Dean Mama—Yakushi Nonō… that name was a rusty needle jammed deep in the softest part of Kabuto's heart. Even breathing wrong could snag it.
Ever since he started spying for Root, he'd figured he'd never see her again.
But now? Makoto-sama.
Sure, Orochimaru was the one who physically yanked him out of Root's mud. But Kabuto knew exactly who deserved the real credit.
Without Makoto's hard push, Orochimaru would never have snatched him up. That debt? Carved into his bones.
Especially hearing "out in the open" hit his ears—Kabuto's nose burned like it was stuffed with wasabi. He nodded hard.
Knuckles crumpled the carnation wrapping, voice tight, a choked sob slipping out. Eyes red as soaked blood. "Thank you, Makoto-sam—"
"Hm?" Makoto's tone lifted light as a feather brushing the heart.
The respect snapped Kabuto back. He ducked his head, voice thick with reverence. "Thank you, Makoto-nii. Really—thank you!"
He swallowed, resolve flashing. Eyes bright when he looked up. "Anything you need—ever—just say the word."
Deep bow, then he turned and headed for the orphanage.
Sunlight stretched his shadow long. First steps hesitant—then faster, breaking into a jog.
Like a homesick kid finally running to the door.
Makoto watched the shrinking figure, lips curling. Debt planted. Who knows what surprises it'll sprout later.
Sure, Kabuto might still bolt with Orochimaru—but way better than the original timeline where he personally kills his foster mom.
Train hard under Orochimaru. Once Makoto's the man running the show—pardon him back, or build a new Leaf and bring him home.
Sunshine warm, breeze sweet. Makoto stretched, strolling back to the compound.
---
The Dark of the Shinobi World—Pot Shadow—Shimura Danzo sat in Root's damp, dim base.
His one eye darker than the oil lamp. On the stone table: a yellowed photo. Makoto grinning sideways, eyes blazing like a mini sun.
THUNK.
Knuckles slammed the photo, creasing it. Thumb ground over the boy's face. Eye swirling with venom—like poisoned ice shards.
"Orochimaru—begging for this brat? Ridiculous."
Voice raspy, cold, echoing in the empty base.
If Hiruzen hadn't blocked him—wait till the Kumo ceasefire—he'd have gutted that sharp-tongued, evil-born Uchiha spawn himself. Shot Orochimaru down flat.
Danzo's cane creaked in his grip, knuckles white. Lived half a century—never been cussed out in public. By a kid.
If the brat hadn't hid in the compound for six months, his grave would be a jungle by now.
"Uchiha Makoto…" Name hissed through teeth. Killing intent thick enough to touch. "After the treaty—I send you to hell."
---
Days blurred.
Itachi turned into a wind-up toy on steroids.
Out before dawn with rice balls. Back after moonrise, legs like lead. Sometimes gone all night.
Every time he saw Makoto? Pulled a fat stack of mission pay from his pouch.
Makoto? Quick praise. Core points: Will of Fire + Sasuke.
That's it. Itachi? Instant hype. Out earlier, more missions—pure nuclear workaholic.
Scariest part? He loved it. Exhausted, still smiling soft. Will of Fire—dangerous stuff.
Days rolled. Kumo ceasefire delegation closing in.
Player Shop balance ticking up—ding-ding-ding.
Finally—this morning—Makoto cashed the stack Itachi slipped him overnight.
Balance: OVER THE LINE.
Gate creaked. Itachi and Shisui shuffled in—heads low, shoulders slumped like storm-beaten sunflowers.
Shisui's lips a thin line, back bent. Itachi's eyes red-veined, drowning in gloom.
They led Makoto to the woods at the compound's edge.
Wind hissed through leaves—shhh—like a sigh.
Both stood in shade. Breeze dragged dead leaves across ankles. Shadows twisted on the ground.
Silence thick with pine-needle bite.
Finally—Shisui's throat bobbed. Voice like sandpaper on wood. "Makoto… Orochimaru-sama took the kid… and defected."
Fists clenched at his sides—shaking, knuckles cracking white.
Eyes down, lashes casting tiny shadows. Barely a whisper: "Our plan to back him for Fifth… over before it started."
Sunlight dappleed through leaves, painting Shisui's face in light and dark.
His disappointment? Soaked cotton—sagging, heavy. Shoulders half-collapsed.
Itachi said nothing. Head low. Nails dug crescents into palms.
Sneaked a glance at Makoto. He's gotta be crushed.
"Half a year of work… gone. He's hurting worse than us."
Nails dug deeper—blood beaded, unnoticed.
Makoto? Knew this was coming. Face? Thunderstruck—eyes wide, brows twisted, voice shaking. "No way! He was fine days ago—why defect?!"
Stumbled back half a step, nearly fell. Fists bunched in his shirt. Pure gutted kid.
Itachi and Shisui? Hearts breaking. Poor kid—working for village and clan since two and a half… betrayed.
Oscar-worthy.
Quick acting—Makoto flicked open the pale-gold Naruto World Online panel. Swipe. Dark patterns slithered like live snakes.
Player Shop glowed—right in Shisui's face. Invisible to them.
He'd already picked the item. Timing? Perfect.
Two-Tomoe Sharingan.
Gotta spend smart. Stack stats. High enough numbers? Force solves everything.
Bonus: talent boost = more clan cred.
Mental click: Purchase [Two-Tomoe Sharingan]
Shop price: 15 million ryō. But he'd bought One-Tomoe for 2.5 million.
Shop's nice—deducted it. 12.5 million total.
PURCHASE.
Instantly—Makoto roared: "I'M GONNA BLOW UP THIS DAMN WORLD!"
Eyes burned warm. Gentle chakra flooded veins—tingly, blissful.
Pupils bled red. One-tomoe cracked—two blood-red tomoe spun wild.
World sharpened—glorious.
Chakra surged like a dam burst—WHOOSH. Every cell buzzed, drunk on power.
Makoto fought the grin—lips twitched—then threw his head back with the classic Uchiha cackle: "HA HA HA!"
Itachi and Shisui? Hearts in throats. Spinning two-tomoe at his age? The pain he must be in…
Itachi's nails carved deeper—blood smeared.
Makoto—high on power—laughed, shut his eyes, and dropped.
Not fainted. Just… too good.
12.5 million ryō. Painless eye upgrade. Worth it.
Itachi and Shisui freaked—caught him, swapped worried looks, carried him home like glass.
Bumps on the road? Makoto napped.
Tucked him in bed. Tiptoed out. Door closed like a whisper.
Moon climbed. Silver light spilled through the window, frosting the bed in shards of light.
Makoto woke, stretched, hunted for Itachi—gone. Whatever.
In a great mood, he bounced to Fugaku's room.
Time to check on that arranged marriage progress.