Lightning Country, Daimyo's Palace.
Fourth Raikage didn't even try to rein in that monster raw power. Gold-braceleted right fist slammed down on instinct.
That fancy-ass ironwood table—gold and silver inlays, pure baller status—couldn't take the thunder. BOOM. Splintered like cheap IKEA. Wood shards, fancy cups, gourmet scraps exploded outward like shrapnel.
The fake-ass "party vibe" in the hall? Obliterated.
Dancers mid-flex froze solid, muscles twitchin', starin' like deer in headlights.
Musicians? Strings snapped silent.
Daimyo, nobles, Lightning brass—all jumped outta their skin. Faces ghost-white, eyes locked on the Raikage lookin' like a pissed-off demon god.
Cups clattered. Ladies muffled screams. Chaos.
Lucky the Lightning Daimyo's a gym rat—tougher than the pampered pricks in the other Big Five. Any other daimyo? Probably pissin' themselves right now.
Even so, dude fumbled his wine—pricey shit soakin' his silk robes. Blank shock → mega-spooked → royally offended. Voice shot up an octave.
"AI! What the hell is this?! In public?! Have you lost your damn mind?!"
Raikage snapped outta rage mode, clockin' he just Hulk-smashed in front of VIPs.
Swallowed the volcano in his chest. Stood sharp, bowed slight to the daimyo. Voice gravel-rough from clampin' down fury.
"My deepest apologies, Lord Daimyo!" Rolled like thunder. "Bad news from the village—lost my shit for a sec. My bad."
"Emergency just hit. Gotta bounce now and handle it."
Apology polite as hell, but that growl? Pure barely-caged inferno. Urgency thick as blood.
If Makoto—chillin' in some Water Country hot spring right now—saw the Raikage bowing and scraping to a powerless suit? He'd cackle.
Call the man straight insane. Shadow-level beast, top-tier ninja world killer—grovelin' to a guy who can't fight his way outta a paper bag.
Past-life lessons + 5,000 years of history? Daimyo types = big hat, no cattle.
Mouth off? Whole family goes night-night. Neat and tidy.
Give Makoto real power? First order: nuke the daimyo system. Outdated garbage.
Kings and generals—born special? Fuck that noise!
That bone-deep rebel fire? Clashes hard with ninja world's bloodline = status, weak nobles lording over gods bullshit.
Here? Strength is law. Power is god. Makoto hits that level? Zero fucks given—whoever talks shit eats it. Even Kaguya.
Nobody knows yet, but that thought's a dormant volcano. One day? Erupts. Tsunami of fire to burn the old world down.
Daimyo eased a bit at the excuse, but still salty. Waved it off, dabbin' wine with a silk cloth. Ninja drama? Whatever.
"Fine. Kumo's budget bump? Next time. Handle your 'emergency.'"
Emergency dripped sarcasm.
"Thanks for understanding, Lord Daimyo!"
Another bow. Raikage spun—white cape slashing air like a blade. Stomped out, each step crater-heavy.
Second he cleared the palace? Mask gone. Face twisted, eyes spittin' real flames. Murder aura maxed.
ANBU messenger behind him? Didn't dare breathe. Head down, hauling ass.
Whole crew blitzed back to Kumo—lightning on legs.
Water Country, some backwoods mountain hot spring joint.
Total opposite of Kumo's current meltdown and Raikage's rage boner.
Makoto? Deep in Lightning Chakra Mode R&D. Routine chef's kiss.
Days: balls-to-wall training. Nights: pure bliss soakin' in natural springs, snow fallin', zero fucks.
Water Country winter? Vibes. Midnight—breath frost, air bites. Then sink into steamy, silky water. Ice on skin, fire in veins—heaven.
Wood tray loaded with local eats.
Head back: ink-black sky, snowflakes meltin' on steam. Far: snow-draped mountains, soft and mysterious.
Luxury? Hell yeah. But Makoto knows balance. Days? Laser focus. Zero slacking.
Lightning Chakra Mode difficulty? Soul-crushing.
Progress? Snail on molasses. Depressing slow.
Days of trial, error, ballsy experiments—Makoto admits: Kumo's ace secret? Earned.
Why the fuck is this B-rank? His ninjutsu genius should've cracked normal B-ranks in a weekend.
Deep dive: this shit's lethal dangerous. Worse than anything he's touched.
Core: sync 130 trillion cells. Pump pure lightning chakra—steady, endless.
Shape it with fancy morph tricks into solid, controlled lightning armor on skin.
Result? Body goes super-saiyan: speed, raw power, tank defense, reflex god-mode.
How? Lightning zaps cells—especially nerves. Human signals = tiny bio-electricity. Mode amps it to eleven—reactions, muscle snap insane.
But? Dancing on razor blades. One slip = crippled or worse.
Entry: ocean of chakra. OG Darui—shadow-level later—couldn't cut it. Karin called Fourth's reserves "tailed beast tier."
Control: surgeon precise. Too much? Fry yourself. Too little? Useless.
Sustain from every cell. Keep shape/intensity perfect. Newbies burn out fast or lightning backlash toasts meridians.
Body: freak tough. Can't handle the zap-hammer? Self-mutilation. Torn muscles, burnt nerves, organ damage, paralysis.
Pain: high-voltage torture + bone-deep numbness. Stay ice-calm or boom.
Will: iron. Fear of lightning, pain, speed-blur disorientation—conquer or die.
No wonder Kumo history? Handful mastered it.
Makoto respects real geniuses. This hell-difficulty? Proven.
Modern day? Fourth Raikage's signature.