Chapter 93 – Makoto's Transformation
Deep within a pitch-black cavern near the border of the Land of Earth, the air hung thick with silence.
Here, in this hidden sanctuary of stone and shadow, Uchiha Makoto sat cross-legged on a worn stone platform. More than half a month had passed since his rebirth—since Madara and Black Zetsu had pulled him from the brink of death and forced his body to adapt to the Hashirama cells now pulsing through his veins.
To his astonishment, not only had he survived the transformation, but he had flourished.
The once-unsteady flicker of his Sharingan had now stabilized into perfect clarity. In both eyes, the three tomoe revolved like blood-colored stars—fully awakened, brimming with power and potential. Even he had not expected such rapid progress.
What shocked him even more was that his body no longer rejected the foreign cells.
The pain, once unbearable, had subsided. Now, strength surged through every limb like a roaring current. His chakra reserves had expanded dramatically. The once-familiar feel of his body had changed—replaced by something faster, stronger… more terrifying.
Not long ago, Black Zetsu had delivered news that stilled the storm in his heart: Uchiha Hanshan, his father, was alive and safe at the Konoha forward medical camp.
Makoto hadn't expected to feel relief. But he did.
Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, some buried weight had been lifted.
With that worry out of the way, he could finally give his full attention to training under Uchiha Madara's guidance. The ancient founder of the clan—long thought dead—had proven to be an unmatched teacher. Under his instruction, Makoto had begun to explore the deep techniques of the Uchiha: advanced genjutsu, high-speed combat, chakra control, and now—something even greater.
Wood Release.
A gift born from the infusion of Hashirama's cells, now stirring within him.
Makoto clenched his fist, watching a thin branch of wood twist up from his palm. It was still unstable and crude, but it was real.
This was the same legendary Wood Release that had once brought the shinobi world to its knees. The very technique that had defeated Uchiha Madara himself at the Valley of the End. And now—it was his.
The thrill of that power surged through his blood.
But Makoto's ambition did not waver into arrogance. He hadn't forgotten.
He still remembered, with painful clarity, the face of the boy who had defeated him. That so-called dead-last—Kazane.
That humiliation had been carved into his pride like a scar. The difference in their strength was clear. Even if Makoto trained in every Uchiha technique, even if he mastered genjutsu and taijutsu alike, Kazane seemed to move in a different realm entirely.
News of Kazane's achievements echoed across even these distant caverns. Stories of him defeating high-ranking shinobi, cutting down enemies that even clan elders had feared.
Each tale stung Makoto like a needle in his side.
But things were different now.
Makoto had a new teacher. A once-in-a-century legend. Uchiha Madara.
With that kind of instruction—he would rise.
And as for the Eye of the Moon Plan?
Makoto had no intention of participating in Madara's dream for the world.
Let the old man live in his tubes and chase illusions of peace. Makoto didn't care. As far as he was concerned, Madara was on borrowed time. One day, those life-support chambers would fail—and Makoto would still be standing.
And he'd never made a promise. Not aloud. Not in writing.
Just as planned.
But what Makoto didn't know was that everything he thought he was hiding—Madara had already seen through it. Every doubt, every selfish thought—anticipated and accounted for.
Madara hadn't tried to force obedience.
He had no need to.
He was simply waiting—for the perfect moment. The moment Makoto would choose to carry out the Eye of the Moon Plan himself.
Madara was playing the long game.
And Makoto, willingly or not, was still on the board.
At that moment, Makoto stood before a cracked stone pillar, focusing his chakra into his palms. Jagged roots pushed out from the ground, spiraling upward in rough, unfinished shapes.
Wood Release: Piercing Branch Technique.
It wasn't perfect—but it was a start.
Then, without warning, a ripple passed through the wall beside him.
Black Zetsu emerged—his mask twisted in urgency, his tone panicked.
"Makoto—it's bad! I just saw your father. He walked straight into an Iwa ambush!"
Makoto's eyes widened.
"What?!"
In the blink of an eye, his heart slammed against his ribs. A thousand thoughts collided in his mind. He had never seen Black Zetsu so rattled before. The usually smug, sarcastic creature now looked genuinely shaken.
"You're sure?" Makoto's voice cracked with disbelief. "My father—Hanshan?"
Black Zetsu nodded. "It's him. I saw it myself. He's surrounded."
Makoto's vision blurred for a moment.
His mother had died in a fire when he was six. It was that grief, that loneliness, that had first awakened his Sharingan. Since then, his father was all he had left. The last tie to his childhood, to his humanity.
He couldn't lose him too.
"I'm going. Now."
Makoto turned sharply toward the cavern entrance.
"No—you can't," Black Zetsu said, stepping in front of him. "Lord Madara forbade it. He left strict orders. You're not fully stable yet. I can't let you leave."
Makoto's fists trembled, but his eyes didn't waver.
"Then I'll break out myself. I don't care what Madara said."
His voice was low but fierce, each word cutting like a blade.
"I've already lost one parent. I'm not going to sit here while the other dies."
Black Zetsu stared at him for a long moment—then sighed.
"...Fine. I'll take you. But if your father isn't in immediate danger, you must leave without being seen. We only check, that's it. No reckless stunts. If Lord Madara finds out, we'll both be punished."
Makoto nodded quickly, eyes filled with desperation. "I swear. I just need to see him."
Black Zetsu gave a theatrical shrug. "You better be right about this."
With a sharp gesture, Black Zetsu grabbed Makoto's arm and sank into the nearby rock wall, dragging him through the earth using his signature stealth technique.
The journey only took minutes, but to Makoto, it felt like hours.
Each second stretched longer than the last.
His thoughts were a mess—fear, guilt, resolve all mixing into a storm of emotion. He couldn't lose his father. He wouldn't.
At last, Black Zetsu slowed, stopping at the edge of a steep cliff.
He raised a hand and activated a special vision technique, allowing Makoto to see through the solid rock like glass.
Makoto's breath caught in his throat.
On the other side, beyond the barrier of stone, the scene unfolded—an Iwa ambush, a battlefield cloaked in mist and blood.
And in the center of it all…
Was the last thing Makoto ever wanted to see.
A clearing lay ahead, nestled between craggy cliffs and scattered boulders. Smoke still hung in the air from recent combat, and the red-stained soil bore the unmistakable marks of a battlefield.
And in the very center—trapped between two massive slabs of earth—was a man in a flak jacket bearing the iconic fan-shaped crest of the Uchiha clan.
His body writhed in agony.
"F-Father…?!"
Makoto's heart dropped into his stomach.
Uchiha Hanshan had been pinned between two summoned slabs of stone, one from each side. The brutal technique, likely a variation of the Iwa clan's infamous Earth-Style: Sandwich Technique, had caught Hanshan off guard. The bones in his arms were crushed. His legs hung limp, his chest heaved in shallow bursts of breath, and blood poured from his mouth with every cough.
Makoto could hardly recognize him.
"No—NO!!!"
Without thinking, Makoto tore himself from Black Zetsu's grip. To his surprise, the masked figure let him go without resistance, as though it had been part of the plan all along.
Bursting through the solid wall, Makoto emerged into the clearing like a thunderclap.
But in that instant—
An Iwa shinobi stepped forward, hands forming a quick sequence of seals. A massive boulder materialized above his head and, with a cruel smirk, he slammed it down—directly atop Hanshan's body.
The impact shook the ground.
Dust exploded in every direction. Chunks of shattered rock tumbled across the clearing.
Makoto froze. His scream tore through the air.
"Nooooo!!!"
He raced toward the fallen form, heedless of the Iwa shinobi surrounding him. None moved to stop him. In fact, none reacted at all. It was as if they didn't see him—as if time had frozen.
He skidded to his knees beside the enormous stone, choking on the dust and the pounding in his chest. As it began to settle, he caught sight of the one thing he had feared most.
A broken crest—red and white, fan-shaped, unmistakable—poked out from beneath the edge of the slab. And beside it… was a head. Or rather, what remained of one.
Crushed and disfigured, the facial features were barely identifiable.
But even so—Makoto knew.
It was him.
Uchiha Hanshan. His father.
Dead.
"No… no, please—Father…!"
Makoto gritted his teeth, body trembling as he grabbed hold of the stone's edge. With a roar fueled by anguish, he lifted—chakra flaring wildly around him, tendons straining, eyes searing with grief. Somehow, impossibly, he raised the boulder and shoved it aside.
What lay beneath left no doubt.
Hanshan's body was twisted, shattered beyond recognition. Bones jutted through his skin. Blood oozed from every crevice. His chest was still. His Sharingan had faded.
Gone.
Makoto collapsed beside the corpse, his hands shaking as they cradled the lifeless form.
"Father…!"
He sobbed, the sound raw and guttural, echoing across the field. His voice cracked under the weight of heartbreak. His fingers curled tightly into Hanshan's torn uniform, as if holding tighter could somehow turn back time.
But unlike others… Makoto's grief wasn't silent.
While ordinary people shed tears, his eyes bled.
Thick streams of crimson rolled down his cheeks, tracing lines down to his chin and falling onto Hanshan's chest.
A chakra tremor pulsed around him.
And in that instant—his eyes changed.
The three tomoe spun violently, then twisted inward, reshaping themselves.
Two intricate windmill-like patterns emerged, glowing with malevolent light.
The Mangekyō Sharingan.
Makoto had awakened it—not through ambition, nor vengeance, but from the unbearable agony of loss.
He raised his head slowly, strands of blood-streaked hair falling across his face.
His gaze was hollow, unblinking.
Power coiled around him like a storm.
Then—the illusion broke.
As though snapped from a trance, the Iwa-nin suddenly turned toward him. Their eyes lit with malice.
"Hah! The old one dies and now the kid shows up? Judging by those eyes, you're another Uchiha brat. Great. I'll be generous and send you to the afterlife—join him down there!"
They laughed—mocking, taunting.
They didn't realize what stood before them.
Makoto rose to his feet, still holding Hanshan's head gently, then set it down beside the body with reverence.
Then, he turned—slowly.
His crimson Mangekyō eyes met theirs. His voice was calm, devoid of emotion.
"You bastards…"
Blood continued to drip from his face.
"…all of you… deserve to die."
The earth trembled.
Wood Style: Piercing Root Technique!
With a deafening crack, the ground erupted.
From beneath Makoto's feet, countless wooden spikes burst outward like a forest of spears. They twisted in impossible angles, each one targeting an enemy with unerring precision.
The Iwa-nin didn't even have time to scream.
One by one, the sharpened roots impaled them—piercing through chests, skewering limbs, tearing flesh apart.
As they fell, the roots dug deeper into their bodies—draining blood, feeding off their life force.
Within moments, the lifeless shinobi began to transform. Their flesh decayed. Bark spread across their skin. Limbs stiffened. Faces contorted.
They were no longer men—they had become trees.
Grotesque, blood-fed trees, standing as monuments to Makoto's fury.
And yet, he didn't move.
He stood there—arms limp, breath shallow, eyes wide.
He didn't even notice the massacre around him.
Not until a hand touched his shoulder.
"Makoto."
It was Black Zetsu.
He approached cautiously, his voice softer than usual. When he looked closely, he understood.
Makoto was unconscious.
His body had reached its limit.
He remained standing only because the roots—his own jutsu—had propped him up like a scarecrow.
Black Zetsu gently broke away the branches holding him in place, catching the boy before he hit the ground. He lifted him carefully over one shoulder, then turned to Hanshan's mangled body and summoned a sealing scroll, drawing it in.
There could be no evidence.
With a wave of his hand, Black Zetsu erased all traces of the battle—burning the wooden growths, erasing chakra residue, and flattening the terrain.
The forest of death was gone.
His task was complete.
Makoto had finally awakened.
And now…
It was Uchiha Madara's turn.