Morning mist had barely lifted off the Uchiha compound; the slate stones were still slick with dew.
Makoto finished a breakfast so stacked it could count as cheating, then quietly pushed open the door to Fugaku's study. The hinges let out a lazy creeeak.
As clan head, Fugaku's study was basically two of Makoto's bedrooms combined. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed with scrolls and books. Sunlight sliced through the paper windows, painting mottled shadows across old, yellowed spines. The air smelled like ink and pine.
First thing that caught his eye: Uchiha Clan History, dark-red cover worn soft at the edges from a million page flips.
Makoto's fingers shook a little as he opened it, scanning line by line. Nothing. Zero mentions of "Uchiha Hikari."
He let out a long sigh and tapped the cover. Looks like he'd have to sneak into the Hokage Tower for the real dirt. Then he went full library gremlin.
Ninja World Encyclopedia (thick enough to use as a step-stool), Latest Bounty Posters (some of those numbers made his wallet throb), Black Market Prices & Gourmet Guide Across the Nations, How to Refine Chakra Fast… basically every rare book you'd never find in a store.
His eyes were glowing. Fingers sliding down the spines like he was flirting with them.
Tucked in the very back corner: a super gaudy cover—Jiraiya's brand-new Make-Out Paradise, spine practically falling apart.
A dried cherry-blossom petal fluttered out. Clearly Fugaku had been stress-reading the smut on the sly.
Makoto smirked. "Didn't peg Mr. Serious-Brows McUchiha for a closet perv."
He grabbed a whole armful of useful stuff and, yeah, pocketed the smut too. Gotta check the literary standards of this world, right?
Main mission: dig up anything on Uchiha Hikari and whatever seal he's tied to. Side mission: cure the blindness that comes from only knowing the plot from anime and wiki pages.
In the shinobi world, knowledge literally cashes out as power and money.
A few hours later the desk looked like a bookstore exploded; the stack was taller than his head. Makoto rubbed his temples, suddenly flashed back to cramming for college entrance exams, and almost cried.
But then he pictured the sweet, sweet future pay-off, gritted his teeth, and kept grinding.
It wasn't until Itachi dragged himself home that night, dead on his feet from missions, that Makoto finally looked up—still holding Make-Out Paradise, lips curled in disgust.
"Jiraiya writes like a middle-schooler who just discovered boobs. Zero artistry. The dirty jokes the old guys tell at the village gate are honestly better."
"What the hell do Fugaku and Kakashi even see in this garbage? Especially Kakashi—man's been rereading the same book for years like it's the family Bible. Total closet freak."
After close literary analysis, Makoto made a solemn vow:
"One day I'm dropping ancient Earth's Five Great Masterpieces on this world and watching them go viral."
Night fell. Lanterns lit up one by one across the compound.
Dinner time. Miso soup steaming under the lights. Makoto's chopsticks froze mid-scoop.
The usual high-pitched chattering was gone. The seat across from him? Empty.
Sasuke had vanished.
No morning fish-jerky thief, no evening tiny black blur kicking his chair legs.
Makoto raised an eyebrow, thought for half a second, and reached a conclusion:
100% the work of the Shadow of the Shinobi World, the one true Pot King—Danzo Shimura.
Ninja World Rule #1: Can't figure out who did it? Blame Danzo. You'll be right 99% of the time.
There's five Kage, but only one Pot King, and the title's weight class is undisputed. Dude's influence isn't even limited to the village anymore—it's not even limited to the timeline. By the Boruto era the man's still racking up blame points from beyond the grave.
Makoto was just about to grill Fugaku when the front door slammed open.
Sasuke barreled in looking like he lost a fight with a swamp—mud from head to toe, pants dripping, clutching a snowball-white puppy to his chest like his life depended on it.
Brand-new pup—floppy ears full of grass seeds, black grape eyes watery, pink paws caked in dirt that rained off every time it shivered.
Sasuke caught sight of Makoto in his peripheral, flinched like he'd been branded, dropped his gaze, and bolted for his room, leaving a trail of muddy footprints like a panicked little eel.
He'd spent the whole day dodging Makoto inside the compound.
"Sasuke! Bath! Now!" Fugaku's roar bounced off the walls. Ignored.
"Slow down, sweetie, you'll fall!" Mikoto called after him. Also ignored.
Makoto blinked. "...Why's the little pillar acting like I'm the devil today?"
He replayed the last couple days—nothing came to mind.
"Guess he did something embarrassing again and thinks I know." Makoto shrugged, finished his rice, and went back to the books.
He was fully addicted to the dopamine of leveling up his brain.
Evening glow poured through the window while Makoto was mentally roasting Make-Out Paradise for the 47th time. Suddenly, BAM BAM BAM—someone was head-butting the door.
Before he could stand, Sasuke cannonballed in, pockets bulging with who-knows-what, puppy squished against his chest and whimpering.
"Makoto!"
"Dad says I can't keep Snowball," Sasuke blurted, practically sweating, words tripping over themselves. "You gotta help me think of something…"
Makoto didn't even look up from his book. "Oh, now you need my help? Funny, you still won't call me big brother."
Sasuke hemmed and hawed, face twisting like he'd swallowed a lemon. But the puppy looked up at him with those huge, helpless eyes…
He swallowed hard, then finally forced it through clenched teeth:
"Nii-san…"