"But…" one of the other elders still wasn't sold.
"No buts!" The grand elder shut him down hard, voice like a gavel. "We trust Fugaku—for now. But everything's got an expiration date."
"Effective immediately, mobilize every damn asset. Eyes on Cloud, 24/7. Any twitch, any whisper—I wanna know yesterday."
His glare sharpened past what any kid could muster—pure, icy killer instinct. Uchiha and Cloud run on the same fuel: raw power. No strength, no clout. Didn't matter he was ancient; the hawk faction's top dog just bared fangs.
"If we go dark on Makoto for too long—or Cloud so much as sneezes wrong…"
"Then Uchiha pulls out all the stops. We storm that village, drag him home—even if we gotta paint the streets red and stack bodies to the damn sky!"
…
Uchiha Clan Compound – Clan Head's House
Morning sun filtered through paper screens, spilling weak gold across a guest hall that felt more like a morgue. Breakfast plates still steamed, but the vibe? Arctic.
Fugaku had ghosted out the door for the Military Police HQ without a word, brow knotted tighter than a sailor's rope.
Mikoto's eyes were red-rimmed. She forced down a few bites, taste like ash, then bolted to her room before she lost it in front of the boys. Makoto getting snatched felt like a kunai twisting in her gut.
"Nii-san!" Sasuke's voice cracked as he stared at Itachi. "Is Makoto in deep shit? We gotta go save him!"
Itachi reached out, gentle flick to the forehead—classic big-bro move.
"Relax," he said, calm as a frozen lake, eyes darker than midnight. "He'll be fine."
Then he stood and dipped—no way he was letting Sasuke drown in the same worry.
Sasuke watched his back vanish, tiny fists clenched white. Everyone treated him like a damn toddler—zero intel, zero burden. Screw that.
Lips sealed tight, he bolted to the yard and unloaded on the training post. WHAM. WHAM. Wood chips flew, blood beaded on his knuckles, but he didn't feel a thing—just rage-fueled swings.
He needed power. Power to yank Makoto back. Power to hold this family together. But he couldn't even pop a Sharingan, let alone sling jutsu.
Panting, soaked in sweat, hands shaking—he suddenly remembered him. The green-spandex weirdo with the bowl-cut screaming about YOUTH exploding.
Makoto had pointed the guy out once while they strolled the streets: "Dude's a taijutsu god. For a hot minute, he's the undisputed king of hand-to-hand in the whole ninja world."
Sasuke had always dodged the freak—too loud, too extra. But now? Lifeline.
Screw weird. If Might Guy could make him strong enough to save Makoto, to shoulder the family—Sasuke would wear the damn green leotard himself.
…
Uchiha Izumi's House
Clinking dishes cut off like a record scratch.
Izumi knelt at the low table, setting out plates for her mom. Outside, frantic Uchiha chatter drifted in like shrapnel: "Cloud…" "Snatched…" "Makoto…"
The words stabbed her eardrums. Her fingers froze mid-air. A delicate floral bowl slipped—CRASH—shattered across the tatami, shards everywhere.
Face drained ghost-white. Those soft, watery almond eyes blew wide, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Single-tomoe Sharingan flared unbidden, spinning like a seizure.
"Makoto…"
Barely a whisper, but it cracked like glass.
Makoto—that half-grown kid younger than her—was the first ray of sunshine in her pitch-black life.
Dad died the night of the Nine-Tails. She and Mom crawled back to the clan district, branded with side-eye and whispers. Only the clan head's family never looked at them like trash.
Especially Makoto. He'd bounce over to play, her only friend in this frozen hell. He was warmth in a clan of ice, the brightest moon in her starless sky.
Lately, at the training grounds, when she was getting dog-piled—he stepped up, no hesitation. Tiny frame, massive balls—used his rep and talent to shield her in front of everyone.
And now… dragged off to Cloud?
Classroom horror stories stitched together in her head: bloodline prodigies locked in black-site cages, milked like prize stallions till they're husks…
Picturing Makoto's small body crushed under endless humiliation, pain, drained—her heart got vise-gripped by an icy fist. Couldn't breathe.
"Ah—"
A broken sob tore out.
Eyes burned. Savage chakra erupted from her brain, lava surging to her sockets.
Pain like hot pokers ripping her eyeballs out. Vision bled crimson.
Those gentle, smiling eyes—now just manic tomoe thrashing. Single comma shuddered, stretched, snapped.
CRACK!
A tiny, unmistakable pop deep in her skull.
Single-tomoe… split. Double-tomoe born.
Chakra tsunami slammed her underdeveloped meridians, threatening to blow her apart from the inside.
She clutched her searing eyes, curled fetal on the floor. Nails dug bloody crescents into her palms—she didn't feel it.
Nightmare reels looped: Makoto's warm grin swallowed by darkness, crushed under faceless bodies, used up and discarded…
He was light. How dare they drag him into hell?
"AHHHH!!!!"
A scream ripped from her throat—nothing like her usual soft voice. Pure, feral despair.
"This place… IS HELL!!!!"
Eyeballs hotter than branding irons. Emotional overload plus chakra hemorrhage finally short-circuited her. Body went slack, crashed into the porcelain wreckage, lights out.
"Izumi!"
Her mom, Yegetsu, burst in. Daughter sprawled unconscious, double-tomoe still lazily spinning in her eyes. Heart dropped to her stomach.
She scooped the girl up—scalding forehead, ice-cold arms. Pain and panic warred inside her.
Sharingan evolution always rides shotgun with soul-shredding agony. The stronger the talent, the earlier the bloom, the worse the backlash—sometimes plants the seeds for bloodline disease.
Yegetsu wiped bloody tears from Izumi's lashes, cradled her tight. "My poor baby…"
Soft sigh. She carried the limp girl to bed, gaze lingering on those cursed eyes.
The Sharingan: gift and curse in one red package.
Uchiha feel everything harder—love, hate, obsession. Every upgrade just cranks the dial.