dented, blinking device sparked—its inner mechanisms fused. His portal gun, now dead weight. The man collapsed again, groaning.
That was Rick. Rick Sanchez.
Not the Rick of this world. Not even a Rick of any known world. This one had run out of worlds to run to.
He lay there as the forest slowly exhaled, as if accepting his presence. Somewhere distant, an owl called.
And then—footsteps.
They were soft, hesitant. Two children, no older than six, appeared at the treeline—lured by curiosity, or perhaps fate. A boy with black eyes too old for his age, wearing a patched Uchiha crest. A girl with pale lavender eyes, her expression guarded, her stance protective.
Akira and Asenari.
They didn't speak at first. They only watched. The strange man looked like death itself had chewed him up and spit him out, and yet… he was breathing. Barely.
The boy stepped forward first. Despite the wariness in his eyes, there was something else—something drawn to the hum of broken technology, to the soft crackle of a dying science unknown to this world.
"We should get help," Asenari whispered, gripping his sleeve.
Akira didn't answer. He knelt down beside the man and studied the odd device by his wrist. "This isn't chakra," he said quietly. "It's… something else."
The man stirred again. His eyes opened—just barely. Bloodshot. Bright. Terrifyingly intelligent.
"Don't… touch that," Rick rasped.
The two children froze.
Rick's gaze scanned them with surprising clarity. "You're… not hallucinations," he muttered. "Oh, fuck. I really am here."
Asenari leaned forward, concern breaking past her fear. "You're bleeding."
"No shit," Rick wheezed, then laughed—cut short by another cough. "You two got names or are we skipping straight to the part where you sell me out to the nearest shinobi goon squad?"
Akira blinked. "We're not supposed to talk to outsiders."
Rick snorted. "Yeah? You're already breaking protocol, kid."
But Akira didn't budge. He didn't run. Neither did Asenari.
Maybe it was because they were orphans too—used to the discarded things, the things left behind after the world was done breaking them. And this man looked very much like something the world had tried and failed to break.
"Fine," Rick grunted. "Don't help. Let me die here. Might be the first honest ending I've had."
He closed his eyes.
But they didn't leave.
Instead, Asenari gently placed a hand on his chest and began focusing her chakra, hesitant but trained. Akira stood guard, scanning the trees, already imagining excuses if they were caught.
That was the night the world changed.
And no one knew it.
Because fate doesn't always scream when it shifts. Sometimes, it only whispers.
.