In the middle of the buzzing crowd, this freaky Ōtsutsuki Sherkin dude (Toneri's cousin or whatever) was staring Makoto Uchiha down with empty eye sockets that somehow still looked like twin blue-flame blowtorches. Pure murder radiating off him like heat off asphalt.
Makoto just craned his neck, chin tilted so high he could probably high-five the stars, eyes screaming "Come at me, bro, I dare you." The amount of "fight me" he was serving was straight criminal.
Toneri's dad wasn't about to let his kid catch a felony tonight. He yanked the boy's wrist so hard his knuckles went ghost-white, white robes flapping like sails. Poof. Gone around the corner faster than you can say "Hyūga family drama."
Makoto rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. Tch. Thought these moon freaks would have worse tempers.
If somebody pulled that crap on him? He'd already be swinging elbows. But whatever. He'd slapped Flying Thunder God seals and a succubus mark on the kid; he could track that little albino bastard to the ends of the earth if he felt like it.
He was halfway through scheming how to sick Danzō on the pair when, whoosh, the FTG marker started hauling ass into the distance. Fading, but still pingable.
Makoto snorted. Y'all running like Konoha's gonna bite you. Rude. We didn't even get to the good part where somebody dies.
He glanced up at the moon, big silver coin stuck in the black sky, looking close enough to touch. With his current chakra? Couldn't teleport there even with FTG. No biggie. He'd just level up his tank till the moon was in range.
Stomach growled like a chained dog. Night was still young, and the real show was just getting started. Winter wind bit at his neck as he spun on his heel and strutted straight through the Hyūga main family gate like he owned the place.
Creaky hinge groaned like it was personally offended.
Inside, dozens of low tables, Hyūga in matching pale-gray kimonos sitting in little cliques. Minor clan heads and the Cloud delegation mixed in, conversation thick and fake-polite.
Makoto's sandals went clack-clack-clack on the stone, loud as gunshots in the stuffy vibe. Every blank white Byakugan turned his way, glowing cold under the moonlight.
Nobody said a word. Nobody dared.
After the Hokage Rock incident went viral, every clan in the village knew: mess with the second Uchiha young master and you're asking for a one-way ticket to viral embarrassment (or the morgue).
Makoto plopped down at an empty table and started demolishing food like it owed him money.
Scanning all those creepy milk-white eyes, a deliciously evil thought hit him: Wonder what Fugaku's face'll look like when I roll up rocking a pair of these bad boys.
He was already grinning.
Byakugan wishlist? Hell yeah, "gimme everything."
X-ray vision, 360° no-blind-spot awareness (good luck sneaking up on him, ever), whole-body chakra emission (Gentle Fist on steroids), Kaguya-level intimidation, and, apparently, borderline mind-reading. All of it. He wanted the full combo meal.
While chewing, he flicked open the pale-gold virtual panel only he could see.
[Naruto World Online – Player Shop]
Searched "Byakugan." Three versions popped up, prices glowing brighter the more expensive they got.
Cheapest one: 2 million ryō, light so dim it looked depressed.
Makoto raised a brow. Fifty thousand cheaper than the one-tomoe Sharingan he'd bought.
Sure, regular Byakugan doesn't hit as hard as Sharingan in a 1v1, but in war? Game-changer. On the black market that shit's worth at least one "Asuma Sarutobi" (the official ninja currency unit, 35 million ryō).
Clicked it.
[Caged Bird Byakugan]
Note: Auto-applies the Caged Bird seal on purchase. 1° blind spot. Main branch can fry your brain whenever they feel like it.
[Warning: BUYER BEWARE!!!] – in big red letters.
Makoto almost laughed out loud. Hard pass. Even if they paid him to take it, he wouldn't. That's not a bloodline, that's a leash with extra steps.
His Sharingan had cost more, sure, but zero drawbacks. No strain, no early-death tax. This trash version? Only a masochist would click "purchase."
He glanced around. Main branch Hyūga strutting like peacocks, foreheads proudly bare. Branch family shrinking, foreheads wrapped tighter than a mummy, hiding that ugly green X like it was shameful.
They moved like robots scared of getting shocked. If they had the choice, most branch kids would rather be born civilians than Hyūga slaves.
People say the Inuzuka are the best beast tamers in the village? Nah. Hyūga take the crown; they literally treat their own blood like dogs.
Danzō's Root tongue curse looks like charity in comparison. That one just paralyzes you if you snitch. Caged Bird? Straight-up liquefies your brain while you scream.
Second option: [Standard Main-Branch Byakugan] – no curse, full 360°, decent price.
Third option… Makoto's eyes dilated so hard he almost dropped his mochi.
[Perfect Byakugan: No facial marks, customizable pupil color, 100% compatibility with all other dojutsu. Zero rejection.]
Price tag? Enough zeros to induce vertigo.
He sucked in air through his teeth, then smirked.
Worth. Every. Ryō.
Stack this on his Sharingan and boom, Reincarnation Rinne-Sharingan, baby. Then keep stacking. The ceiling? Doesn't exist.
He needed money yesterday. Time to blow this village wide open and get paid.
Glanced at the head table. Cloud shinobi clinking cups with the Hyūga elders, eyes glinting like they were already planning the kidnapping.
Even without Makoto lifting a finger, tonight was gonna go to shit anyway.
But why settle for "shit" when you can have "absolute chaos"?
He shoved another sweet rice cake in his mouth, plotting.
Party was winding down. Elders all smiles, walking the Cloud delegation out.
Makoto slipped into the leaving crowd. As he passed a corner, he spotted a branch-family teen staring at the moon, quietly lifting his headband to look at the curse mark like it was a death sentence.
Makoto didn't slow down.
Stepped out the gate. Cold night wind hit his face. He looked up at the half-clouded moon, then at the Cloud shinobi strolling away like they hadn't just set the board on fire.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
The night was still young.
And the real show was just getting started. Showtime, bitches.