Snagging that [Mid-Tier Hashirama Bloodline] just blew the roof off Makoto Uchiha's potential—like upgrading from a Civic to a damn Bugatti.
Bonus jackpot? Locking down Honglian, a straight-up prodigy who's already proven she's ride-or-die loyal.
Makoto clocked every twitch in her soul these past weeks—fear, doubt, the whole emotional rollercoaster. He never called it out, never leaned on her. Zero pressure.
Because real talk: loyalty that ain't 100% is 0%. Life-or-death calls gotta come from her. Forced fruit's bitter; forced people flip.
Honglian chose to stay, handed over her real name, and swore on her life. That silent vow? Worth more than any hostage promise.
Sea wind still howled, but now it felt less like a slap and more like a caress.
Way out on the horizon, Kirigakure's massive island loomed through the perpetual fog—like a sleeping Kraken ready to wake up hungry.
Dawn finally knifed through the gloom, gold light shredding clouds and turning the ocean into molten metal. It lit up the three of them shoulder-to-shoulder, staring down a future that looked equal parts epic and oh-shit.
Makoto let them crash on that speck of an island for a minute. With her oath locked in, Honglian flipped a switch—glowed up like she'd been plugged into a power strip.
Training? She went full psycho on herself. Even chill-ass Shiro raised an eyebrow at her grind.
She started shadowing Shiro to wrangle her Crystal Release. Rough as hell—Shiro's only half-baked himself—but after a bit, legit pink crystals flickered in her palm. Shaky, but there. Kid's a freak.
Downtime? She turned into Makoto's personal five-star concierge. Cooking, laundry, sweeping the shack—every chore done like she was polishing a shrine.
Three fugitives on a broke-ass rock in the middle of nowhere, and somehow it felt like a damn Hallmark movie.
Makoto played the waiting game, popping back to the Land of Waves via Flying Thunder God to scout. Figured he'd hit a few more noble ATMs, but nah—ninja dragnet was tight. They flipped that country inside out hunting Shiro. Tension thicker than grandma's gravy.
Plan B: bail to the Land of Water.
They jacked a pirate skiff (sorry, not sorry), Shiro on rudder and sails. Most of the ride was just gulls screaming and waves slapping wood—ocean ASMR.
Makoto posted up at the bow, fake-fishing with a ghetto rod. Really? Grinding Lightning Chakra Mode. Tiny blue arcs danced under his skin, needling every muscle till it screamed—then grew back stronger. Feeling yourself level up daily? Chef's kiss.
Shiro coached Honglian on baby-step chakra control—making wonky crystals float on choppy water, hardening her flow into solid ruby chunks. Two bloodline weirdos geeking out over jutsu hacks.
Their eyes kept drifting to the lazy king at the front—anchor in human form.
Honglian locked in hard, brows pinched, sweat beading like diamonds. But every half hour she'd sneak over, wash her hands, crystal-blade a mango into perfect bites, and tiptoe to Makoto.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, she'd feed him the sweetest piece. When his lips closed around it? Sparkle in her eyes brighter than the fruit.
Sometimes she'd kneel behind him, hands trembling but steady, kneading lightning-stiff shoulders. Every press against his jacked, buzzing muscles sent her heart into overdrive—ears on fire, fingertips tingling. She never wanted to stop.
Thanks to Makoto's endless gourmet drop-offs, her skeletal frame filled out fast. Cheeks plump, skin silky, hair turning ocean-silk blue. Hips and chest starting to curve—just a hint, but damn. Girl was blooming into a straight-up heartbreaker.
Her glances at Makoto? Loaded with clingy, puppy-love heat she hadn't clocked yet.
Feet finally hit Water Country soil—air thick with rust, salt, and bad vibes. Kiri's "Bloody Mist" policy still had the whole nation on choke.
Makoto? Thrived in the chaos.
Old faithful: upgraded "bait-and-bleed" hustle.
Henge into rich-kid cosplay, drip in silk, strut through black markets like walking ATMs.
Sharks smelled blood and swarmed—rogues, deserters, greedy psychos.
Then got bodied.
Top-tier hunters wear prey costumes. Makoto wrote the book.
Decent fighters? He stepped in—stress-tested his gains, sharpened the blade.
Trash mobs? Live sparring for Shiro and Honglian. Their combat IQ shot up like crypto in a bull run.
Stacking cash, stacking XP, maybe poach more talent? Makoto was addicted.
Two freaks in the bag already—why stop?
But ninja tricks are wild. Good times don't last.
Word leaked: rare Ice Release "girl" spotted in Water Country. Bounced all the way back to Waves.
Big Five villages don't usually cross borders, too busy eating their own tails. No international hit squad.
But that bounty? Threw chum in a shark tank. Every lowlife with a kunai came crawling.
Makoto rubbed his hands—finally, some real workouts.
Fights leveled up hard. Chakra, stamina, brain on fire—but their reflexes and instincts went god-mode.
Walk by the river long enough, shoes get wet. Walk the night road, eventually meet a ghost.
Lately? Actual Kiri hunter-nin squads on their ass.
Makoto showed zero mercy—brutal, total wipe, no witnesses.
String of dead fog ninjas finally pinged the higher-ups.
So Kirigakure's ANBU rolled out.
And one of the masks? Makoto knows her real well…