The woman looked up in a daze, mouth opening for a thank-you, but all she caught was a casual wave from a retreating back—gone in seconds, swallowed by the blizzard like he was never there.
In this godforsaken hellhole where order's a joke and morality's a luxury, jungle rules reign supreme—bloody, brutal, and in your face.
Especially out here on the fringes, far from Mist Village's grip: a lawless shitshow overrun by rogue ninjas and wandering killers. Packs of them prowl like hyenas on rotting meat—grinning with zero shame, blood-crusted tools at their hips, hunting anything that moves.
Blizzard howling, mixed with distant screams from women and guttural laughs from men—sharp, then cut dead. Nobody stops it. Nobody dares.
Here, strength is the law. Power is god.
That Bloody Mist policy pushed by the Fourth Mizukage, Yagura? Turned the village into a cannibal pit, drove hordes of ninjas to defect. Now these loose-cannon murder machines spread chaos everywhere, turning Water Country's borders into legit hell on earth.
Against that backdrop of pure despair, two figures strolling through it? Stand out like diamonds in dirt—hella suspicious.
Leading: a kid around ten, sharp features, vibe way beyond his years—calm, collected, like he's seen it all. White robe tailored perfect, thin fabric but unmoved by the gale, hem stitched with gold cloud patterns glowing faint in the snow-light.
In freeze-your-ass-off cold, he's dressed light but stands tall, steps steady, no shiver. Sharp ninja might sense the paper-thin blue lightning cloak on his skin—subtle heat pushing back the chill, melting flakes before they touch, wrapping him in a hazy, badass aura.
That raging lightning chakra? Hammering his body nonstop. He scans the roadside carnage, eyes flashing cold—especially thinking of that woman and the half-frozen kid earlier.
He's got zero love for the madness choking Mist Village—the root of all this rot.
Half-step behind: a pretty kid, almost girly-cute, big bright eyes like a scared fawn, forcing calm but still jittery. Sticking close to the black-haired one, eyes darting.
Yup—Uchiha Makoto, ditching the chaos of Water Country, heading to Wave to "borrow" some cash from that fat-cat Kardoh.
And his new underling, rare Ice Release bloodline: Shiro.
"Chakra ain't about raw volume," Makoto drops casually, schooling Shiro on his latest gains. He threads his voice with chakra—straight to the kid's ears, cutting through wind and noise like it ain't there.
Cries, laughs, storm roar? Background bullshit.
"Calm your mind. Feel every spark of physical and spiritual energy in you. Guide it, merge it—like channeling streams into a river."
"But control the flow. Don't let it run wild."
"A pinpoint of chakra, mastered? Can outpunch a sloppy flood."
"Think shallow creek wearing down a kunai over time vs. a rampaging flood wrecking the dam—and itself."
"Master every drop first, then scale up. Combine 'em? Your jutsu hits god mode."
Makoto's been pondering that chakra-burnout death trip—big scare unlocked deeper vibes on the stuff.
Shiro listens hard, shoving down environment jitters. Lifts a hand, focuses on the fingertip.
Slowly, a tiny ice spike forms—crystal clear, freezing air around it. Snowflakes swirl like they're orbiting.
Makoto smirks, satisfied.
Getting closer to the border, vibe gets nastier. Makoto's fancy getup and aura? Blazing beacon in this gray, broke-ass wasteland—drawing every shadow eye.
That lightning glow makes his robe pop extra. Walking rogue central like this? Pure bait.
But top-tier hunters love playing prey.
Best bait hides the deadliest hook.
"Lord Makoto..." Shiro's voice tight, steps up almost side-by-side, whispering. "We're being watched. Feels... bad."
Makoto doesn't flinch, doesn't look. Pulls a juicy red apple from his pocket—crunch—bite echoes loud in the whine.
"Sharp senses, Shiro," he says flat, approving. "In this Bloody Mist madhouse, malice is dust in the air—breathe it in."
"Get used to it. Sort it."
Pauses, grabs another perfect apple, tosses it back. "Ninja world rules? Simple and savage."
"Eat or be eaten. Bully or be bullied. Kill or be killed. Or pack enough heat to crush anyone in your way. No third option."
Shiro takes the apple, hesitates to bite. Makoto adds: "Growing boy—chow down. As for those skulking assholes..."
Grin creeps up. "Hunter or prey? Gotta throw down, spill blood to find out."
"Winner takes life and loot. Loser eats dirt... or dies. That's the raw truth."
He side-eyes Shiro. "Scared of dying?"
Makoto's soul's old-school—info age veteran, plus years grinding ninja life. Jungle rules? Crystal clear.
Shiro grips the apple tight, sucks in icy air. Fear fades, replaced by steel.
"For Lord Makoto... I ain't scared to die!"
Makoto's grin widens—digs the loyalty. Pushes the apple hand toward Shiro's mouth: "Good. Eat while we walk."
"Chill. Sky falls? I got it first. You? Level up fast... so you can actually back me up."
Shiro nods hard, etching every word in stone.
They push on, terrain shifts. Makoto "accidentally" veers into a remote canyon—steep snow-loaded walls, narrow path, eerie quiet except wind screaming through.
Then—bam—roadblock.
Massive dude, built like a tank, plants himself dead center. Scarred face, Mist headband slashed through—rogue ninja loud and proud.
Huge ninja sword in hand, fresh blood dripping, splattering red blooms on white snow.
Eyes feral, greedy—like a wolf sizing up lambs. Staring down the two without a care.
These Mist rogues been eyeing the flashy targets for a while.