The ocean's choked in thick gray fog, salty mist clinging to skin like glue, turning into tiny beads. Distant rocks and islands? Just blurry blobs lurking like massive beasts, eyeballing this rickety passenger ship plowing through the waves.
Mid-voyage, Uchiha Makoto's chilling hard—flipping through ninja scrolls or random ninja world lore books. Or fishing, waiting till his line's red-hot, then "accidentally" zapping the sea with a tiny lightning thread. Watches the weak sparks ripple, flipping up a few small fish. Cracks him up every time; he's hooked on electro-fishing.
Sometimes he brews tea, stares at the endless foggy sea, lost in whatever's rattling in his head.
But his grind? Never skips a beat.
Lightning chakra surges inside like an underground river, forging his bones, muscles, blood nonstop. Every fiber twitches, tears, rebuilds—tougher, more explosive.
That real-deal power-up high? He's addicted. The tempering pain? Old news.
Makoto daydreams wild: Keep this up, and one day his lightning-forged body could boot-crush that "absolute defense" Susanoo, or straight-punch the sky-blocking True Several Thousand Hands.
Time drags in salty wind and monotonous waves—boring, repetitive days.
Till one afternoon: A souped-up three-mast sailship slices the fog like a shark smelling blood, beelining for the passenger boat.
"P-Pirates!" The lookout's voice cracks, screaming the alarm.
Panic explodes. Passengers huddle like spooked birds, crew scrambling like headless flies, fiddling with sails for nothing.
Grappling hooks whistle over, clamping the rail.
A pack of ragged, gaunt rogue ninjas swing aboard, howling—sunken eyes glowing wolf-green.
These losers look rough—lost at sea, starving half to death.
Leader's a scarecrow in a straw hat, bony frame drowning in oversized clothes.
First thing they do? Not loot—dive for the kitchen like rabid dogs. Snatch stored food, passenger rations, shoving anything in their mouths, choking it down, eyes rolling back.
Makoto leans back chill, even pours himself more hot tea, watching the circus with a smirk. Curious what these starving ghosts pull after stuffing their faces.
No surprise: After inhaling everything, they remember they're "pirates." Straw Hat burps, yanks his ninja sword—blade shaking a bit—waving it fake-tough, demanding cash from passengers and crew.
Cries, begs, pirate bluffs mix into chaos.
Soon, it's Makoto's turn.
Straw Hat eyes the fancy-dressed, ice-calm kid and the pretty, quiet one behind him—Shiro. Screams fat sheep, but the vibe's too smooth; guy's spooked inside.
Puffs up anyway, sword pointing shaky: "Kid, cough up the cash and valuables!"
"Then that little chick? She's ours for a good time!"
Makoto glances at Shiro—yep, everyone mistakes him for a girl. Arches a brow, sips his tea. In his senses, these clowns' chakra? Flickering candle flames. Straw Hat? Weak sauce.
Crushing ants? Boring. Elephant don't sweat bugs.
"Shiro."
Flat call, no ripple.
Shiro, standing like a painting come to life, nods—gets it instant. Big fights still jitter him a tad, but orders? Zero hesitation.
Ninja fights ain't fair—sneak attack city.
Hands blur seals, afterimages flying. Air moisture rushes in, freezing visible-fast.
"Ice Release: Thousand Flying Water Needles!"
Boom—countless razor-sharp ice senbon materialize, Shiro swings one hand—angry hornet swarm, bone-chilling, blanketing the pirates!
Thup! Thup!
Muffled impacts, screams piercing.
Most rogues? Swiss cheese before reacting, blood painting the deck, puke-worthy mix with sea fog.
Only Straw Hat survives the hail—barely. Thigh and shoulder skewered, howling on the ground.
Shiro ghosts in front, ice spike chilling his Adam's apple.
Death's cold kiss crumbles the bravado—tears, snot, piss stench: "D-Don't kill me! Please! My dad's—"
"Send him off."
Makoto's voice flat, cuts the cliché beg and name-drop. Robbing him and expecting a "my dad" pass? He ain't running a horse farm. Play the "hit the kid, dad shows" game? Itachi's Susanoo on speed dial.
Shiro's eyes harden, chakra surges—freezes the begging leader and deck corpses into twisted ice statues.
Then chucks 'em overboard. Heavy splashes, sea calms, faint blood swirling away.
Makoto watches: Bloodlines like Shiro's water-wind fusion? Way punchier, sneakier than single elements.
Subtle appreciation... and a weird heat in his eyes.
After the quick bloodbath, dead silence.
Passengers and crew stare at Makoto and Shiro—pure awe and terror.
Captain crawls over, begs them into the VIP cabin, ready to rip out his heart for loyalty.
Makoto and Shiro board the pirate ship for "loot run."
Grab bag of junk—decent haul, unexpected bonus. Makoto pockets it all: "Miles to send goose feathers—light gift, heavy sentiment." These "gifts" ain't light. To the sea: "Thanks..."
Locked chest? Fat stack of explosive tags—solid quantity.
"Nice score." Makoto weighs 'em, brain pings Akatsuki's "White Tiger"—Konan.
Name's intriguing; she's into piercing art, nailed up good.
Makoto smirks, thoughts drifting: Those holes just visible spots, or hidden gems?
"White Tiger"—codename or literal? Shakes it off—body's hitting puberty hard, horny thoughts popping lately.
Kon's paper release mass-produces these tags.
Future plan: Lock her in a basement, crank out tags, crash ninja world prices.
Bonus: Solve his two burning curiosities. Can't help it—curious AF.
Strength craving spikes.
They strip the ship clean, back to passenger boat. Tell captain: Sell this hunk at next island.
Mosquito legs are meat—big ship, no waste on Makoto's watch.
En route to Wave, stop at tiny island for supplies.
Gap time: Pirate ship sold, [Player Shop] balance fattens.
Crew restocking, Makoto drags Shiro ashore for air, wanders into a remote, wrecked village.
Place got hit hard recently—ruins everywhere, charred beams sagging, air smoky with blood.
Roadside corpses unburied, screaming silent horror. Corner rubble: Ragged teens huddled, eyes dead, souls gone.
Makoto scans 'em—lately itching for another lackey.
Shiro's gold: Obedient, talented, loyal. But dude's a dude.
Guy-guy? Keep distance. Need a girl for daily stuff—personal maid vibes.
Used to no luxuries, but ninja hell (plus Samui and Mabui's "close care") spoiled him. Easy up, hard down.
Even pissing, they held it steady. DIY now? Feels off.
Needs a girl for life stuff.
Eyes shop the girls, locks on one.
12-13-ish, standout pretty even in dirt and ruins. Blue-purple short hair messy but sharp.
Eyes narrow, upturned—sharp, cold assess, not dead like the rest.
Features fine: High nose, nice lips, skin fair under grime. Body budding curves.
Makoto: Familiar ring, seen somewhere? Can't pin—lightning tempering frying his brain, making it pointy up top?
Steps up, squats, pulls steaming food pile from "thin air," dangles it.
Girl eyes wary, depths calculating: Fancy kid in chaos seas, confident AF. Food from nowhere? Big deal.
"Follow him: Survive short-term, maybe power up..."
"Can you cook, clean, take care of people?"
Makoto catches the glint, ignores—he schemes, not the other way.
She nods crisp, voice clear but distant: "Yeah."
"Need a maid. Interested?"
Hesitates, scans his face, weighs pros/cons—nods: "Deal."
"Name?"
Big guard—shakes head: "None. Call me what you want."
"Cool."
No push—not recruiting muscle, just temp help. Vibes check out.
"Stick with me for now. Food, bed covered. Handle my daily shit, we're good."
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