"However, Your Highness, although that may be true…"
Uchiha Makoto's tone was calm but carried a heavy weight. His eyes narrowed slightly as he measured his words carefully. "Madara-sama has already chosen to place his trust in Senju Hashirama. He accepted the Senju Clan's proposal for peace. In turn, the Uchiha Clan has agreed to this decision. It is, in essence, already a foregone conclusion that the Uchiha and the Senju will cease their fighting and shake hands in peace."
The words hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
The Daimyo of the Land of Fire, seated above in regal splendor, felt his expression tighten. His brows furrowed deeper with each passing sentence, and an unspoken discontent brewed within his chest. His fingers tapped lightly against the lacquered armrest of his chair, a rhythm that betrayed his annoyance.
Uchiha Makoto, however, was watching closely. Every flicker of displeasure, every minute change in expression, was noted and filed away. Timing, after all, was everything. The moment had ripened—he could feel it.
Yes. The fire had finally taken to the cold stove.
Makoto let out a slow, heavy breath as though weighed down by unbearable duty. His face twisted into anguish, a mask of determination and sorrow woven together. "But I," he declared firmly, "will never sit by and do nothing! I cannot simply watch as the proud Uchiha Clan walks willingly into a pit of fire!"
His voice rose with each word until it echoed in the hall. Then he turned, lowering his head just slightly to add gravity to his next statement. "Your Highness, since Senju Hashirama wishes to unite the clans and establish what he calls a Ninja Village, then so be it. But know this—I too can unite clans. I too can build a village. In fact…" He let his voice tremble with just enough emotion to tug at the heart. "…that is the very reason I left the Uchiha Clan in the first place."
A pause. A silence long enough to let the thought settle.
"But alas…" Makoto tilted his head back at a deliberate forty-five-degree angle, eyes shimmering as though on the verge of tears. His lips trembled with the pain of admission. "…I lack the one thing necessary to achieve it. I lack financial resources. This, and only this, is my greatest regret."
From the corner of his eye, he peeked at the Daimyo. Subtle, sly, but effective. His intent could not have been clearer if he had shouted it from the rooftops.
Daimyo-sama. You are rich. You are powerful. You must help me. Hurry—send money.
For a long moment, the Daimyo stared at him, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, the tightness eased, and the faintest smile returned to his lips. The performance had worked.
The Daimyo was not afraid of demands. What he feared was resignation. A beaten Uchiha who submitted quietly to fate was of no use. But a passionate young clansman burning with indignation? That could be stoked into a weapon.
In the back of the Daimyo's mind, thoughts connected themselves. Hashirama's dream of a "village" threatened balance. If the Uchiha could join him, what of the Hyūga, the Sarutobi, the Akimichi, the Aburame, and all the rest? What if, in the future, other clans were drawn into his vision? Would there not rise a superstructure—a super village—that could rival even nations?
Today it was "unite the clans." Tomorrow, perhaps, it would be "unite the world."
The Daimyo's lips tightened around his wine cup. Even the most ordinary strategist knew one thing—an organization must have balance. And if balance collapsed, so too would the throne.
"Hahaha!" The Daimyo suddenly let out a booming laugh, startling the courtiers who stood silently nearby. "What's so difficult about that?" He leaned forward, eyes gleaming like a merchant who had just spotted a lucrative deal. "I understand the plight of the Uchiha Clan. And if you, Makoto, wish to establish your own Ninja Village… then so be it! I, as Daimyo of the Land of Fire, shall provide you with the resources you need."
The words were honey to Makoto's ears. He straightened immediately, smoothing his robes with deliberate grace. His lips curled into a smile, and he reached forward, gripping the Daimyo's hand with both of his.
At last. At long last, he had done it. He had secured not merely a benefactor, but an angel investor.
"Your Highness!" Makoto's voice trembled with gratitude. "The Uchiha Clan will never forget this kindness. From this day forward, I shall firmly, steadfastly, and unswervingly stand at Your Highness' side!"
His oath, filled with the passion of youth, struck the Daimyo's heart like a blade of loyalty. The nobleman's chest swelled with satisfaction. This young Uchiha truly understood the ways of the world.
The two men clasped hands tightly, no more words necessary. The pact was sealed.
Makoto needed money.
The Daimyo needed chaos.
It was an alliance built not on trust, but on necessity.
Afterward, the Daimyo insisted that Uchiha Makoto remain for a meal. To call it mere dining would be too humble a word. It was a feast.
Makoto's stomach growled in anticipation. He had subsisted the entire day on nothing but tea from the Daimyo's reception room, fragrant though it was. Worse still, in his haste to reach the Land of Fire's capital, he had relied on Byōganmaru—rations infamous for their dreadful taste. They were food only in name, with not even a shred of flavor to redeem them.
So when the dishes began to arrive—one after another, steaming, fragrant, dazzling in color and presentation—Makoto could not help but let his eyes widen.
Tender roasted meats, lacquered in glaze. Steaming soups enriched with herbs. Plates of vegetables so fresh they seemed plucked from the garden mere moments before. And alongside the food came music, graceful plucks of string instruments that filled the hall with harmony.
Then came the dancers—rows of young women clad in silken garments so thin they floated with every movement. Their steps were light, their arms fluid as water, their beauty blooming like flowers in spring.
Makoto stared. Not because of lust, but because beauty demanded acknowledgment. To look away would have been a crime against romance itself.
Yet, even as he indulged, he could not help but think: The Daimyo's life was comfortable beyond words. Too comfortable. Here was a man who feasted daily while the world outside burned.
The Daimyo sipped from his golden cup, swirling the wine within. Wine had always been his solace. On rainy days, on weary afternoons, holding fine liquor and gazing out at the gardens was one of the few things that truly brought him peace.
He glanced at Makoto, watching the young man eat with measured grace despite his obvious hunger. A sigh escaped his lips. "Makoto… if only everyone in this world could be as free of burdens as you appear."
The words carried a deep weariness, the kind that ordinary men could never understand.
Because to be Daimyo of the Land of Fire was not the blessing many imagined.
Yes, in name, he was sovereign. His title was one of majesty. But in reality, centuries of aristocratic entrenchment had left him bound. Noble families whispered in his court, their hands firmly gripping the strings of power. By his reign, bureaucracy had grown bloated beyond repair, and every attempt to control it had been swallowed in red tape.
In his youth, he had dreamed of sweeping reforms. Of throwing open the shutters to let in light and air, of breaking free from shadow governments and secret councils, of creating a transparent rule that belonged to him alone.
But dreams had turned to ash.
One afternoon, his ministers had presented him with a white paper titled Transparent Government. At first, he had been elated—until he saw the stacks of attached documents, memorials, and clauses, piled so high they dwarfed him. Obscure words, endless meetings, committees upon committees. Even if he worked himself to death, he would never pierce the mountain.
He had once asked, during a rare moment of frustration, if a certain civil service reform could actually be implemented.
"Your Highness," one minister replied with infuriating calm, "if I must speak plainly, then considering the larger situation, reviewing historical precedent, weighing departmental balance, and analyzing all factors, the answer may be subtle. Although it may sound unpleasant, the prospects, in summary, are neither optimistic nor entirely pessimistic. At this stage, that is the most accurate expectation."
The Daimyo had slammed his fist. "Just tell me—yes or no!"
The minister only bowed. "Neither yes, nor no."
From that day, the Daimyo had stopped fighting.
Fortunately, the system lumbered forward regardless. His throne remained secure, his life unthreatened. As long as the peasants remained half-alive, producing taxes and food, the state did not collapse.
But times were changing. The Ninja Clans, once content with their missions and feuds, were stirring. Hashirama's dream, Madara's ambition, Makoto's fire—they were signs. The status quo was fraying.
And so, as he gazed at Uchiha Makoto across the banquet table, the Daimyo wondered whether this youth was salvation… or the herald of chaos.