Sea wind slapped the shutters with that salty, wet slap—rhythmic, like a drunk drummer. Makoto Uchiha stood dead-center in this Wave Country beachside flop-house, spine straight as a flagpole. Dim light from the window carved his profile sharp; face calm as a graveyard, but those pitch-black eyes? Razor blades ready to slice through bullshit.
He'd just dropped the mic. Voice low, but every syllable hit like a sledgehammer on rebar.
"I'm gonna say it straight—you didn't fuck up."
His words bounced off the bare walls, drowning the crash of waves outside.
"We can be wolves, we can be killers, we can gut a motherfucker without blinking—but that blade? It only points at enemies and anyone stronger."
He paused, eyes sweeping the two in front of him, tone going full frostbite warning.
"But if you're dumping that rage on helpless randos? Congrats, you're no better than those inbred noble scum who wipe their ass with human lives."
Of course, if some asshole civilian or thug steps up—weak or not—he's getting smoked. Makoto ain't Mother Teresa. His mercy's got a VIP list, and it's short.
His gaze slid to White, who was still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
Kid's face ghost-white, lashes glued to his cheeks, teeth sunk so deep in his lip it's a miracle he ain't bleeding out. Still beating himself up—thinking letting those defenseless servants skate is gonna drag Makoto into the crosshairs.
Makoto's voice cracked like a whip. "Straighten the fuck up."
"Quit with the pity-party bullshit! Enemies come? We bury 'em. Flood hits? We build the damn wall." Thumb thunk into his own chest—solid as concrete. "Sky falls? I catch it. Your job? Ditch the noise, level up, keep pace."
Voice dropped back to iron. "You swore in. You ride with me, you obey without question, you don't stab me in the back? Then I never leave you behind."
"Hell, a bounty? Pfft—"
He said it like ordering breakfast. But the swagger? Pure, unfiltered I am the storm.
"Worst case—you flatline? I'll punch straight through the goddamn Pure Land, drag your ass back from the afterlife by the collar."
BOOM. Room went nuclear.
White's head snapped up. Eyes red, tears breaking containment—big fat ones carving tracks down pale cheeks. Lip bleeding now, iron taste flooding his mouth. No sobs. Just nodding—hard, over and over, like he's trying to hammer the promise into his skull.
He's just a weapon in Makoto's arsenal… and this dude's treating him like family.
This life, this soul—ALL IN FOR LORD MAKOTO! LOYALTY!!
Silent vow screamed in his chest. Loyalty meter? Pegged at 1000%.
White figured it was just a hype speech.
Future Makoto? Death's a revolving door—he's got the key.
In the corner shadows, No-Name leaned against the cold wall, watching like a stray cat that's been kicked too many times.
Eyes still guarded, still scanning for the exit—classic orphan survival mode.
But deep in those dusty-glass irises? A goddamn sunbeam just jackhammered through the fortress she spent years building. Hot flood smashed every ice wall—fear, distrust, the whole "world's out to get me" starter pack.
Parents gone. Village torched. She's been ghosting through the shinobi world, dodging fake smiles and knife-sharp "kindness." Strong eat weak. Nobles treat ninjas like fancy switchblades. Never heard a speech like that. Never seen a dude like this.
White calls himself a tool—Makoto just yanked him under the wing like a mama hawk.
That unreasonable loyalty, that balls-to-the-wall confidence? Hits harder than any sappy Hallmark card. Her heart's defense grid? Spiderwebbed with cracks.
She stared at his back—not even that tall, but standing like he owns the horizon. Something alien bloomed in her chest—spreading roots faster than kudzu.
Like a boat that's been taking on water for years, finally spotting the lighthouse in the pitch-black storm. Worth crashing for.
But fate's a sadistic bastard—right when hope flickers, it bares its teeth.
Shit hit escape velocity.
Word of the Kurozawa nobility getting wiped spread faster than herpes at a rave—sea wind gave it wings. Hit every noble hall from here to the mainland.
Panic spread through the silk-robed parasites like the plague. They stab each other in the back daily, but this? United front, baby.
These fat cats ain't dumb. They're all on the same sinking ship. Today they cheer one less mouth at the trough—tomorrow that mystery blade's at their throat.
Rabbit dies, fox mourns. Instant solidarity.
They pooled cash, connections, and every dirty favor. Orders flew from gilded mansions. Funds split two ways: black-market bounty boards and straight to the daimyos' greasy palms.
Goal? Make an example. White's head on a pike. Anyone linked—torched. Send a message to every ninja with a spine: Nobles are gods. Bow or bleed.
Bounty on White? Exploded. Oil on fire. Days later? Astronomical. Blew past Sarutobi Asuma—the dude who's basically a walking yen sign.
Makoto genocided a noble bloodline. Triggered a class war.
Even the Five Great Nations' daimyos cashed the checks and leaned hard on their villages. Third Hokage Hiruzen? All in. Konoha elites ghosted into Wave Country like shadows with kunai.
This time? He really poked the hornet's nest.
That bounty meat drew every starving wolf: rogue ninjas, bounty hunters, samurai with a death wish.
Then the big dogs barked—veterans, S-class psychos. "White broke the rules." "Gonna fix the record." Classic "rules for thee, not for me" hypocrisy.
Makoto? Pissed.
"Motherfuckers!"
He punted the coffee table—wood shrapnel everywhere. Eyes glowing like a demon blade unsheathing.
"These bloodsucking nobles leech off the poor, act like kings—touch one and it's like you pissed on their grandma's grave?! What kinda clown logic—"
Rage said: Go loud. Rob every manor. Salt the earth.
But then—Hyuga Byakugan pings. Elite chakra signatures closing in.
He forced the brakes. Think, dumbass.
Death? Whatever. But Five Nations joint most-wanted? Game over. Future plans? Fucked.
Gotta play chess, not MMA.