That ancient banyan tree outside the Hyuga compound stood like a mute gargoyle, leaves frozen stiff, wind givin' it the cold shoulder. Air thick with wet-dirt funk, heavy enough to choke a lung.
Clouds smothered the moon into a blurry night-light, leakin' just a few sad silver threads that barely sketched the Hyuga walls—like a shadow dunked in ink.
Far off, a couple dog barks. Otherwise? Dead quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat bouncin' off your ribs like a trapped ping-pong ball.
Makoto Uchiha leaned on his past-life memories, pinpointed the exact spot where Hyuga Hizashi iced that Cloud envoy in the OG timeline, then scooted a little closer.
He melted into the shadows, knees bent like a panther ready to pounce, breath so shallow he might as well be part of the night.
Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop—
Five soft puffs. White smoke burst and vanished like popped bubbles.
Five shadow clones—carbon copies of Makoto—locked and loaded. Their eyes? Razor-sharp. His? Chill as a fridge.
He fished out five custom kunai from his pouch. Tiny Flying Thunder God – Succubus seals etched on the handles, glowin' faint blood-red in the dark.
One per clone. He tapped a handle—tick—like loadin' a chamber.
"Scatter."
Five clones blurred into black streaks, fanin' out in every direction around the Hyuga turf. Makoto wasn't bettin' the farm on the original plot.
Butterfly effect bullshit? If the Cloud goon took a different route 'cause of him, tonight'd be a total bust.
Moon finally peeked through the clouds, silver spill drippin' over treetops, scatterin' broken shards of light on the ground—like someone dumped a bag of crushed diamonds.
Ever since droppin' into the ninja world, every time Makoto stared at that moon, he swore somethin' was starin' back. Probably just paranoia.
Dew slid off grass blades—drip, drip—cold as ice chips on his knuckles. He smirked inside:
"Cloud's little black-ops punks lucked out waitin' till the Otsutsuki daddy-son duo bounced before snatchin' Hinata. Try that shit in front of those freaks? Instant fireworks."
Time crawled. Night dragged like a bad hangover.
Then—rustle—fabric on dry grass, snake-slither quiet.
Makoto's breath stayed steady. Eyes cracked open, pupils pinpricks in the dark. No Sharingan yet, but sharper than a cat on Red Bull.
A shadow vaulted the back wall of the Hyuga main house—lightning fast—draggin' a tiny limp body.
Bright kimono poppin' in the dark. Hinata Hyuga, rag-doll floppy, swingin' like a pendulum. Drugged to the gills.
The same Cloud boss who led the truce-signin' crew this morning.
Makoto's lips curled. Finally.
Dude had dipped early from the Hyuga party claimin' "business," never came back.
Been squattin' inside the whole damn time. Sneakin' into Hyuga HQ at night? Near impossible otherwise.
Hyuga clan straight-up self-sabotaged.
Cloud ninja closed in on the banyan, Hinata danglin' like bait.
Makoto flexed on the branch, toes light as a feather, dropped silent—no grass blade twitched.
Kunai gripped tight. This Cloud bastard was a live grenade in the Leaf right now.
In Makoto's hands? Point him at any clan, watch 'em burn midnight oil puttin' out fires.
Cloud ninja clocked the kid under the tree, skidded to a halt. Hinata still out cold—must've OD'd on the sleepy juice.
But a half-pint blocker? Panic fizzled. Caution stayed.
Sneer twisted his face: Kid's toast.
Makoto ignored the murder eyes, waved his custom kunai like a lollipop. Addressed the one-eyed Cloud clone of Danzo:
"Just found this kunai. Tip's got some… dust? Come closer, gimme a second opinion?"
He wiggled it forward. Tiny succubus seal flashed under moonlight—like a wink from hell.
Cloud ninja squinted, suspicion flickerin'—then drowned in kill-lust.
Time's tight. Kid's dead.
Wrist snapped. Shuriken hissed out like vipers, aimin' for every kill switch on Makoto's body.
Inches from the heart—Makoto "stumbled," ankle "twistin'" on a rock, body tiltin' sideways.
Kunai "slipped" from his hand, arc wobbly as a drunk frisbee, tumblin' toward the Cloud ninja.
Dude snorted. Accuracy worse than a toddler on juice boxes.
Didn't even blink. Trajectory was garbage—zero dodge needed.
Fired off more shuriken, moonlight turnin' blades into a death web.
Custom kunai about to whistle past his ear.
Makoto grinned. Ever since snaggin' S-Rank space-time jutsu Flying Thunder God, he'd trained kunai throws with Itachi. Deadeye accuracy.
Flying Thunder God: Second Stage—
Voice barely in his head—body vanished, leavin' a ghost afterimage wiped clean by moonlight.
S-Rank space-time upgrade: Chuck a marked kunai, teleport to it mid-flight, combo with the blade itself.
Cloud ninja's ear exploded with a sonic whoosh. Neck hairs stood like soldiers.
He whipped around—red-hot iron to the spine.
One eye reflected not the weird kunai…
But Makoto Uchiha, mid-teleport, grin sharp as the blade now kissin' his throat.