The blood that had been pumping through Kumokawa's veins evaporated in an instant, scorched by the sheer heat of his new power. A crimson mist rose from his pores, wrapping his face in a hazy, blood-colored veil.
Inside him, the blood rushed like a spring river finally breaking free of winter ice. Every cell in his body inhaled greedily, bursting with the vigor of fresh sprouts cracking through stone. An unparalleled strength surged through his limbs, flooding every bone and meridian.
"You..."
To the side, Owl stared, his pupils dilating in shock. His mouth opened to speak.
But in the next instant.
Squelch!
The strike was too fast to see. There was no pain, only cold, absolute death.
It sounded like a breeze calmer than the night wind passing through. The sound of flesh being pierced was soft, swallowed instantly by the silence.
Orochimaru jerked his head to the side, acting almost on instinct. A sharp tearing sound whispered past his ear, and he felt a faint sting on his cheek.
A thin red line slowly crawled across the Sannin's pale face. It split open inch by inch, stopping just at his cheekbone. Blood bloomed like a scattered flower, the wet warmth sliding down his skin.
Behind him, Owl was still trying to process what he was seeing, but his vision suddenly inverted, spinning wildly.
Thud!
A headless body dropped to its knees. Blood geysered from the severed neck, painting the laboratory in a sudden, violent red rain.
The head hit the floor with the wet crunch of a dropped watermelon. It rolled, leaving a glistening trail of crimson, before coming to a stop in a pool of blood. The expression on Owl's face was one of frozen confusion. He had died without even understanding why.
From the severed neck, the fountain of blood continued to spray, drenching the two remaining figures in a macabre shower.
"I have waited for this day... for far too long."
Hyūga Kumokawa sat up on the operating table. He looked at his hand, where a chakra scalpel still hummed. Blood rolled off his fingertips like dew off a leaf. He raised his eyes to Orochimaru and smiled.
"Such a night... should be silent."
Three years. Three years, and then another three years.
Finally, the weakness of his body had been repaired. He had obtained the true bloodline of the Ōtsutsuki. And...
[Your lie "The Ōtsutsuki Corpse and Descendant" has been judged as: "Body as Bait", "Honeyed Words, Sword in Belly", "Turning Fiction into Reality".][Orochimaru has generated intense emotional fluctuations, reaching the level of "Absolute Belief".][You have obtained 10,000 Realization Points.][Evaluation: A mesmerizing trick. Like a shadow dancing on a wall, even a dwarf can cast the silhouette of a giant.][Remaining Realization Points: 10,041]
"..."
Orochimaru stared at the boy's face. In his memory, that face had always worn a mask of cowardice and shrinking fear.
But now, as the Cursed Seal faded, Kumokawa wore a smile that was deep and unfathomable.
It was the smile of a child who had pinned an ant to the ground and was watching it struggle before gently crushing it.
It was pure, unadulterated evil.
Orochimaru could still vividly remember that day, six years ago.
Shinobi World Year 48. The Third Great Ninja War had just ended.
Besieged on all sides, Konoha had paid a terrible price to secure final victory.
But...
"What is the point?"
Orochimaru's thin lips moved soundlessly. His gaze was flat as he looked ahead.
Lead-colored clouds smothered the sky. The cemetery, already a cold place, felt desolate and heavy with grief. The mourners bowed their heads like reeds crushed by heavy rain, their black umbrellas clustering together like a murder of crows.
He stood amidst the sea of black, watching the old man at the front.
His teacher. The Third Hokage, Sarutobi Hiruzen.
Hiruzen wiped rain from a tombstone with his bare hand. Perhaps moved by the gesture, a wave of sorrow seemed to ripple through the crowd.
"..."
Orochimaru glanced to his side, spotting a boy with a bowl cut.
He knew the kid. He had often seen him running laps around Konoha on his hands with his Genin father. In his memory, the two were always painfully optimistic, oblivious to the mockery and annoyance of those around them.
But now...
It was the first time Orochimaru had seen the boy cry. He cried foolishly, snot and tears mixing into a muddy mess on his face.
Rumor had it the boy had encountered the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist during a mission. His father—the man mocked as the "Eternal Genin"—had arrived to cover his escape.
That "waste" of a ninja had single-handedly killed four of the Seven Swordsmen, forcing the remaining three to flee with heavy injuries.
But the father had died.
And then there was the other child...
Orochimaru's narrow eyes shifted again. Reflected in his pupils was a delicate, childish face. This boy held no umbrella, letting the rain soak him to the bone.
His weeping was quiet, hoarse. He kept his head down, his shoulders shaking with soft, hissing sobs, like silk being torn in intervals.
But the tears were constant, streaming down his face to mix with the rain.
Hyūga Kumokawa. Timid. Cowardly. Frail. While his peers were learning the Gentle Fist, this child hadn't even awakened his Byakugan. He was the famous "waste" of the Hyūga clan.
His father hadn't died on the battlefield. He had returned heavily wounded, only to die later. But whispers within the Hyūga clan suggested he had died because he failed to protect a Main House member—that the elders had activated the Caged Bird seal on a wounded man, killing him.
Come to think of it, the boy's father had served under Orochimaru during the Second War.
How old were these children?
Nine? Ten?
Heh.
Thrown onto the battlefield so young. Losing their only family so young...
Orochimaru looked back at the old man at the front. Lightning branched through the clouds, momentarily bleaching the world into stark black and white.
The blinding light cast a long, demonic shadow from the Hokage's hunched form. Hiruzen's compassionate face was split into harsh light and shadow.
Having lived through two Great Ninja Wars, Orochimaru suddenly felt a profound, visceral disgust. It was nauseating enough to make him want to vomit.
These people who died in war... what was the meaning of their lives?
Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.
Eventually, the crowd dispersed. The living left, leaving only the silent stones.
Orochimaru stood before Nawaki's grave. His black umbrella was a dark void in the rain. He placed a white chrysanthemum on the stone, looking at the familiar name, yet feeling surprisingly nothing.
Sadness? Anger? Pity?
None of it.
But he was not calm.
He watched a raindrop slide off the edge of his umbrella, falling into the groove of the carved name and vanishing. He felt a fear rising from the depths of his soul.
"U-um..."
A timid, squeezed voice came from behind him.
Orochimaru snapped out of his trance. He turned instinctively and found himself staring into a pair of white eyes.
His face must have still held a lingering coldness, because the boy flinched and took a step back, trembling. But he managed to stand his ground.
"U-um... you... your face looks very pale, so..."
Under Orochimaru's stare, the boy's voice shrank until it was barely a whisper.
Orochimaru looked down at Hyūga Kumokawa. He realized he had been standing there for a long time. The boy was worried about his health.
Kind. And weak.
Truly a waste.
Orochimaru made his judgment and prepared to leave without a word. He turned his back, his expression cold.
"Orochimaru-sama."
The voice called out again. For some reason, Orochimaru stopped.
"Do you know... what is the meaning of life?"
Orochimaru narrowed his eyes. He turned back. The boy was looking up at him, his face full of confusion and lost innocence. "My father often spoke of you. He said you were a hero of Konoha. I thought... someone like you would know..."
"There is no meaning."
Orochimaru interrupted him softly. "Even if there is, it only exists while life persists."
"Once life ends, there is no meaning."
Death was the only fairness in this world.
It didn't matter what you did or what you owned in life. When death came, you had nothing.
The thought brought that bone-deep chill back. The wind seemed to cut through his collar, making his grip on the umbrella handle tighten until his knuckles turned white.
Yes. To die was to be like water vanishing into water.
To die was to lose everything. He didn't want to lose everything. He wanted to possess everything.
So, he could not die. He would not die.
"Orochimaru-sama," Kumokawa suddenly asked, lifting his head. "Do you believe there are 'gods' in this world?"
Orochimaru looked at the cowardly child and felt a sudden urge to laugh.
It was the same disdain he felt when Jiraiya spouted nonsense about the "Child of Prophecy."
Prophecies, gods—they were just crutches invented by the weak to deceive themselves.
Omniscient and omnipotent gods did not exist. Even if they did, they were just powerful beings. Nothing more.
"What if... what if He possessed eternal life?"
Seeing the mockery in Orochimaru's eyes, Kumokawa spoke hurriedly. "Before he died, Father gave me a scroll and a... a body. He said the scroll contained the secrets of the Hyūga clan, but I can't open it. And the body... he said it is an ancestor of the Hyūga. It hasn't died. It won't die. The soul just... left the body..."
Kumokawa's voice trailed off, as if he didn't quite believe it himself. But Orochimaru's slit pupils were trembling.
In the entire Shinobi World, if there was one person who understood "souls," it was Orochimaru.
To most, souls were ethereal concepts. The idea of a soul existing independently of a body was impossible.
But to someone obsessed with the essence of life, it was theoretically possible. And the Hyūga were one of the oldest clans...
"..."
Orochimaru studied the boy, noticing the cold sweat beading on his forehead. For some reason, he felt a flicker of trust in the boy's words.
Perhaps... it wouldn't hurt to look?
Kumokawa, who had lowered his head again, suddenly felt the rain stop. A shadow covered him.
"Can you tell me... why are you telling me this?"
Kumokawa looked up blankly, meeting the Sannin's gaze.
Orochimaru was holding the umbrella over him. He bent down, resting one hand on his knee to bring himself to the boy's eye level.
"This sounds like a top secret of the Hyūga clan. Why not tell the elders?" A smile played on Orochimaru's pale face, giving him a strange, charismatic allure.
"F-Father told me... if he died, I could use the scroll and the body to trade for better treatment from the clan."
Kumokawa's face flushed slightly under the Sannin's gentle tone. He looked down. "But... I don't believe them. My father was forced to his death by them."
There was a tremble of resentment in his voice. Orochimaru glanced at the boy's clenched fist, surprised to find a spark of grit in the child.
"You want me to help you take revenge?" Orochimaru's eyes narrowed into crescents. "Aren't you afraid I'll tell the Hyūga clan about this?"
"I feel like... someone like you wouldn't do that. And besides, even if you did..." Kumokawa shook his head slowly. He looked up at Orochimaru, his voice soft but clear. "I wouldn't lose much."
"Only myself."
"..."
Meeting those determined white eyes, Orochimaru fell into a brief silence.