Out on the training ground's edge, the old-school Kumo vets—who'd traded bodies with Uchihas on blood-soaked battlefields—were locked in. Stone-faced.
Yozuki Yoru? Kumo's golden child of this gen. Just got steamrolled by a half-pint Uchiha kid years younger.
They'd tasted Sharingan terror before, but this? Talent flipping into raw power at that age?
That ain't "genius" anymore—that's monster territory.
The real heart-stopper? His age. Means a decade-plus of exponential growth ahead. No accidents? Dude's eclipsing every Raikage in history—straight to Madara god-mode.
War time? You'd nuke that threat with everything, no regrets. But now? The monster's on their team.
Heavy frowns cracked into grins they couldn't hide.
Dumbasses still gawking—smart clan kids? Eyes blazing, already ghosting backward.
Steps turned to shunshin sprints home—family alert!
Kid's potential? Nuclear. Plus he's eye-fuckin' Samui and Asa-cloth like a connoisseur… Deploy the hottest daughters, STAT!
Bag his seed = clan jackpot for generations.
One man's graveyard is another's lottery. Sidelines buzzing with glee; center ring? Dead silence.
Yozuki stood there like a zombie, staring at the shorter black-haired punk. Eyes hollow.
Trained since two and a half. Six years of grind, top-of-class pride—shattered in minutes.
Swordplay, taijutsu, ninjutsu—the kid toyed with him, smirking, like it was a warm-up.
Didn't even touch genjutsu. Sharingan's nightmare mode? Unused.
This… the real Uchiha genius?
Footsteps. Yozuki looked up—into calm crimson eyes.
Makoto stopped in front of the broken prodigy, voice sincere as hell, echoing across the now-silent field:
"You're a genius."
Yozuki flinched. Disbelief. In Kumo, winner roasts the loser raw—that's the code. Loser levels up, comes back swinging.
Not like some villages—lose and cry for daddy.
Makoto just stated fact, flat:
"But…"
Pause. Each word a sledge to the chest—for Yozuki, for everyone listening:
"Genius… is just the entry fee to face me."
He turned, cold-shouldered the statue-stiff kid. Scanned the crowd—shock, awe, complicated stares.
Crimson tomoe spun slow, dripping bone-deep indifference and ironclad swagger.
"So don't beat yourself up for losing."
"Hell—"
Voice turned prophetic, certain:
"Soon? You'll brag you sparred me and lived."
"Like the old heads who traded blows with the God of Shinobi, Hashirama, and walked away to tell it!"
"Forget losing—throwing a kunai from five hundred miles? Still a badge of honor!"
Sun broke through clouds, gold beam spotlighting Makoto—outline glowing like a damn halo against the scorched, gray dirt.
Mountain wind howled, kicking up dust and lingering smoke, spiraling into Kumo's endless blue sky—like the world itself nodded.
Samui's arms dropped from her chest, eyes locked, fingers curling without thinking.
Asa-cloth covered her mouth, eyes shimmering—mesmerized.
Not just them.
Every kunoichi in sight? Glued. Eyes scorching, could melt steel.
Kumo worships power—bred in the bone.
Kid this young, talent this terrifying, crushed their golden boy like a bug, plus drop-dead looks and that "I own the room" aura?
Combo lethal. These mountain girls? No brakes.
Air turned electric, thick with thirst. Ninja world don't care about age gaps—this was raw, unfiltered want.
Yozuki felt the stares shift—joy and sorrow don't share Wi-Fi.
.......
Raikage office, minutes later.
Vibe? Ice-cold compared to the field's heat.
Makoto sank deep in the guest couch like a lazy cat—total 180 from the sharp-tongued king on the field.
Pulled another mystery fruit from nowhere, crunch-crunch, juice echoing loud in the quiet.
Growth spurt = nutrition priority.
Fourth Raikage, Dodai, plus Samui and Asa-cloth standing by—all eyes on the walking contradiction.
Mouths shut. How do you even start?
Makoto broke the ice—ain't here to play coy:
Swallowed, sat up a hair, dead serious, staring the Raikage down:
"I'm joinin' Kumogakure. Full Lightning Country citizen."
Beat. Heavy:
"Loyalty!"
Then, smooth as butter:
"Fight for the Will of Lightning till I drop!"
Player life: Konoha? Konoha bro. Kumo? Kumo bro. Seamless swap, zero guilt.
Ai and Dodai watched "sincere" Makoto—face muscles twitching.
Talent? God-tier, Kumo's wildest wet dream. But this personality? Batshit unique.
Snatched from Konoha yesterday—pureblood Uchiha second son—less than 24 hours in, already screaming loyalty and Will of Lightning?
Dream sequence they never scripted.
Adaptability too smooth. Kinda… sus?
Uchiha genius = higher talent, crazier brain? Rumors true?
Ai rubbed his throbbing temple with a meaty finger, forcing chill:
"Cut the shit. What do you want comin' here?"
Makoto brow popped, set the half-eaten fruit down. Tone blunt as a hammer:
"I like fancy clothes, gourmet food, drop-dead gorgeous women, and stacks on stacks."
Pause. Hammer drop:
"Especially the stacks."
"Can you hook a brother up, Lord Raikage?"
Dagger out. Showed his cards post-demo—no shame, straight bid.