Who ends up runnin' future Kumogakure? Hell if anyone knows.
The Warring States duo's rep, the bottomless Uchiha potential, and those freak-geniuses poppin' out like clockwork from back then till now… all that shit gave Dodai the chills.
Give it time—will the Raikage flag still fly over these peaks? Or switch to Uchiha?
No cap, that's his nightmare. Dude's the Third Raikage's ride-or-die, sworn to prop up the Fourth and keep Kumo locked down.
This jackpot came with landmine risks—cold sweat down his spine.
Meanwhile, the Fourth Raikage Ai? His reaction was a whole-ass mood swing.
That face—usually twisted in rage—now stuffed with pure what-the-fuck shock. Brows shot up like they were tryna escape into his hairline.
Mouth half-open, thick lips twitchin'. Couldn't squeeze out a syllable.
MADMAN!
Motherfuckin' certifiable!
Ai's been the blue blur tearin' up the ninja world for decades—seen cocky pricks. Never one this nuclear.
And never one this confident like it's gospel truth.
As for Dodai's power-shift paranoia? Pfft. Ai's ego ain't some fragile Third Hokage bullshit.
If this kid actually makes Kumo kings of the ninja world? Raikage seat? Take it, kid. Ain't shit.
Samui and Asa-cloth off to the side? Vibes way more… complicated.
Watchin' Makoto's smug-ass grin and those crimson two-tomoe Sharingan glowin' like demon portals—couldn't help flashin' back to all that body contact on the ride.
Ear tips went pink. Kumo's all about strength—strong gets the crown. If Makoto hits even half Uchiha Madara levels…
Hell, don't need god-tier. Just near-Raikage power? Every kunoichi in the village? One finger crook and they're lined up. No cap.
Makoto clocked every twisted expression—smirk vanished like a magic trick.
Switched to full innocent puppy mode, even threw in some shy teen awkwardness. Scratched his head.
"Ahem… yeah, I'm kinda dumb with words, not big on talkin'…"
"…????"
Room went huh? You? Shy? Bad at speech? Then Kumo's got like three people who can string a sentence.
Thick-skinned Makoto ignored the side-eye, pivoted hard:
"But hey—when in Kumo, do as the Kumos. Y'all worship strength, right? Let's settle this with fists."
Finger jabbed out clean—shy gone, pure battle lust:
"Hook me up with a real opponent. Spar for real."
"Prove my talent with action. Show the future I painted—cough—described ain't some fairy tale castle in the sky!"
Mouth dry from the pitch, he yanked a monster green watermelon from his [Player Inventory]—peel already sliced clean off.
CRUNCH!
Juicy chomp exploded in the dead-silent office. Earsplitting. Straight demonic.
Everyone: stunned. Where the hell'd that melon come from?!
Then: pissed. This punk just casually munchin' watermelon in their faces—in the Raikage's office!
Power core of Kumo! People walk in here holdin' their breath, bowin' like servants. Kid's first day and he's actin' like he's the Raikage? Ai ain't even this chill in his own damn office!
Laid-back as backyard sunbathin', paired with those spinning tomoe? Mind-shredding contrast.
And straight "I own you" arrogance!
Vein popped on Ai's forehead—thick as a rope.
Uchiha talent scale with ego or what? Kid don't even know the word fear.
You got kidnapped here, dumbass—not invited to the throne!
Let this balloon keep inflatin'? He'll punch a hole clean through Kumo's sky.
Gotta clip him now. Crush that edge. Teach him Kumo ain't soft like Konoha—this is strength rules, period.
Talent means jack till it's power. Till then? On your knees.
"FINE!"
Ai's voice boomed like thunder—windows rattled. Pure command, plus a spark of hype.
"Kumo law: strength talks! You asked for it!"
SLAM!
Palm obliterated the desk. Wood exploded—survived seven days and change, now just confetti.
(Ninja world MVP consumables: Hokage doors and Raikage desks.)
Makoto heard the CRASH, saw Ai lose his shit—almost gave Kumo a sunlight show.
Nearly popped [Art is a Blast].
"Lemme see this 'better than Madara' prodigy weigh in!"
"Bet!"
Makoto hopped up smooth, brushed imaginary dust off his pants. Two-tomoe spun with hype.
Uchiha blood or just him—dude loved a scrap.
Barely threw hands in Konoha. Kumo? These psychos live for it.
"Clear the biggest training ground!"
Ai roared at the door—ANBU guard blinked out, mission accepted.
"Samui, Asa-cloth! Get him prepped at the field!" Deep command, eye glinting. "Dodai and I roll up after."
"Yes, Lord Raikage!"
Samui and Asa-cloth? Low-key pumped to see Makoto throw down—war's in Kumo DNA.
Asa-cloth gestured "after you," shot him a complicated look, led the way.
Samui behind—high heels clackin' a tick faster than usual.
Footsteps faded down the hall. Office left with just Ai and Dodai.
Hype died… awkward pause.
They locked eyes. Same cringe question hit 'em both:
…So who the hell we sendin' against the kid?
Kumo kids his age? Still got baby teeth. Ninja world's early bloomers, sure—but this young? Pre-academy. Even clan brats just startin' chakra control.
Combat power? Kunai chuckers. Zero decent matchups.
Ain't every dad like Fugaku—draggin' four-year-old Itachi to the front lines.
Send an older ninja? Win = cheap as hell.
Send a peer? Joke. Scan the whole ninja world—nobody his age touches two-tomoe Sharingan. Sandbag delivery.
Kumo's two top dogs? Stuck in weird, unspeakable silence over opponent pickup…