Chapter 8: The Shadow-Bound Serpent
The frigid green liquid was like billions of venomous insects with barbed hooks, gnawing at every inch of Nara Shikamaru's ravaged body. Every violent twitch, every soul-tearing scream, was accompanied by the agony of new flesh being forcibly grown and fractured bones being crudely fused back together.
This healing process was a hundred times more brutal than being impaled. The horrific scenes from the Corridor of White Bones replayed in his mind—Kimimaro's dead, empty eyes; the ghastly white bone spikes erupting from nothing to tear through space; every frame of himself being pinned and ripped apart like a ragdoll, struggling for his life in a forest of death's thorns. Cold despair and a burning obsession warred with each other in the crucible of his pain.
"Not fast enough... still not fast enough..." his fragmented consciousness drifted in the torturous liquid, the thought branded into his mind. Kimimaro's phantom-like speed, which seemed to ignore the very concept of distance! The terrifying penetrating power of his Dead Bone Pulse, which was faster than the eye could see! In the face of such absolute speed, his vaunted intellect, his control, even the chakra deflection he had just begun to grasp, were all like shields made of paper. He needed speed to match it, to surpass it! He needed... the speed of a shadow!
Shadow... control... the foundation of the Nara clan...
His body convulsed in pain, but his mind, under the extreme stimulation of this chemical hell, was forced into a bizarre state. His senses were magnified to an impossible degree. He could "hear" the whisper-soft pop of bubbles in the liquid, "see" the strange Brownian motion of the molecules under the green light, "feel" the cold, rough texture of the bottom of the vat... and he could perceive the ever-present, viscous, flowing... darkness, distorted by the liquid around him.
Was that the essence of shadow? No, it was more than just a projected silhouette. In his heightened state, the darkness trapped at the bottom of the vat seemed to have its own "pulse." A faint, cold thrumming that resonated with his own Nara clan chakra. It wasn't a dead thing. It was like a patch of imprisoned, liquid night that yearned to flow.
An idea, so insane it was born of pure desperation, struck him like a bolt of lightning through the chaos of his pain: What if... the shadow isn't just something to be controlled? What if... the shadow could be a vessel? An extension? What if... it could become me?!
The fragmented knowledge of energy states and wave-particle duality from his past life, fused with the deep understanding of Yin-natured chakra passed down through generations of the Nara clan, was now forcibly forged together by agony and despair.
"Aaaaaaargh—!!!"
A scream, more harrowing and inhuman than any before, tore from the depths of his throat. This was no longer just physical pain. This was the agony of the soul itself being ripped apart, dissolved, and recast in a cold, viscous, alien fluid. He felt the very boundaries of his existence begin to blur and melt away. The mountain of physical pain seemed to fade, replaced by the terror of his consciousness being assimilated, annihilated by the encroaching darkness.
Just as his mind was about to be completely submerged in that cold abyss—
VMMMM!
An unprecedented pulse—cold, smooth, and fluid—suddenly fed back from the shadow at the bottom of the vat, following the path of his will. It was like a drop of ink falling into water of the same source, instantly merging, becoming one and the same.
Did it work?!
No. That was just a momentary connection. The chasm between that and truly merging with and commanding the shadow was still immense.
The agony of the liquid began to recede, but the feeling of being mentally torn apart remained. Two Sound-nin roughly dragged him from the vat and tossed him like a bag of trash onto the cold, hard floor.
"Continue," Kimimaro's cold, raspy voice sounded on schedule, like a death knell.
Shikamaru struggled to lift his head, his vision blurry. This time, Kimimaro didn't even give him time to stand. He simply raised his hand.
"Shikotsumyaku: Dance of the Willow."
With no great fanfare, dozens of white bone spikes, long and thin and curved like willow branches but with needle-sharp tips, sprouted silently from all over Kimimaro's body. They weren't rigid, but moved like living tentacles. With a casual wave of his hand, they became a storm of white death, a chaotic, silent, and unpredictable flurry that covered half the training ground, striking like dozens of vipers from the shadows.
A lethal sense of crisis made the hair all over Shikamaru's body stand on end. His brain screamed in protest. Can't dodge! No matter which way I move, at least three of them will pierce me! His body was too injured, his reactions too slow to keep up with this silent storm of death.
Is this it?!
No! That cold, viscous "pulse" of the shadow suddenly became terrifyingly clear in his mind. It was right beneath him, in the deep shadow his own body cast on the floor. No time to think, no time to hesitate. Every last scrap of his will, his remaining chakra, and the insane idea born in the chemical hell, were all gambled in a single, desperate, all-or-nothing instant—poured directly into the shadow at his feet.
Merge! Assimilate! Drive!
"Shadow Release: Slithering Serpent Technique!"
In the exact moment the first white bone spike was about to pierce his forehead—
Shikamaru's body vanished. It was as if an invisible giant hand had slammed him down into the deep shadow at his feet. There was no afterimage, no trail of movement. His body lost its solid form, melting into a blurry, distorted, flowing darkness, darker than night itself. Like a startled snake, it clung to the cold floor, moving at a speed several times greater than his physical limit, "flowing" with an eerie grace between the bone spikes that shot past.
Thk-thk-thk!
Several bone spikes stabbed deep into the spot where he had just been.
"What?!" For the first time, a look of clear, discernible astonishment appeared on Kimimaro's pale face. He had seen it. That was no Body Flicker technique. The Nara brat's body had literally seemed to melt into its own shadow.
Ten meters away, Shikamaru's form "rose" from a patch of shadow, re-solidifying. The moment he appeared, a wave of intense vertigo and the feeling of being torn apart washed over him. He had drained every last drop of his energy. His chakra was completely gone. His legs buckled, and he nearly collapsed. The wounds all over his body, forced open by the extreme exertion, began bleeding freely again.
But he stayed on his feet. He forced his swaying body to stand, a light burning in his eyes, exhausted but brighter than ever before. He had done it.
A twisted smile, a mixture of agony and pure exhilaration, spread across his blood-stained face as he locked eyes with Kimimaro's stunned expression.
"Did you see that...? Cough... Is this... fast enough?" he gasped, every word laced with the taste of blood, yet filled with the defiant, ecstatic thrill of a man reborn through fire.
The shock in Kimimaro's eyes quickly receded, replaced by a deep, cold stillness. But this time, beneath the calm, something new was churning. Was it... battle spirit? He lowered his hand, and the bone spikes retracted into his body. He took a single step forward.
And in that instant—
Shhh-shhh-shhh!
Three bone bullets, even faster and more condensed than before, shot out from his fingertips in a triangular pattern, sealing off all of Shikamaru's escape routes.
Shikamaru's pupils contracted. He was in no condition to use his new jutsu again. Death was upon him once more.
No! There's a chance! Just as the bullets were about to hit, Shikamaru stomped his right foot back. The shadow at his feet rippled like the surface of a pond. He wasn't trying to block. He poured the last, infinitesimal wisp of his will and chakra into the long shadow his body cast on the wall behind him.
Merge! Teleport!
"Shadow Release: Shadow Step!"
Shikamaru's figure vanished from the spot. Almost simultaneously, he emerged like a ghost from the long shadow on the wall five meters behind him, neatly avoiding the trajectory of the three deadly projectiles.
Thump-thump-thump! The bone bullets embedded themselves in the ground where he had been standing.
"Ghh!" Forcibly activating a second, more precise shadow technique sent a jolt of pain through his head, as if his brain had been pierced by countless red-hot needles. His vision went black. He dropped to one knee, barely propping himself up. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth.
But he had done it. He had once again escaped a killing blow.
The training ground was dead silent, save for Shikamaru's ragged, broken gasps.
Kimimaro didn't attack again. He slowly turned, his empty eyes scanning the boy kneeling in a pool of his own blood, body trembling but head still held high, a mad fire still burning in his eyes. The gaze was no longer just indifferent. It was now filled with cold scrutiny, inquiry, and a gravity that came from being truly, deeply shaken.
In the depths of the laboratory, in a dark area bathed in green light, Orochimaru had appeared at some point, standing silently at the edge of the shadows. In his pale, slender fingers, he toyed with a crystal sphere that had just finished recording. Within it, the images of Shikamaru melting into shadow to dodge the attacks played on a loop.
His long, golden, slitted pupils, like those of a serpent that had just discovered a priceless treasure, glinted with an unconcealed, greedy excitement. The corners of his lips curled into a smile of pure pleasure, one that promised endless danger.
"What a... delightful evolution, little Nara brat," Orochimaru's low, husky voice slithered through the silent laboratory. "The Shadow-Bound Serpent... has it finally begun to shed its skin? It seems the potential of this 'vessel'... is far more interesting than I imagined."
He narrowed his golden eyes, his tongue slowly flicking across his thin, bloodless lips, as if savoring an unexpectedly delicious delicacy. His gaze pierced the gloom, locking onto the struggling figure in the training ground, as if he were a brand new, endlessly fascinating experiment.