Uchiha Madara's confident smile grew broader, as if the fire in his chest could never be extinguished.
To him, Uchiha Makoto's cautious warnings were nothing more than alarmist chatter. Private reminders he could tolerate, but when such words were spoken in front of others, they bordered on challenging his authority as clan head. Yet Madara, in his pride, brushed it off.
He trusted his own strength, trusted in his vision, and above all—trusted in Senju Hashirama.
Madara was the proudest Uchiha of them all, and in this vast shinobi world, there was only one man he ever truly respected: Hashirama.
So long as Hashirama stood at his side, the two of them could move mountains. They would create something unprecedented—a shinobi village born not from endless blood feuds, but from unity. Together, their power and ideals would reshape the entire shinobi world.
Or so Madara believed.
But fate has its cruel humor. No one can predict the shifting of hearts, least of all in matters of friendship. People often carry unrealistic fantasies about their "first bond"—the one person they thought would never change.
Madara clung to such a fantasy.
And then, Konoha was born.
When the Hidden Leaf Village rose from barren land into an organized community of clans, Senju Hashirama's heart shifted. He was no longer simply Madara's partner or rival. He became the First Hokage.
Hashirama began to see the village itself as his child. Protecting Konoha was, in his eyes, the same as protecting its people, its children, its future.
Thus, his love became merciless. His kindness carried steel.
Hashirama himself had once declared, without hesitation:
"Whether it's my friends, my brothers, or even my own children—if they ever threaten the village, I will not forgive them."
That was Hashirama: a man whose compassion could transform into cruelty if the village's survival demanded it.
Makoto, standing before Madara, could already see where this road would lead.
He exhaled and spoke with finality:
"Since Madara-sama has made his decision, I can only say this much. I will respect your wishes and not pursue vengeance against the Senju. But I will not tie myself to the Senju either. I will not build a village with them. From this day forward, I choose to walk a different path. I will leave the Uchiha Clan."
Madara's smile dimmed slightly. He regarded Makoto for a long while before finally nodding.
"So that is your resolve. Very well. I understand."
His tone was calm, but beneath it lingered the weight of history.
The Uchiha and Senju had bathed the battlefield in blood for centuries. The hatred carved into their bones stretched back through generations. Not just between these two clans, but among all ninja families of the Warring States era.
Back then, there was even an unspoken rule: a shinobi never revealed his surname while traveling. To do so was to invite death if one crossed paths with an enemy clan.
Training a shinobi was costly, so killing an enemy's heir was the cheapest way to weaken them. The wars had forged countless grudges. Such was the cycle of the Warring States: strengthen yourself by destroying others.
For Madara, those memories still lingered. Yet he had chosen peace.
"If you wish to leave, I will not stop you," Madara said. "I can even grant you some travel money. The shinobi world is dangerous for one alone, and without coin, even the strongest may be cornered. Take it and go."
It was not dismissal—it was concern, the concern of a clan leader for one of his own.
But in truth, Madara had underestimated Makoto.
No—he had misjudged him entirely.
For Madara, the Uchiha Clan was honor itself. The clan had rules, traditions, and a name that resonated across nations. They prided themselves on dignity. Even in daily life—when buying kunai, shuriken, or medicines—the Uchiha paid down to the last coin. They would never stoop to extortion or exploitation. To them, honor was wealth, and reputation was armor.
But Makoto?
Makoto had no such illusions.
He was about to embark on a venture unlike anything the clan had ever imagined. He would build a ninja village, yes—but one forged not only from steel and jutsu, but from cunning, coin, and control.
To him, this was no different from the founding of a business empire. And every empire begins in blood and mud.
Primitive accumulation, Makoto thought to himself. No great power starts pure. They all crawl through the gray, even the black, before they rise into the light.
He even chuckled inwardly. Even in my past life, there were companies bold enough to issue their own tokens, rivaling official currency. They were crushed in the end, yes—but not before becoming giants. That is how the game is played.
As long as he survived long enough to "clean his hands" later, the path would be set.
Of course, Makoto had no intention of becoming a brainless thug chasing bounties like Kakuzu.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "Thugs without brains will always be pawns. Pawns for life."
To make true wealth, one had to think like a businessman. Like a chess player.
The blueprint was already forming in his mind:
First, earn capital—through force, through cunning, through whatever means necessary. Then establish a front, a company, and use it to invest. With shinobi might backing him, he could seize monopolies, crush rivals, and draw obscene profits.
Next, establish a bank. Absorb deposits. Then borrow against his own accounts, expanding endlessly. Use profits from business to feed the bank, and the bank to feed business. A cycle of growth that spiraled ever higher.
Yes—it was risky. Every expansion was a gamble. Many great leaders had gambled and lost everything.
But Makoto had an advantage others did not: foresight. A cheat that placed him beyond the common shinobi.
If things went poorly? He would liquidate instantly. Sell bad assets to a scapegoat. Or declare bankruptcy, abandon debts, and flee with the profits. Ruthless? Yes. Effective? Absolutely.
Conscience is a luxury, Makoto thought, eyes glinting. But poverty—that is a curse worse than any bloodline. A shinobi can live tormented by guilt for a lifetime. But live in poverty for a lifetime? That is unbearable.
And he laughed silently at the irony.
A thousand years of ninja clans, and how had they sustained themselves? By taking missions, running errands, assassinations, escort jobs. A glorified mercenary business!
Even Hashirama, hailed as progressive, had not changed that system. He had merely classified missions into ranks—D, C, B, A, S. He thought it rational, efficient. But the core remained: shinobi survived by selling themselves. By waiting for others to dictate their worth.
And sooner or later, they die in the mud of someone else's mission.
Makoto's gaze sharpened.
"My village," he murmured, "will not be like that. If I build, it will be the biggest. If I earn, it will be the most—and the easiest."
Madara's offer of travel money pleased him, yes—but a single pouch of ryo was not enough.
He wanted more.
For in every world, whether shinobi or modern, the most valuable resource was not money.
It was people. Talent.
That was what Makoto truly sought.