In the narrow alley, Shisui's throat bobbed again.
The struggle in his eyes faded, replaced by fired-up conviction. He ground his fingertips into his palm like he'd just locked in a life-or-death decision.
Itachi's knitted brows loosened a fraction. Sure, suspicion of Orochimaru still simmered in the depths of his gaze, but Makoto's line—"Everything we do is for the Will of Fire!"—had slammed into the softest spot in his heart like a boulder.
That was Third Hokage Sarutobi Hiruzen's favorite catchphrase.
Neither spoke, but the silence screamed agreement.
Snow kept falling, plinking into puddles at the alley mouth, tiny ripples keeping time for their little "conspiracy."
A fat drop from the icicle overhead smacked the snow—plop—crisp as a rimshot.
Shisui suddenly snapped his head up, eyes blazing. "So we head to Lord Orochimaru now? I know one of his hangouts."
He'd stumbled across Orochimaru exiting a secret base after a mission once. The place was so out-of-the-way it stuck in his brain.
Makoto's lips twitched—barely a flicker, gone as fast as a snowflake hitting the ground. Sweet. Having backup makes everything easier.
If he were solo, just finding Orochimaru would be a nightmare. Rumors about whether the guy had defected? Easy—side-eye the guard squads and you'd hear plenty.
But pinning down his exact location? That snake stayed holed up like a hibernating bear.
Makoto nodded, face dead-serious. "No time to waste. Let's roll!"
Outside he looked grim; inside he was doing cartwheels. Finally got the fishing rod ready. Time to reel in the big one.
With these two "bodyguards," borrowing cash from Orochimaru would be way less sketchy. At least he wouldn't get genjutsu'd and stripped bare.
Makoto had binge-read The Art of the Deal in his past life—Orochimaru's genjutsu game was maxed out.
Get the money → go full pay-to-win → instant power-up. Flawless.
Itachi trailed silently, dark eyes still swirling with thought, but he never once doubted Makoto—only Orochimaru.
Snowflakes melted on his bangs, trickling down his cheeks like half-dried sweat… or maybe the weight in his chest finally easing.
Shisui took point, steps light and springy. He'd bought the whole "Orochimaru for Fifth Hokage" vision hook, line, and sinker.
The paper lantern at the alley mouth swayed, orange light stretching their shadows into giants that overlapped and slunk toward Konoha's fringes, swallowed by the bustling blizzard.
…
Time dragged. Houses thinned, then vanished completely.
Wind whipped snow into their faces, stinging like tiny needles. A few distant crow caws added a creepy, desolate vibe.
Makoto tugged his collar tighter, scanning the area.
Not a single footprint in the snow. No "normal" person had been here in ages.
Shisui stopped in front of a half-collapsed earthen wall and dropped his voice. "Right behind this."
He brushed aside dead vines hanging from the top, revealing a narrow crawl-space barely wide enough for one person. Snow half-buried it—blink and you'd miss it.
A faint, fishy stench wafted out. Makoto wrinkled his nose.
Shisui ducked through first—classic "skills make you fearless." Makoto followed, Itachi bringing up the rear to sandwich Makoto safely between them.
Past the opening, the scene opened up.
A deserted clearing. Dead center: a crumbling stone gate overgrown with vines.
The gate was shut tight, etched with weird runes that glowed faintly eerie in the dim light.
Shed snakeskins littered the weeds. Sunlight speared through branches, glinting cold off the scales.
Hiss—
Soft slithers. Makoto looked—several pitch-black baby snakes poked heads from rock cracks, tongues flicking, staring them down.
Jackpot. Orochimaru was definitely here. These were his security cameras.
They'd barely arrived and the guy already knew.
Shisui stepped up to the gate, fingertips glowing pale green with chakra, ready to force the barrier—when Makoto grabbed his wrist.
"Hold up." Makoto shook his head, dead certain. "He knows we're here. If he wants to talk, he'll come out."
Barging in and stumbling onto something nasty? Instant deathmatch. Not the plan.
If he didn't want to talk—then they'd talk forced entry. They'd come this far; no backing out now. Courtesy first, battering ram second. Makoto Uchiha: manners maketh man.
Shisui blinked, then nodded. Chakra fizzled out; hand dropped.
He and Itachi posted up in front of the gate like honor guards, ramrod straight. Snow piled a thin white cape on their shoulders.
Makoto? Flopped sideways into a snowdrift, kicked up a leg, hands behind his head—like he was chilling at the beach.
Minutes crawled by. Wind howled past their ears. The only sounds: breathing turning to frost in the air.
Makoto's brow furrowed. Getting real tired of this waiting game.
He rolled to his feet, brushed off snow, marched up, and pounded the gate—BAM BAM BAM—hinges groaning like an old man.
"Yo, fellow villager! Open up—I brought seaweed egg drop soup!"
The echo hadn't even faded when—
SCREEECH—
A grating, rusty screech ripped the silence, like metal claws on metal.
The stone gate creaked inward. A thick cocktail of medicinal stink and snake musk blasted out, strong enough to make eyes water.
Beyond: pitch-black darkness, yawning like a monster's open maw.
Then a figure glided out of the void.
Tall, robes dragging through snow, leaving a long trail.
Jet-black hair spilled over shoulders, hiding half the face. One visible eye: golden slit pupil, cold and serpentine.
Skin pale as printer paper, a faint smile that sent chills down the spine.
One of the Legendary Sannin—
Orochimaru.