The first light of dawn crept through the windows, painting faint golden streaks across the walls of Akatsuki Village. The stillness of the early morning was broken only by the soft rustling of leaves swaying in the breeze and the distant sounds of villagers beginning their day. At precisely seven o'clock, Uchiha Makoto stirred awake.
His mornings had long since become a ritual. After washing up, he donned the majestic Light and Shadow Divine Robe—the symbol of his authority, his burden, and his pride. Without delay, he walked toward the Light and Shadow Office, the nerve center of the village he had painstakingly built.
Waiting for him was a meticulously prepared breakfast, steaming gently on his desk. Rice, fresh vegetables, and delicate buns infused with faintly fragrant spices. The chefs assigned to his service ensured his meals were not only delicious but also safe. For the leader of a rising village, caution was no longer a choice—it was a necessity.
Makoto took his seat, savoring the first bite of a soft, warm bun. He let out a quiet sigh.
"The team I hired was worth every coin. Their craftsmanship is… impeccable."
But he could not linger long over food. Leadership did not permit leisure. With the burden of managing an entire village and no younger brother, no trusted deputy to take on daily affairs, Makoto found himself anchored to this office more than anywhere else. His home had become little more than a place to sleep. Meals, meetings, decisions—everything was handled here.
After swallowing the last bite of his breakfast, he cleared the plate aside and shifted his focus. His day's work had begun.
---
Kazuma, his loyal secretary, entered with a letter in hand. He bowed slightly before speaking.
"Lord Makoto, a letter has arrived—from the Uchiha clan."
Makoto raised an eyebrow. For a long time, the clan had kept a distance, watching from Konoha as he built his village, unsure how to treat the relative who had chosen such a daring path. Now, at last, a letter.
He broke the beeswax seal carefully and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the words, and almost immediately his lips curled into a faint, amused smile. The contents were short, filled with courteous phrases that lacked depth.
"You are the pride of the Uchiha clan."
"Remember to write home often. We are always family."
Makoto chuckled softly. "These words are too cheesy. Definitely not written by Madara. He'd never stoop to such sentiment."
It was likely a spontaneous effort by some relatives, perhaps meant to maintain ties or to test the waters. Regardless, it was a positive gesture. Relations between himself and the clan must remain strong, for the future would bring trials that no single man could face alone.
Makoto leaned back, his gaze distant as memories stirred. He recalled the path history had taken—the fragile peace, the growing distrust, and the inevitable clash between Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama. When the two titans fell, the balance of power shifted, and Senju Tobirama, ever the cautious schemer, ascended as the Second Hokage.
And what came of it? A twisted trial against Tobirama, launched under the Uchiha banner, warped into a failed coup. The "just trial" became the excuse Tobirama needed to tighten the chains around the Uchiha, casting them as eternal suspects in Konoha's eyes.
Makoto's gaze hardened.
"This time, Tobirama, your ambitions may not unfold so easily. The Land of Fire already tolerates two hidden villages. Why, then, must Konoha bend to the rule of a single Hokage? Why can't there be… two Second Hokage?"
He dipped his brush into ink and began writing his reply to the clan. His tone mirrored theirs—corny, heartfelt, deliberately exaggerated.
"In life, you are of the Uchiha clan. In death, you are the ghost of the Uchiha clan. Should the day come when our clan falters, remember—you may speak at any time, and I will answer."
Satisfied, he set the letter aside for delivery. His ties to the clan would remain secure.
---
With that task complete, Makoto shifted to pressing matters. He turned to Kazuma.
"How progresses the salt monopoly?"
Kazuma adjusted his spectacles and began reporting with practiced precision.
"First phase: completed. We've acquired a mid-sized salt merchant company and absorbed its operations. Smaller private salt traders resisted, but lacking protection or strength, they were swiftly eliminated. Consolidation was necessary. Too many hands weaken the market."
Makoto nodded approvingly. In this world, strength dictated legitimacy.
"As for the larger merchants," Kazuma continued, "our approach was… gentler. Anbu representatives visited personally, bearing gifts of rice, flour, and oil. They spoke politely, asked whether the families might consider selling their companies. And when they departed, they left with smiles and kind wishes for the merchants' health."
Makoto smirked knowingly. This was diplomacy with sharp edges hidden beneath silk. Those merchants, mere proxies for powerful figures in the Fire Nation, had run trembling to their patrons. Yet when they arrived, they discovered those same patrons had also received unexpected "gifts" from Akatsuki Village.
"A coincidence," Makoto murmured, though his eyes glinted with amusement.
Not all accepted gracefully. Some decried his actions loudly, accusing the Fire Daimyo of opening the door to wolves, of permitting shinobi to meddle in civilian trade. Such voices, sharp and insistent, grated on Makoto's patience.
But soon those voices fell silent. Permanently. The lesson was simple: those who tried to sabotage the alliance between the Daimyo and Akatsuki Village… vanished.
And with those disappearances, progress surged forward. The salt monopoly tightened day by day. Yet rumors, as they always did, spread beyond the village. Whispers of bloodshed and intimidation leaked into the wider Land of Fire. Eventually, word reached the ears of the Fire Daimyo himself.
---
Inside the opulent capital palace, chaos brewed.
"What madness is this?!" The Daimyo thundered, his face red with fury. "Why are people claiming I ordered Akatsuki Village to slaughter innocents? Why do they say I am meddling in the salt trade?"
His attendants knelt low, trembling. None dared breathe too loudly. Serving the Daimyo was akin to serving a beast—any misstep could be fatal.
He raged, smashing porcelain and scattering documents until exhaustion dulled his anger. Slowly, he calmed, though his face remained grim.
The truth was clear. His alliance with Uchiha Makoto was already public knowledge. Even if he denied involvement, the world would not believe him. Men had died, and the blood had already stained his reputation. The only path left was to cooperate fully, to align himself with Makoto's actions and salvage whatever benefit he could.
And there was benefit to be had.
The Daimyo sank into his seat, tapping his fingers thoughtfully. Wars, famines, and disasters had drained the treasury. Taxes dwindled, deficits piled high, and the people—the "untouchables," as nobles often muttered—still required food. Relief efforts devoured resources faster than they could be replenished.
But salt… Salt was necessity itself. Regaining monopoly control over such a vital resource could pour rivers of gold back into his coffers. If Makoto carried the blame while he reaped the taxes, perhaps this scandal could transform into salvation.
---
Far away, in the heart of Konoha, another man heard the news.
Senju Tobirama sat in his office, the sharp gleam of intellect in his eyes. As reports detailed Makoto's venture into the salt trade, Tobirama threw his head back and laughed.
"Ha! That naturally evil Uchiha brat reveals his ignorance at last. Trading in salt? A child's folly! He hasn't even gathered the most basic intelligence. Salt prices are at their lowest in years. And he believes this is the path to power?"
His laughter echoed coldly through the room. To Tobirama, it was confirmation of what he had always believed—that Uchiha, for all their talent, were slaves to arrogance and short-sighted ambition.
But even as he mocked, the faintest spark of unease flickered within him. For he knew too well that Uchiha Makoto was no ordinary clan member.
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