Itachi's head snapped up. Those blood-red Sharingan eyes flashed confusion, then pure mind-fuck disbelief as a nuke of a thought detonated in his skull:
"My kidnapping… no way the Third Hokage, Danzō, and those other two fossil advisors cooked it up. No way they're clean."
Makoto was deep in that legendary "deathbed glow-up" mode. Words flying like machine-gun fire, every syllable crystal-clear, like he was carving them into stone with his last breath.
"Don't hate them… don't even think about revenge. Promise me—live."
Right before curtain call, he slammed the mother of all black pots on Sarutobi Hiruzen's dome. The rest of the Konoha F4? Bonus splash damage.
Hell, he even played nice: couldn't dump all the blame on Danzō. Dude might actually buckle under a pot that big.
Itachi's body started shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. All those fuzzy gripes about the brass? Amplified to eleven. Locked in.
Makoto's dying words? Gospel. No doubt.
They killed my little brother.
The thought branded his soul with a red-hot iron—permanent scar.
Makoto caught the vibe and cracked a satisfied grin. One stone, multiple birds. Jackpot.
Itachi's Sharingan leaked killing intent thick enough to choke on. Fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped like bubble wrap, bone-white.
Makoto—neck stiff as rebar, pure willpower—swiveled to Shisui. Dude's eyes were a kaleidoscope pattern one emo spike away from locking in.
"Shisui… don't beat yourself up. You two make it out? Worth it."
"My call. No guilt."
That hit Shisui like a sledge to the heart. Dude folded forward, gasping like he'd been gut-punched. His almost-Mangekyō pattern wobbled like bad Wi-Fi.
Makoto was done. For real this time…
He swore he saw his great-grandma from his past life, chilling in golden light, waving him over like "C'mon, kid."
Anyone else? Chakra burnout this bad = instant dirt-nap.
Him? Forced two busted healing factors into timeout and still yapped out a full eulogy. Legend.
Eyes unfocused, he dragged them back to Itachi's tear-streaked, wrecked face.
Stuttering, gasping:
"Itachi… they say hearing's the last to go… so one more promise. Make bank… bury it with me. 'Kay?"
"Last… request… ever."
"Done. Swear it."
Makoto's face lit up—weak, but relieved. Like he'd cashed every check.
Breeze rolled by. Last spark in his pupils snuffed out. Gone dull, empty.
Head lolled. Thumped onto Itachi's arm.
His own arm flopped—plap—onto cold dirt.
Body heat? Draining like a bad battery.
Makoto… dead.
"MAKOTO!!!"
Itachi's scream ripped the night—feral, dying animal. Cradled the kid's stiffening corpse like it was made of glass.
World went blood-red. Grief, rage, despair—black tsunami, dragged him under.
Then—burn.
Eyes ignited. Savage, ice-cold chakra erupted from his brain—or soul—lava to the sockets.
Bit down so hard blood leaked from his gums.
Pain like his eyeballs were being pried out with crowbars. Vision drowned in thick crimson.
Normally? No way a kid his age pops Mangekyō.
But Makoto's ice-cold body in his arms? Final straw. Sanity? Snapped.
Failed Mangekyō attempt #2 came back harder. Fueled by pure despair.
Three-tomoe spun, twisted, fused.
CRACK.
New pattern locked: ominous, badass Mangekyō.
Pupil power tsunami slammed his half-baked body. Nearly tore him apart from the inside.
Emo overload + chakra nuke = lights out. Itachi ate dirt next to the corpse.
Shisui? Watched the whole soap opera: Makoto "burning out" to save them, Itachi Mangekyō-fainting.
Guilt, pain, self-hate—nightmare fuel. Swallowed him whole.
His own three-tomoe—already teetering—hit max RPM.
Bloody tears. Pop.
Mangekyō #2. Unlocked.
Head-splitting agony—needles in the brain. Clutched his eyes, wheezing.
Older, tougher body = no blackout. Just dizzy, weak as hell.
Makoto's "death"? Fast-tracked two premature Mangekyō.
Shisui staggered over. Checked Itachi—passed out, breathing. Good.
Then—hand shaking like a leaf—touched Makoto's neck.
Ice. Rigid.
No pulse.
Fantasy shattered. Heart in the freezer.
But Makoto's mind? Still kicking. Floating in void-black limbo. Time frozen. Space? Meaningless.
Ten golden respawn coins spun slow, mini-suns radiating life and hope.
Flat, robotic ping:
[Player death confirmed]
[Respawn Coins: 10]
[Use coin to revive? Y/N]
Y. No hesitation. Terrified of fat-fingering it.
[Confirmed]
[Revive type: In-Place / Random Location]
Random. Duh. In-place? Wasted the whole drama.
[FX: On / Off]
Paused. Then—On. Gotta flex.
[Reviving…]
[GG, no re.]
One coin flared supernova, merged with his consciousness.
Outside, Shisui still drowning in grief and what-the-fuck…