Looking at the bodies of the fallen Senju before him, Orochimaru didn't feel pity. Perhaps a flicker of it… but nothing substantial. Even those who had once fought under his command—those who had bled for the village—no longer stirred any sentiment within him.
To most, disturbing the dead would be a sacrilege. A betrayal of honour. Of legacy.
But to Orochimaru, it was necessity.
Evolution demanded sacrifice. And if someone could no longer be useful in life… then they would serve it in death.
He chuckled—a quiet, mocking sound that echoed through the sterile, candle-lit chamber.
"Sensei… so quick to speak of ideals," he muttered, eyes half-lidded, "yet so blind to the rot festering beneath his feet."
Hiruzen had allowed Danzō to act unchecked, so long as the village stood strong.
Orochimaru never objected.
Not when he had long since accepted the darkness that governed the shinobi world.
Not when along as those lying before him were no longer people he cared about.
He had always seen through the illusion. Through the comforting lies of peace and honour.
After all… wasn't this the true face of the Will of Fire?
To serve the village.
To protect its future.
No matter the cost.
Even if it meant dragging the dead from their rest.
Even if it meant turning fallen heroes into obedient weapons.
"Isn't that what loyalty demands?" he whispered. "That even in death… you serve the fire that once gave you purpose?"
A voice broke the silence from behind him.
"I assume you have no problem working with them."
Orochimaru turned. His golden eyes met the lone, ever-watching eye of Danzō Shimura.
A thin smile stretched across his lips.
"Of course not," he replied with a soft laugh. "Isn't this… the Will of Fire?"
Danzō merely grunted in response. "Good. I need you to bring the First Hokage's kekkei genkai back into this world."
He didn't care what Orochimaru thought.
Philosophy, morality, ideals—all meaningless.
What mattered… were results.
And Danzō knew this man. Orochimaru was not obsessed with power like the others.
He was obsessed with knowledge.
And knowledge… he had in excess.
"You don't expect me to succeed, do you?" Orochimaru murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "After all, I doubt the village hasn't already tried. Most likely… and repeatedly failed."
At that, Danzō snorted, his arms still folded beneath his cloak.
"You're not here to think about the past. Just work."
He didn't bother hiding his doubt. It was true—he didn't believe Orochimaru would succeed. The village had spent decades trying to recreate the Wood Release. Countless resources. Countless failures.
But even so, Danzō never underestimated the man before him.
Orochimaru wasn't just Konoha's most gifted researcher. Beside Tsunade, he stood as one of the greatest medical minds in the village's history.
And unlike her… he was unshackled.
No moral codes. No limits. No hesitation to walk the path others feared to tread.
Orochimaru was obsessed with forbidden knowledge.
Which made him dangerous.
And for Danzō… that made him useful.
Of course, Orochimaru understood exactly what the old war hawk was thinking. He gave a slow, knowing nod.
"Hmm… Did you bring what I asked for?"
Danzō stared at him for a few seconds in silence. Then, without a word, a Root operative materialised at his side—appearing like a shadow given form—holding a sealed scroll.
The masked ninja stepped forward and offered it.
Orochimaru took the scroll without a flicker of hesitation. There was no fear in his movements, no sign of uncertainty. His golden eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked back to Danzō as he neatly tucked the scroll into the folds of his kimono.
"I won't come to the door."
The words were simple, delivered with an air of finality, as though the conversation had already ended and there was no need for further discussion. His tone, detached and matter-of-fact, made it clear that he had no interest in escorting Danzō out or exchanging pleasantries.
Danzō understood the message immediately. There was no anger, no surprise in his expression—just a slight narrowing of his visible eye. Without a word, he turned on his heel, his cloak brushing the floor as he disappeared into the corridor's shadows—no doubt already scheming how to deal with the Uchiha.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Orochimaru remained standing in the dimly lit room. The silence was almost tangible. He slowly unrolled the scroll with his usual grace, the action deliberate, as though savoring the moment of revelation.
The words written on the parchment were simple but powerful: Flying Raijin Jutsu.
A signature move of Konoha's Fourth Hokage—once hailed as his original technique—but in truth, created by the Second. The Flying Raijin Jutsu. A space-time ninjutsu that allowed its wielder to teleport instantly to any marked location. A jutsu so powerful, so precise, it could turn the tide of entire wars in mere moments.
Orochimaru's lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile.
He had always wondered… could he wield it too?
After all, the version of himself in that other world—the one reflected in stories and memory—had never managed to.
But acquiring a forbidden technique like this was no trivial matter. Even Jiraiya, with all his accolades from the Second Great Ninja War, had to burn every ounce of goodwill and reputation just to obtain it—and even then, only to pass it on to Minato.
Orochimaru had tried. He had offered his merits, his victories, everything he had done in service to the village.
It wasn't enough.
Minato… was the exception. The chosen one. Anyone with a shred of intelligence could see that.
Now, though… now the scroll was in his hands.
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