A couple days later.
Drip. Drip.
Thick, sticky blood slid down Uchiha Makoto's cheek. No pain anywhere in his body; he lazily wiped it with a finger, smearing dark-red streaks across his knuckles.
He blinked, eyelashes still crusted with dried gore, let out a long, satisfied yawn, and stretched like a cat in a sunbeam.
Man, I haven't slept this good in forever.
One lazy sweep of the pine-strewn clearing snapped the drowsy haze right out of his eyes.
Sam was slumped against a tree trunk, her black tactical catsuit ripped wide open by a massive shuriken. Blood had soaked the fabric into a crusty black mess.
The edges of the gash curled outward, twitching like it had a mind of its own.
Her lips were paper-white, those blue-green eyes fogged over, breath so faint it could've been a ghost's whisper—ready to flatline any second.
Burlap wasn't doing much better. Skin that used to glow like polished obsidian now looked ashy and dead. Cracked lips, every inhale rattling like dry leaves.
She leaned against Sam, fingers digging into bark on pure muscle memory. Chakra reserves? Tapped out.
The little grove looked like a kaiju had a temper tantrum—trees the size of telephone poles either snapped in half with lightning-charred stumps or sliced clean on a diagonal, splinters dripping meat chunks.
Ground was a minefield of craters: scorched black patches still smoking, the air thick with ozone, razor-sharp wind residue, and that unmistakable barbecue stench of fire jutsu.
Two seconds of looking and you knew the body count had been brutal.
Far off, the ocean glinted cold under the moon, waves crashing with a salty hiss.
Makoto's lips curled into a lazy smirk. Finally hit the Fire Country border.
His gaze slid left. A dozen-plus corpses littered the snow—masked ANBU, Root goons, and Cloud spies.
Only one Root ninja was still crawling, dragging himself like a three-legged dog. Blood poured down his pant leg, painting a candy-cane stripe in the snow. The kunai in his hand shook like a leaf in a hurricane; dude couldn't even lift it past his hip.
Sam and Burlap clocked the blood-crusted blade. No fear in their eyes—just numb, bone-deep damn, so close regret.
They'd wiped out nearly every Cloud mole in the Leaf. Fought till their tanks were bone-dry. One more step and they'd have pulled it off…
What a kick in the nuts.
They traded a look, both cracking the saddest smiles known to man—lips barely twitching.
Then Makoto sat up.
Sam's long lashes fluttered. A spark flickered in those dying eyes, like someone struck a match in a blizzard.
All the crazy shit this guy had pulled… maybe, just maybe…
Makoto ignored the hope blooming in her head. Hands flashed through seals faster than a speed-run:
Snake → Ram → Monkey → Boar → Horse → Tiger!
The infamous "non-lethal" jutsu of the ninja world.
Sam's heart nosedived. A bitter laugh ghosted across her bloodless face.
Of course. Why the hell would a Leaf ninja ever side with Cloud?
She closed her eyes, waiting for the fire to eat her alive.
"Fire Style: Grand Fireball Jutsu—"
Chakra surged to his throat. He whipped around—not at the girls, but at the stumbling Root agent—and hurled a goddamn flaming wrecking ball.
"…Huh?"
Sam and Burlap froze. Even the Root guy stopped mid-shuffle, his smug grin flash-frozen into pure what the fuck.
He opened his mouth, voice like a busted accordion: "Uchiha Makoto… Lord Danzo's ready to bring you in, we're not—"
BOOM.
The fireball swallowed him whole. On contact—POP!—it bloomed into a demonic lotus of flame.
Makoto didn't give a rat's ass. One brow arched, hands still moving.
Five more Grand Fireballs, back-to-back.
Because when your clan's signature move is the "non-lethal" nuke, you spam that shit for peace of mind.
First blast already turned the guy into a screaming fetal position. The rest glassed the snow into a smoking crater. Not even ash left for the crows.
Makoto dusted his hands, strolled over to Sam, and ripped her catsuit wider—exposing pale, blood-slick skin.
Dug bandages outta her pouch, wrapped the gash like he was gift-wrapping a grenade, and knotted it with zero fucks.
Ninja healing's OP. Bleed a little, walk it off. Scars are for civilians.
Still not looking up, he fished out custom ration pills, force-fed the girls, then popped a couple himself.
Sam grunted at the rough handling. Ice-queen face flushed pink—part pain, part holy shit you saved me.
Voice barely a whisper: "From now on… I owe you. Anything."
Cue maximum contrast with that stone-cold stare.
Makoto chewed, shrugged. "Pay me back with some fried chicken action, yeah?"
Sam gave a tiny nod, dead serious.
Burlap—Miss Always-Composed—was gawking. From shell-shock to jaw-drop to full-blown lottery-winner grin. Almost levitated off the ground.
Not just because they were alive, but because a Leaf ninja just torched his own guy to save Cloud operatives.
Future Cloud had its very own homegrown Asura now. Every bruise, every drop of blood they'd spilled?
Pocket change.
Her stare at Makoto could've melted steel.
Ten minutes later, the super-pills kicked in—chakra trickling back. The girls locked eyes, both grinning like kids on Christmas.
Sure, the "kidnap the prodigy" plan had gone off the rails by, like, a billion percent.
The hostage just saved the bandits.
But mission? Nailed it.
Sam wiped blood off her chest, hands flying through seals—SLAM on the ground:
"Summoning Jutsu!"
POOF! White smoke exploded. A massive ninja eagle burst into existence, wings kicking up snow, razor eyes scanning for threats.