The day of the Academy registration had concluded, marking Makima's formal insertion into the rigid hierarchy of Konoha. She was no longer just a body; she was an asset—the Uzumaki-blessed Heiress of the Utatane Clan.
She stood now in the large, private washroom of her assigned manor within the Utatane compound, preparing for the ritual of the evening bath. The manor was quiet, heavy with the oppressive silence of wealth and political power.
Makima lowered herself into the steaming, fragrant water of the cedar bath. She closed her golden eyes, letting the heat penetrate her pores, but her mind remained cold and active. The reflection on the water's surface was of the girl Makima, the ultimate subject of Hiroshi's obsession and, now, her new reality.
She ran her hands across her collarbones, down the slight slope of her shoulders, and across the unsettling reality of her new chest. This feminine vessel was flawless, capable, and already responding to her internal commands. The Uzumaki blood, which Konoha mistook for her source of power, provided a massive, stable pool of chakra—a resource she commanded her body to utilize for accelerated healing, endurance, and technical refinement, ensuring her visible performance was always genius-level. The Control Devil's power, however, remained an internal singularity.
I am beautiful, I am powerful, and I am in control, she affirmed, the three truths replacing the weak, indecisive thoughts of Hiroshi. This body was perfect for her ultimate goal: the subjugation of the chaos called "peace."
After the bath, Makima dismissed the older female servant who had been waiting and dried herself with precise, economical movements. The most challenging part of this new life was dressing. The clothing was elegant but alien, a stark contrast to the hoodies and jeans of her previous existence.
She stood before a full-length mirror, examining her reflection. Her first layer was the undergarment, necessitated by her physical form but lacking any modern mechanism. Instead of a bra, she took two long strips of fine, soft white silk, thin enough to be comfortable yet sturdy enough for a degree of support. She wrapped the silk strips tightly beneath her arms and across her developing curves, securing them with a knot at the back. It was a functional, historical solution that disappeared seamlessly beneath the next layers.
Next came the inner kimono, followed by the high-collared, simple pale-blue over-tunic, perfectly matched to her crimson braid. Every movement was now practiced, every fold of cloth falling into place.
She gazed into the mirror, completing the final piece of her disguise: her expression. The chilling, predatory hunger of the Devil was locked behind the golden irises, replaced by the soft, grateful, and slightly shy smile of the Utatane Heiress. A kunoichi of promise, not a terrifying monster.
A few moments later, Makima settled at a low table to review her Academy texts and some dry clan paperwork. She noticed that the small, heirloom inkwell she preferred was missing. It was a trifling matter, but a matter of order nonetheless.
She rang the small brass bell on the table.
Kenji, the attendant from the registration, rushed into the room, clearly nervous about serving the young heiress. He was a low-ranking ninja, assigned to the clan—a perfect subject.
"Makima-sama, how may I serve you?" Kenji asked, bowing too low and too quickly.
"The inkwell, Kenji-san. The small black stone one. It should be here," Makima said, her voice gentle, yet precise.
Kenji straightened, stammering slightly. "Ah, yes, Makima-sama. I apologize. I instructed one of the new, clumsy maids, Haru, to clean the area earlier. She likely misplaced it. I will fetch it right away and reprimand her severely."
Makima paused, her sweet smile freezing on her face. Kenji had committed two sins: deflection and disobedience. The flicker of independent will was an ugly, chaotic stain on her control. It was not enough to extinguish it; she wanted to savor the moment the flicker became nothing but dust, the moment his life became her puppet show.
Makima looked up, her golden eyes locking onto Kenji's. Kenji felt a sudden, strange pressure in his chest, a fleeting moment of vertigo that he dismissed as stress.
"You must slip on the polished wood floor, strike your head on the stone hearth with fatal force, and die instantly."
The command was issued silently. Makima didn't just command the fall; she choreographed it with malicious, perfect intent. She felt a sickening, exquisite pull on Kenji's motor nerves, forcing his body into a sudden, impossible, balletic misstep. She reveled in the moment of complete betrayal—his own muscles turning against him as he tried to regain footing.
His right foot slid sharply and unnaturally on the smooth, waxed floor. His body twisted, falling backward and sideways with mechanical precision, guiding the back of his skull directly toward the sharp, unyielding corner of the stone hearth by the fireplace.
There was a sickening, wet thud.
A thin, cold, and pure line of sadistic pleasure touched Makima's soul. This was the reward for control, the destruction of choice. Kenji's eyes went wide with shock—not pain—as his consciousness was instantly extinguished. His body slumped onto the floor, the final posture looking tragically accidental, his arms splayed out as if he were trying, too late, to catch himself.
Makima rose immediately, her face etched with sudden, perfect horror. She moved quickly to the crumpled form, checking his neck with practiced, if fake, urgency.
She knelt beside the body and let out a small, sharp gasp, ensuring the sound was loud enough to carry through the open shoji screen to the next room.
"Oh, Kenji-san!" she cried, her voice ringing with terror and sorrow. "Please, someone! An accident! Call the medics!"
Within seconds, the manor was in an uproar. Elder Koharu Utatane herself arrived moments later, drawn by the panic.
"What happened here, Makima?" Koharu demanded, immediately examining the scene.
Makima's eyes were glistening with unshed, genuine-looking tears—a testament to her control. "He—he was going to fetch my inkwell, Elder-sama. I think he rushed and slipped on the polished floor. I saw him go down… his head hit the hearth." She pointed a trembling finger at the corner.
Koharu examined the position of the body, the slick floor, and the impact point. The death was brutal but entirely plausible. Ninja or not, a sudden, backward fall onto stone could be fatal.
"A terrible tragedy," Koharu sighed, already assigning blame to the victim's clumsiness. "A clean accident. Makima, you are distraught. You will take the day off tomorrow. I will have the reports handled. Do not worry. The village will consider this a necessary, though regrettable, casualty of carelessness."
Makima lowered her gaze, offering the perfect expression of fragile, aristocratic grief. "Yes, Elder-sama. Thank you for your kindness."
As the body was carefully wrapped and carried away, Makima returned to her seat. The inkwell was still missing, but the order was restored. She had confirmed her power's absolute lethality and its capability to be perfectly concealed as the chaos of the natural world.
The Utatane Clan Heiress was safe. The Control Devil had ensured it. She picked up a new brush, dipped it in the replacement ink, and began studying the foundational texts for the Ninja Academy. Her path was clear, and no subordinate, however minor, would ever obstruct it again.