Uchiha Makoto pressed onward through forests and mountain roads, steadily advancing toward the capital of the Land of Fire. His mind was occupied with the theory he had recently been refining—the "Senju Hashirama Threat Theory." To Makoto, this was more than idle speculation; it was a carefully calculated narrative he intended to spread once he reached the heart of the Land of Fire.
The journey itself was mostly uneventful. A few groups of foolish bandits mistook him for an easy target, rushing out from behind trees with rusty blades and empty threats. Their arrogance lasted only until Makoto's crimson Sharingan flared. To him, they were no more than annoying mosquitoes. With cold efficiency, he relieved them of their valuables before leaving their trembling bodies behind. By the time his path was clear again, he hadn't even broken a sweat.
Ten days of travel passed in this manner before he finally arrived at his destination.
The capital of the Land of Fire rose before him like a vision from another world. Unlike the war-torn villages and struggling towns he had passed along the way, this city radiated vibrancy and wealth. Towering walls encircled the metropolis, their white stone gleaming under the sun. Sprawling districts stretched outward, crowded with tiled roofs and bustling marketplaces. From afar, the sound of merchants calling, horses clattering, and crowds chattering rolled across the landscape like a tide.
Makoto's eyes lingered on the view. This city was truly worthy of belonging to the strongest nation in the shinobi world.
But the splendor came with a hidden cost. For every person here enjoying a peaceful life, someone else, somewhere in the Land of Fire, was undoubtedly paying the price—whether through endless toil in the fields, oppressive taxes, or blood shed on distant battlefields. Peace in the capital was built on the suffering of others.
Makoto, however, had no intention of brooding over morality. He had come here for a reason, and he would not waste time. Without stopping even to eat, he walked directly toward the palace complex where the Daimyo resided.
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The Palace Gates
The closer he drew to the palace, the heavier the atmosphere became. Armored guards patrolled the streets, their spears and banners gleaming. Barracks housed entire legions of soldiers stationed around the complex.
These forces were not meant to fend off shinobi. Everyone in the capital knew ordinary men stood no chance against ninja. Rather, their duty was to suppress the common people—farmers, merchants, and desperate beggars who might one day raise banners and revolt.
The Daimyo of the Land of Fire valued his reputation above all else. For commoners to cause unrest at the very gates of his palace would be an intolerable humiliation. Other lords across the continent would mock him mercilessly if such chaos were to occur. Thus, the legions stood as walls of steel, more symbolic than practical, but still essential.
For true protection, the Daimyo relied on his own personal shinobi guard. Wealth was no obstacle for the ruler of the most prosperous nation; he could afford to hire elite ninja to watch him day and night. If it were possible, Makoto suspected, the Daimyo would even attempt to cultivate his own clan of shinobi.
Yet that dream was doomed to fail. For centuries, Daimyo had tried to establish their own ninja forces, but the shinobi clans were too proud and too cunning. No matter how much gold was offered, the clans would never part with their core techniques or sacred jutsu. Better for a scroll of secrets to rot in a locked chest than to fall into the hands of an outsider.
And so, despite their wealth and titles, Daimyo remained bound by a quiet, unspoken fear. They were rulers of nations, yes, but the true power—the hilt of the sword—rested in the hands of shinobi. This silent terror had been carved into their bones for a thousand years.
---
At the Gate
Makoto's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp bark.
"No trespassing!"
The warning came from a palace guard, his voice stern, his spear leveled at Makoto as he approached.
This was sacred ground. Ordinary men were not allowed even to draw near. Against commoners, these guards would not hesitate to kill.
Makoto considered slipping past them. Against mere soldiers, he could vanish like mist. But he dismissed the thought just as quickly. He had not come here to sneak. His purpose was sponsorship, and barging in like a criminal would not do. The time for arrogance would come later. For now, he needed to act with restraint.
He stopped, calmly producing a calling card from his robes.
The guard frowned suspiciously. Then Makoto let his crimson Sharingan glow faintly. The spiraling tomoe caught the man's eyes, and terror instantly spread across his face.
"Th-the rumors… the Uchiha's eyes…!"
The man stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He had heard the stories—eyes that could entrap a man's mind in illusions too real to escape, a single glance enough to enslave the will. The Sharingan was the mark of demons.
At once, the guard scrambled away to fetch his superior. Soon after, a portly attendant emerged from the palace, bowing deeply.
"Uchiha-sama, please follow me!"
Makoto allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The reputation of the Uchiha clan had once again opened doors.
---
The Daimyo of the Land of Fire
He was escorted into a lavish reception room, golden light spilling across polished floors. Servants moved swiftly, setting down trays of fruit and steaming tea.
Half an hour later, the man Makoto sought finally arrived.
The Daimyo of the Land of Fire was a round, middle-aged man, his robes embroidered with dragons and phoenixes. His face lit up at the sight of Makoto.
"It has been a long time since the Uchiha Clan sent someone to visit!" he exclaimed warmly. He motioned quickly to his attendants. "Tea! Serve tea at once!"
Makoto bowed politely, accepting the steaming cup. "Thank you, Your Highness."
The two exchanged pleasantries. The Daimyo asked about Makoto's journey, his health, and spoke at length about trivial matters of court life. Only once the atmosphere had grown relaxed did the Daimyo's tone shift toward the subject he truly cared about.
"Tell me, Uchiha-dono," he said, leaning forward slightly, "what is the situation of your clan these days? And… what of the Senju?"
The question was asked with feigned casualness, but Makoto could see the eagerness burning in his eyes.
---
Gods in the Ninja World
The Daimyo had long been obsessed with the conflict between the two great clans. He knew the rivalry stretched back generations, and now, the new leaders—Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama—were locked in battles that shook the earth itself.
Information traveled slowly to the capital. The Daimyo had heard scattered reports, each more unbelievable than the last. Whole forests laid waste. Rivers diverted. Mountains split open.
According to the boldest account, Madara and Hashirama had once fought across a thousand li, summoning titanic wooden dragons and armored giants that blotted out the sun. Their clash had turned fertile land into wasteland overnight.
The Daimyo had laughed at first, dismissing such tales as exaggerations. But as similar reports trickled in from multiple sources, disbelief gave way to unease. Could human beings truly wield such power?
Even calling them shinobi felt inadequate. No, men like Madara and Hashirama were something else entirely. Gods walking the earth.
And for a Daimyo, a mortal who ruled only through wealth and tradition, the existence of such gods was terrifying. How could one pretend to rule a land when true gods roamed within it?
Now, as he looked at Makoto, his eyes shone with hunger for knowledge. He wanted answers. He wanted reassurance. He wanted to know where mortals stood when gods walked among them.
Makoto saw it clearly—and inwardly, he smiled.
Time to drop some poison.
---
To be continued…