Uchiha Makoto refined the contents of his "Hashirama Senju Threat Theory" as he made his way toward the capital of the Land of Fire.
Nothing unexpected happened along the road—only a few clueless highway bandits. Makoto had no choice but to strip them of everything from head to toe.
After more than ten days on the move, he reached the capital of the Land of Fire.
With rising expectations, he beheld a colossal city worthy of the strongest country in the shinobi world. Though war had raged for a long time, the capital, compared with the cities he had passed, was bursting with life, everything flourishing.
But the world is never only light. To keep a capital so splendid, someone must pay the price. If you feel you're marching under a heavy load, someone else is buying your peace.
Makoto wasted no time marveling. He didn't even stop to eat before heading straight for the palace where the daimyō resided.
The palace environs were heavily guarded, elite troops garrisoned nearby—not to fend off shinobi, but to fend off the rabble.
If a pack of desperate commoners raised a banner and stirred hearts, gathered into a crowd, and by "accident" surged against the capital, that would be no small matter.
Even if such unrest would be quelled in the end, the daimyō had his pride.
Under a "sage daimyō," the realm should be at peace, the capital the model city. For troublemakers to riot under his very nose was a slap across the face.
Other lords would seize the chance to laugh at him.
So even though these elite units of ordinary men couldn't handle shinobi, they were still necessary.
As for the daimyō himself, he had shinobi specialists to guard him. Every daimyō stood atop the pyramid of power and wealth. Hiring shinobi for round-the-clock protection was trivial; the cost, negligible.
If they could, the daimyō would gladly spend lavishly to cultivate their own shinobi.
They stood above shinobi and kept them down, but a fear buried in their souls for a thousand years clung like a parasite: the hilt of the king's sword of power still lay in shinobi hands, not theirs.
They had tried many times to raise their own shinobi and failed every time.
For core techniques—precious arts like secret ninjutsu—clans would rather let them rot in their own hands than sell, at any price.
"Stop. No admittance to idlers."
As soon as he neared the palace complex, a guard's bark met Makoto's ears.
This was royal ground. Never mind entering—ordinary people had no right to even approach.
These guards truly would kill if rabble pressed them.
Makoto had considered slipping in unseen. Guards of common stock couldn't stop him.
But he had come to the capital for sponsorship. He couldn't very well meet the daimyō that way.
Such swagger would have to wait.
So he handed over his visiting card, then, under the guard's suspicious stare, showed the Sharingan of the Uchiha. At the guard's scream of terror, he finally accepted that this was a real Uchiha—those scarlet eyes with tomoe that, with a single glance, cast you into illusion were not just rumor.
The Uchiha name opened doors.
Had he been an ordinary shinobi, the guard would have driven him off. Shinobi? So what?
"I'm a daimyō's dog—cough, a daimyō's guard."
But the Uchiha were different.
Their name was known to all. Even a daimyō had to keep good relations with the Uchiha.
It was well known—unlike the Senju—the Uchiha had a habit of producing extremists, ruthless and black-hearted.
They really would act at the slightest slight.
The guard scrambled to find his superior. After the report, a portly attendant emerged from the palace gate.
"Lord Uchiha, this way, please."
Led by the attendant, Makoto was shown to a reception room.
After about half an hour, he finally met his target—the daimyō of the Land of Fire.
"It has been a long time since the Uchiha sent anyone to call."
"Tea, quickly."
The daimyō, all warmth, had a servant fill Makoto's cup again.
"Many thanks, Your Highness."
Makoto introduced himself. After brief pleasantries, they chatted in fits and starts.
Seeing the mood was good, the daimyō asked about the Uchiha's current state.
It was something he cared about greatly.
The grievances between Uchiha and Senju were crystal clear to him. Especially of late, the latest round of war between the two had gone white-hot. Distance was great and messages traveled slowly; he could not get first-hand reports.
By what he knew, Hashirama Senju, the Senju clan head, and Madara Uchiha, the Uchiha clan head, had fought without cease these past years.
But they did not feel like men.
He was no stranger to powerful shinobi, but the power of Madara and Hashirama far surpassed what ordinary shinobi could wield.
By intelligence, their worst clash had spread over a thousand miles. From afar one had seen wooden dragons winding, giants glaring, blades cleaving mountains—scenes so exaggerated they shattered imagination. The aftermath of their battle had bleached everything around into a wasteland.
When such reports arrived, the daimyō had doubted they were false.
Could humans command such power?
It was terrifying.
What power is this?
To call them gods would not be excessive.
With two godlike shinobi in the world, how were the self-styled rulers of the shinobi world to rest easy?
Hearing the daimyō's urgent questions, Makoto smiled.
Time to give him the dose he needed.