In the world of shinobi, revenge and personal hatred rarely take root the way they might among ordinary people.
Ninja battle each other on the battlefield not out of personal grudges, but for the sake of their clans and villages. Duty, not emotion, guides their blades.
Of course, this doesn't mean hatred never arises. Life and death on the battlefield inevitably breed resentment.
Take, for example, Chiyo from Sunagakure. Her son and daughter-in-law were both killed by Hatake Sakumo. Her grandson, Sasori, was deeply affected by their deaths and eventually turned his back on the village, becoming a rogue ninja. One could say Sakumo's actions shattered her family.
Yet even in this case, despite having every reason for vengeance, Chiyo never sought personal revenge against Sakumo or his son, Hatake Kakashi—even in the absence of an official alliance between the villages.
The same applies to Tsunade. Her younger brother Nawaki died in battle, and her lover, Dan, died horribly in the line of duty—gutted on the battlefield. These losses devastated her, left her with a fear of blood, and eventually drove her to leave the village for years.
But did Tsunade ever seek revenge on the village or shinobi team responsible? No.
Why?
Because at its core, a Hidden Village is a military institution. There is no space for individual emotion or personal vendettas.
Yes, your loved one may have died. But why is your grief more justified than someone else's? Are the people you care about more "human" just because they're yours? Or because they were stronger?
—Acting on personal emotions in such a system is selfish. Reckless.
Tsunade left the village precisely because she recognized this truth, though emotionally, she couldn't accept it.
Each shinobi village is full of grief, grudges, and pain. There are many like Tsunade—people forced to swallow their personal suffering for the "greater good."
And when someone dares to break that pattern—when they act out of personal feelings—they shine like a flame in a sea of cold logic. Distracting. Dangerous.
So when someone like Hatake Sakumo or Orochimaru acts according to personal desire, they inevitably draw criticism from within the village.
Even if no one dares to speak it aloud, their disgust will surface behind closed doors.
It was easy to predict that Orochimaru's reputation in Konoha would plummet.
Most in the room were sharp-minded. They could already foresee this future and looked at Orochimaru with conflicted eyes.
Even Hiashi, so consumed by grief moments ago, faltered. His expression wavered.
After all, both he and his daughter were from the Hyuga clan. Their lives, while precious, were not Orochimaru's to gamble with. Orochimaru had no personal stake in this. He didn't need to make such a sacrifice.
Yet... it was clever. By focusing all controversy and blame onto himself, Orochimaru had shielded the village and diverted criticism away from others.
No matter how things ended, the fallout would be his alone to bear.
Danzo squinted. His eyes flickered with interest.
There was something in Orochimaru he recognized—something disturbingly familiar. It stirred a strange blend of kinship and revulsion in him.
But he quickly pushed the feeling aside, smirking to himself.
After this, there would be no path left for Orochimaru to become Hokage. And Danzo was finally certain that Orochimaru didn't care.
As for Konoha? Hiruzen was growing old. Jiraiya had the fame and the strength, but his heart remained with the wandering road. And Tsunade? A gambler, unreliable.
Who was left?
Only himself.
Danzo's chest swelled with ambition. His thoughts drifted to the upcoming surgery—implanting the cells of the First Hokage.
His time was coming.
He would take control of Konoha.
Sarutobi Hiruzen looked at Orochimaru, who stood calm and collected as always. Then his gaze shifted to Hyuga Hiashi, a faint frown forming on his face.
For the sake of preserving the Hyuga clan's Byakugan, Orochimaru's reputation had to be sacrificed. Hiruzen didn't like that. Not one bit. But given the situation, it was the best course of action. And he knew Orochimaru wouldn't mind. He never did.
In the Hokage conference room, silence hung heavy as Orochimaru finished speaking. No one said a word. Everyone was lost in thought, weighing possibilities, consequences—but for their own reasons, none chose to break the quiet.
Eventually, Orochimaru's shadow clone stepped forward and handed over the young Neji Hyuga to the original.
"Any objections?" Orochimaru asked casually.
He smiled faintly and tapped Neji lightly on the temple with a finger.
Neji flinched. Though he tried to stay composed—like a "little adult"—he couldn't help but squeeze his eyes shut, trembling with fear.
No one answered.
Orochimaru's smile widened, now clearly mocking.
"I'll take that as a no."
He said "everyone," but Hiashi could tell the words were aimed directly at him. Their eyes met, and Hiashi's heart sank.
"She's just a child…"
"Don't forget the First Hokage's original dream for the Hidden Villages…"
The words echoed in his mind. Words he himself had spoken not long ago—now turned into sharp thorns, stabbing at his conscience.
Earlier, he had stood tall, righteous, insisting that his concern wasn't for his daughter alone, but for the countless children of Konoha. He had spoken for the good of the village.
And he had succeeded.
But now the cost had shifted—onto someone else's child.
What was he supposed to do now?
If he objected now, would his words still carry the same righteous weight? Or would it be just to save face?
He couldn't bring himself to look at his younger brother. He stared instead at Neji, cradled in Orochimaru's arms. His lips trembled, but no words came out.
He couldn't even lie to himself. Not in a room full of people as sharp as razors. They would see right through him.
His own thoughts turned on him, ripping through every nerve, over and over, asking:
What the hell am I doing?
Hiashi's face turned ghostly pale. His spirit was clearly breaking—his once-proud Byakugan eyes now dull and unfocused.
Everyone in the room noticed. These were elite shinobi, after all. They couldn't miss it.
But they all chose to look the other way.
After all, chakra is the fusion of body and spirit. And the strength of spirit is directly tied to one's will and conviction.
A shinobi who no longer believes in his own choices is already weak. Broken. Useless.
"Tsk tsk," Orochimaru clicked his tongue. "Seems like no one really minds."
He sounded almost disappointed.
"Then it's settled."
He spoke as if to himself, his voice nonchalant. Then, under the watchful gazes of everyone in the room, Orochimaru knocked Neji unconscious and reached toward his eye socket.
In a blink, he held two bloodied eyeballs in his hand.
The Hyuga clan elders visibly recoiled in shock. One of them stepped forward in alarm.
"Lord Orochimaru! Those Byakugan belong to the Hyuga clan—you can't—!"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Orochimaru glanced his way… and crushed the eyes in his hand into pulp.
Blood and tissue dripped between his fingers.
The elder froze. Silent.
No one else dared speak.
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