"I said—perform the transplant. Now."
Danzo's eyes were bloodshot. His voice wasn't loud, but each word carried the weight of a growl barely held back, vibrating with suppressed fury.
The lead researcher paled and instinctively stepped back. Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
Under Danzo's glare, he didn't dare utter a word of protest. Voice trembling, he nodded, "Y-Yes, my lord. I'll arrange it immediately."
The lab fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, at the chief's signal, the researchers dropped what they were doing and sprang into action.
Danzo repeated himself, calm but chilling:
"This operation must succeed."
It wasn't just an instruction—it was a threat.
"If it fails... even if I die on the table... you, you—everyone here. Your families. Your friends. All of them will follow me into the grave."
The madness behind those words sent a shiver through every soul in the room.
No one dared argue. But inwardly, the chief researcher cursed his luck.
First-generation cell transplants were unpredictable. The outcome depended heavily on the subject's physical and mental compatibility. There was never any guarantee of success.
He'd hoped to delay the surgery, banking on Danzo's increasing fear of death to buy more time—until the procedure was safer. But things had escalated too quickly.
Realizing how dire the situation had become, the chief began barking orders, analyzing every variable, accounting for every risk.
Once the lab was running in full, precise coordination, he returned to Danzo.
"My lord," he said, "if we operate now, the odds are stacked against you. To even have a chance, we need to bring your body and mind to peak condition first."
Danzo's eyes lost some of their intensity. "What do you need me to do?"
"Rest. Here."
The chief pressed a button, and a large nutrient tank rose from beneath the floor.
Danzo, having seen this process many times before, nodded silently. He turned, went to the adjoining room to cleanse himself, changed into a sterile lab coat, and entered the chamber.
As Danzo fastened the breathing apparatus, the chief activated the tank. Pale green fluid began to rise, enveloping his body until he was completely submerged.
Once that was done, the chief retrieved a small vial from storage and walked over to the nutrient solution's intake port.
Just as he was about to pour it in, another researcher noticed—and quickly stepped forward, grabbing his wrist.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. "That compound is toxic to human tissue!"
"This dosage, diluted, isn't technically poisonous," the chief replied calmly. "It's... stimulating."
The chief tried to yank his arm free, but failed. He looked irritated.
"You're Danzo's watchdog, aren't you? Half the lab knows it."
"But you should also know," he continued, "in his current state, Danzo will almost certainly die if we operate now."
The other man's gaze remained firm. "So your solution is to poison him?"
"If he can't handle a small stimulant," the chief said coldly, "how will he survive the transplant?"
"I want this operation to succeed more than you do."
The Genin fell silent for a moment, then released his grip. "You'd better be right."
The chief gave a dry, mocking laugh. "Heh…"
Even if the operation failed, the damage from the stimulant might buy time. A setback could delay the procedure long enough for them to make improvements.
Of course, if that plan failed, he might not survive either. The risk was real.
Holding the reagent vial carefully, he frowned and measured the dose. Even a slight miscalculation could be fatal—he had no intention of dying with Danzo.
He released a few drops of the red chemical into the pale green fluid. The liquid turned a murky shade of purple.
Moments later, agonized screams echoed from inside the tank.
Unmoved, the chief clenched his fists and returned to work, issuing more orders. He began pulling out the lab's most precious and restricted materials.
For this transplant, cost-efficiency was irrelevant. The goal was simple: survival.
If the operation failed, he'd die anyway. So he'd use everything he had. There was no point in hoarding resources for a future he might not see.
The other researchers followed his lead. They understood his thinking. Even though failure could mean death, the rush of finally using their best materials—after so much frugality—gave them a strange sort of excitement.
Excessive? Wasteful?
Maybe. But for once, it felt good.
After this surgery, no matter what happened, everything would be used up.
-----
While Danzo wrestled with the decision of life and death in his underground lab, the true instigator of all this chaos was calmly resting in the shadows of the forest.
Hidden among the trees, Kabuto Yakushi crouched in silence.
Though Orochimaru often praised Kabuto's natural talent, tapping into nature energy wasn't without its limits. Even to attempt it, one had to use their own chakra as a base.
And that was Kabuto's weakness.
Compared to monsters like Orochimaru—or even most ordinary Kage-level shinobi—Kabuto's chakra reserves were slightly inferior.
He didn't know how long he'd need to keep running, and he needed to maintain at least half of his strength for what came next.
After a short rest, Kabuto tucked the white snake scales into his robe, leapt into the trees, and began heading toward the Land of Rain.
As he passed a massive tree, his eyes narrowed. Forming a quick seal, several earth spears erupted from the ground, piercing the tree trunk in a deadly strike.
But there was no scream. No blood.
The tree simply stood there, a large hole left behind, while the spears crumbled back into mud.
Kabuto raised an eyebrow. "An illusion? No… that wasn't genjutsu. But the sensation of being watched is gone."
A theory formed in his mind, but he didn't stop to investigate. Instead, he sped up.
Ten miles away, atop a thick tree branch, a strange figure watched—half black, half white.
Zetsu.
"The ninja behind the attack was someone named Kabuto," he muttered. "Just like I thought—he's inherited Orochimaru's Ryūchi Cave techniques. His sensory abilities are sharp—he nearly took out the clone."
"...Kabuto?" Obito's eyes gleamed red beneath his mask. "Who is he? What grudge does he have with Danzo? Why target Root?"
"We'll have to investigate," Black Zetsu said. "But don't worry—Konoha's more desperate to find those answers than we are."
Obito narrowed his gaze. "Find out. Immediately."
_____________________
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