Itachi's sandals scraped the Uchiha compound's stone slabs like a chalkboard on steroids. Sparrows perched under the eaves freaked out, flapping away like they'd seen a ghost.
He booked it across the wooden bridge stamped with the clan crest, Naka River babbling in his ears like it was gossiping.
Training ground: after-images from Shunshin flickered in the sun like heat mirages.
Shisui was a goddamn blur weaving through tree shadows—meteor on Red Bull. One glance at Itachi's clenched jaw and ghost-pale face, and he slammed the brakes, landing light as a feather.
"Shisui," Itachi's voice dropped an octave, raw with defeat. "Clan head said hell no to storming Kumogakure for Makoto. Village brass? Useless. Radio silence."
His throat bobbed like he'd swallowed hot gravel.
"With my current juice? Solo run into Kumo to snag him? I'd be a corpse before the gate. So… I'm beggin'."
Wind whipped snowflakes against his cloak. He bowed his head, black bangs hiding bloodshot eyes.
"I know this is selfish as fuck…"
"But this is my one lifetime ask."
Shisui's leftover chakra static still crackled in the air, stinging skin. He clocked Itachi's white-knuckled fists—those calm-ass eyes now straight-up pleading.
He'd seen this train wreck coming the second Makoto got nabbed. All his prepped "dude, chill" speeches died in his throat. Swallowed hard. Nodded stiff.
"…Alright."
Even he thought it was batshit. Knew it was suicide. Couldn't spit out "no."
"Makoto's still a kid," Shisui said, palm on Itachi's shoulder—burning like a branding iron. "Kumo ain't touchin' him yet. We got time."
He stared toward Kumogakure. Kid was sharp as a tack—without him, village-clan beef would still be WWF cage match.
"We wait," Shisui's voice went ice-cold, nothing like his usual teddy-bear vibe. "If the clan and village puss out? We go. Just us."
Tone: locked in. Both knew barging into Kumo pre-peak was a 90% death sentence. Still green. Didn't matter.
Itachi's stubborn glare? Shisui knew the drill—no talking him down. Only option: ride shotgun.
"Can't waste the clock," Shisui growled. "Every rep, every spar—one percent closer to pulling him out alive."
Itachi's eyes finally sparked back to life. Nodded hard. Mumbled: "Gotta level up fast."
No more chit-chat. Straight into sparring—feral.
Ninjutsu popped quicker, taijutsu turned lethal, genjutsu clashes warped the damn air.
Under Shisui's no-holds-barred coaching, sub-10-year-old Itachi skyrocketed. Every move, every seal—surgical. Anxiety? Turned into raw power.
Between sets, Itachi's hate for the Third and daddy Fugaku went thermonuclear.
…
Time slipped by like Naka River on fast-forward. Winter bled into spring, ice thawed, refroze—rinse, repeat.
One year later, Kumogakure—sun blazing like God's flashlight.
Golden beams poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, splashing warm patches on a teak dining table that cost more than a house.
Air thick with gourmet gains—meats, roots, and Kumo's secret "boner broth" tonics. Smelled like victory and herbs.
Makoto lounged in a carved chair, sunbathing like a cat.
Skin: porcelain with a healthy flush. Hair: blacker than midnight. Nose: chiseled. Eyes: deep, calm, dangerously confident. Half-smirk? Filter-on, straight-up glow-up.
Samui and Mabui in custom maid fits—one ice, one fire. Visual nuke.
Samui's blonde mane shimmered; the dress hugged every curve. Leaned against the door, arms crossed, lips parted—zoned out watching Makoto's throat bob while he sipped soup. Ice queen? Thawing.
Mabui wiped the table with a velvet cloth, dark skin gleaming like she'd been dipped in honey. Every bend toward Makoto—eyes dripping smile.
Black and white duo in the living room? Silent porno tension.
"Refill on the...
"Refill on the soup, sir?"
Mabui spun, apron string brushing his knee—soft.
Makoto swallowed the last amber Kumo super-pill. Tongue still bitter from the stack.
Past year? These two ran his life like a five-star sim. Mabui especially—dude didn't even aim his own stream anymore.
Still hadn't found the "perfect" window to ping Konoha: "Yo, still alive, chill."
"Nah," he leaned back, sun soaking in.
Girls cleared the war zone. He flicked open the golden HUD:
[Naruto World Online]
Past year? Milked Kumo dry—funds on funds.