The crowd around the training grounds erupted in hype cheers, every eye glued to the savage clash in the center.
This combo of tools and jutsu? Way above your average genin scrub.
Makoto's eyes flashed crimson—two-tomoe Sharingan spun to life, slowing the blur of incoming weapons to a crawl. Air ripples? Crystal clear.
He casually flicked a finger, hooking a kunai's ring like it was nothing.
Clang-clang-clang—
A symphony of metal pings. One-handed kunai swats, batting away the barrage like swatting lazy flies off a picnic.
Last senbon got yeeted, and Yozuki Yū was already drawing his ninja blade, charging in with a air-ripping slash straight for Makoto's grill.
"Samui," Makoto called out mid-dodge, chill as hell.
Smart cookie Samui got the memo—no hesitation. Short sword whipped from her hip, arced perfect into Makoto's waiting hand.
CLANG—!
Sparks flew like fireworks.
Makoto dipped his knees on catch, chakra exploding underfoot—boom—crater in the dirt. Used the recoil to rocket forward, short sword screaming down in a brutal overhead chop!
Yū blocked horizontal, but the force shoved him back half a step, hair whipping like he stuck his head in a jet engine.
Eyes about to lock on those spinning tomoe—pupils shrank. Slammed 'em shut. Raikage's warning echoed: Never stare into the Sharingan during sparring!
Kid's been swinging swords since two-and-a-half—near ten years deep. Eyes closed? No prob. Pure muscle memory and perception turned him into a blindfolded blender.
Blade whooshed, Night Moon clan sword style unloading in a tidal wave of cuts.
But Makoto? Getting comfier. One-handing the short sword, minimal blocks and dodges. Smaller frame, lower center—agile as a greased ferret. Made blind Yū eat dirt just trying to track him.
Two-tomoe eyes devoured every twitch, every weight shift—dissecting, copying, absorbing Night Moon sword secrets on the fly.
"He's straight-up stealing Yū's swordplay…" Tsuchidai's one eye widened.
Fourth Raikage stayed stone-faced, arms crossed like boulders, but his jaw clenched—dude was feeling it.
Yū's back soaked through with cold sweat. He could feel Makoto's moves going from clunky noob to silky pro. Even nailing Night Moon power ticks and rhythm!
Ten years of blood-and-sweat sword grind? Poof. Kid's speed-running the syllabus mid-fight.
"Did I teach you that? Quit copying!" Yū growled, swinging harder, desperate.
"Don't care—just watching," Makoto laughed, then mirrored Yū's own killer move back at him—forced the guy into a panic scramble.
Dozens more clashes. Makoto eyed the blindfolded Yū, learning curve flattening. "Open your eyes. No genjutsu."
Can't use it yet, actually. Hasn't learned. Otherwise? Yū would've been drooling on the ground from second one.
Yū hesitated—scared of instant red-eye hypnosis. Ninja fights ain't fair. But losing blind? Screw it. Eyes snapped open.
Sharingan still spinning, but no illusion vibes. Yū exhaled. Kid's got honor.
If roles reversed? Yū would've mind-fucked him day one.
Relief short-lived. Eyes open didn't flip the script.
Makoto's swordplay kept leveling up—scary fast. Chill as ice now.
Yū's ego? Nuked. Decade of secret clan tech getting free-trialed? Hell no.
He got saltier, mindset exploding. Teeth grit—CLANG—blade chucked to the ground.
"Huh?" Makoto eyebrow arched.
"Sword's done. Taijutsu only!" Yū dropped into stance, salty af.
Makoto tossed the short sword back to Samui, smirking: "Stingy!"
But hey—free taijutsu download? Sign him up.
They blurred—BOOM—fist met fist.
Both staggered back. Makoto more. Yū sneered: "That's the mighty Uchiha clan?"
Sasuke would've rage-quit. Makoto just grinned: "Punch like a wet noodle and call yourself Cloud Academy valedictorian?"
"When I'm your age, you won't even qualify to watch me fight!"
Yū—taller, longer reach, stronger—snapped. Kid's trash talk hit harder than his fists. Charged.
Bang! Bang! Smack—
Meat-on-meat thuds nonstop. Night Moon secret taijutsu unleashed: fingers, palms, elbows, shoulders, knees, legs, feet—all murder tools in a storm.
Makoto ate early pressure, blocking and backpedaling. But Sharingan hoovered data: power generation, balance shifts, combo links.
Soon? Predicting every strike—intercepting before the wind-up.
Counters landed on beat, shattering Yū's flow. No more retreating—Mack attack incoming.
Yū's panic spiked. Fighting a mirror that knew him better every second. Intentions read like a kid's book. Kill moves? Neutralized.
His power edge? Wasted—interrupted at the source.
Sidelines: Asui and Samui locked on Makoto, eyes sparkling like fangirls.
Momentum? Fully flipped. Rhythm all Makoto's. Moves fluid, dance-like. Another Uchiha dance king in the making!
One slick combo—Makoto vaulted off a block, spun mid-air—tiny hand snapped to Yū's throat like a cobra.
Everything froze.
Crowd jaws dropped. Yū half-collapsed, face purple from choke, staring up at the half-pint.
Those crimson eyes gazed down—zero gloat, zero smirk. Just calm, obvious dominance.
Makoto's voice cut the dead silence, crystal clear across the stunned grounds:
"Wanna dance too?"