A week had passed since Makima brought Kumogakure to its knees. She'd caused absolute chaos taking control, and of course, she'd tried again to grasp that damn chakra everyone kept talking about. But no luck—she was from another world, and that stuff just wasn't for her. Not that she was a pushover, far from it. Without a Sasuke-Naruto duo at their peak, backed by a squad of Kage-level ninjas, no one could touch her. It was annoying, but she didn't give a damn. She didn't need their stupid magic to rule.
Meanwhile, of course, there were idiots trying to flee or play rebel. A few had deserted, but they quickly realized it was hopeless. Facing her was like going up against Madara himself. A real demon. Weapons dropped, eyes dimmed, and their last hope was thrown at the feet of their still-free comrades. Good luck to them.
In her office, Makima lounged in her chair, a Jonin at her feet, literally licking her boots. She looked down at him, a smirk on her face.
"You seem to enjoy this more than wanting to puke, you filthy pig."
She kicked him squarely in the face, hard. The man clenched his teeth, blood dripping from his shattered nose. He was itching to attack her, she could see it in his eyes. But she'd made it clear: one wrong move, and she'd kill him before going after his wife.
"Keep going, you pig," she said, cold as death.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. She raised her head, a sweet smile on her lips.
"Come in."
Mabui, her personal secretary, stepped inside. A broken woman, completely under her thumb. Makima had ensured that with daily, brutal punishments. The poor thing almost trembled as she opened her mouth.
"Master, the daimyo is here—"
She didn't get to finish. The door burst open, and the daimyo stormed in like a bull, followed by four masked shinobi. One look was enough to tell they weren't here to chat. Veterans, real ones, with an aura that reeked of power.
Makima sat up slightly, her smile still plastered on her face, as the daimyo pointed a furious finger at her.
"You! Who the hell are you? You show up out of nowhere, kill the Raikage, and think you can sit on his throne like nothing happened?" His voice shook with rage, but there was a hint of fear in it. "You're not the Raikage, you're nothing here! I don't know where you came from, but you'll submit, or I'll have you crushed like the vermin you are!"
The four ninjas behind him tensed, ready to strike. The Jonin on the ground growled softly, almost forgetting his pain, and Mabui took a step back, eyes downcast. But Makima? She let out a small laugh, light, almost innocent. She slowly stood up, her gaze locked on the daimyo's, and crossed her arms.
"Submit, me?" she said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I was going to come for you, you know. Drag you here by your ass to make you understand who's in charge. But you came on your own, how lucky for me."
The daimyo clenched his fists, his face turning red. "You're mocking me? You have no legitimacy! The Raikage was a man of the village, a true leader! You're just some bitch from who knows where, and you think you can walk all over us? I'll make you regret setting foot in Kumogakure!"
Makima tilted her head, her smile widening. In her mind, it was almost too easy. He's yelling, threatening, but he stinks of weakness. He knows he can't touch me. Those four clowns behind him? Toys. I'll break them one by one, and he'll watch. She took a step toward him, her heels clicking on the floor.
"You talk a lot for someone who's already trembling," she replied calmly. "The Raikage? He wasn't smart enough to see his own knife coming. You're the same. You're here, barking, but you've got nothing in your pants to take me down."
"I'll—"
"What? Threaten me again?" she cut in, her tone turning icy. "Call your dogs, go ahead. Let's see how long they last before they crawl like him." She gestured to the Jonin at her feet with a tilt of her chin.
The daimyo breathed heavily, his nostrils flaring. "You think you're untouchable? I have armies, alliances! The other countries will—"
"The other countries?" Makima scoffed. "They won't have time to move before you've already had your throat slit. You came here, into my office, with your four lapdogs. You've signed your death warrant, and you know it."
In her mind, she was jubilant. He's stupid, but useful. A puppet who thinks he's in control. I'll bend him, break him, and he'll still beg for mercy. She took another step, her overwhelming aura filling the room. The masked shinobi hesitated, their hands gripping their weapons.
"So, daimyo," she whispered, "did you come to challenge me or beg? Because either way, you've already lost."
Silence fell. The daimyo opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was doomed; this woman was insane. She didn't care if he cut off her supplies. Broke trade relations. She just wanted power.
The four masked shinobi, hidden behind the daimyo, exchanged a quick glance before moving in without a word. Their expertise was evident, their movements precise, like seasoned warriors who had faced far more formidable foes than a chakra-less kunoichi like Makima. Yet, she merely smiled, her eyes gleaming with an unhealthy light, like a child discovering a new toy.
The first ninja drew his katana with a metallic hiss, infusing the blade with chakra to charge it with electricity. He lunged at her with blinding speed, aiming for her throat with a clean strike. But Makima didn't move an inch. At the last moment, she raised her hand, grabbed the blade between her fingers like it was a mere twig, and snapped it in two. The ninja, shocked, his eyes wide behind his mask, had no time to react. She plunged the broken pieces of his own weapon into his chest, piercing his heart. Blood spurted in an arc, splattering the wall behind him. He collapsed, gasping, as she let out a small, amused laugh.
One of them quickly formed hand seals and summoned a dragon of flames, roaring toward Makima. Another launched a series of advanced sword strikes, his blades dancing in the air with slicing arcs of wind that tore into the ground. Makima jumped to the side and tilted her head slightly, letting the wind slashes brush her hair without flinching.
' Did they really think that could hurt her? Pathetic.'