Cloud's biggest training ground butts right up against the Raikage Tower's east side: ringed by cold, sky-high iron walls, floor plated with dark chakra-absorbing metal.
Clan flags from every big-shot family in the Land of Lightning snap in the breeze. Makoto Uchiha's sprawled in a fat leather recliner, eyes half-shut, soaking sun like a lizard on a rock.
Samui and Azuki flank him, long fingers working his neck and shoulders with surgeon precision.
"Little lower… yeah, right there," Makoto drawls, smug as hell. "Put some muscle into it."
Day one in Cloud and the kid's already getting the VIP spa treatment.
Samui's ice-blue eyes flick to him, no reaction, but she cranks the pressure. Those pale, strong fingers dig into his shoulder blades like she moonlights in the med bay.
Past-life me hit every "legit" massage joint in town; Samui's the GOAT. Technique? Top-tier. Tiddies? Undisputed champ.
Azuki handles the traps on the other side, dark skin glowing healthy in the light.
Around the edges, Cloud ninjas cluster in little knots, jaws on the floor. The village's three hottest, deadliest kunoichi, and two of them are playing handmaid to some random half-pint pretty boy?
Who the hell is this kid?
"Comfy?" Samui asks, voice arctic.
"Eh, decent," Makoto grins, stretching the word. "Azuki's got the edge, though…"
He doesn't finish. A precise stab of pain shoots through his shoulder; Samui's work, face still blank. Azuki snorts, ears pink.
Fourth Raikage and Dodai roll up, clock the cozy scene, and trade smirks.
Kid likes girls? Perfect. A monk would've been a pain in the ass.
Ai's mountain of a frame is draped in the white Raikage cloak, arms like bridge cables folded across his chest. He's muttering with Dodai about who to throw at the Uchiha for a spar, brows knotted.
"No full jōnin," Dodai rasps. "Word gets out we bullied a kid, Cloud looks like dicks."
Ai's voice booms like thunder in a tin can: "Pull the top brat from the Academy."
"That'd be Yozuki Yū," Dodai says. "Kid's untouchable in sword, taijutsu, ninjutsu for his year. Cocky as hell, though."
Ai grins. "Perfect. Sharpens the Uchiha and knocks the ego off Yū."
Decision made in two seconds. Someone runs to fetch the prodigy.
Minutes later, Ai stomps to the center of the field, Dodai on his heels. Crowd parts like the Red Sea.
"CLEAR THE FLOOR!" Ai's roar rattles the iron walls. "Field's a sparring ring today!"
Ninjas scramble back, leaving a wide circle of dark metal.
Makoto finally hauls himself up. Samui, without thinking, smooths a wrinkle at his collar. The tiny, intimate move gets caught by a hundred eyes; quiet gasps ripple.
Ice-queen Samui? Touching a dude? Voluntarily?
That's when a laser stare slices through the air. Makoto turns, locks onto gray-blue eyes.
Kid's got short brown hair, deep tear-troughs that scream tragic backstory, and a beat-up Cloud ninjatō slung across his back, handle wrapped in frayed bandages from years of grind.
…Itachi's long-lost cousin? Nah, older, different face. Still, something clicks.
Makoto slaps Samui's thigh (she glares murder). Oh shit, it's "Dance Bro" from the original timeline, the one Madara choke-asked "What's the plan?"
They want me to cosplay Madara? Cute.
Ai's voice cuts in: "Kid, want a softer opponent? Yozuki Yū's the Academy chief. Wouldn't wanna scrape you up."
Cloud Academy starts at six, grads around twelve with at least genin chops. Not Leaf's freak factory or Mist's bloodbath, but every chief's damn near chūnin.
Cloud's been hoarding Sharingan data for years; two-tomoe usually means mid-chūnin. But Makoto? Baby-faced. They figure he's nowhere near.
Makoto's lips curve, eyes still on the tear-trough kid.
"A handful of sand ain't worth half of me."
His voice isn't loud, but it carries. The whole field goes dead silent.
Yū's eyes sharpen to steel. Killing intent flares like a bonfire. He steps forward, silent, plants himself opposite Makoto.
"Yozuki Yū."
"Makoto Uchiha."
Kid throws up the seal of confrontation; Makoto mirrors it, smirking.
"FIGHT!"
Ai's shout cracks like lightning. He's ringside; no way the Uchiha eats real damage. Took too much work to snag him.
The instant the word drops, Yū's hands dive into his pouch.
A storm of kunai, shuriken, and senbon scream through the air, aimed to maim, not kill; every throw textbook perfect.
Hands blur into seals so fast they leave afterimages.
"Wind Style: Gale Palm!"
Twin palms slam forward. Wind chakra detonates, a visible cyclone slamming into the metal hail, turbo-charging it.
The projectiles turn into silver blur-bullets, sealing every dodge Makoto's got.