Spring in Konoha.
A gentle spring rain sprinkled over the tender sprouts poking through the stone pavement cracks. The wind chimes hanging from the eaves had gone quiet under the drizzle. Inside the Uchiha compound, everything felt oppressively still, like a waterlogged cotton blanket weighing you down, making it hard to breathe.
In the clan leader's residence, the fan-shaped Uchiha crest was damp with moisture. The setting sun sliced through the door crack, casting dark red streaks across the floorboards—like fresh bloodstains that hadn't dried yet.
Around a low table in the living room sat three kids—one older, two little ones.
Makoto, smack in the middle, first glanced at the big bro on his left—the clan-wiper-outer Itachi. That faint smile on Itachi's lips? To Makoto, it looked like ice shards at the bottom of a frozen pond, sending chills straight to the bone.
Then he checked out the tsundere legend, the ultimate tough guy Uchiha Sasuke, on his right.
Two-and-a-half-year-old Sasuke noticed Makoto staring and huffed in his baby voice, "What're you lookin' at me for?"
Makoto didn't bite. Instead, he pulled out a bag of sunflower seeds and handed it over. "Got these just for you. Dig in."
In his head, he was thinking: Stuff Sasuke's mouth with seeds so he doesn't interrupt the real talk coming up.
Sasuke gave a little "hmph," wrinkling his tiny nose, but his chubby hands snatched the bag quick. His little mouth went right to work, chomping away—total tsundere vibe, but with that cute kid awkwardness shining through.
Staring at this carefree, sunny pillar of a kid (Sasuke), Makoto let out a long sigh in his mind. Pre-massacre Sasuke is like a clingy tsundere kitten. Post-massacre? Total different dude.
He was a transmigrator—not soul-swapped, but born right into this world.
Up until two and a half years ago, his past-life memories were like a glitchy old VHS tape, all fuzzy. But just yesterday, the pieces finally clicked, and once he pieced together his situation... man, he just wanted to say, New character, don't screw me over like this...
He was Itachi's little brother, Sasuke's twin. The three of them had grown up together.
Having binged Naruto a million times, he knew damn well that being brothers with the ultimate good son—the clan-wiper-outer Itachi—was like using an explosive tag as a hand warmer.
Worst case? Dead early. Best case? Tortured until the clan's down to just you, the lone Leaf orphan.
Thinking about it, Makoto's eyes drifted to Itachi's hands.
Itachi was heads-down, shelling seeds for his little bros. His fingertips pinched the shells, pausing now and then like he had the weight of the world on him.
Sunset light slid down his hair tips, his profile soft like a painting. But to Makoto, that softness was a knife wrapped in cotton—its blood-coated edge way too sharp.
Itachi shelled two seeds at a time: one for himself, one pushed to Sasuke. Peak bro-con energy, keeping everything perfectly even.
The pile of white seed kernels in the dish gleamed coldly in the sunset—like the brain matter that'd splatter on the ground on massacre night, not far off.
Straight-up hell-mode start. Even breathing felt thick with the stench of blood.
After wrestling with it a bit, Makoto clenched his fists and decided to "read Itachi's fortune"—test the waters, see just how extreme the guy was right now.
Fortune-telling for your future killer? Hit rate's gotta be high. Know the outcome, and he could plan his next moves. Sitting around waiting to die? Not his style.
Yeah, the move was kinda wild and abstract, but no biggie. The last two and a half years, bits of his past-life memories had popped up now and then.
Starting from baby days, he'd done some seriously out-there, even bonkers stuff. Anywhere else, folks might call him a weirdo. But in the Uchiha clan? Everyone said he had the makings of a powerhouse.
Everyone knows: Uchiha get weirder, the stronger they are—and the stronger ones are the weirdest. Compared to the legendary tough-guy Sasuke, Makoto's antics screamed pure-blood Uchiha.
Plus, Itachi being such a bro-con, asking him for a fortune reading was zero risk. They'd lived together for real, two and a half years solid.
With that in mind, Makoto pushed the seed kernels to one side, put on his serious toddler face, and said, "Itachi, gotta ask you something. Answer straight—no lies."
Itachi's shelling paused. He looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the bloody sunset. No words, just a slight nod.
Sasuke, mid-shovel of seeds into Makoto's dish, froze as the vibe shifted. His chubby hand stopped dead.
His little brows furrowed like a bunched-up dumpling, cheeks puffed out, trying his best to look all grown-up and stern.
Makoto's fingers gripped the table edge, and he asked, word for word: "Love your brothers... or love the village?"
The air went crack—frozen solid.
Itachi's gentle expression stiffened for a split second. His fingertips squeezed the seed shell, cracking it with a fine split. He never expected a kid this young to drop a bomb like that.
But remembering Makoto's past wild stunts and that obsessive look now? No second-guessing.
Reputation's a hell of a thing. Pure-blood Uchihas are mostly a bit off, and they love tunnel-visioning.
Even Makoto's picked up on the village-clan beef? Itachi sighed inwardly.
"Answer me!" Makoto's voice tightened, fingers digging harder.
Itachi dropped his gaze, long lashes casting shadows. The seed shell in his fingers shattered completely, bits tumbling to his knee.
His silence was deafening—even the rain pattering on the window frames stabbed like needles.
Sasuke's legs rubbed together nonstop, looking kinda weird. He had to pee bad... but the tense mood made him too shy to interrupt. His face was beet red.
After stewing a moment, Makoto pressed: "If me and Sasuke both fell in the water at the same time—who do you save?"
"Makoto's a big dummy!" Sasuke blurted out, his baby voice slicing the tension. "Big bro can use shadow clone jutsu—he'd save you both!"
Makoto facepalmed at smarty-pants Sasuke's buzzer-beater answer. Nice one, kid. Go take two Tailed Beast Bombs to the face at the village gate.
Ignoring Sasuke, he locked eyes on Itachi: "Answer me, Uchiha Itachi!!"
Sasuke, sidelined and confused about their cryptic talk, tugged Makoto's sleeve in his milky voice. "Don't get all worked up..."
Makoto swatted his hand away, eyes wide: "Am I worked up?"
Sasuke huffed, turning away with puffed cheeks that could hang an oil bottle. Swearing in his head: Not talking to Makoto today.
Itachi, a few years older, seemed to get what Makoto meant. He pondered, brow furrowing.
Finally, looking at Makoto's dimmed expression, he murmured low: "I don't know."
Makoto's heart, hanging by a thread, plunged into an ice pit—stone cold.
He forced a grin, letting out a dry "heh heh." His throat felt stuffed with cotton; the laugh was raspy and bitter.
He stood slow, legs heavy like they were filled with lead, stepping over those blood-drop-like sunspots on the floor, walking out like a robot.
Outside, the spring rain kept drizzling, no sign of stopping. The eaves' wind chimes swayed in the wind and rain, clinking dull and monotonous.
...
On the way back to his room, Makoto's brain raced, brainstorming escape plans.
Brainwashing Itachi? Tough sell. Uchihas respect strength above all—no power, and even a bro-con like Itachi won't budge.
Plus, handing his fate to someone else? Not his jam.
Gotta rely on yourself!
Compared to that, sneaking a shot to gouge out Itachi's eyes felt like better bang for the buck.
Itachi sat by the table, watching Makoto's back as he left. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something... then swallowed it. His fingers absently rubbed the seed shell crumbs, eyes tangled in conflict.
Sasuke, freed once Makoto bounced, bolted like a puppy off the leash—straight to the bathroom. He'd almost burst.
Back in his room, Makoto went quiet for a long stretch.
Emotions churning, he suddenly balled his fists, hyping himself up hardcore—trying to awaken the Sharingan.
During this, Sasuke peeked through the door crack a bunch of times. Seeing him buried under the blanket, unmoving, he didn't bug him. Itachi came by too, stood at the door watching for a bit, then quietly dipped.
Uchiha Mikoto finished dinner and saw Makoto wasn't coming out, so she left a bento by the door, calling softly: "Makoto, dinner's ready."
Makoto mumbled a "mm" from under the covers but didn't get up. Mikoto gently closed the door and left.
Night fell like thick ink, unyielding. Time flew.
Who knows how long passed—sky started lightening with dawn. After a whole night, Makoto's eyes showed zero change... Exhaustion hit like waves, but he fought sleep.
He shuffled to the mirror, staring at his bloodshot eyes, hand fixing his messy hair. In his mind: I ain't dying this early.
But that hand hovering mid-air trembled like a fall leaf in autumn wind.
Waiting to die? Not him. He started tearing the house apart—goal: Chakra extraction technique.
At his age, refining chakra would wreck his body hard. But if he didn't change things, he might not even make it to when his body's more ready...
He came to the Naruto world dreaming of punching Uchiha Madara, kicking the Sage of Six Paths, and gunning down Kaguya Otsutsuki.
Basic entry-level jutsu like this? Should be easy to find in the clan leader's house.
But after rummaging forever, nada. Probably stashed by Uchiha Mikoto.
That got him eyeing Itachi's room—high chance it was there.
He marched straight over, shoved the door open with a creak.
Itachi was zoning out by the window, morning light outlining a big dark silhouette behind him.
Hearing the noise, Itachi turned, about to speak—but Makoto cut him off: "Itachi, Uchiha Izumi just came looking for you. Said go find her."
Gotta trick Itachi out so I can search. With his bro-con vibes, no way he'd let me refine chakra this young.
Itachi didn't even lift an eyelid at Izumi's name, tone flat: "No time."
Makoto frowned, doubling down: "Uchiha Shisui was just here too. Said it's urgent."
Whoosh—Itachi shot up like a rocket, eyes lighting up rare-style, voice eager: "Where's he waiting?"
Barely hidden excitement and anticipation. Shisui was Itachi's top bro—the one who got him, shoulder-to-shoulder.
Any invite from Shisui? He never said no.
"Old spot," Makoto bullshitted.
Itachi never doubted him—body flickered, leaping out the window, robes slicing a clean arc in the air.
Makoto watched him vanish, smirking to himself: In the Naruto world, bros before everything, huh? True that.
No time to dwell—he tore through Itachi's room.
Finally, in a corner: a special scroll—Chakra Extraction Technique.
Makoto plopped down cross-legged, took a deep breath, and followed the scroll's steps to try refining chakra.
Eyes shut, he focused hard, sensing the physical energy hidden in his body's 30 trillion cells, while gathering mental energy.
At first, the two energies were like feuding kids—oil and water, refusing to mix. Try after try, all fails.
His young body couldn't handle it—failures brought stabbing pains from every cell, like a million needles jabbing at once.
Makoto gritted through it, sweat beading on his forehead, fingers clawing into the floorboards. No quit in him.
Anyone who can't be tough on themselves ain't a real powerhouse, no matter how strong.
He tweaked his state over and over, attempting endlessly. Finally, after countless flops...
A thin strand of chakra—physical and mental energy fused perfectly—weak but warm, sparked to life inside him.
The instant he succeeded, a virtual panel only he could see popped up in his vision. Golden text read:
[Naruto World Online]