The Night-Moon clan's grand elder saw the Fourth Raikage wasn't instantly shooting him down, so his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper but still buzzing with barely-contained hype.
"I already hand-picked a small batch of prime candidates for him. Top-tier, no cap. He can take his sweet time window-shopping."
"Every single one's built for… ahem… every single one's got killer talent, squeaky-clean morals, and looks that'll stop traffic."
"No way we're short-changing the kid!"
The Raikage's bushy brows damn near twisted into a knot. He threw up a meaty paw, voice booming like thunder in a tin can: "Bullshit! How old is he? Talking babies now is straight-up clown shoes!"
"Age? Pfft, age is a social construct!" The elder barked, eyes bulging. "Kumogakure's got more secret sauces for stamina than a BBQ joint has ribs—and zero sketchy side effects."
He scooted closer, voice dropping again but practically vibrating: "Pump him full of those kidney-boosting, yang-exploding tonics. Give it a hot minute and boom—dragon mode engaged, balls-to-the-wall vitality!"
"Then he can start crankin' out heirs like a 3D printer, buildin' the future of Kumogakure brick by baby-brick!"
The Raikage stared at the elder practically break-dancing with excitement and rubbed his throbbing temples. Dude meant well—over-eager, sure, but not exactly a war crime. Maybe letting nature take the wheel was the play.
"Fine… you handle the logistics."
Then his tone went full dad-mode: "But hear my line in the sand—and Kumogakure's. Zero coercion. Gotta be Uchiha Makoto's call, 100%."
"No pissing him off or we're all eating lightning."
"Roger that! Voluntary all the way!"
The elder pounded his ripped pecs like a gorilla on pre-workout, grin carving canyons in his face, already day-dreaming Night-Moon dynasty 2.0.
He nodded hard, then muttered under his breath: "Ain't forcing nobody—that's just sparks flyin', Netflix-and-chill turning into Netflix-and-thrill."
…
Kumogakure's sun was still roasting the jagged streets like a skillet.
Makoto strolled ahead, two fresh-on-the-job maids trailing half a step behind.
Blonde, emerald-eyed, curves for days and colder than a walk-in freezer—Samui.
Dark-skinned, white-topped, built like a track star with a side of bashful—Mabui.
Just standing next to each other cranked the sexual tension to 11. They were a walking thirst trap, turning heads and dropping jaws the whole damn way.
Word of Makoto's throw-down with Yoru had already blown up village group-chat. In a place where strength = clout, nobody was dumb enough to step. Saved him the usual "slap a punk" montage—blessing.
Two smoking-hot, badass Kumogakure flowers as live-in maids? Future looked thicc with a side of clap.
Lust is the root of all evil, pussy is a steel-bladed guillotine—say no to thots, start with you.
"Shame this chassis ain't fully upgraded yet…" Makoto sighed, eyeballing his massive crib in the distance.
Little did he know, some "anonymous," "overly helpful" Night-Moon elder was already in the Raikage's office, rubbing hands like a raccoon with a coupon for Blue Chew.
Back at the sprawling, kinda-lonely mansion.
Mabui flexed pro-level maid game—no orders needed. She started whipping the place into shape, moves crisp as a TikTok dance.
Samui clocked it, hopped in silent, copying like a boss. Ninja 101: orders from the brass are law, even if they suck. Full send.
Lucky for them, "personal maid to the guy who saved our asses" wasn't exactly torture. Any extra thoughts? That's above our pay grade.
Makoto gave the girls a once-over, already plotting custom French-maid fits for home use, then bolted upstairs.
Slipped into the master suite, kicked the door shut—zero paranoia. His cheat menu was solo-view only.
Deep breath. Chill the hype. Pop—golden HUD materialized.
[Naruto World Online]
Player: Makoto | Inventory | Shop | Achievements | Titles | Quests | More features loading…
Notice: Spend 350 million ryō in the shop → Version update unlocked
The Titles tab was straight-up dripping digital gold—blinding but sexy.
Focused. Click.
Empty slot now rocking one purple banger:
[Uchiha Clan Head (Fake) (Upgradable)]
- All Stats +5%
- Chakra Pool +20%
- Chakra Regen +20%
- Ninjutsu Power +20%
- Dynamic Vision +30%
- Genjutsu Potency +30%
- Mangekyō Exclusive Jutsu: Cost -20%, Power +20%
- Susanoo: Size/Strength +50%, Blindness Risk -20%
- Affinity +100%
PERCENTAGES, baby—wall-to-wall, juicy-ass percentages.
Makoto's eyes damn near popped. This fake-ass "lone wolf" title was already cracked. Nine buffs, each scaling into endgame territory. The stronger he got, the dumber the multipliers—exponential violence.
And it's got a "Fake" tag? If he yeeted Fugaku off the Konoha throne and slid into the real Clan Head seat…
Title go brrrr.
Decision made: soon as he's back in Konoha, Fugaku's getting early retirement—janitor arc. Same contribution, less genocide.
Equipped.
Warm rush. Chakra ballooned. Every stat ticked up. Sharingan already busted; now it's war-crime levels of frame-by-frame.
Scanned details—titles tiered six ways:
White → Yellow → Purple → Black → Red → Gold
His bootleg headship sat comfy mid-tier, ceiling through the roof.
No equip limit.
Stack city, bitch. Future buffs gonna look like a math fetish.
One Fireball? Mini meteor.
Susanoo keep growing? Godzilla cosplay.
…
Makoto grinned like a psycho, eyes glowing. Future's lookin' spicy.