Uchiha power in HxH world - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Two Funerals and a Blue Screen

They say death is a quiet, peaceful transition, like slipping into a warm bath. Whoever “they” are, they have clearly never suffered a massive myocardial infarction while hunched over a coffee table, aggressively slurping instant ramen.

For me, there was no serene white light. There was no gentle beckoning from ancestors past. There was only the sudden, violent sensation of a freight train parking itself directly on my sternum. One moment, I was entirely engrossed in the Chimera Ant arc of Hunter x Hunter, watching Chairman Netero flex his absolute dominance on screen. The next moment, my own heart decided it had simply had enough of this mortal coil.

The chopsticks slipped from my numb fingers, clattering against the cheap ceramic bowl. Broth splattered across the linoleum. I tried to draw breath, but my lungs felt like they had been filled with wet cement. The pain was absolute—a blinding, white-hot agony radiating down my left arm and up into my jaw.

‘Oh,’ my brain supplied, terrifyingly calm amidst the biological catastrophic failure. ‘So this is it. Killed by high sodium content and a sedentary lifestyle. What a majestic legacy to leave behind.’

My vision narrowed into a tight, dark tunnel. The vibrant colors of the anime playing on my monitor bled into grayscale, and the sound of the Japanese voice actors became a distorted, underwater garble. I collapsed sideways, my cheek hitting the cold, sticky floor.

The last conscious thought I had, before the blackness swallowed me entirely, was a profound sense of annoyance. I wasn’t even going to get to see the end of the arc.

—

Then came the void. It was an indeterminate span of absolute nothingness. No pain. No temperature. No thought. Just the silent, empty waiting room of the afterlife.

Until I was violently, agonizingly yanked back into existence.

It wasn’t a gentle awakening. It was akin to having jumper cables attached to my soul while being shoved out of an airplane.

My eyes snapped open, and the very first thing I registered was the exact same, mind-shattering agony in my chest that had just killed me.

‘Are you actually kidding me?’

My freshly rebooted consciousness screamed in sheer indignation. ‘Did I get placed in the wrong queue at the reincarnation office? Am I doing a rerun of the heart attack? Is this a punishment for pirating anime in high school?’

I gasped, a desperate, rattling wheeze that tore at my throat. The air I pulled in tasted heavily of stale cheese dust, artificial energy drink flavoring, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone from overheated electronics. It was a bouquet of absolute degeneracy.

I tried to sit up, my panicked brain sending frantic signals to my arms. That was when I realized, with a sickening jolt of horror, that the arms trying to push me off the ground were not my own.

They were massive. Doughy. Thick, sausage-like fingers sank into a sprawling expanse of soft, unyielding flesh. Gravity felt oppressive, as if the dial on the Earth’s pull had been cranked up by three hundred percent. I was trapped inside a physical vessel that felt like a heavily weighted diving suit made of pure cholesterol.

My heart—the dying organ inside this foreign chest—was fluttering like a trapped bird, struggling violently against an immense physical burden it was fundamentally ill-equipped to handle.

I thrashed sideways, my movements sluggish and uncoordinated. I rolled off a pile of what felt like crushed cardboard boxes and hit a hardwood floor with a heavy, unceremonious thud that vibrated through a triple chin I didn’t know I had.

“Ugghh… ahck…”

The sound that escaped my mouth was a wet, nasal wheeze. I lay there, clutching a chest that felt wide enough to land a small aircraft on, waiting for the secondary death to take me.

But it didn’t.

Slowly, agonizingly, the crushing weight on my sternum began to recede. The erratic, terrifying drumbeat of the failing heart began to stabilize, settling into a heavy, labored rhythm. The sweat pouring down my face stung my eyes, but I forced them open.

‘I was alive. Again. In someone else’s failing body.’

‘Okay,’ I thought, my dark humor kicking in as a defense mechanism against the sheer, unadulterated panic rising in my throat. ‘We survived Heart Attack 2: Electric Boogaloo. Now, where the hell am I, and who ate all the pies?’

I blinked past the dark spots dancing in my vision, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The room was massive, but it felt claustrophobic. It was bathed in the harsh, blue-tinted glow of a semicircular bank of enormous computer monitors. The hum of industrial-grade server fans roared in the background, fighting a losing battle against the heat generated by the electronics.

But it was the mess that truly defied description. It was a hoarding disaster of biblical proportions. There were towering stacks of manga, empty snack wrappers piled like snowdrifts, disassembled robotics, and thousands of dollars worth of hyper-realistic, highly questionable anime figurines staring at me with dead, plastic eyes.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. Every joint in this body popped and groaned in vocal protest. It was a monumental effort just to lift my own torso.

I crawled—actually crawled—toward the dark, reflective glass of a massive server cabinet humming in the corner. I needed to see. I hauled myself into a kneeling position, leaning heavily against the cool glass, and stared into my own reflection.

A stranger stared back.

Greasy, jet-black hair plastered to a pallid forehead dotted with stress acne. Plump, heavily flushed cheeks that swallowed up a pair of dark, beady eyes. A heavily stained, oversized t-shirt stretched to its absolute breaking point over a sprawling, mountainous waistline.

I stared at the reflection. The reflection blinked in sync with me.

I know this face, I thought, a cold, creeping dread sliding down my spine. I know this exact face.

Before the realization could fully form, a sudden, splitting headache struck me right between the eyes. It wasn’t the dull throb of a migraine; it was an avalanche of raw, uncompressed data violently forcing its way into my fragile human psyche.

I screamed, clutching my head as memories that weren’t mine overwrote my consciousness.

Lines of complex C++ coding languages.
The precise schematics for a micro-mosquito bomb.
The geography of a sprawling, fog-covered mountain estate.
The terrifying, oppressive aura of a silver-haired patriarch whose mere presence demanded absolute obedience.
A white-haired boy with eyes like frozen lakes.

And a name. A name carved into the very foundation of this body’s identity.

Milluki Zoldyck.

I collapsed backward, landing hard on my massive backside. The floor shook slightly.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I whispered aloud. My voice was reedy, nasal, and dripping with an arrogance I didn’t actually possess.

I had died of a heart attack on Earth, only to transmigrate into the body of the exact anime character whose physical condition was so notoriously atrocious that he had apparently suffered a synchronized, fatal heart attack across the multiverse.

To say this was bad luck was an understatement. This was a statistical impossibility. This was the universe looking at my unremarkable life and deciding it needed a cosmic punchline.

As the initial shock wave of the memory integration began to slowly subside, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache at the base of my skull, another sensation made itself known.

A sharp, stinging pain flared on my left side.

I winced, clumsily pulling up the hem of the stained t-shirt. Beneath the fabric, wrapped tightly in pristine white medical gauze, was a fresh, bleeding wound.

A slash wound, the newly acquired memories of Milluki helpfully, and terrifyingly, provided.

The timeline of this world clicked into place with absolute, crystalline clarity. I didn’t just inherit Milluki’s body; I inherited his immediate problems.

Killua. The white-haired prodigy. The golden child of the Zoldyck family.

Just a few hours ago, the tension that had been boiling within the estate had finally erupted. Killua had snapped under the family’s suffocating control. In a violent bid for freedom, he had rebelled, severely injuring his mother, Kikyo, and—as a parting gift—slashing me across the side before bolting from the Kukuroo Mountain estate.

In my mind’s eye, I could still perfectly hear the manic, high-pitched shrieks of twisted joy echoing from Kikyo’s bandages as she bled onto the expensive carpets.

“Oh, my baby boy! He’s so grown up! He stabbed me! I’m so proud!”

I shuddered, a physical revulsion rolling through my thick frame.

If Killua had just left the mountain… that meant the timeline had officially started. The 287th Hunter Exam was imminent. The plot of Hunter x Hunter—one of the most notoriously lethal, unforgiving universes in anime history—was kicking off right now.

I sat there on the floor, surrounded by empty potato chip bags, and tried to process the sheer gravity of my reality.

I was in a world where twelve-year-olds could rip out human hearts with their bare hands and put them in little doggy bags. A world of Nen, a magical system so complex and deadly it made other anime power systems look like parlor tricks. A world populated by psychotic clowns with dangerous fetishes, murderous phantom troupes, and eventually, anthropomorphic ants that would wipe out entire nations.

And who was I in this grand, terrifying tapestry of blood and adventure?

I was the fat, useless, basement-dwelling brother.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against a pile of plush toys.

I waited for the despair to crush me. I waited for the panic to return. But instead, a strange, bubbling sensation began to rise in my chest. It wasn’t panic.

It was relief.

‘Wait a minute,’ I thought, a slow, ugly grin spreading across my pudgy face. ‘Think about this. Think about the source material.’

In the grand, violent scheme of the Zoldyck family, Milluki was an absolute non-entity. He was the exception to the rule. Throughout the entire original story, Milluki was never mixed into any of the dangerous, life-threatening missions that defined his family’s legacy.

When Silva and Zeno went to Yorknew City to fight Chrollo Lucifer in a battle that leveled a building, where was Milluki? He was at an auction, bidding on video games.

When Illumi was out manipulating the Hunter Exam, digging needles into people’s brains, or terrorizing Killua, where was Milluki? He was sitting right here, ordering custom-made assassination yo-yos and complaining about his lack of allowance.

His entire family had completely, utterly lost hope in him. To them, he was a genetic anomaly. A lost cause who lacked the drive, the physical talent, and the cold sociopathy required to be a proper Zoldyck assassin.

The beauty of it was, they didn’t even hate him. Hatred required an emotional investment. Hatred required them to care. They were simply disgusted by him. They had written him off to the point of almost forgetting he existed, only ever interacting with him if they needed a quick hacking job or a piece of custom weaponry.

They wouldn’t force me to undergo the torturous, sanity-breaking training regimes Killua had endured. They wouldn’t throw me into the Heavens Arena at age six. They wouldn’t send me out to assassinate mafia dons.

I had a free pass.

I could literally sit in this heavily air-conditioned, subterranean bunker, play video games, and exist entirely outside the narrative. I could train if I felt like it, or I could just eat myself into a third, final heart attack. It was entirely my choice.

‘I am the safest person in the entire Hunter x Hunter universe,’ I realized, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. ‘I’ve won the reincarnation lottery. Let Gon and Killua go lose limbs and fight world-ending threats. I’ll be right here, dominating the global leaderboards of whatever MMORPG exists in this world.’

I let out a long, shuddering sigh of genuine comfort. I had survived. All I had to do was maintain the status quo. Keep my head down, act like a brat, and play games.

But then, as I stared at the blinking cursor on the main monitor, a stray thought drifted into my mind. A cold, insidious, terrifying thought that shattered my newfound peace like a hammer through glass.

I was sitting in the Zoldyck family estate.

The Zoldycks. The world’s most elite, terrifyingly competent family of assassins. They weren’t just strong; they were superhuman geniuses. Monsters wearing expensive human skin.

Zeno Zoldyck had intuition bordering on actual precognition. Silva Zoldyck was a walking force of nature who commanded absolute authority. And Illumi…

Just the thought of Illumi made my new body break out in a fresh, freezing sweat. Illumi was a cold, calculating psychopath who specialized in the manipulation of the human mind and body.

These were people who noticed if a servant breathed half a second off-tempo. They were people who could read your heart rate, your micro-expressions, your pupil dilation, and your aura with a single, passing glance.

Milluki was a coward, yes. He was loud, obnoxious, and easily intimidated. But he was still a Zoldyck. He still had a specific, established pattern of behavior that they were intimately familiar with.

If they realized that the real Milluki had died of a heart attack an hour ago…

If they realized that an imposter, a foreign soul from another world, was currently piloting their blood relative’s corpse like a stolen, fleshy meat-mech…

A fresh wave of terror, infinitely worse than the initial panic of waking up, violently seized my chest. It felt like icy water was being injected directly into my veins.

They will find out. And when they do… they will torture me.

In the Hunter x Hunter world, torture wasn’t just a brutal means to an end; it was a refined art form. It crossed every conceivable boundary of human rights, ethics, and biology. The Zoldycks routinely drank lethal poison with their morning tea just for the flavor. They subjected their children to millions of volts of electricity simply to build up a tolerance.

If they found out I wasn’t Milluki, they wouldn’t just kill me. Death would be a mercy they wouldn’t grant.

They would take me to the lower, unlit levels of Kukuroo Mountain. They would strap me to a reinforced chair, and Illumi would walk in with a handful of his specialized, Nen-infused needles. They would systematically, clinically dismantle my psyche. They would peel back my sanity layer by layer, agonizing nerve by agonizing nerve, until I confessed everything about who I was, where I came from, and how I had possessed their useless son’s body.

And the worst part? After I confessed everything, they would keep going, just out of professional curiosity. They would vivisect my soul to see how a transmigrator worked.

“I have to get out of here,” I whispered, the sound loud in the cavernous room.

The despair of being an imposter in the world’s most dangerous family was suffocating. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t act like Milluki perfectly forever. I didn’t have his exact vocal cadences down. I didn’t know the exact way he whined to his mother. I was bound to slip up.

If Illumi looked at me with those dead, black, soulless eyes for longer than three seconds, my newly acquired zero-agility nerves would snap. I’d probably burst into tears and confess to the Kennedy assassination just to make the staring stop.

I needed to run. Immediately.

I needed to pack a bag, waddle my massive frame out of this room, navigate the labyrinthine halls of the estate, bypass the giant, man-eating guard dog Mike, and disappear into the Yorknew City underworld before anyone realized the resident basement-dweller was acting out of character.

Fueled by sheer, primal terror, I planted my hands on the floor and tried to stand up quickly.

My legs immediately buckled under the sheer mass of my own body. My knees screamed in agony, and I collapsed back onto the floor, knocking over a stack of empty soda cans that clattered loudly into the silence. I lay there, wheezing heavily, my lungs burning.

Run away? I thought, a bitter, dark chuckle escaping my lips as I stared at the ceiling. Who am I kidding? I can’t even walk to the bathroom without requiring a tactical breather. I’m going to die here. I’m going to be turned into a living pincushion by an emotionless guy with better hair than a shampoo model.

I buried my face in my pudgy, grease-stained hands, utterly resigning myself to my inevitable, agonizing doom. I wondered if I could just induce a third heart attack through sheer willpower and save everyone the trouble.

And then, a sound cut through the heavy silence of the room.

Ding!

It was a crisp, classic, unmistakable notification sound. The exact kind you hear in a retro video game when you unlock a rare achievement or pick up a critical item.

But it didn’t come from the expensive surround-sound system on the desk. The sound echoed directly inside the center of my skull.

I snapped my head up, my beady eyes wide.

Floating in the air, exactly two feet in front of my face, was a translucent, glowing blue holographic screen. It cast a faint, ethereal light over the surrounding piles of garbage.

My breath caught in my throat. As a self-proclaimed nerd in my previous life, a man who loved video games and had wasted entirely too much time reading web novels, I knew exactly what this was.

The screen flickered, the light stabilizing, and lines of crisp, white text began to scroll across the interface. In the pitch-black abyss of my despair, a glimmer of hope—blinding, miraculous, paradigm-shifting hope—pierced through the dark.

[The Ultimate Uchiha System has successfully bound to Host.]
[Status Screen Initiated.]

—

Name: Milluki Zoldyck

Bloodline: Uchiha Lv1 (0%)

Level: 1 (0/3)

Affinity: Fire Lv3, Yin Lv5, Yang Lv2

…

Health: 10/10

Chakra: 15/15

Fatigue: 7%

…

STR: 0

AGI: 0

VIT: 0

INT: 18

PER: 0

…

Skill: Sharingan Lv1

—

I stared at the floating blue text for a long, silent, breathless minute. The hum of the computer fans faded entirely into the background. The pain in my chest, the fear of Illumi, the sheer weight of my body—all of it vanished, eclipsed by the glowing blue font.

“This… this is my system,” I muttered aloud, my eyes hungrily darting across the holographic interface.

A system. The ultimate, undisputed cheat code for the transmigrated soul.

And it wasn’t just a generic leveling system. It was the Ultimate Uchiha System.

In my previous life on Earth, before the unfortunate ramen-induced cardiac event, I hadn’t just watched Hunter x Hunter. I had consumed a massive, borderline unhealthy amount of anime, including the entirety of Naruto.

I knew exactly what the Uchiha name meant. It meant brooding red eyes, giant fireballs, overwhelming familial angst, and, frankly, some of the most broken, wildly overpowered, plot-destroying abilities in the history of fiction.

I leaned closer, my mind shifting gears from sheer terror to analytical gamer mode. The panic retreated, replaced by the cold, calculating logic of a min-maxer analyzing a new skill tree. Let’s break this down.

Level: 1 (0/3).

The fundamental building block of any RPG. According to my gamer intuition, the Level decided my HP (Health Points) and my Chakra. In the Naruto universe, Chakra was the physical and spiritual energy molded to perform jutsu. Essentially, my Level dictated the absolute ceiling of my ninja powers. The higher the level, the larger the Chakra pool, the deadlier the techniques I could spam.

Affinity: Fire Lv3, Yin Lv5, Yang Lv2.

Perfect. As an Uchiha, having a Fire affinity was practically a genetic requirement. If you couldn’t spit a fireball the size of a minivan to incinerate your enemies, they’d probably kick you out of the clan.

But it was the Yin release that made my heart skip a beat. Yin was based on spiritual energy, the imagination, and the mind. It was the absolute foundation of Genjutsu—illusions. For a member of an assassin family that relied on stealth, psychological intimidation, and manipulation, mastering Genjutsu would be devastating. Why bother physically assassinating a target when you can just trap their mind in a localized nightmare until their brain shuts down?

Then I looked at the core stats.

STR: 0. AGI: 0. VIT: 0.

I blinked. I blinked again, leaning closer to the screen to make sure I wasn’t misreading it.

“Zero?” I whispered, deeply offended. “I mean, I know I’m severely overweight, but literally zero? I’m pretty sure a moderately healthy houseplant has a Strength stat of at least one. A literal rock sitting in the garden has more Vitality than I do.”

It made twisted sense, though. STR was raw muscle power and physical force. AGI governed flexibility, balance, speed, and reflexes. VIT was life-force, stamina, and physical durability.

Milluki’s body had been utterly, criminally neglected. He was entirely sedentary, surviving on a diet of pure junk food and spite. The fact that the original Milluki had just died of a heart attack proved that his Vitality was practically in the negatives. The system was just being brutally honest.

But then there was INT: 18.

Intelligence. Cognitive processing speed, memory retention, logical deduction, and analytical capability. Eighteen was exceptionally high for a starting, level-one stat.

This had to be the residual benefit of inhabiting the body of a Zoldyck. They were all bred to be geniuses. Even the “useless” Zoldyck was a world-class hacker, an inventor who created microscopic bombs, and a tactical mind when he actually applied himself to a computer screen. My brain was a supercomputer; it was just currently housed in a crumbling, fleshy chassis.

PER: 0.

Perception. The five senses—seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, smelling—and the elusive sixth sense, the awareness of danger and malicious intent. Zero.

That explained why I hadn’t noticed the distinct smell of my own body odor until five minutes after waking up. Milluki was entirely oblivious to the world around him, hyper-fixated only on whatever screen was in front of his face.

And finally, the crown jewel. The saving grace at the bottom of the screen.

Skill: Sharingan Lv1.

Any Naruto fan worth their salt knew exactly what the Sharingan was. The Copy Wheel Eye. The ultimate dojutsu. The eye that sees the truth.

At level one, it would likely only grant a single tomoe—a slight boost to kinetic vision, allowing me to see fast-moving objects and read basic muscle movements. It wouldn’t do much against a master Nen user right now.

But as it leveled up? Two tomoe. Three tomoe. The Mangekyō Sharingan.

Susanoo. The giant, impenetrable avatar of chakra.
Amaterasu. The black flames that never extinguish until the target is ash.
Tsukuyomi. The ultimate illusion, where time, space, and mass are entirely controlled by the user.
Kamui. Travelling between time and space.

If I could awaken the higher levels of the Sharingan, I wouldn’t need to run from the Zoldycks. I wouldn’t need to sneak past Mike the guard dog. I could sit in the dining room, look Illumi directly in his dead, soulless eyes, trap him in an illusion where he’s forced to watch a looping video of Killua hugging Gon for seventy-two straight hours, and calmly eat my dinner.

I mentally prodded the system interface, seeking more information on how exactly I was supposed to level up. A secondary screen popped up, detailing the core function of the Ultimate Uchiha System.

I scanned the text, waiting for the catch. Usually, these systems came with insane, life-threatening, mandatory quests. Things like: ‘Assassinate Silva Zoldyck in three days or your soul will be obliterated’ or ‘Slap Hisoka the clown in the face to gain 10 EXP.’

But… there was nothing.

Luckily, this system didn’t have any quest-like structures. There were no arbitrary conditions I had to fulfill to survive, no ticking clocks, and no system punishments. The system’s primary function was beautifully, elegantly simple.

It turns your efforts into EXP.

That was it. Every pushup I managed to complete. Every hour spent meditating to mold Chakra. Every clumsy attempt to use the Sharingan. It would all be quantified, calculated, and converted into Experience Points. And EXP was the universal currency of power. EXP would level me up. EXP would raise my pitiful stats.

If I had millions of EXP, I could instantaneously bypass years of grueling physical conditioning. I could potentially become stronger than the Sage of Six Paths himself, all without ever having to leave the safety of this heavily soiled computer room.

“Effort equals EXP,” I murmured, a genuine, terrifying smile replacing the dark grimace on my face. “And EXP equals not getting tortured to death by my own psychotic family.”

The system interface also hinted at other functions—locked tabs labeled Store, Lottery, and Skill Fusion—which would unlock slowly as I leveled up. But right now, none of that mattered. What mattered was that I had a lifeline. I had a tangible, measurable way to survive the most terrifying family on the planet without having to risk stepping outside my bedroom door.

I looked down at my massive, trembling hands.

My AGI was zero. My STR was zero. My fatigue meter was already at 7% just from sitting up, hyperventilating, and reading a floating screen.

“Alright, system,” I said, my voice steadying. I adopted the cold, pragmatic logic that the original Milluki used to write code and exploit video game mechanics. “Let’s see how much EXP a single sit-up is worth in this world.”

I shifted my weight, wincing as my back twinged. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the dimly lit, vaulted ceiling of the Zoldyck mansion. I planted my bare feet on the hardwood floor. I crossed my arms over my massive chest, bracing my nonexistent core.

I pushed.

My face immediately turned an alarming, violent shade of purple. Veins bulged in my forehead, throbbing against my skin. I managed to lift my shoulders exactly two inches off the floor before gravity, and roughly three hundred pounds of stubborn flab, violently asserted their absolute dominance.

I collapsed backward, the back of my head bouncing lightly off the floor. I lay there, gasping for air like a beached whale, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Ding!

[Action: Attempted Sit-up. Effort registered.]

[EXP +0.01]

I lay there on the floor, staring at the floating blue text. My chest was heaving, my muscles screaming in protest from two inches of movement.

Slowly, a manic, slightly unhinged laugh bubbled up from the back of my throat, echoing loudly in the quiet room.

“Zero point zero one,” I wheezed, the absolute dark humor of my situation fully settling in. I needed three whole EXP to reach level two. That meant 300 attempted sit-ups. Just for level two.

“At this rate, I’ll be able to fight the Phantom Troupe in hand-to-hand combat by the time I’m eighty-five years old. Perfect.”

Somewhere out there in the world, the 287th Hunter Exam was starting. Gon Freecss, Killua Zoldyck, Kurapika, and Leorio were about to embark on their grand, life-threatening adventure. The world of Hunter x Hunter was about to change forever.

But down here, in the dark, snack-filled bowels of Kukuroo Mountain, a very different kind of monster was being born.

A very fat, very out-of-shape monster with red eyes, zero physical strength, and a pathological, deeply motivating fear of his own family.

Let the games begin.