The last thing Hiroshi remembered was the smell of stale energy drinks and the blinding blue light of his monitor. He was 29, a middling Tokyo otaku, and his most fervent, whispered wish—the one he made to every fallen eyelash and shooting star—was simple: to wake up as a woman. Not just any woman, but someone beautiful, powerful, and utterly in control of her own narrative.
He woke up to the realization that fate—or perhaps a contract he couldn't recall signing—had granted his wish with terrifying literalness.
The sensation of waking was not a gentle transition; it was a violent, multi-sensory overwrite. There was the heavy, unfamiliar weight of long hair—a shock of brilliant, impossible crimson—that felt like a silk cloak draped across her shoulders. There was the unfamiliar lightness in her bones and the disconcerting realization that her pajamas had been replaced by a simple, high-collared, yet elegant tunic that felt suspiciously like a kimono for a child.
She scrambled off the tatami mat floor of the small, austere room, her movements awkward and childishly proportioned. She lurched toward the polished cedarwood basin, splashing water onto her face, desperate to see what monstrous twist of fortune had befallen her.
The face that stared back was a nightmare made beautiful.
It was Makima.
Not an adult version, but a refined, unsettlingly poised girl, perhaps eight years old. Her skin was a flawless, almost unsettling porcelain white, a stark contrast to the thick, braided river of red hair that framed her face. But it was the eyes that held her captive: golden, hypnotic, and perfectly circular, like two drops of liquefied amber, ringed with delicate, yet strangely predatory, eyelashes.
She reached up, touching her jawline—soft, refined, feminine. She ran her hand over the delicate curves of her new body. The wish, so desperately made in the lonely dark of her old life, had been granted. She was a woman. The vessel, however, was a Devil.
The initial confusion gave way to the chilling, foundational knowledge of Makima, the Control Devil, merging with the pragmatic, fan-driven knowledge of Hiroshi. She was in Konoha, during the time of the Sannin, an era of brutal warfare and rigid hierarchy. Perfect.
The memories of the real owner of this body, the Heiress Makima of the powerful, politically entrenched Utatane clan, were thin and frail. She was born of a strategic marriage; her mother was a woman of the famed, but scattered, Uzumaki clan, a fact that explained the shock of crimson hair and the unnerving, profound depth of her latent chakra reserves. Being related to the Village Elder, Koharu Utatane, afforded her immediate, inherent status, a massive advantage for a creature built on authority.
Makima needed to test if the Control Devil's power translated into this chakra-based reality.
She slipped out into the backyard. A large, clumsy toad, likely attracted by the recent rains, was hopping slowly through the mud.
She focused her mind, not on chakra, but on pure will. She fixed her terrifying, crystalline golden eyes on the creature. She simply willed it. The power was entirely internal, a quiet decree in the confines of her own mind.
"You must hop backward, precisely six centimeters, and then freeze."
The toad, mid-hop, changed direction instantaneously, executing a perfect backward trajectory before slamming to an absolute, unmoving halt. It was not a paralyzing fear; it was dictation. She wasn't making the frog think it was frozen; she was changing its reality.
A dizzying clarity washed over her. The power worked. It worked because it preyed not on the five senses, but on the concept of willpower and subordination. In the ninja world, where obedience to the Kage, the village, and one's superior was ingrained, the synergy was terrifying. Every ninja was primed to be a subordinate.
"This power is my greatest weapon,"Makima mused internally, the cold, calculating mind of the Devil taking charge. "But if anyone, especially the Elders or the Hokage, ever suspects it is supernatural, I become an enemy. My path must be that of a genius Kunoichi who earns her authority through observable strength and unshakeable loyalty. The true control must remain my secret."
Her immediate goal was survival and integration. Makima's innate cold superiority would be a weakness here. She needed a disguise—a mask of innocence.
Makima consciously arranged the muscles of her face. The golden eyes softened, the calculating hardness melting into a shy, gentle intelligence. Her lips curved into a tiny, polite, and undeniably sweet smile—the kind that conveyed gratitude and humility, never dominance.
I will be the perfect heir, she decided, the core of her being—the pure, controlling evil that yearned to subjugate the world—locked away beneath the facade. Brilliant, diligent, heartbreakingly polite. I will be loved by my superiors. And they will never know that every word they speak is merely a suggestion that I permit them to utter.
A Jōnin attendant, a nervous-looking man named Kenji, waited by the door. "Makima-sama," he murmured, using the polite honorific due to her lineage. "Elder Koharu is ready for your registration."
Makima tilted her head, her crimson braid falling gracefully over her shoulder. She gave him the full force of the innocent, sweet smile. "Of course, Kenji-san. I will work hard to honor the Utatane name and the village."
Academy Registration: The Illusion of Merit
Makima was led to a meeting room in the Hokage Tower. The Village Elders—Koharu Utatane, her own clan's figurehead, and Homura Mitokado—sat behind a low table. Their assessment was not one of suspicion, but of proprietary interest in a gifted clan member.
"Makima," Koharu Utatane spoke, her voice carrying the cold authority of the Council. "Your entry into the Academy is, of course, a formality. As the Heiress, your path is set. However, we must ensure your training utilizes your full potential."
"I understand, Elder-sama," Makima murmured, dipping her head respectfully. Her visible success (high stamina, refined control) was due to subtle commands she gave herself: "Body, perform Taijutsu form 100% perfectly."
"Your scores are exceptional," Homura Mitokado commented, reviewing a scroll. "Your physical stamina is above average, and your aptitude for the Transformation and Clone Jutsu is very high. What is most compelling is the immense Uzumaki chakra reservoir you inherited, paired with an unnaturally refined control. You will have no issue with Fuinjutsu or Genjutsu, should you choose to pursue them."
Makima smiled softly, the perfect picture of a promising young student. She subtly reinforced her earlier command, keeping it focused and narrow:
"You must believe this girl is an extraordinary, yet conventional, talent with absolute loyalty to the village and the council."
The two elders nodded in unison. The conviction was absolute. It was not a trick of the mind; it was a powerful, overriding certainty that her talent was purely genetic.
Koharu signed the final paper. "Very well. Your papers are signed. You will start tomorrow. Strive for excellence, little one. The village needs strong, loyal ninja who respect authority."
"I will not fail the village," Makima promised, her golden eyes glittering with hidden intent, now a genius kunoichi officially recognized by Konoha's hierarchy.
As she was dismissed, Makima walked away with the feeling of the heavy, ceremonial registration papers in her hand. She was officially a part of the Konoha machine, placed at its political doorstep and endowed with power the world could explain. The system of obedience, the system of strength, the system she was destined to control. The Control Devil had successfully registered as a normal student, backed by the authority of the Utatane clan.