Land of Waves, under a sky so gloomy it looked like God himself was hungover.
The streets were a sloppy mess of mud snaking between rundown shacks. The air reeked of damp rot and straight-up poverty—like someone forgot to pay the hope bill. Even the ocean breeze rolling in tasted like salty regret.
Makoto Uchiha strolled at the front, hands jammed in his pockets, looking way too chill for this dump. Dude was a walking middle finger to the whole depressed vibe.
Shiro trailed half a step behind on his left—loyal shadow mode activated. Pretty face blank as a fresh notepad, but those eyes? Scanning every corner like a kid who grew up way too fast in the wrong neighborhood.
The new girl—no name yet—hovered at the rear, looking like a deer in headlights. Her brand-new threads stuck out like a Rolex in a trailer park. She tiptoed around puddles like they were landmines.
Then—boom—chaos up ahead.
Panicked shouts, shit getting yanked off the ground, and a wave of fear so thick you could slice it with a kunai.
Here comes this fat-ass noble in silk robes, belly leading the charge like it's got its own zip code. Eyes squished into slits by cheek fat, glowing with that special mix of arrogance and greed. Jade pendants clinking like a bad remix to his wheezing.
Three meathead samurai flanked him in a fan—blades on hips, faces screaming "I peaked in bully school." Hands never left the hilts, eyes daring anyone to breathe wrong.
Wherever Lardass McNoble waddled, the street parted like the Red Sea on steroids.
Vendors and pedestrians scattered, bowing so low their foreheads scraped mud. Smiles plastered on—fake as hell, terrified as fuck.
Anyone slow on the uptake? Bam—sword sheath to the ribs. Cue the whimper and the "sorry, sir, my bad."
"That's Lord Kurosawa—move, move!"
"Why the hell's he slumming it over here?!"
"Pack up! Pack up! Don't let him see!"
Whispers slithered through the crowd like gossip at a high school reunion.
Some old lady selling fruit was a beat too slow. One dried-up apple rolls into the street.
Kurosawa wrinkles his nose like he smelled a fart. Doesn't even speak—one of his goons grins like a hyena and punt-kicks her stall into next week. Juice explodes all over her.
Granny hits the dirt, shaking like a leaf, head banging the ground in silent kowtows. Doesn't dare cry.
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Kurosawa doesn't even glance. Just steps over her like she's a speed bump. Keeps strutting, soaking in the fear like it's his personal brand of cologne.
In the Land of Waves, this dude's rep could shut up a crying baby at midnight. Raping, robbing, whipping folks in the street when he's in a mood? Tuesday. Laws? Cute. Only apply to peasants. He's above that shit.
Makoto watches the circus and raises an eyebrow. Celestial Dragon of the ninja world?
He's pissed. No way he's swerving for this clown.
Shiro tenses—coiled spring, ice-cold. He's Makoto's sharpest blade. Anything in his lord's path? Gone. Even if it means war with the whole damn world. Death's just a Tuesday for him too.
Nameless girl's eyes go wide. She tugs Makoto's sleeve, voice shaky: "M-Makoto-sama… maybe we should—"
She's been dodging nobles her whole life. Knows the drill:忍者 don't fuck with aristocracy. Strength don't mean shit when politics get involved.
Makoto ignores her. First time ever.
Dodge? Bitch, please. That word ain't in the Uchiha dictionary.
Me, dodge his shine? I just learned a new jutsu!
Smirk sharp enough to cut glass. A badass ninja swerving for a powerless fat fuck? Hard pass.
Meanwhile, Kurosawa's not budging either. His piggy eyes slide past Makoto… then lock on Shiro and the girl.
Instant creep mode. Gaze slimy as used motor oil, dripping lust and ownership.
Two crews on a collision course in a street barely wide enough for a group text.
The three samurai bark: "Outta the way, punk! You blind?!"
Hands on hilts, veins popping—ready to draw and teach lessons.
But Shiro's faster. Like, blink and you're dead faster.
No signal. No glance. Just—poof.
"Ice Clone Jutsu!"
Three ice doppelgängers pop into existence, each pinning a senbon of frozen death to a samurai's throat.
The chill hits like liquid nitrogen. One twitch and it's lights out.
Sweat pours. Balls shrink. These thugs were flexing a second ago—now they're statues.
"Don't. Move." Shiro's voice flat as a frozen lake, but the kill intent? Arctic blizzard.
While everyone's jaw's on the floor, Makoto doesn't even look. Just lifts his foot—casual as brushing lint—and kicks the noble square in the gut.
Like punting a waterbed full of bacon grease.
THUD.
A sound so wet and wrong it echoes.
Kurosawa—300+ pounds of pampered blubber—launches like he got hit by a freight train. Flies six meters, SLAMS into a wall. Cracks spiderweb out like a shotgun blast.
Slides down in a heap, puking blood and lunch all over his fancy robes. Whimpering. Shaking. Curled up like a kicked puppy.
And that? Makoto holding back. Hard.
With his lightning-forged body? Full power would've turned the guy's organs into soup. Even elite ninja would've coughed up a lung.
"What kind of trash thinks I'd step aside for him?"
Makoto flicks his foot like he just stepped in dog shit. Tone bored as hell.
He's got zero respect for these parasitic nobles. Straight-up disgust.
Kurosawa's never been touched in his life. Pain, terror, humiliation—it's a combo meal from hell.
He's bawling like a toddler who dropped his ice cream, snot and curses bubbling out.
Makoto's eyebrow twitches. This evil bastard's got a death wish?
He scans the crowd—peasants peeking from windows, alleys. Eyes wide with terror… but underneath? A flicker. Dark, hungry joy. Like they're finally seeing the bully get decked.
Killing him here? Messy. Word spreads, Itachi and Shisui might roll up. Annoying.
Fine. He lives… till tonight.
Makoto's already decided. Dude's not seeing sunrise. Because Makoto's "fortune-telling" is 100% accurate—he makes it happen.
He'll slip in at midnight. One quiet slice. Done.
He steps over to the whimpering pile of noble, looming like the Grim Reaper's cooler cousin. Sunset stretches his shadow till it swallows the fat man whole.
Voice cold enough to freeze hell:
Makoto's killed a lot lately. The murder vibe? Heavy.