What Orochimaru wanted to do didn’t matter to Hyuga Makoto.

  So when he first heard that mad idea, he didn’t try to stop it.All he needed to do was say what needed to be said, at the right moments.

  Until the war with Iwagakure ended, he didn’t need to involve himself in any disputes within the vilge.

  Ayari brought him a stack of books, though her attitude had turned sour. Every time she looked at him, it felt like she was barely holding back the urge to punch him. Makoto guessed it had something to do with that meal he’d had with Hyuga Natsu st time.

  He didn’t bother expining. Just picked out some small gifts from the street and sent them to her by way of apology.

  He didn’t know where Ayari had gotten the books, but one of them, which delved into the seven attributes of chakra, was far more advanced than anything the original Makoto had ever read. There were also some medical texts, dense with terminology meant for trained med-nin. He skimmed those and realized they weren’t for him.

  Even just that chakra book was enough to keep him busy for a while.

  His life had settled into a quiet rhythm. After one final check-up at the hospital, he tried using the Hyuga cn’s training grounds again. But it was boring—tedious drills with little result. Strength, in this world, was something you built up over time.

  But Makoto had always disliked that idea. He preferred shortcuts, effortless gains. Of course, those things only happened in dreams.

  So, he started drafting a training pn. Nothing fancy—just physical training. Without the Byakugan, the path of Gentle Fist was closed to him. He had no choice but to aim for Konoha’s Strong Fist style. But no one in the Hyuga cn practiced it, and there were no books on the subject either.

  Still, the original body had a solid foundation. As a chunin-level Hyuga, his physique was in excellent shape.

  In the days that followed, Hyuga Ayano dropped by again, bringing him things—household items, food she’d cooked herself.

  But Makoto saw through it. She was just a woman in her early twenties. Even if she had schemes, they were far too shallow for his eyes. They were both putting on an act, each hiding their true intentions.

  Ayano probably thought she could easily manipute a child like him. Makoto, in turn, pyed along—showing her affection and gratitude.

  Anko came by a few times too. That was just her being herself. She thought Makoto was a pretty decent guy. After all, anyone who liked dango couldn’t be that bad. Besides, Orochimaru-sama seemed to have taken a liking to him too.

  A week passed in the blink of an eye. Then, news from the front lines rocked the vilge—Konoha had suffered a heavy defeat.

  The troops had apparently been ambushed while on the move. Many comrades had died.

  The moment the news reached the vilge, the entire atmosphere in Konoha grew oppressive. Even Ayari was visibly distressed. The battlefield may have been far away, but it affected everyone.

  On his way back from training, Makoto ran into a small group of people—ones he recognized immediately. At the center of the crowd was Hyuga Natsu.

  “Makoto-kun?” Natsu greeted him with surprise.

  The others with her were young members of the Hyuga cn.

  One of them, about his age, was Hyuga Iroha—a chunin who should’ve been at the front.

  Two younger boys, just out of the Academy, were Hyuga Tetsu and Hyuga Tokuma—around the same age as Anko.

  “Oh, it’s you, Makoto,” Iroha said, casually. His tone was much more familiar.

  Tetsu and Tokuma both called out, “Big Brother Makoto!” while sneaking peeks at his eyes.

  They were of the same generation, so of course they knew each other.

  “Hey,” Makoto nodded back.

  “Iroha-kun just returned from the front. We were about to grab a meal together. Want to join us?” Natsu said with a smile.

  Makoto noticed a strip of white bandage peeking out from under Iroha’s standard shinobi vest.

  He must’ve been injured and sent back to recover. Though he moved easily, suggesting the wound wasn’t serious. Still, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have been pulled from the front.

  Perks of being part of the prestigious Hyuga cn.

  “We haven’t seen you since you got back to the vilge,” Iroha added. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Makoto thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sure.”

  As the group walked toward the cn gate, Makoto turned to Iroha.

  “How’s your injury?”

  Iroha gave a bitter smile, then lifted his vest and undershirt, revealing a torso wrapped in bandages.

  “Took a hit from an Iwa ninjutsu. A few rocks got lodged inside me. They dug ‘em out, but it still hurts like hell. I have to be careful with what I eat too.”

  Makoto had underestimated it. That wasn’t a minor wound—it had gone clean through his abdomen. Must’ve been serious.

  But Iroha spoke lightly, brushing it off with a ugh.

  “Compared to you back then, this is nothing. Lord Hizashi took pity on me and let me return to the vilge to recuperate.”

  Makoto looked at that smiling face and felt a pang of emotion. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, yet this was the reality of their world.

  “Makoto-kun was badly hurt too?” Natsu asked.

  “Hurt is an understatement,” Iroha clicked his tongue. “When he staggered back to camp, he was drenched in blood. Took a huge gash to the chest. The med-nin said it was a miracle he survived.”

  “Makoto, you should show Natsu the scar.”

  Makoto didn’t bother responding to that. “What’s there to see?”

  Natsu shook her head. “Let’s not.”

  Then, with a sigh: “The battlefield… really is a terrifying pce.”

  Iroha nodded solemnly. “Yeah. But with Lord Hizashi and Lord Minato leading us, we’ll win soon!”

  “You wouldn’t believe how amazing Lord Minato is—”

  And off he went, animatedly recounting tales of Namikaze Minato’s legendary exploits, practically glowing with hero-worship. Words like “absolutely,” “unbelievably,” and “insanely powerful” tumbled from his lips nonstop.

  Natsu listened politely, smiling the whole time. But her expression was calm—clearly just being polite. It was the younger boys, Tetsu and Tokuma, who were starstruck, constantly gasping, “Then what happened?” and “No way!”

  Makoto could tell: Iroha liked Natsu. But Natsu didn’t seem interested. She was just humoring a friend.

  Eventually, they arrived at a barbecue restaurant—“Yakiniku Q,” the same one Makoto had been to with Anko. One of the vilge’s more popur spots.

  The five of them sat down. Iroha, grinning like a fool, quickly cimed the seat beside Natsu. Makoto took a spot with the two younger boys.

  The menu arrived. Iroha kept talking nonstop about Minato. Tetsu and Tokuma were totally absorbed. Natsu passed on the menu politely.

  Makoto didn’t hold back—he took it and started ordering.

  By the time Iroha finally finished his fanboy speech, the table was already covered in meat and sides. He blinked, stunned. “Whoa—how much did you order?”

  Makoto had already fired up the grill and was flipping meat over. “You guys were really into your story, so I just ordered for everyone.”

  Iroha’s eye twitched. His wallet ached. Worse still, he couldn’t eat grilled meat because of his injury. He’d only picked this pce for Natsu.

  Natsu smiled. “Makoto seems to come here a lot. He ordered all the signature dishes and even asked the boss for custom seasoning.”

  Iroha immediately said, “As long as you like it, Natsu. It’s just one meal—order as much as you want.”

  The two younger boys chimed in, “Iroha-nii is so generous!”

  Makoto handed Iroha a bowl of porridge. “You probably can’t eat barbecue, right? This one’s for you.”

  Iroha accepted it, gring at Makoto with resentment, already vowing to get payback someday.

  The meat sizzled on the grill. Makoto idly turned it over while resting his cheek on his hand.

  “I heard we lost a battle at the front?”

  Iroha froze, then his expression turned grim. It took a few seconds before he replied.

  “Yeah.”

  “Our march route was supposed to be completely covert, but somehow Iwa found out. They set an ambush…”

  The mood at the table shifted. The younger boys fell silent. Natsu sipped her tea in silence.

  “How many made it out?”

  “We had a thousand-man unit. Only three hundred and seventeen got out.”

  The sheer brutality of the number made Natsu’s hand tighten around her teacup.

  Makoto stared at the now-bckened meat on the grill and said nothing.

  He knew—

  This was only the beginning.

  Orochimaru wasn’t done yet.