Chapter 27: Didn't Your Mother Teach You?
**Nagano Mountains**
"Ninja Art: Ten Thousand Snake Formation!"
Orochimaru wasn't one for small talk or dramatic entrances—well, not today anyway. His sleeves practically exploded as a writhing tsunami of serpents poured out, each one probably more venomous than a particularly nasty Yelp review.
The Rock ninjas, bless their earthy hearts, weren't about to let themselves become snake food without a fight.
"Earth Release: Earth Flow River!" their leader barked, because apparently shouting technique names never gets old in the ninja world.
The ground rumbled and groaned like an old man getting out of bed, before transforming into a roiling river of mud that swallowed the snakes with wet, squelching sounds. Somewhere in that mess, a few hundred snakes were probably reconsidering their life choices.
"It's Orochimaru of the Sannin!" one of the Iwagakure ninjas announced, as if the giant snake parade hadn't been hint enough.
The ambushing Rock ninjas exchanged the kind of looks usually reserved for finding out your dentist appointment is actually a root canal. They'd expected maybe a chunin squad, not one of Konoha's legendary psychopaths.
This was Konoha's way of saying: War? Bring it on, we've got snake daddy on our side.
"Don't panic!" the Iwa leader shouted, which is exactly what someone says right before everything goes spectacularly wrong. "No matter how strong he is, he's still human! Fortunately, we came prepared. Time to make Konoha regret sending just one man!"
**BOOM!**
Mount Nagano suddenly split open like a badly wrapped present, and dozens of Rock ninjas erupted from the earth. They wore their forehead protectors with the kind of pride usually reserved for showing off expensive watches, and each one had that particular gleam in their eyes that screamed 'elite ninja with a pension plan.'
"Damn it!" a Konoha ninja cursed, his voice cracking slightly. "With this many Rock ninjas hiding down there, what the hell was your Byakugan doing? Taking a coffee break?"
Hyuga Tokushu's face went through several shades of mortification. His legendary all-seeing eyes had somehow missed an entire underground ninja convention. Apparently, the Iwa ninjas had been playing 3D chess while he'd been playing checkers, hiding deep enough underground to avoid his detection range entirely.
"Kill them all!" the Rock ninjas chorused with the kind of bloodthirsty enthusiasm usually reserved for Black Friday sales.
This wasn't just an ambush—this was a carefully orchestrated death trap. They'd left just enough breadcrumbs at Nagano Mountain to lure in reinforcements, planning to swallow both the outpost guards and their backup in one glorious, village-pleasing bite.
Iwagakure had really gone all out with their meal planning this time.
Orochimaru's snake-like eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement, if amusement could kill people.
Meanwhile, Mitsui Hiyori sidled up to his commander with the expression of someone about to deliver terrible news to their boss.
"Lord Orochimaru," he said carefully, "the Torimori checkpoint is under attack. They're probably getting massacred as we speak. Should we maybe, you know, do something about that? Like retreat? Strategically reposition? Run like hell?"
The numerical disadvantage was so obvious even a math-phobic academy student could have calculated their odds of survival.
Orochimaru's lips curved into what could generously be called a smile, but looked more like what a shark might do before lunch.
"Too late for heroics now," he said with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. "Instead of saving them, let's just wipe out all these Rock ninjas here. At least then their deaths will have contributed to something meaningful."
Mitsui Hiyori felt his blood temperature drop several degrees. He'd just witnessed Orochimaru perform some very cold math: three genin and chunin equals acceptable losses if it meant eliminating an entire squad of elite enemy ninjas.
Not a bad trade, the snake Sannin's expression seemed to say.
As he spoke, Orochimaru's mind wandered briefly to that oddball kid, Qifeng. The honest-faced little corpse collector who'd somehow survived when a Mist jonin had mysteriously vanished during their last mission to Hot Springs Country.
I wonder if you'll pull off another miracle this time, kid.
Since Orochimaru showed no signs of tactical retreat (or basic survival instincts), the Konoha ninjas could only grit their teeth and prepare for what was probably going to be a very educational experience in why numerical superiority matters.
Orochimaru, for his part, simply licked his lips like a man about to enjoy a particularly fine vintage.
The ninja world still remembered him as one-third of the legendary trio who'd survived the "demigod" Hanzo's wrath during the Second Great War. What they didn't realize was how much a motivated sociopath could improve over the years with enough practice and a complete lack of moral boundaries.
He bit his finger—because why use a kunai when you can be dramatic—formed the necessary hand signs, and slammed his palm to the ground.
"Summoning Jutsu!"
**BOOM!**
The resulting smoke cloud was large enough to have its own weather system. When it cleared, a creature that could only be described as 'aggressively purple' and 'architecturally impossible' dominated the mountainside.
Manda, in all his scaly, ego-driven glory.
Mount Nagano, which had seemed reasonably sized moments before, now looked like a coffee table next to a conference room.
Orochimaru leaped onto his summon's head with the fluid grace of someone who'd done this dance many times before.
"Orochimaru!" Manda's voice boomed with all the subtlety of a natural disaster. "I hope you've prepared adequate sacrifices this time!"
The giant snake had the audacity to make demands before the fight even started, like the world's most dangerous uber driver asking for five stars in advance.
Orochimaru just smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
---
**Torimori Checkpoint**
Qifeng knelt on one knee in the dirt, wiping blood from his mouth while his Sharingan tracked every micro-movement of the Iwagakure jonin standing across from him.
Doishi raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. "You're still conscious, kid. Color me impressed."
In his considerable experience, Konoha genin usually folded after one serious punch, like the two ninja he'd steamrolled outside earlier. Quick, efficient, no mess.
But this stubborn little bastard had eaten a full-force hit and was still standing. Well, kneeling, but close enough.
Qifeng worked his jaw carefully, spat out a mouthful of blood that was probably worth more than his monthly stipend, and slowly pushed himself upright. Every muscle felt like it had been introduced to a sledgehammer, but his bones remained reassuringly intact.
He flashed his bloodiest smile. "You hit like a chunin compared to those Cloud village monsters."
Now that was fighting words. The long-standing grudge between Iwagakure and Kumogakure dated way back, when the Kumo had decided the Iwa's heartland looked like excellent real estate.
Doishi's face darkened like a storm cloud. Being compared to those lightning-charged muscle-heads was possibly the worst insult you could level at a Rock ninja.
His gaze drifted to the bodies of the Konoha ninja that Qifeng had carefully arranged and prepared for transport. They looked almost peaceful, if you ignored the whole 'being dead' part.
"You know what?" Doishi said conversationally, "I really don't like how neat and tidy you made these corpses. All arranged like they're going to some kind of funeral service. Makes me feel... unsettled."
He lifted his foot.
**CRUNCH!**
The chunin's head exploded like an overripe melon, painting the ground in abstract expressionist patterns. Doishi ground his heel into the Konoha forehead protector, the metal warping and twisting with sounds that would make a dentist weep.
The village symbol deformed under his boot, each scrape and grind a deliberate insult.
Qifeng's expression went from 'mildly annoyed' to 'homicidal' in record time.
Doishi caught the change and grinned like he'd just won a bet. Without breaking eye contact, he moved to the next body.
These were corpses that hadn't even been processed yet. Fresh casualties.
"Didn't your mother teach you manners?" Qifeng's voice came out like gravel mixed with broken glass.
"What now?" Doishi paused, genuinely confused.
The next second, Qifeng vanished.
Doishi's pupils contracted to pinpricks as his combat instincts screamed warnings. He threw up his arms just as—
**THUNK!**
A bone spear, white as fresh snow and twice as deadly, punched through his hastily reinforced forearm and stopped just short of his chest. If he hadn't flooded his arm with earth-chakra at the last possible second, he'd currently be experiencing the unique sensation of having his internal organs rearranged.
But the injury was secondary to the absolute nightmare fuel that Qifeng had become.
Bone spikes jutted from his chest, waist, and back like he'd been turned inside-out by a very artistic serial killer. His right arm had transformed into a spiraling bone lance that belonged in a museum of medieval torture devices.
Doishi, despite years of experience with all manner of bloodline abilities and forbidden techniques, found himself at a complete loss for words. The kid looked like what would happen if anatomy textbooks had nightmares.
Qifeng pressed forward step by measured step, each movement deliberate and terrifying. The bone spear twisted deeper, forcing Doishi backward until he was pinned against the wall, elevated just enough to rob him of proper leverage.
"What the hell are you?!" Doishi managed through gritted teeth, pain making his voice tight.
Uchiha Sharingan. The supposedly extinct Kaguya bone manipulation. Two of the most feared bloodline limits in the shinobi world, somehow crammed into one very pissed-off genin.
Qifeng stared at him with those cold, scarlet eyes that seemed to see right through flesh and bone to something more fundamental.
"Didn't your mother teach you," he said quietly, "not to f*ck with other people's bodies?"
The question hung in the air like a death sentence, punctuated only by the slow drip of blood and the distant sounds of battle from Mount Nagano.
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