The sun had dipped past the scattered clouds, slanting westward as dusk settled over Konoha.
Uchiha Tatsumi walked home alone, rubbing his sore shoulders with a weary sigh.
He'd just accompanied Mizumon to apologize to Sensei Nishimura for wrecking the training ground. As punishment, Nishimura had subjected them to a disorienting genjutsu—a "baptism" that left Tatsumi's head spinning, as if his brain were stuffed with mush.
Muttering under his breath, Tatsumi cursed Nishimura's name, wishing the chunin a lifetime of loneliness and a tragic loss of his "important right hand."
Quickening his pace, hunger gnawed at his stomach.
Suddenly, he froze.
Years of training had honed his instincts, and a faint prickle of danger stirred his senses.
"Come out," he called, his voice steady.
Silence answered. The surrounding darkness was oppressive, the usual chirping of cicadas eerily absent.
Without warning, two gleaming kunai shot from the shadows, aimed straight for Tatsumi's chest.
"Tch," Tatsumi scoffed, unfazed.
In his past life, people greeted each other with a friendly "Have you eaten?"—warm, civilized. In this world, ninjas said hello with kunai to the face.
Despite the wry thought, Tatsumi's hands moved with practiced speed. He flicked two shuriken from his pouch, intercepting the kunai midair and knocking them off course.
The motion was fluid, almost casual, as if he hadn't even tried.
Not pausing, Tatsumi launched another volley of shuriken toward the source of the attack.
As the shuriken neared their target, a wooden log appeared in their path, absorbing the hits with a dull thunk.
A Substitution Jutsu. Tatsumi narrowed his eyes, waiting for the enemy's next move.
Whoever was out there lurked like a viper, poised for a lethal strike. Tatsumi's Sharingan flickered to life, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.
Suddenly, a pair of pale hands burst from the ground, clawing at his ankles.
Tatsumi's fingers blurred through a one-handed seal. Before the hands could grab him, he vanished, leaving a wooden log in his place. The hands crushed the log with terrifying force.
If they won't come to me, I'll play their game, Tatsumi thought, slipping into the shadows behind a nearby tree.
The path grew quieter, the air thick with tension.
His opponent was hidden, but so was he. Still, Tatsumi knew he was at a disadvantage. They'd ambushed him, likely knowing his route home. He hadn't even glimpsed their face—zero intel on his enemy.
Time ticked by. Tatsumi's senses strained, every rustle of leaves amplifying his alertness.
Unbeknownst to him, a shadow materialized behind him, emerging silently from the earth via an advanced Earth Release technique.
The figure studied Tatsumi, confirming he wasn't a shadow clone. His special sensory skills detected the distinct chakra signature of Tatsumi's real body.
The man shook his head. A caged bird, no matter how talented, will never soar like an eagle.
To him, combat was the truest form of communication, but Tatsumi's lack of vigilance disappointed him.
Drawing a kunai, the man aimed for Tatsumi's back.
But as the blade struck, Tatsumi's head twisted 180 degrees, a chilling smile spreading across his face.
Genjutsu.
The man disrupted his chakra flow to break the illusion, and Tatsumi's figure vanished.
A kunai tore through the air like a cannonball, its speed ripping a shrill whistle from the wind. It struck the man square in the forehead, passing clean through his skull and embedding into a tree trunk behind him.
A perfect headshot.
Tatsumi smirked, pleased with the precision of his "98K" throw. With a bit more practice, I could rival an Italian cannon.
But his satisfaction faltered as the "headshot" figure dissolved into mud—a clone.
A cold hand clamped onto Tatsumi's shoulder.
His kunai clattered to the ground, fear jolting through him.
"Tatsumi, you've grown stronger," a hoarse voice rasped.
Tatsumi spun around, heart pounding, to face his attacker—Orochimaru.
Orochimaru stood before him, clad in a kimono layered with a jonin vest. The combination was bizarre, but it suited the enigmatic Sannin, Konoha's kimono-wearing "Cold Lord."
Tatsumi forced a smile. "Orochimaru-sama, fancy seeing you. Shouldn't you be busy with… important stuff?"
It had been three years since Tatsumi last saw Orochimaru, during a training session where the Sannin had offered guidance. Though Orochimaru had invited Tatsumi to seek him out anytime, Tatsumi never did.
Now, at nearly twenty, Orochimaru was a far cry from the slightly awkward teen of three years ago. His presence was sharper, more feminine, and his power unfathomable. To Tatsumi, a mere Academy student, Orochimaru was an enigma cloaked in danger.
Why was one of the legendary Sannin seeking him?
Tatsumi recalled Rope Tree's recent gossip—rumors of Orochimaru's return to Konoha amid rising tensions with the Land of Rain.
"Three years, and you've become quite formidable," Orochimaru said, his voice distinctive, laced with a husky allure.
Tatsumi shook his head to banish an errant thought—Nope, I'm definitely straight—and focused. "Just trying to keep up, Orochimaru-sama."
"Come, I only returned to Konoha today," Orochimaru said, patting Tatsumi's shoulder. "Walk with me. Let's talk."
Refusing a Sannin wasn't an option, and Tatsumi couldn't deny the bragging rights—Chatting with Orochimaru, one of the Three Ninjas? That's a story for the ages.
Still, a shiver ran through him. He comes back after years and seeks out a nine-year-old kid? This isn't about… little goldfish, is it?
Orochimaru's penchant for "recruiting" young talent was infamous. Tatsumi pushed the thought away, following Orochimaru as they strolled toward a tavern.
Relief washed over him when they entered the establishment—not a shady hideout, just a place to eat. His stomach growled in approval.
The tavern was dimly lit, nearly deserted, with only a few patrons scattered about. The worn wooden tables and flickering lanterns gave it a nostalgic, rundown charm.
Orochimaru ordered a pot of sake and some side dishes, then glanced at Tatsumi. "Care for a drink?"
"Uh, Orochimaru-sama, I'm still a minor," Tatsumi said, scratching his cheek.
Orochimaru nodded, pouring himself a cup without comment.
"When I was younger, Tsunade, Jiraiya, and I used to drink here," Orochimaru said, his tone wistful. "Tsunade found this place. It's the only shop in Konoha that'd serve alcohol to minors back then."
Tatsumi blinked. "…"
And it's still open? This place must have some serious connections.
Konoha's shops were full of surprises, it seemed.
"I returned this afternoon and learned the old owner passed away recently," Orochimaru continued, taking a sip of sake. "His son runs it now."
Tatsumi nodded, waiting for Orochimaru to go on.
"Everything tangible fades eventually—people, places…" Orochimaru's golden eyes fixed on Tatsumi. "What do you think?"