Chapter 8: Putting a Green Hat on the Fourth Hokage
Konoha, the open plaza in front of the Hokage Building.
The evening breeze swept through with a chill, but it couldn't cut the heavy tension hanging in the air.
Hiruzen Sarutobi stood front and center, his silver hair swaying lightly in the wind. The wrinkles crisscrossing his face were like furrows plowed by time, deep enough to snag a passing bug at the corners of his eyes.
His skinny, short frame was draped in the Hokage robes, looking like a sun-bleached log—but the second he planted himself there, the air around him seemed to sag under the weight.
Decades as Hokage had soaked him in an aura like a waterlogged cotton bale—heavy, oppressive as hell.
Behind him, the ninjas stood like iron stakes driven into the ground, countless headbands glinting coldly in the night. The plaza was packed tight with their shadows.
In the dark corners around, Anbu and Root operatives melted into the gloom, their presence smothering like a damp towel over your face, making it hard to breathe.
Uchiha Makoto got dragged over by Fugaku Uchiha. He glanced around, couldn't help but size up Hiruzen a few extra times.
Unlike the scrawny, puny old guy in the anime who didn't look like he could lift a finger, real-life Hiruzen had serious presence.
As they reached the crowd, eyes stabbed over from everywhere—curious ones, scrutinizing, wary, plus those unreadable stares from behind Anbu and Root masks.
Makoto squirmed a bit under the spotlight, arched a brow.
"What's with all the staring? You're making me blush here." He flashed a grin, chatting 'em up like old pals.
No sooner had he said it than Fugaku's low growl hit—dead serious, a first.
"Makoto, do you know you've done wrong? How could you pull a prank like that? Apologize to Lord Third Hokage right now!"
Makoto stepped forward two paces, close enough to Hiruzen—maybe three meters. He tilted his head, eyes sliding from the old man's wrinkles down to his tobacco-stained collar, then piped up.
"Didn't I draw it nice?"
Hiruzen's gaze landed on Makoto's face.
The kid's eyes were bright, but crystal clear—no awe, no worship, not even the deference you'd expect facing the Hokage. Just pure curiosity, like he was eyeballing a bug in a hole.
Totally unlike the village kids who'd blush and bow at the sight of him.
More like a weed that hadn't been trimmed by Konoha's rules—wild, untamed, outside the ninja world's box.
Hiruzen sized him up for a good while. Hell, he almost bought that this kid pranking the Hokage Rock was just innocent mischief.
He flashed back to earlier—that jump from a hundred meters up, no fear in the kid's eyes, just this wild excitement...
This brat was either fearless as hell, didn't give a damn about life or death, or his head wasn't screwed on right...
After mulling it over, that's the read Hiruzen landed on.
Long as it wasn't the Uchiha clan stirring the pot on purpose. These were troubled times—Konoha couldn't handle a civil war. But he had to double-check. He shot a glance at Danzo Shimura.
Danzo let out a soft huff, got the memo. "Hiruzen, you're still too soft. Not cut out to be Hokage anymore."
Danzo rolled his eyes inwardly, fingers clenching in his sleeve: Should use this chance to hammer the Uchihas good.
Next second, Danzo stepped half a pace forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with Hiruzen.
His black robe scraped the gravel with a gritty rasp, his voice like a filed-down iron blade, laced with venom: "Innate evil..."
Didn't even finish before Uchiha eyes needled him like pins.
Hiruzen coughed lightly right on cue, twirling his pipe half a turn.
Danzo swallowed his teacher's classic line, eyed his old pal, and pressed on: "Kid, did someone put you up to this?"
His exposed eye swept to the Uchiha clan's head elder—that glare like a hook, jabbing the old fox's weak spots.
All the sneaky crap that fox had pulled over the years? Didn't fool Danzo. Fugaku? No balls for it.
Makoto smacked his lips, thinking: "Good cop, bad cop routine. Danzo, you're the Third's top attack dog for sure."
Seeing this "innately evil" Uchiha brat ignore him, Danzo's one eye bulged with fury—like a beast ready to devour.
Itachi behind Makoto ground his foot half an inch into the stone tile.
That foot lifted halfway, knee quivering—he wanted to step up, shield Makoto, take the heat.
But facing the Third Hokage and village brass? His foot hung there, couldn't commit.
Then his mind replayed Makoto doubting the world before doubting him... even awakening Sharingan at two-and-a-half from the pain. His heart clenched like a vise.
Itachi gritted his teeth. His black coat flap whipped up and down in the wind—he forced a step forward, planting himself in front of Makoto.
Voice tight with nerves, but clear as day: "Lord Danzo, Makoto didn't mean it. He's just... a bit of a rascal."
Hiruzen watched, sighing inwardly.
Embers flickered in his pipe. Itachi's kid—the Will of Fire ain't firm enough yet... Needs more lessons.
Right then, the Uchiha elder shuffled forward on his cane—"thunk"—it hit the ground, kicking up dust.
The hawk faction powerhouses followed like coiled black panthers.
Sharingan bloomed one by one in the crowd, crimson tomoe spinning in pupils—like blood-quenched blades, raw intimidation, no holding back.
"Uchiha clan business—since when does Root get to butt in?" The elder's voice wrapped in rage, cane thunking again. "Third Hokage hasn't spoken— what makes a Hokage advisor think he can?" The last words slammed like hammer on anvil, sparking.
Straight jab at Danzo's lungs—the scene froze solid.
Evening breeze hung mid-air with Konoha's scent, gunpowder thick enough to blow, even distant crickets shut up.
That's when Makoto squeezed out from behind Itachi.
He marched right up to Danzo's right arm, eyed the bandaged hand for a sec, chin up.
"Orders?"
He cranked his voice high, bright and clear booming across the plaza: "What orders? Who ordered me?"
"I straight-up worship the Hokage! Just wanted to add some color to the past ones' rock. Check out that green I slapped on the Fourth's head—looks awesome, full of life!"