Itachi Uchiha crouched on a frozen power pole in Sarutobi turf, melting into the night like a blob of dried ink.
Wind whipped snowflakes against his cloak, but it couldn't touch the anvil sitting on his chest.
He glared down at the Sarutobi training grounds—lit up like a damn Christmas tree, grunts and shouts echoing. All that "strong and stable" bullshit? Felt like a slap tonight.
Shisui's heavy-ass question still hung in the air: "Who the hell do we pin our hopes on?"
Itachi's eyes cut through the village core, out into the rolling black void.
He saw his little bro Makoto getting yanked by Kumo ninjas—those black eyes probably wide with panic or rage.
Flashed to Danzo a few days back, chin up like a smug prick in front of the Hyuga compound, Hiashi's eyes buried in humiliation and helplessness.
Then the Third Hokage—Hiruzen Sarutobi—face forever lost in pipe smoke, preaching that "Will of Fire" crap about ditching clans for the village.
But now? Sarutobi clan thriving, Danzo stomping Hyuga, kid snatched from the village—zero real moves. The slogan tasted like straight irony.
Images smashed around in his ice-cold brain, ripping apart, trying to stitch a way out.
Just left deeper cracks. Time froze; only the wind howled.
After forever, Itachi shook his head—slow, stiff. A sigh so soft the snow ate it.
"…I got nothin'."
The words dropped, and a blackout-level confusion wrapped him like a body bag.
Deep down? Old faith shattered, cold reality staring back. Road ahead? Unknown.
Tonight, the Third's golden statue in Itachi's heart? Smashed.
Clan vs. village brass—escalating like a bad breakup. Him and Shisui alone? How the fuck to fix?
Rescuing Makoto… village higher-ups? Useless.
Clan—word he used to spit on—now the only rope in the abyss.
The thought tasted bitter as hell.
But screw it—Makoto, his blood, had to come home.
Even if it meant wading through bodies, burning himself to ash.
One last hard look at those lights—Sarutobi power, his faith's graveyard.
He spun, vanished into thicker dark that swallowed everything.
"Let's roll!" Itachi's voice sliced the blizzard.
Two shadows ghosted off the pole—gone like they were never there. Crumbled beliefs and fresh, directionless resolve buried in Konoha's secret snow.
.......
High-altitude winds screamed like banshees, but two warm, soft bodies blocked it all. The ninja eagle's broad back was padded with thick hides—sky-high memory-foam mattress.
Makoto Uchiha sank in, lounging like he was in a five-star hot spring, not a thousand meters up.
His back? Enjoying the premium ninja-world pillow.
Left: Samui—Kumo's ice-queen blonde bombshell. Golden short hair whipped wild, strands brushing his cheek with faint milk-scent.
Her skintight black ops suit stretched over jaw-dropping curves—elite support and bounce.
Right: Asa-cloth—dark skin glowing under cold light, low-key vibe but stacked. Quiet like warm black jade, heat seeping through thin fabric.
Left boob, right boob—ice and fire, warm and soft. Makoto squinted in bliss, soaking in the insane contrast.
One side bouncy as hell, the other smooth and cozy.
He shifted lazy, burrowing deeper into paradise—back of his head damn near nesting in Samui's neck.
Samui micro-frowned; Asa-cloth shot a helpless, indulgent side-eye.
Makoto saved their asses and played nice the whole trip—so yeah, they spoiled him.
Below, clouds boiled apart, revealing Kumogakure: jagged black peaks like a monster's spine stabbing gray sky.
Steep cliffs crammed with angular buildings—raw, badass Kumo style.
Top dog: massive Raikage tower, fortress perched on the summit, lording over everything.
Killer detail? Lightning bolts ripping the sky, linking peaks to valleys. Total opposite of Konoha's vibe.
Makoto scanned his new playground, smirk deepening into a silent, pumped grin.
Kumogakure…
About to land, he lazily glanced back toward Fire Country.
Wonder if those "gifts" I planted went boom yet?
Thinking of Konoha clans and the F4's beef getting worse—lips curled up.
What's Itachi think of the old geezer Sarutobi now?
Lived with the guy forever—Mako knew Itachi inside out. Dude was arrogant—hell, every strong Uchiha was.
The higher the pedestal, the harder the crash. Faith in "Will of Fire"? Once that golden idol topples, the rot underneath turns worship into poison.
Makoto chuckled inside—planning to toss more fuel on the Third's fire. Let the seeds he planted ripen bitter.
When Itachi and Hiruzen go full enemies… just picturing it got him hyped.
What kinda extreme shit would a hating-Itachi pull?
The eagle dove like black lightning toward a heavily guarded outer platform. Wind blasted snow in their faces.
Claws screeched on rock—landed solid. No welcome wagon.
But Makoto felt eyes everywhere. Kumo ANBU had him on soft lockdown.
He just raised a brow, amused—checking out the wildly different scenery.
Hands in pockets, zero panic.
Wanna bounce? Flying Thunder God any time—he'd dropped custom kunai the whole route.
Kumo plays nice? Win-win. They don't? He goes full Crow-bro, flips the table, leaves with "parting gifts" and "art is a blast"—instant "friends" in Kumo.
With that stack, Makoto strolled like a tourist, not a kidnap victim.
"Follow me," Asa-cloth stepped up, crisp, leading the way.
"Head to your quarters first—rest up till the Raikage summons you."
Arm bandages still bloody, but she moved sharp—future chief-of-staff energy.
Makoto pocketed hands, casual steps behind her.
Through massive black-stone corridors, guarded by tower perches and cliff walls—dark faces staring down.
Eyeing the prime workforce, a lightbulb popped.
Pre-traverse, he dreamed of being a rancher. This spot? Perfect.
Tsk, this skin… wasted if they ain't—cough—hardworkin' farmhands.
Makoto clicked his tongue—rancher fire blazing. Billion-dollar hustle.
Once he levels up, snag prime Lightning Country land, build a mega-ranch. Hook these little dark-skinned bros with 007 blessings.
Room, board, and every dawn: 100 free pulls.
Pay? What's pay?
Rich workers stunt growth. Makoto's lips curled into evil capitalist grin.
He could already see it—hills covered in little bros "farming" under the sun for him. Glorious.