Orochimaru would never forget that day.
Six years ago.
According to the shinobi world's chronology, it was the forty-eighth year—the year the Third Great Ninja War finally came to an end.
Surrounded on all sides, Konohagakure paid a devastating price before emerging as the ultimate victor.
And yet—
"What meaning does it have?"
Orochimaru's thin lips moved soundlessly as his calm gaze lowered toward the scene before him.
Lead-gray clouds blanketed the sky. The already somber graveyard felt colder still, steeped in desolation and grief. The crowd bent beneath the rain like reeds weighed down by water, muffled sobs spreading through the air. Black umbrellas clustered together like a gathering of crows.
Orochimaru stood among the mourners, his eyes fixed on the elderly man at the front.
That man was his teacher—
Sarutobi Hiruzen, the Third Hokage.
Hiruzen brushed rainwater from the gravestone. That small gesture seemed to loosen something in the crowd, sorrow spreading like ink in water.
"…."
Orochimaru's gaze drifted slightly, landing on a boy with a bowl haircut.
He knew this child.
He had often seen him running laps around Konoha upside-down with his genin father—both of them forever loud, passionate, and foolishly optimistic, utterly indifferent to the irritation and mockery of passersby.
But now—
This was the first time Orochimaru had ever seen the boy cry.
He cried horribly—snot and tears smeared together into a muddy mess across his face.
Rumor had it that during a mission, the boy had encountered the Seven Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist. His father—the very same genin mocked as a useless nobody—had arrived in time to cover his son's retreat.
Alone, he had slain four of them.
The remaining three fled, gravely wounded.
The father, however, never returned.
Then there was another child.
Orochimaru's narrow pupils shifted.
A young boy stood nearby, not bothering with an umbrella, allowing the rain to soak him completely. His face was childish, his crying hoarse and restrained—head lowered, shoulders trembling, breath escaping in broken, tearing sounds.
Tears streamed continuously, mixing with rainwater as they poured from his eyes.
Hyūga Gin.
Timid. Frail. Weak.
At an age when his peers had already begun training in Gentle Fist, he had yet to awaken the Byakugan.
Within the Hyūga Clan, he was infamous as a "failure."
Gin's father hadn't died on the battlefield. He had returned alive—only to succumb to his injuries later.
Yet within the clan, whispers spread that he had been punished for failing to protect a Main Family member, and that in his weakened state, a Hyūga elder had activated the Caged Bird Seal, killing him.
Orochimaru remembered—
That man had once rendered distinguished service under him during the Second Great Ninja War.
How old were these children?
Nine? Ten?
Heh.
So young, sent to the battlefield.
So young, stripped of their only family.
Orochimaru looked again at the old man standing at the front.
Lightning forked across the clouds, bleaching the world into stark black and white. Hiruzen's hunched shadow stretched across the ground, elongated and monstrous, his sorrowful face split between light and darkness.
Having lived through two great wars, Orochimaru felt a deep, visceral disgust well up inside him.
It was nauseating.
What meaning did the lives of those who died in war truly have?
Nothing changed.
Nothing ever changed.
When the crowd finally dispersed, only rows of silent gravestones remained.
Orochimaru stood before Nawaki's grave.
A black umbrella sheltered him from the rain as he placed a white chrysanthemum at the base of the stone. He stared at the familiar name—
And felt nothing.
No sorrow.
No anger.
No pity.
Yet he was not at peace.
Rainwater dripped from the umbrella's edge, flowing into the engraved grooves of the stone before vanishing.
From deep within, a quiet terror took hold.
"Th-that…"
A timid voice spoke from behind him, strained as though forced from a tight throat.
Orochimaru turned—
And met a pair of pale, Byakugan eyes.
The chill still lingering on Orochimaru's face startled the boy, who flinched back a step before steadying himself.
"Y-your complexion looks bad, so I—"
His voice grew smaller under Orochimaru's gaze.
Looking down at Hyūga Gin, Orochimaru realized he had stood there too long. The child must have been worried about his condition.
Kind.
Timid.
Useless.
That was Orochimaru's judgment.
He turned to leave—
"Orochimaru-sama."
He stopped.
"Do you know… what the meaning of life is?"
Orochimaru narrowed his eyes and turned back.
The boy still looked frightened, yet he forced himself to speak.
"My father often spoke of you. He said you were a hero of Konoha. I thought… someone like you would understand things like this."
"There is no meaning," Orochimaru replied softly, cutting him off.
"If meaning exists at all, it exists only while one lives."
"A life that has ended holds no meaning whatsoever."
Death was the only absolute equality in this world.
No matter what one achieved in life, death stripped it all away.
The cold seeped deeper into Orochimaru's bones, the wind biting through his clothes. His fingers tightened around the umbrella handle.
Yes.
Death was like water returning to water.
To die was to lose everything.
He refused to lose everything.
So he could not die.
He would not die.
"Orochimaru-sama," Gin suddenly asked, lifting his head, "do you believe… gods exist?"
Orochimaru almost laughed.
Just as he despised Jiraiya's obsession with some "Child of Prophecy," he dismissed gods just as easily.
They were fantasies—crutches for the weak.
Even if such beings existed, they would merely be stronger creatures, nothing more.
"But what if," Gin pressed quietly, "they possessed eternal life?"
"My father left me a scroll… and a body," he continued hesitantly.
"He said the scroll recorded the Hyūga Clan's ancient secrets. I couldn't open it. And that body—it belongs to a Hyūga ancestor. It hasn't died and won't die. Only the soul left it…"
His voice trailed off.
Yet Orochimaru's pupils trembled.
No one in the shinobi world understood the concept of the soul better than he did.
Most considered it metaphysical nonsense.
But to Orochimaru—who pursued the essence of life itself—it was entirely possible.
And the Hyūga were among the oldest clans in existence.
He studied the boy's sweating brow.
Against reason—
He believed him.
"Why tell me this?" Orochimaru asked.
Gin looked up, meeting his gaze.
Orochimaru knelt slightly, holding the umbrella over them both, their eyes level.
"This is a Hyūga secret," Orochimaru smiled faintly.
"Why not tell your clan elders?"
"My father said… if he died, I could trade the scroll and body to the clan for protection," Gin said quietly.
"But I don't trust them."
"They're the ones who killed my father."
Hatred trembled beneath his words.
Orochimaru noted the clenched fists.
"You want revenge?" he asked lightly.
"And you're not afraid I'll tell the Hyūga everything?"
"I don't think you would," Gin replied softly.
"And even if you did… I don't have much left to lose."
"…Only myself."
Orochimaru fell silent.
Then he laughed, placing a hand atop the boy's head.
Life might not have meaning.
But only by living could one encounter truly interesting people.
Later, Hyūga Gin gave Orochimaru the scroll and the body.
Orochimaru broke part of the scroll's sealing technique and glimpsed its opening pages—
The origin of the shinobi world.
The Ōtsutsuki Clan.
Beings from beyond the stars.
Each born with overwhelming power, requiring no training. Through a process known as Karma, they could reincarnate—surpassing death itself.
They traveled the cosmos in pairs, planting the God Tree, consuming entire worlds to harvest chakra fruit.
The "Main Family" would return to their home world, leaving a "Branch" member behind to oversee the harvest.
The soulless body described in the scroll belonged to such a Branch Ōtsutsuki.
He had spread chakra and left descendants—
The Hyūga Clan.
Though the scroll's latter sections remained sealed, what Orochimaru learned was enough to leave him trembling.
Such perfection.
Such physiology.
Ōtsutsuki were fundamentally different from humans.
Eternal life was real.
Matter perished—but the soul could endure.
If he unraveled the Ōtsutsuki's secrets, one day he would grasp all truths.
Six years passed.
Orochimaru believed he had completely mastered Hyūga Gin.
The boy's eyes held only reverence.
He obeyed every experiment.
Even infiltrating ANBU Root, delivering information to Shimura Danzō, trembling yet compliant.
Though lacking talent as a ninja, Gin possessed a rare scientific intuition—often offering insights from the smallest details.
Even Orochimaru found it remarkable.
He almost hesitated.
But greed for immortality won.
Until now.
Staring at the headless corpse on the floor, Orochimaru felt absurdity wash over him.
As though six years had been a dream.
"You…" he asked stupidly,
"What are you doing?"
Gin smiled.
"Thank you, Orochimaru-sama."
"As you taught me—true ignorance isn't a lack of knowledge, but the refusal to seek it."
"Weakness and ignorance don't prevent survival."
"Arrogance does."
Orochimaru had never once regarded him as a threat.
That arrogance blinded him.
It wasn't Orochimaru who chose Gin—
Gin chose him.
Realization struck.
Rage twisted into laughter.
"Do you really think you can escape me?"
Orochimaru vanished.
Killing intent erupted like a glacier shattering—years of suppressed violence roaring forth.
WHRRRR—!!
A sonic boom tore the air.
A kunai moved too fast to perceive.
Even drained, Orochimaru was far beyond Gin.
Yet—
Gin didn't dodge.
He stepped forward.
Slash!
Blood sprayed.
The blade severed half his neck.
A mortal wound.
And still—
Gin smiled.
"Even now… you couldn't strike my heart."
So I win.
BOOM!
A furious roar echoed.
"Orochimaru! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Hiruzen.
Gin closed his eyes, collapsing onto the table.
Born with the Caged Bird Seal…
What a terrible script.
But—
It's fine.
I was born the best actor.