A suffocating silence wraps around Uchiha Itachi like a frozen spiderweb, cold and sticky.
He stands slow, body hollowed out, legs wobbling like he's fresh off a three-day bender. Almost eats dirt on the blood-soaked ground—Makoto's blood.
But he locks it in. One foot, then the other, toward the pile of clothes fluttering in the breeze.
He crouches, gentle as a priest at an altar. These ain't just rags—they're sacred relics. One wrong move and he'll shatter the ghost still clinging to the fabric.
Fingers shaking, he lifts the cold, stiff shirt crusted with dark red. Cradles it to his chest like a newborn.
Is that a whisper of warmth left? Or just the inferno of grief tricking his skin?
Shisui's curled in the shadows, watching. He sees Itachi's shoulders twitch, feels the storm ripping the guy apart from the inside.
They couldn't even recover the body. Just a damn grave for clothes.
That truth's a rusty needle straight to the heart—spreads bitter, powerless regret like venom.
If we never hit Cloud… Makoto wouldn't have died saving our asses…
"…Let's go home," Itachi says, voice flat as a frozen lake. "Take Makoto home."
No emotion. Just dead calm before the blizzard.
Shisui sucks in icy air. "Konoha?"
"Yeah."
Itachi doesn't turn. His new Mangekyō—swirling with freaky power—stares through the jungle canopy, straight toward the village.
Eyes churning: bottomless grief, a scorched-earth resolve, and a vengeance flame buried so deep it's lava.
Volcano under pressure. Every second of suppression just pumps more heat into the eventual boom.
Shisui sighs inside. No more words.
They walk—one front, one back—silent as ghosts. Figures fade into the trees. Only wind left, whimpering like a eulogy.
---
Meanwhile, way the hell offshore: Land of Water.
Mist-choked rock, always cold, always wet. Dead of winter.
Barren plain, knee-deep snow glowing ghost-white under clean moonlight.
Fat flakes still dumping, stacking silence. Distant mountains twist in the fog like bad dreams.
A couple gnarled trees stand defiant, branches dripping crystal daggers.
Space hiccups—tiny ripple, easy to miss.
No chakra flare, no jutsu pop. Just… poof. Dude appears center-stage like the painter sneezed.
Moonlight pours over him, carving a body that looks sculpted from the glow itself.
Black hair, black eyes, maybe "early teens." Skin damn near translucent—jade under frost. Cheeks flushed healthy, alive as hell.
Hair thick, a little long, strands messy in a hot way. Nose perfect, face chiseled. Eyes? Deep-space calm, old-soul steady. Glance up? Razor that cuts souls, elegant AF.
Lips curled in a half-smirk, whole vibe soft under the cold light. Weirdly approachable—like you want to spill secrets.
Body? Long, lean, ripped in that quiet "I could snap you but won't" way.
And right now? This moonlit Adonis is buck-ass naked, dick out, zero shame.
Elegance meets peak comedy. Chef's kiss.
"Ngh—"
Makoto's brain reboots from the void.
Next second—full alert. Scans 360.
Endless white. Blizzard. Dim lights way off—shacks, maybe.
Arctic air kisses every inch. But [Hentai Thunder (Makoto)] physique? Internal yang furnace on blast. Freezes out the cold, leaves him toasty. Feels liberating, like shedding chains and hugging nature.
No threats. Closest house miles off. First boulder off the chest.
Don't wanna respawn into instant death 2.0. Death combo meal? Hard pass.
Respawn coins ain't cheap, and the wallet's crying.
Next: self-diagnostic.
Chakra burnout agony still echoes in his soul—cells screaming, meridians lightning-tortured, lava bath plus red-hot needles from the inside out. Not human suffering.
Now? Light as air. Heaven.
Deep scan. "Whew… still good."
Second boulder—the big one—drops.
Worst fear: losing shop-bought goodies post-death. [Hentai Thunder] physique, [Basic Hashirama Bloodline]—poof, gone.
Games love drop rates. But nah—full state respawn, gear intact. This [Naruto World Online] cheat? Five stars, would die again.
First death rodeo—mentally prepped, still shook when it hit.
Now? Zero loss. Player god-mode activated. Fear of death? Deleted.
"Tch, premium service. Full HP/MP, no drops—take my money!"
Mental thumbs-up to the system.
Then—BRRR—arctic gust slaps bare ass, snowflakes tickling the jewels.
Makoto jolts. Finally clocks the downstairs situation: breeze on the boys, full freedom.
Looks down.
"…?!"
Face flares red, brain blue-screening.
Moonlit snow stage: perfect teen bod, zero threads.
"Where the hell are my clothes?!" Respawn coin did drop gear… just the normal stuff.
He bark-laughs. "Good thing it's bumfuck nowhere, or my dignity's toast. Wait—did I ever have any?"
Player inventory's stocked, but Cloud life was pampered AF—butler-level. Clothes stayed in storage. Transformation jutsu? Smoke and mirrors, still naked underneath.
Wind on the nuts? Weirdly drafty.
Quick scan—locks on distant houses.
No time for moonlit nudes. Body blurs.
"Shunshin!"
Next frame: white streak booking it across the tundra—snow-moon streaker, strategic relocation edition. Silent, fast, ghost in the blizzard.
Slips into a decent-looking shack. Snags fresh threads, leaves pocket change. Fair trade.