Uchiha Shisui—veteran badass with eyes sharper than a kunai—scanned the scene like a hawk on Red Bull. Weird-ass plants, muggy air, blurry hills in the distance… brain crunched the data in a heartbeat.
"No fuckin' way… this is the Fire Country border?"
His voice cracked dry, eyes bugging out with straight disbelief and a side of "what the hell."
From Kumogakure in Lightning Country to here? That's a haul that'd make most shinobi cry. Mountains, rivers, borders—normal sprint? Weeks. One-shot space-time jump that far?
The chakra drain? Insane. The control? Surgical on steroids. This shit blew past everything Shisui thought he knew about ninjutsu.
Makoto… what the hell did the kid sacrifice to yank him and Itachi out? He's just a kid…
Ice-cold dread slithered up Shisui's spine like a venomous snake.
Itachi? Zero chill for geography. Every ounce of him was glued to the kid in his arms—Makoto's life force tanking faster than a cracked engine.
No time to grill how the hell Makoto pulled that jutsu. Itachi scooped him up gentle as glass, cradling him off the cold dirt.
But the heat? Draining. Life? Slipping through his fingers.
Itachi's usual ice-king eyes—old-soul smart, always three steps ahead—were pure panic. Deer-in-headlights lost. Terror so thick it choked him.
Face went ghost-white, matching Makoto's.
"Cough—hack!"
Makoto convulsed, hacking up blood thick and red as fresh paint. Voice a dying whisper, barely audible even up close.
"I… I'm done… chakra's torched…"
Inside? Backlash from total burnout was a wildfire on crack. Every cell screaming, collapsing, dying. Normal ninja? Lights out, game over.
But Makoto? Fighting tooth and nail to suppress two monster recovery engines—starter Hashirama blood and his freak "Main Character" physique. Let 'em loose? One nap and he's back like nothing happened.
Kid was begging to die.
"No! Makoto, fight!" Itachi's voice shook harder than he knew. He fumbled trying to sling the kid on his back—clumsy as a rookie. Little bro dying? Fried his brain.
"We'll hit a medic, then bolt to Konoha! I'll beg the Third—drag Tsunade back if I have to! She's the best, she'll fix this!"
Words tumbling, desperate—more for himself than Makoto. Clinging to hope like a lifeline.
"No… point… just lemme rest… this year's been… hell…"
Makoto shook his head—tiny move, but it wrecked him. Pupils dilating, focus gone, eyes glazing over with death's film.
He turned, blind stare toward Itachi. Forced a smile—weak, twisted, heartbreaking.
"Itachi… promise me… one thing."
Itachi flinched like he'd been stabbed. Grabbed Makoto's ice-cold hand hard—nails carving bloody crescents in his own palm, didn't feel it.
Heart crushed in a frozen vice. Breathing? Torture.
Mouth opened—nothing. Just choked nods, heavy as lead.
His three-tomoe Sharingan spun wild, faster, faster—out of control.
Blood tears—thick, red—rolled down dusty, bloody cheeks.
The trauma hit like a nuke. Tomoe blurred, stretched, vibrated—trying to fuse into something darker, stronger, cursed.
Mangekyou on the verge.
But kid's body too young—flashed, flickered, couldn't lock in. Snapped back to spinning tomoe.
"Back in Konoha… get me… a grave marker."
Voice fading, each word a final breath.
Itachi's lungs seized. Then hyperventilated. Bit his lip bloody, mixing with tears.
Nodded harder. Burned it in.
"Whenever… make bank for me… as much as you can… don't burn it… bury it with me."
"So I don't… stay broke… in the afterlife…"
Itachi: "...?"
The soul-crushing grief glitched—one beat of pure "wait, what?" from Makoto's peak Uchiha-brand last words.
Red-eyed, still nodding like a bobblehead.
Shisui—watching the trainwreck—knew from experience: Makoto's vitals were circling the drain. No coming back.
Guilt and grief ate him alive. Kid burned out saving them.
His own Sharingan spun into overdrive—tomoe blurring, colors deepening, connecting—stronger than any near-death brush in Kumo.
Water under the bridge. Mangekyou incoming.
Makoto caught it in the corner of his fading vision. Heart dropped.
Again? Seriously? Can't y'all wait till I'm actually dead to awaken?
He had more "dying words" queued—prime PUA material.
But clock's ticking. These two were young; drag it out and he'd witness a double Mangekyou premiere. Hard pass.
Who knows what broken-ass powers they'd unlock? Time to wrap the show, trigger the eyes, and bounce.
Makoto sucked in his last spark, eyes pleading at Itachi. Choked out:
"Swear it… stack that cash… don't let me rot poor."
Face forced a brave, frail smile—like his final wish granted, clinging to life.
That smile? Dagger to Itachi's heart. Blood tears flooded.
Past life me would've won an Oscar for this shit.
No handing over the stolen lightning jutsu yet—might end up with Konoha brass. Save it for the clan later.
These two can't handle it anyway.
Now? Plant a bomb for Konoha's old farts. Dig a pit. Toss a scapegoat.
Voice picked up—last gasp glow:
"Itachi… promise… don't hate the village elders."