The villagers of Akatsuki were surrounded by enemies who, in truth, were nothing more than ordinary people. Most of them had no chakra, no weapons, and no training. A single shuriken was enough to take down one of them. At best, a handful had some local influence, the kind of "power" that seemed intimidating to civilians but was utterly meaningless when measured against the might of shinobi.
In the face of true violence, that fragile authority was like glass shattering against stone. It was said that breaking into Chang'an City was easier than passing the imperial exams to enter it—such was the gap between common power and true strength.
And yet, one name always lingered like a shadow in the back of Uchiha Makoto's mind: Konoha.
The Hidden Leaf Village was, and had always been, a source of trouble.
It wasn't that Uchiha Makoto believed Konoha would suddenly awaken to justice and interfere. No, he understood too well how the traditions and rigid stereotypes of the ninja system worked. For generations, shinobi had divided their worlds into neat compartments: military affairs were military affairs, and politics and economics were something else entirely. To most of them, these were two separate lines that never crossed.
This mindset had not changed until the rise of Uzumaki Naruto in another era—long after these events.
But still, Makoto worried. The nobles of the Fire Nation were desperate men. And desperate men with coin could always buy the service of shinobi. If the daimyō or the wealthy merchants who feared Akatsuki's rise offered enough gold, Konoha might dispatch its ninja.
And only ninja could truly fight ninja.
"If the nobles go that far," Makoto thought grimly, "if they are desperate enough to purchase Konoha's blades… then we will have real trouble."
That was why speed was essential. They had to move now, before the nobles could form alliances, before Konoha could be brought into the fray.
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Makoto's Plan
Makoto summoned his advisers and senior shinobi that very evening. His orders were clear, sharp, and without hesitation.
"We must act quickly. Every shinobi of Akatsuki Village will move at once. Spread out across the Fire Nation. Start with courtesy before force. Deliver fruit baskets to the salt merchants—symbols of goodwill. Watch their every move from the shadows. Give them a few days to decide. If they resist…" his eyes narrowed, "…then we will persuade them with steel."
He paused, letting the tension in the room settle.
"As for the Daimyō himself, I will deal with him personally."
The words carried the weight of inevitability. The salt trade was too vital to leave in enemy hands. Whoever controlled salt controlled wealth, influence, and the very lifeblood of the economy. To unify that market, Makoto would strike hard and fast.
The next day, he wasted no time. He called for an emergency gathering of the clan leaders—the patriarchs who had sworn allegiance to Akatsuki Village.
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The Emergency Meeting
The great hall was filled with murmurs as the clan leaders took their seats. Tension was thick in the air. They all knew that something significant was about to happen.
Makoto stood at the head of the chamber, his posture regal and unyielding. His Sharingan eyes glimmered faintly, though he did not need them to command obedience. His very presence was enough.
"Our targets," he began, "are the salt merchants of the Fire Nation—large and small alike. First, we will deal with the major merchants and the powers that protect them. We will treat them with courtesy, but make no mistake, resistance will not be tolerated. As for the smaller merchants, handle them as you see fit. The goal is silence. Whether they live or die is irrelevant. What matters is that they no longer obstruct us."
He let the words sink in before continuing.
"The newly established Anbu has already begun collecting intelligence. You will cooperate with them fully. Every mission will depend on precise coordination. I expect no failures."
Makoto's gaze swept across the room. "That is all. Who agrees, and who dares to disagree?"
His tone left little room for debate, yet he knew these old-guard clan leaders. They were stubborn, prideful men, slow to act unless their own interests were threatened.
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The Anbu's Entrance
Before anyone could answer, Makoto raised his hand.
A sudden rush of wind stirred the chamber as the doors swung open. Dozens of masked figures entered—the newly formed Anbu.
Clad in black armor decorated with red clouds, each carried a long iron staff. Their presence was overwhelming. They moved in unison, taking positions directly behind the seated clan leaders.
"Loyalty!" they roared in one voice.
The sound reverberated through the chamber like a war drum.
The clan leaders froze, their eyes darting nervously. Some recognized the figures behind them—sons, nephews, cousins—family members who had joined the Anbu. Yet the people standing there no longer felt like family.
Their posture was rigid, their eyes unseen behind masks, their aura suffocating. They stood like statues carved of iron, their very silence more terrifying than any threat.
The patriarchs had sent their own kin into the Anbu expecting to gain inside information, to secure a foothold within Makoto's inner circle. But now those same relatives loomed behind them, weapons in hand, loyalty pledged not to clan but to Makoto alone.
It was a shock. It was betrayal. It was power.
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Makoto's Smile
Makoto could not help the faint smile that curved his lips. He had worked tirelessly to forge this loyalty, to create a force that answered to him and him alone.
The method was not new. It was simple psychology—the power of the group.
Once, in another world, a German schoolteacher had formed a movement called "The Wave" in less than a week, molding students into zealots who valued the group over themselves. Makoto had drawn from the same principle.
The Anbu recruits had been stripped of individuality. They wore identical uniforms. They obeyed strict rules. They trained together, bled together, and fought side by side. Through carefully chosen missions, he had set up "enemy figures" to bind them together against a common foe.
Those who wavered were removed. Those who remained grew stronger, their personal identity dissolved into the collective. They no longer thought of themselves as members of their clans—they were Anbu, servants of Guangying.
Makoto had given them logistical support, wealth, weapons, everything they needed. And in return, they gave him absolute loyalty.
Now, as the masked shinobi loomed over their own patriarchs, the proof of his success filled the chamber with dread.
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Submission
The silence was unbearable. The polished iron rods glinted in the dim light, each reflection stabbing into the eyes of the clan leaders.
A chilling thought surfaced in more than one mind:
"If I say no… will that staff come down on my skull this very moment?"
Finally, one man broke the silence. "I… I agree."
Another followed. "Yes. I agree."
One by one, hands were raised. Some trembled. Others forced calm, pretending indifference. But none dared oppose.
Makoto inclined his head slightly. "Good."
He let them sweat for a moment longer before adding, "All these missions will be elevated in rank. A D-level assignment will be treated as B-level. If the target has a special identity, consider it A-level, or even S-level. The payment will reflect this."
The mood shifted instantly. Where moments ago there had been fear and resentment, now there was calculation and greed.
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The Allure of Money
Clan leaders exchanged glances, relief spreading across their faces. The iron rod behind their heads suddenly seemed less threatening when weighed against piles of silver and gold.
To them, this was no longer tyranny. It was profit.
Before, they had complained bitterly about performing endless D-rank tasks within the village—petty construction jobs that could be finished with shadow clones. Now, even though these new missions meant traveling across the Fire Nation, sleeping in forests, and risking danger, the rewards made it worthwhile.
If their shinobi returned from such missions with heavy purses, then the clans would thrive.
Makoto watched their shifting expressions with cold amusement.
"To put it bluntly," he thought, "all they care about is money."
But that was fine. Money bought obedience as surely as fear did. And Makoto had both to offer.
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Conclusion
By the end of the meeting, every clan had pledged support. The salt merchants of the Fire Nation would soon find themselves besieged not by rival traders but by the ruthless, united force of Akatsuki's shinobi.
And behind it all stood Uchiha Makoto—the master of light and shadow—smiling faintly as his Anbu stood like a wall of iron, their loyalty unshakable, their purpose absolute.
The future was already being carved.
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