Uchiha Makoto first paid off the loan for that [Art is a Big Star] bullshit he'd bought earlier.
Well, "paid off" is generous; the second he dumped the cash into the [Player Shop], it auto-deducted like a mob loan shark. Good thing he could re-borrow in a pinch, but the interest? Highway robbery.
This whole stretch, he'd only splurged on one item. The rest of his stash? Still chilling in the balance.
He glances down at his frame: long, ripped, carved like a Greek statue that hits the gym daily. Zero bloat, all coiled power.
Any rando who didn't know him would swear he's a full-grown killer, not some snot-nosed kid.
Kid? Yeah, tell that to the mirror. Nobody'd buy it.
This freak-show growth spurt? Ninety percent thanks to that one purchase.
Day two in Cloud, breakfast looked like a Viking feast on steroids: rare meats, ocean delicacies, and Cloud's secret sauces (literal potions) to bulk muscle, juice the bones, and rocket puberty into overdrive.
Word is, this stuff costs more than a small village. Ninja plebs can't touch it; only Cloud nobility get the good shit, zero side effects.
Makoto? Open-wide policy. Shoveled it in like a black hole with chopsticks.
Result? Overkill city.
Dead of winter, he's kicking off blankets at 3 a.m., rolling around like a rotisserie chicken, body on fire. Ends up face-down in the snow just to cool off, nosebleeds gushing like a busted faucet. Kid looked like a damn horror flick.
Even for an Uchiha (built different), it was too much. The Yotsuki Great Elder, that meathead grandpa, just slaps his knee and grins:
"Totally normal! You'll get used to it, champ!"
Bull. Shit. Makoto's no doctor, but keep chugging this rocket fuel and he'd peak at twelve, then stall out forever. Game over.
So he cracks open the [Player Shop], drops a fat stack on the one thing he needs: the [Hentai Thunder (Makoto)] exclusive physique.
Purchase complete; instant warm rush floods every cell. Heat? Gone. Nosebleeds? Vanished. All that gourmet rocket fuel suddenly finds a home, turbo-charging every muscle fiber.
In days, he blasts through five, six years of growth. Body? Jacked to the gods.
And yeah… everything leveled up.
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Thinking about it, he tugs at his tightening waistband. Lil' Makoto's damn near combat-ready.
Great Elder once "accidentally" caught a glimpse of the upgraded package and legit teared up.
Kid's been vacuuming the old man's private slush fund for over a year. These potions and unicorn-tier ingredients? Even at cost, they ain't cheap.
Started with three-man portions. Now? One meal, thirty servings, easy. Swap in a normal human (no side effects or not), they'd explode. Makoto? Bottomless pit. The more he eats, the hungrier he gets.
Height shooting up like bamboo on crack. Cloud's juice is strong, but not this strong. Elder finally chalks it up to "once-in-a-millennium genius."
Especially that fast-maturing soldier downstairs. Give it a hot minute and Cloud's gonna have a whole Uchiha daycare.
Makoto kicks back after dinner. Raikage's off kissing the Daimyo's ring; tonight's gonna be loud.
"Samui, c'mere. Let's finish what we started yesterday."
The girls are cleaning. He claps once, casual.
Samui's face stays ice-queen neutral, but her ears go pink. Mumbles: "Little demon with a man's appetite."
Still, she doesn't say no. Feet light, she follows him to the bedroom.
Makoto pulls out ninja-grade tattoo gear. Time to finish the artwork he started on her yesterday.
Tattoo culture's big in the ninja world. Hell, he remembers one chick in the anime with "fuck" inked on her back like a badge.
Cloud's obsessed. Every Raikage's tatted up, so the whole village followed suit. Strong ninjas especially; they'll ink anything to flex.
Samui's snow-white, uh, upper deck sports a blood-red heart wrapped in curling black vines, dead center a teardrop crimson pupil. On pale skin it glows demonic, sexy, and straight-up evil. His personal Flying Thunder God seal: Succubus Mark.
She claims she doesn't care, all high-and-mighty, but secretly? Obsessed. Most Cloud tats look like truck-stop flash. His custom job? Fire.
Ever since he branded his FTG as the Succubus Mark, Makoto's low-key dreamed of going pro tattoo artist across the nations.
Slap these on Samui and Azuki, hide the teleport tag inside; no one clocks the cheat code.
Needle gun buzzes soft. Samui's a ninja; pain's nothing. But the spot? Intimate as hell. Ice queen's eyes are squeezed shut, blush crawling from ears to cheeks. Total moe gap.
Lil' Makoto's hyped. Big Makoto? Laser-focused, heart pure, no horny; just art. No waifu, only tattoo-fu.
Almost done. He glances at her: skin dewed with sweat, face flushed like fine wine.
Fingertip taps the peak of Mount Samui; his unique FTG seal snaps into place, seamless in the design.
Whew. Worth every all-nighter his shadow clones pulled studying ink technique.
(They practiced on pig skin. Real deal? Gotta be the main man.)
After, he sends Samui to clean up, calls in Azuki for her turn.
Different canvas: Samui went north, Azuki picks the abs.
Flat, ripped stomach; dark skin silky but hard as oak, eight-pack carved like marble. Horsepower under velvet.
On that battlefield, the blood-red succubus ink pops like neon.
Azuki's vibe? Night and day. Smiling the whole time, eyes locked on his face like she's memorizing every frown, every focused squint.
Makoto's hand flies; steady as a surgeon, shadow-clone crash-course paying dividends.
Needle dances. Red lines bloom.
Time melts. Her breathing picks up, abs flexing under the sting, sweat tracing down her sides, vanishing into waistband shadows.
Eyes never leave him. Last line drops; succubus complete on that killer midriff.
That's when Azuki, still staring, finally closes her eyes.
Makoto lays his palm on warm, slick skin; FTG mark brands in silent. Done.