Makoto Uchiha scooped up a spoonful of miso soup, the steamy salt-bomb hitting his nose like a freight train, mixed with that crispy roasted-seaweed vibe that melted warm on his tongue.
Across the wooden table, Fugaku Uchiha demolished his breakfast in three monster bites, clacked his bamboo chopsticks against the rim of his white porcelain bowl—clack—sending a faint ripple across the tabletop.
"Headin' to the MP squad," Fugaku grunted, Adam's apple bobbin' like a piston, brows knotted tighter than a sailor's knot. "Shit's stacked today."
Miko Uchiha walked Fugaku to the front gate just as the morning fog slithered over the stone steps, soaking the wooden clogs' straps with that damp, clammy bullshit.
The Cloud envoy crew was rollin' into the Leaf to sign a cease-fire deal, and the whole damn village was wound tighter than a drum. Especially the Leaf MPs—who basically owned the keys to law and order—every breath felt like a goddamn hostage negotiation.
Makoto had barely finished scarfing breakfast when Itachi showed up in the sunrise glow. Rare as hell, the dude wasn't out there preachin' the Will of Fire gospel today.
Not 'cause he didn't wanna. Nah, the entire ninja population had clocked out.
Upper, middle, lower ranks—everybody ditched missions to line up at the gate and play welcome wagon for the Cloud squad. The Leaf even threw a full-blown parade like it was the Super Bowl.
"Ceremony's about to pop off. You comin'?" Itachi's voice was softer than the fog, eyes curved gentle as hell.
Makoto didn't shoot him down. Lately Itachi had been grindin' missions 24/7, refilling Makoto's near-empty Player Shop balance with fresh digits.
"Let's roll."
Whole damn household—Miko included—piled out and hoofed it to the village gate.
Fog still clingin' like a bad ex, but the streets were already buzzin'. By the time they hit the entrance, the line snaked from the gates clear to the corner like a freakin' anaconda.
Sun was just crestin' the Hokage Rock, givin' Hiruzen Sarutobi's cloak a golden Instagram filter.
Dude stood front and center, pipe puffin' lazy smoke rings, rockin' that trademark grandpa smile—crow's feet stacked like pancakes, but his eyes? Heavy. Real heavy.
Behind him: the Leaf's big dogs. Danzo Shimura wrapped in his black cloak like a budget Darth Vader, half his face swallowed by shadow, bony fingers twitchin' on his cane like he was itchin' to strangle someone.
Koharu Utatane and Homura Mitokado—Hokage advisors—stood shoulder-to-shoulder, whisperin' like church ladies at bingo. Volume on hush mode.
Leaf F4, full squad, no cap.
Further back: clan heads. Even busy-ass Fugaku was in the mix—except one clan was straight-up ghostin'.
Streets were packed tighter than a mosh pit. Villagers tip-toein', heads bobbin' like a sea of black buoys.
Leaf MPs were out in force, keepin' the chaos from goin' full riot.
Makoto posted up on the stone steps, eyes cuttin' through the crowd—bam—locked with Danzo's one good eye.
Old fart's got laser vision for a cyclops, starin' daggers like Makoto keyed his Prius.
Makoto arched a brow. Already scoutin' bridges in his head for this legendary bridge-sealing maestro, Danzo Shimura.
Gave the geezer two seconds of stink-eye, then swept the whole scene.
Tons of ninjas rockin' clan crests crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. One scan later…
"Figures," Makoto smirked internally. "Where there's a Crouching Dragon, a Phoenix Chick ain't far behind."
Last life, watchin' this arc? Total clown show. Every ninja in the village showin' face—except the entire Hyuga clan pulled a no-call-no-show.
It was Hinata Hyuga's third birthday—main branch princess—and the Hyugas locked the gates for their little tea party, blowin' off village diplomacy like it was optional homework.
Makoto shook his head. Straight-up slappin' the Hokage in the face. What, we callin' it Hyuga Nation now? Listen but don't obey? Or do the Hyugas think they're above the damn Hokage?
Uchiha might be hot-headed morons, but the Hyugas? Same energy, just behind closed doors.
If he were Hokage? First order of business: drop the hammer on clans pullin' this sovereign-nation bullshit.
Mid-thought—creeeak—the Leaf gates groaned open, wood axles screamin' like a banshee.
Cloud envoy squad rolled in.
Makoto sized 'em up, burnin' faces into memory. Cloud ninjas always got side hustles.
Then he bounced. Got night plans. This circus? Zero appeal.
Behind him, the welcome squad erupted—applause crashin' off buildings like pre-storm thunder, mixin' with Cloud boots marchin' in.
Itachi watched Makoto vanish into the crowd, didn't say shit.
He knew the drill: Makoto looked chill, but the dude's stubborn as a mule with a plan.
Itachi's gaze dropped to his side.
Sasuke was starin' at the ground, black bangs floppin' over his forehead, toe grindin' a pebble into dust on the cobblestone.
Shoulders slumped, spine lookin' like it lost its Wi-Fi signal.
Itachi swallowed. Been so buried in missions, he'd straight-up neglected the kid who used to tail him like a puppy.
He crouched, eye-level with Sasuke, voice softer than a lullaby: "What's eatin' ya, lil' bro? Rough day?"
Sasuke buried his chin deeper, then whispered like he was confessin' to arson:
"…Makoto unlocked his two-tomoe Sharingan."
Tiny fists clenched white-knuckle, voice crackin' at the edges: "You're the genius, Makoto's a freak, and me? I'm… nothin'."
Itachi's hand landed gentle on Sasuke's head, fingers combing through black hair like it was made of glass. Whispered:
"I believe in you, Sasuke. Hell, you might skip one-tomoe entirely, pop two-tomoe straight outta the gate, and catch up to Makoto in one leap."
Sasuke blinked—pupils wide, brain buffering. Sun hit him just right, and the gloom evaporated.
A spark ignited in his chest.
He stared at Itachi for two seconds, then hmph—ed loud, corners of his mouth shootin' sky-high, flashin' baby fangs: "Damn straight!"
Kid started grinnin' like a maniac, swearin' to himself he'd drag Makoto into a spar the second he got the chance.
Uchiha Sasuke might not have Sharingan yet, but he sure as hell wasn't scared of some two-tomoe punk!