These snacks weren't "bought" for Sasuke. They were clearly Makoto's personal stash.
No wonder every single bag was stuff Makoto loved—not one thing Sasuke actually liked!
Thinking about lugging this heavy pile from the snack shop on the east end of the clan grounds all the way to the taijutsu training field on the west—his arms were still sore and tingly—Sasuke's whole face scrunched up in rage.
His eyes swept the blue-stone ground. A curled, dried leaf was wedged into a wooden post at the edge.
Taijutsu training field?
Sasuke huffed inside. His gaze landed on Makoto, casually munching away. His fists clenched tighter.
Sunshine warmed his back. The corner of Sasuke's mouth twitched up. Time to spar. Pure hand-to-hand? Uchiha "Sunny Pillar" Sasuke feared no kid his age. Undefeated among peers!
Even against the so-called future of the clan—Uchiha Makoto—Sunny Pillar Sasuke wasn't scared!
He was already picturing Makoto on the ground begging for mercy.
"Hahaha—"
Too deep in the fantasy, the laugh slipped out—like air leaking from a balloon.
It was still childish, but it carried the early vibes of the Uchiha Mad-Laugh Five.
Makoto heard the familiar cackle, looked over, and caught Sasuke's face turning tomato-red from ears to neck.
Sasuke wanted to dig a hole and disappear.
He jerked his head up, pretending to study clouds, ears perked like radar, terrified Makoto would tease him.
The wicker chair creaked—Makoto shifting.
Sasuke's heart raced, rabbit in his chest. Half dreading the roast, half hoping for any attention—even a jab…
Nothing.
Just the slow crunch of chips.
Sasuke snuck a side-eye. Makoto was already watching the center of the field again. Didn't even register him.
"Jerk!" Sasuke's fists balled. Spar time. Winner takes all. Loser… dies!!
Makoto kept watching the two girls sparring. One of them? He knew her well.
Uchiha Izumi. Her dad wasn't clan-born. On the Nine-Tails night, she watched him die right in front of her.
That's when her Sharingan awakened. Crazy talent. In the original story, she hit three-tomoe at thirteen… then died at thirteen.
A beautiful flower, snuffed out before it bloomed.
...…
After her dad's death, her mom—Uchiha Hazuki—brought her back to the clan, took the Uchiha name.
From day one, the clan shunned her.
Even after awakening Sharingan, nobody taught her how to use it. Same treatment as future "Sunny Pillar."
Makoto? He liked her a lot. From a young age, he had a thing for pretty big sisters.
The spar on the field heated up. A faint floral scent drifted over. Makoto's eyes locked on Izumi.
Her long black hair was tied in a loose ponytail, swaying with every kick, tips brushing the hem of her purple crop top, carrying a whisper of gardenia.
That tiny teardrop mole under her right eye—like a red bean on snow—stood out on her pale skin.
Her already delicate features looked even more alive with it. Like an ink painting fresh from the brush—every stroke perfect.
The mole? The finishing touch.
Right now, those pretty eyes glowed scarlet.
Sharingan spun fast, breaking the opponent's moves into tiny frames.
Izumi always struck in the gap—right when the other girl committed, mid-motion, hardest to adjust. A light palm or a flick of a kick.
No need for power. Just precision to shatter rhythm.
Like fingers plucking strings—gentle, but in total control of the song.
The older girl across from her had Sharingan too, but her movements were getting stiff, like a rusty puppet.
Same bloodline limit. Totally different flavor in Izumi's hands.
Her footwork danced—sometimes butterfly through flowers, sometimes cat pouncing on a mouse. Pure grace.
Every step synced to her opponent's breath, turning the whole field into her stage.
Makoto rested his chin on his hand, mesmerized. Gotta spar dance moves with Madara someday.
But yeah—learn taijutsu from Izumi. Itachi and Shisui are ninjutsu/illusion gods. Izumi? Pure body work.
Mid-thought—thud.
Izumi spun, elbow slamming into the girl's ribs like an iron pestle. Clean, no hesitation.
The older girl grunted, stumbled back three steps, clutching her side.
Izumi landed steady, chest rising and falling, sweaty bangs plastered to her forehead like wet ink.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, brushing the mole. Older opponents actually teach you something.
Walking off the field, sweat dripped, leaving wet prints.
She glanced around. Clan members either wiped wooden swords or adjusted wrist guards. Not a single look her way.
Her clean spinning elbow strike? Crickets. You could hear wind rolling a dead leaf across the ground.
No one clapped…
Izumi's brows pinched. Fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of her damp top.
Fabric wrinkled like her mood. All because I'm only half Uchiha.
From the day she returned, she was the black pebble in a bowl of white rice. Never fit.
Makoto watched from the wicker chair and suddenly thought of Madara leaving the village. Probably felt like this.
He stood up.
Clap.
Clap.
Two sharp claps rang out in the empty field—like hot oil hitting ice water, shattering the silence.
Izumi whipped around, meeting smiling eyes.
Sunlight gilded Makoto's hair like a halo. Little walking sun. His claps weren't loud.
But they hit every eardrum like a command.
Izumi blinked, lashes trembling. Then her lips curved, mole bending with them.
The smile was like the first meltwater dripping from spring eaves, or a cherry blossom finally cracking open after a long winter—sweet and quiet.
She remembered Makoto from the Nine-Tails night. He and Sasuke were babies in Itachi's arms.
Makoto had tried to climb her chest. Itachi couldn't pry him off.
Later, back in the clan, shunned for being mixed—only the clan head's family didn't care.
And Makoto? He played with her all the time.
He grinned back, raised his drink bottle—come share.
The clan froze, then recognized the clapper. Eyes lit up.
A few teens who'd been stone-faced quietly clapped twice, awkward like their first hand seal.
Older folks exchanged glances. Hard mouths softened. Less disdain in their stares.
Uchiha worshipped strength.
Makoto wasn't strong yet—too young—but with his talent? Future clan savior, guaranteed.
Half a year ago, he'd roasted Danzō in front of nearly every elite.
Still gave people chills.
If he were older, he'd be clan head yesterday. Fugaku who?
Izumi walked over, gardenia scent trailing.
They sat side by side on the wicker chairs. Makoto twisted open the drink, handed it over.
She took a tiny sip—cold liquid down her throat, ears turning pink.
She suddenly remembered Makoto peeing on the Third Hokage's stone head half a year ago. Cheeks flushed.
"That elbow was clean. Teach me sometime."
Makoto tossed the empty bottle into the bamboo basket, casual.
He'd practiced the "Ōtsutsuki Elbow Strike" in his past life—decent at it.
But compared to Izumi's just now?
Amateur hour.