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("Back to a time before the Academy.")
A/N: This takes place before Orochimaru enrolled in the academy, meaning he had already crossed paths with Jiraiya and formed a peculiar bond of friendship.
At just six years old, Orochimaru was already shaping his destiny. There were no childish games, no mindless running around. His days revolved around relentless training, driven by a singular focus: to master the template of Tsunade.
After all, he was Orochimaru—a genius, even if from a civilian shinobi background. Compared to anyone his age, he was in a league of his own. Tsunade? Despite her Senju name and the massive chakra reserves she inherited from her clan, she couldn't hold a candle to his raw talent. Chakra control? Sure, she had it. But that rare spark of brilliance, that fire only true prodigies possess, was missing. Orochimaru carried it in abundance.
Born to two shinobi, his chakra reserves were already remarkable for a child. Yet he never rested on that advantage. Every spare moment was a chance to delve deeper, to absorb the knowledge and techniques left behind by his late parents. A scroll, a scribbled note—nothing was overlooked. Everything was potential power.
His daily routine was simple but rigorous: rise at dawn, make his way to a secluded grove far from the prying eyes of the village, and immerse himself in repetition. Not simply learning—but relearning—every technique that Tsunade would eventually create. Superhuman strength, chakra scalpel, Heavenly Foot of Pain, Creation Rebirth, Strength of a Hundred Seal, slug summoning—all of it was being coded into his mind like lines of programming.
"Again..." he muttered under his breath, adjusting the chakra flow in his small hands.
POF! A captured rabbit twitched beneath his palm. Without haste, he activated the chakra scalpel, slicing through muscle and ligaments with surgical precision, his sharp eyes noting every reaction, adjusting his chakra, refining the process. Mistakes were not tolerated.
If Tsunade saw how he mastered in mere months what took her nearly two decades to learn, she'd likely choke on her pride. The knowledge she gained through sweat, persistence, and hardship came to Orochimaru almost effortlessly.
"Simple," he whispered, activating Creation Rebirth on another animal he'd caught. Watching as the tissue mended itself, the life returning to the creature.
Elemental ninjutsu? Tsunade had always struggled with that. Her focus remained practical—chakra-enhanced fists, Senju taijutsu. Straightforward, effective, but limited.
Orochimaru? He refused limitations. What others saw as the ceiling, he saw as the floor. Each training session was a leap forward, every mistake a catalyst for growth. And he knew this was just the beginning. Mastering these techniques was paving the way toward something far greater—a total dominion over his body and, eventually, over life and death itself.
The sky turned orange, bathing the grove in golden twilight. Another intense day of training was ending, and Orochimaru, sensing he was nearing the completion of Tsunade's template, knew it was time to plan his next move.
Minato Namikaze.
Unborn, but already a name engraved into his destiny. The next template to conquer. Speed, mastery over space-time—it would all be his. The Flying Thunder God Technique wasn't just a jutsu; it was a philosophy. Commanding time, nullifying distance. Supremacy.
He closed his eyes, feeling his chakra shift, as if his body was already preparing to house this new power. But before diving into Minato's template, a spark of inspiration struck him.
"Hmmm..." Orochimaru let out a sly smile. "It would be perfect to gift Tsunade something unexpected."
The Form Transformation Jutsu. A technique without hand seals, relying purely on absolute chakra control—manipulating density, rotation, and form. On paper, simple. In practice, intricate. But for Tsunade, with her refined chakra control, it would be a treasure.
He envisioned the moment—the gleam in her eyes when she'd learn to shape chakra that way. And then the final touch.
"I named this technique Rasengan," he'd say with that perfectly measured tone, "thinking of you... and your grandmother's Uzumaki clan."
He couldn't help but chuckle softly at the thought. Just imagining Tsunade's reaction—her cheeks flushing, perhaps even a flicker of doubt—was almost too delightful. His words would be bait, line, and sinker.
The name "Rasengan"—"Spiraling Sphere." It embodied the Uzumaki clan's essence—the spiral, symbolizing the eternal dance between love and hatred, a never-ending cycle. A poisoned gift. Tsunade would never be sure whether to feel gratitude or suspicion. The jutsu itself reflected Uzumaki philosophy: the circle of life, ever-turning, the centrifugal and centripetal forces of all human emotions.
But why this focus on Tsunade? The answer was clear: political influence.
"Yes..." he whispered, his golden eyes gleaming. "This time, I will be Hokage. And Tsunade will bear my child."
With her by his side, legitimizing his path, the weight of the Senju name would unlock doors that might otherwise remain barred. Orochimaru wasn't just a tactician on the battlefield; he was a master architect of futures. He knew that, in time, forging the right alliances would smooth his ascent.
He allowed himself a moment to imagine the political ripple of such a union. The ever-cautious village elders wouldn't dare oppose the symbolic force of a Hokage from outside the main clans, joined with Senju blood. His legitimacy would be undeniable.
"The game is just beginning..." he murmured, turning his gaze skyward as the encroaching night unveiled stars like distant promises.
And with that, his mind circled back to Minato's template. The next step. The next power to seize. The Rasengan was merely the first stroke in a much larger design.
Settling beneath a tree, feeling the cool breeze of the incoming night, Orochimaru began meditating on the technique. The concept of the spiraling sphere was elegant, formidable, yet straightforward. It was the perfect marriage of force and control.
"A technique without hand seals, relying solely on chakra manipulation..." he muttered, eyes closed, feeling the chakra spiral within his palms. "Yes, something worthy of Tsunade."
He pictured the chakra spinning, condensing into a devastating force, needing no external aids. A compact whirlwind, pure, capable of piercing and obliterating. A reflection of the Uzumaki clan, but also a constant reminder of what he could create.
"And this is only the beginning..." he whispered.
Nightfall swallowed the forest, and even at such a young age, Orochimaru was already a predator in wait, calculating and moving the pieces of his grand design with surgical precision. The future belonged to him. And he knew it.