The idle chatter had run its course.
Seeing that the atmosphere was right, Uchiha Makoto straightened his posture, his expression hardening. He had never been one for unnecessary words when matters of true importance were at hand.
The world outside was changing. New heroes were rising one after another, and the other great nations had already established their own shinobi villages. On the surface, all of this was attributed to Senju Hashirama, the man known as the "God of Shinobi."
For a brief time, this era would know something that could be called peace. Yet Makoto understood better than anyone that it would not last. It would flicker briefly, like the light of a candle in the wind, only to be swallowed by darkness once more.
He knew what history would bring.
After Hashirama and Madara's inevitable falling-out, the titanic clash at the Valley of the End would shake the ninja world. One would be gravely wounded, the other would fall… and not long after, Hashirama himself would perish from illness.
When that towering pillar that upheld peace collapsed, nothing would stop the world from plunging into chaos. The First Great Ninja War would erupt, an era of bloodshed so tragic it would scar generations.
And Makoto knew—this storm was not far off.
He had only a handful of years to prepare.
Akatsuki Village, young and fragile, stood at the mercy of history. If it remained weak, its fate would be sealed: crushed underfoot, erased without mercy, especially given its location within the Land of Fire, where Konoha's shadow loomed large.
Would Konoha help them? Makoto scoffed inwardly.
Konoha was notorious for being immovable when allies fell into danger, only acting when it served their interest. He knew this truth more deeply than most. Hadn't the proud Uzumaki Clan—Konoha's closest kin—been wiped out without Konoha lifting a finger?
So long as Hashirama lived, the alliance treaties held meaning, for his mere presence intimidated all others. But after his death? The next Hokage would be none other than Senju Tobirama—a man of brilliant mind, yet cold, ruthless, and steeped in prejudice. To expect his aid was nothing short of delusion.
Giving umbrellas when the sun shines and snatching them away when the rain pours—that was the way of Konoha. If they refrained from kicking an ally when they were already down, that would be considered a blessing. As for Makoto himself? He would not hesitate to do the same when necessary.
Such was the way of survival.
"Allies," he thought, lips curling faintly, "are nothing more than Schrödinger's companions—both there and not, both reliable and treacherous. Only one's own strength endures."
Makoto rose to his feet. His voice carried across the hall, resonant and unyielding:
"In order to secure our village's survival, I will establish a secret unit—a special force trained in assassination and covert warfare. They will answer only to me. As for their members, they will be chosen from the most outstanding among your clans. I expect your support in this matter."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then added:
"Naturally, every shinobi who joins this force will receive privileges beyond measure. Unlimited access to personal training resources. Full logistical backing. A path to true strength."
The hall stirred.
Makoto's decision was modeled after Tobirama himself, who had once formed the Anbu—a shadow force that answered solely to Hokage command. Makoto would do the same.
But he knew the risk.
The clan leaders valued their shinobi as private armies, loyal first to blood and kin. For Makoto to take their finest into his personal ranks was to weaken them, to strip away their grasp on power. It was no small ask.
Faces around the chamber grew dark with hesitation.
Yet Makoto was prepared.
He had anticipated their resistance and made his moves beforehand, negotiating in secret with the bloodline clans—Kaguya, Yuki, Kurama. Deals of interest had been struck, promises exchanged. And more importantly, Makoto possessed something few could resist.
Money.
Money was power.
As long as the pay was generous enough, loyalty could be bought, honor could be set aside, and shinobi would follow.
"Once you accept my patronage," Makoto thought coldly, "you are bound to this village. Even if you regret it later, you will not dare oppose me openly—not when all eyes are watching."
And so, one by one, the clan heads began to nod. The larger, more influential families signaled their assent, and seeing this, the smaller clans quickly followed suit.
Makoto's gaze swept across the hall. He noted each hand that rose—and each one that hesitated. His memory was sharp. Allies and doubters alike would be remembered.
The first step was complete.
Now came the second: education.
Makoto's inner circle was pitifully small. Besides Guichu and Shin, there were few he could entrust with critical tasks. If Akatsuki Village was to survive long-term, it could not rely forever on a handful of elites. A proper academy was essential—an institution to train the next generation, instilling loyalty from the ground up.
And so, Makoto announced:
"I will invest heavily in our village's future. Five billion ryō will be allocated immediately to establish a ninja academy. Enrollment begins at once—three thousand students."
The chamber erupted.
"Three thousand?!"
"That number is insane!"
"Even Konoha never enrolled so many at once!"
Their shock was understandable.
In Konoha, shinobi were meticulously registered. For instance, Uzumaki Naruto's number—012607—indicated that, from Konoha's founding until Naruto's time, only around ten thousand shinobi had ever been officially recorded.
Of course, the system was riddled with inconsistencies. Clans often produced shinobi who slipped through the records. Where they came from, no one dared ask. Some questions in the ninja world were better left unanswered.
Still, three thousand in one stroke was staggering.
Makoto raised a hand for silence.
"Tuition is waived entirely. Every expense will be covered by the Akatsuki Village treasury. Kazuma," he turned to his trusted secretary, "you will oversee this budget personally. Every single coin must go directly to the students' education. Not one sen will be wasted."
Kazuma bowed deeply. "Understood, my lord."
The murmurs of protest melted instantly into relief—even delight.
Free education!
Every clan had its share of children who lacked talent, children not worth the precious resources of the family. Now, those "useless" offspring could be sent to Makoto's academy, trained at the village's expense. A burden lifted, a gain secured.
Lord Guangying's generosity, they thought, was unmatched. His wealth seemed endless, and his willingness to spend it for the good of the people was dazzling.
And so, what had begun in doubt ended in applause.
But Makoto was not finished.
"The third matter," he continued, "is the construction of a medical system for our village."
Silence fell again.
Makoto explained. Even Konoha, by the time of the Second Great War, had only the faintest notion of medical corps—plans left to gather dust on paper. Countless shinobi who might have been saved instead perished for lack of timely aid. Even when Tsunade herself, the greatest medic in history, later proposed such reforms, the idea had been dismissed.
Why?
Because war consumed everything. Resources, manpower, funding—all swallowed whole. Hokage after Hokage had placed military strength above healing, and the price was paid in blood.
Makoto, however, stood in a rare window of stability. He had money, he had foresight, and he had time—though not much. He would not waste this chance.
"If we wait until war breaks out," he declared, "it will already be too late."
War devoured wealth like a bottomless pit. A single campaign could drain ten billion ryō or more. Inflation would soar, prices would skyrocket, and all efforts would be shackled by desperation. No—if a medical corps was to be created, it had to be now.
Makoto turned his gaze to one figure in the hall.
"Aqua. Stop dozing. This task falls to you. You will oversee the training of our medical-nin."
All eyes fell on Aqua, who jerked awake, blinking. Despite her sleepy appearance, no one dared scoff. Blacksmiths and medics—those who forged weapons and those who saved lives—were never to be offended in the shinobi world.
And so, with this final decree, the council ended.
Yet a chill lingered in the air.
The clan leaders exchanged uneasy glances. They understood what Makoto had done. Everything—special forces, education, medical systems—was not merely for progress. It was preparation.
Preparation for war.
A cold wind seemed to sweep the chamber, and for a moment, the future loomed before them: the fires of battle, the cries of the dying, the world once more in flames.
And Makoto's voice echoed within them like prophecy:
"Let the ninja world burn again."
---
patreon (Obito_uchiha)