Makoto Uchiha dropped into the blood-soaked courtyard like a leaf caught in a midnight breeze—zero noise, pure stealth. He'd been chilling on the highest roof ridge, Sharingan spun up, playing lookout so no random asshole could blindside them.
But nah, nothing spicy happened. The whole gig went smoother than a cold beer on game day—almost boring.
Moonlight poured down like liquid mercury, outlining Makoto's frame in sharp, hot detail. Those crimson Sharingan eyes glowed demon-red in the dark, bouncing off chopped-up limbs and puddles of blood.
Air stank of rust and iron, plus the leftover freezer-burn vibe from Shiro's ice jutsu—gave the night a straight-up winter-kill feel.
Makoto strolled through the mess like he owned the place, boots dodging every dark-red splash, until he stopped in front of the noble who was now a trembling pile of expensive laundry.
Lord Kurosawa—once a fat-cat bully—wasn't looking so hot. Snot, tears, blood, and dirt smeared across his triple chins; all that came out of his throat was a wet, choking whimper.
"Karma's a bitch you plant yourself," Makoto said, voice crisp as cracking ice, every syllable hammering the silence like thunder on sheet metal.
"You spent years stomping the little guy. Guess what? Tonight you're the little guy—and I'm the boot."
He leaned in, face blank—no rage, no pity, just cold nothing.
"Still rocking that noble title? If I were you, I'd pick a classy exit. End the story on your terms."
Kurosawa shook harder, lips flapping for mercy, but the dude couldn't string two words together. He didn't want dignity—he wanted to keep guzzling wine and groping maids.
Makoto wrinkled his nose. Pathetic. He flicked his gaze to the kid standing beside him.
Shiro got the memo—lightning fast. Ice senbon flashed from his fingertips, sliced the air with a whisper of frost, and punched straight through Kurosawa's throat.
Blood sprayed like red fireworks against the snow-pale moonlight. The noble's begging cut off mid-gurgle.
World went dead quiet, except for melting ice dripping plink… plink… on stone.
Whole damn mansion fell into a graveyard hush. Makoto jerked his chin at Shiro and the still-shaky girl. "Loot it. Every coin, every jewel—move your asses!"
Shiro dipped his head and ghosted inside. The girl's face was ghost-white, hands trembling, but she sucked it up and followed. No way she'd let anyone see her flinch.
Makoto gave her back a quick glance, said nothing, then joined the sweep.
They hit the jackpot—bags of cash, gold, gems. Makoto slapped a palm on the pile, chakra flared, and poof—everything vanished into his [Player Shop] interface. The balance counter started doing backflips, skyrocketing like a crypto pump.
Makoto smirked, mood on ten. Cleaning house and stacking paper? Chef's kiss.
Then, because he's a thoughtful guy, he gave the Kurosawa clan the full Viking funeral package.
Shadow clones popped into existence with soft pops, hands flying through seals.
"Fire Style: Great Fireball!"
"Fire Style: Dragon Flame!"
Massive blazing orbs and roaring fire dragons lit the sky, swallowing the mansion in a roaring inferno.
Flames surfed the night air, heat blasting Makoto's cloak like a mosh pit. Firelight painted half his face—calm as a frozen lake.
It also lit up the girl's eyes—fear, confusion, and a wild spark she couldn't name.
Down the street, peasants peeked from windows and alley shadows. Nobody screamed. Nobody ran to help.
They just watched the symbol of their nightmares burn to the ground, a dark, hungry satisfaction glowing behind dead eyes.
That 300-pound tyrant who raped, robbed, and strutted? After meeting Makoto, not even an ounce of ash left. Straight dust in the wind.
"Let's bounce," Makoto said, grinning like he just hit the lottery. "Good haul tonight."
Sky bled orange as they melted into the shadows, cloaks snapping in the updraft.
After that, Makoto dragged Shiro and the girl all over the Land of Waves hunting Kado's slimy ass.
Fisherman docks, black-market dives, shady merchants, even gutter ninjas—nobody had jack.
The country was poorer than a church mouse. Rotting shacks, kids with hollow cheeks, adults with dead stares. Ocean full of fish, yet everybody starving.
No bridge to the mainland = perfect cage for noble bloodsuckers to bleed the people dry.
Makoto stood on a jagged cliff, staring at the gray horizon. Came too early, huh? Kado's probably still hustling in some dive bar.
He shrugged. "Fine. Let the bastard stack more cash for me. It's mine eventually."
The memory of that "tax collection" still tasted sweet. Time to rob a few more scumbag nobles—call it community service with benefits.
Makoto's a doer. Once the plan clicked, he started sniffing intel, picking targets, casing joints.
But before he could strike, some genius dropped a bounty that turned the whole country into a shark tank.
Dawn, fog still clinging to the streets.
The nameless girl—head wrapped in the scarf Makoto bought her like she's on a covert op—slipped into the market for groceries.
She was about to ghost when the crowd around the bulletin board snagged her attention. Whispers, greedy eyes, scared voices. Gut twisting, she edged closer.
One peek through the bodies and her blood froze.
Fresh wanted poster. Shiro's pretty-boy face sketched in perfect detail. Underneath, bold as brass:
CRIME: Slaughter of "innocent" nobles—unforgivable! DEAD OR ALIVE!
Ice Release bloodline—EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Bounty was stupid money for a backwater like this. Already drawing mercenary trash like flies to roadkill.
Girl yanked her scarf lower, snatched a wind-blown copy off the ground, stuffed it in her shirt, and bolted.
She crashed through the safe-house door, wheezing. "M-Makoto-sama…"
Thrust the crumpled poster at him, voice shaking like a leaf.
Makoto took it, scanned the text, and actually froze for a half-second.
He whipped around to Shiro, eyes lighting up like he'd just spotted a walking ATM.
Then he caught himself—nah, can't sell the kid—and shook it off.
Shiro read it too. Face went whiter than the girl's had been, lips bloodless, whole body vibrating.
Those soft, down-turned eyes snapped up—overflowing with guilt and self-loathing that ran deeper than the damn ocean.
"Makoto-sama…" His voice cracked like thin ice.
"That night… I let the servants go. Unarmed civilians. I was weak. I'm not a proper tool…"
He sagged, lashes dropping like curtains over dead windows. "I'll leave. This can't touch you."
Tried to force a broken smile. "Following you these past weeks… after Mom died, it's the happiest I've ever been. Thank you."
The girl stood frozen, flicking terrified glances between them, lips moving soundlessly, heart in her throat.
Room went tomb-silent.
Makoto's eyelid twitched. He crushed the poster into a ball; blue lightning crackled between his knuckles and pfft—ash.
Makoto Uchiha rolls with a code: ask no regrets. Sure, he'll stab backs, flip alliances, plant evidence like a pro, and yeah, he's got a thing for looking after the boss's wife.
But when it counts? He doesn't sell out his own.
He reached out, roughed up Shiro's silky hair until it looked like a bird's nest.
"This ain't on you," he said, casual but iron-clad. "Sparing helpless civilians—tell me, where's the crime in that?"