In the Land of Rice Fields, deep within its mist-veiled valleys and marshes, an immense secret base stood like a slumbering beast. At its heart rose a colossal observatory, an unnatural construct of black stone and steel that loomed over the surrounding wilderness. It seemed less like a man-made building and more like some ancient relic, resurrected from forgotten eras to pierce the heavens with its jagged silhouette.
On the topmost platform of this observatory, Orochimaru stood silently before a towering astronomical instrument, his golden, serpentine eyes reflecting the shifting constellations scattered across the night sky. His pale face, half-veiled in shadow, betrayed none of his usual cruel amusement. Instead, it was painted with an expression rarely seen upon the snake sannin—wariness.
Ever since his most recent meeting with Shimura Danzo, Orochimaru's heart had been stirred by a lingering unease. Danzo, a man he knew well—calculating, ambitious, and insatiably hungry for power—had always possessed a predictable air of ruthlessness. But during that meeting, Orochimaru had sensed something different.
A faint aura. Something insidious, almost imperceptible, coiling within Danzo's spirit.
It had not been ordinary chakra.
No, it was something much more dangerous, something Orochimaru could only describe as foreign consciousness—a hidden current running beneath Danzo's own will.
And Orochimaru, whose life's obsession had led him to explore the darkest depths of the soul, memory, and spiritual energy, had recognized the subtle disturbance immediately.
That aura could only belong to one thing—the Sharingan.
But not just any Sharingan. For even among the Uchiha, such ability was far beyond the norm. To silently manipulate Danzo's thoughts without his awareness, to bend his mind like a reed in the wind while leaving no outward sign—that level of spiritual intrusion was extraordinary.
Orochimaru's pale lips curled slightly.
What kind of Sharingan could accomplish such a feat?
In his mind, fragments of recent events overlapped: the meteors summoned by Uchiha Gen, the strange unrest stirring across the ninja world, and the whispers of Akatsuki's growing power. Slowly, a hypothesis began to form within his sharp, cunning mind.
Even though Uchiha Gen had perished long ago, his influence had not vanished with his death.
His eyes, his chakra, his very consciousness…
They still lingered.
Like the venom of a serpent that continues to spread long after the bite has been delivered, Uchiha Gen's presence seeped into the ninja world, subtly guiding events toward chaos.
What is his goal? Orochimaru wondered, eyes narrowing at the night sky.
To destroy the ninja world?
Or… something far more elaborate?
The silence of the observatory was broken suddenly by a low, rasping voice that crept across the stone like a shadow:
"Orochimaru…"
The word echoed unnaturally, heavy and hollow, as though spoken from the depths of the underworld itself.
Orochimaru's senses sharpened instantly. His body, though still and statuesque, coiled inwardly like a predator prepared to strike. Slowly, he turned his head.
A black figure emerged from the far end of the observatory. The moonlight, spilling through a narrow crevice in the roof, cast its glow across the figure's face—revealing a grotesque spiral-patterned mask.
Its single eyehole glowed with crimson light.
The masked man stepped forward with unhurried composure, his presence oppressive, suffocating.
A humorless smile slid across Orochimaru's lips, though his eyes gleamed with cold calculation.
"Well, well… if it isn't Tobi, from the Akatsuki Organization."
The figure halted. His voice, deep and deliberate, issued from behind the mask:
"Tobi? No. I am not Tobi. I… am Uchiha Madara."
The name struck like a bolt of lightning.
For a brief moment, Orochimaru's confident façade faltered. His golden eyes narrowed, reflecting a flicker of disbelief.
'Uchiha Madara'? He dares claim that name?
That ancient, legendary figure—a man whose power had once shaken the entire shinobi world? Could it truly be?
"That," Orochimaru hissed softly, his smile thinning, "is not a very funny joke."
Even as he spoke, his sleeve erupted in a surge of movement. From the folds of his robe poured a writhing flood of serpents, their gleaming fangs bared as they lunged at the masked intruder like a living tide of venom and scales.
The serpents struck. But instead of tearing into flesh, they passed harmlessly through the man's body, as though he were nothing more than mist.
The masked figure blurred. In an instant, he reappeared at Orochimaru's side, a kunai glinting in his hand, its blade hovering a hair's breadth from Orochimaru's throat.
Orochimaru's smile faded completely. His body tensed, ready to unleash a deadly counterstrike.
But then—
His gaze locked with the crimson glow of the intruder's Sharingan.
For a fleeting heartbeat, Orochimaru froze.
An icy shiver slithered down his spine as a powerful sense of familiarity surged within him. It was the same sensation he had felt during his last encounter with Danzo. That same eerie fluctuation of spiritual energy, invasive and unnatural.
In that moment, Orochimaru's sharp mind pieced it together.
This man—the one who claimed to be Madara—possessed a Sharingan intimately connected to the power influencing Danzo.
Could it be… the same source?
"You…" Orochimaru's voice trembled slightly, uncharacteristically shaken. His usual calm curiosity gave way to unguarded shock. "Who exactly are you?"
For the first time in years, the sannin genuinely wondered if the impossible might be true.
Could this really be Madara Uchiha?
Only someone of Madara's stature, of his overwhelming legacy, could possibly wield such an ability.
And yet, deep within, Orochimaru suspected something stranger—this man, like Danzo, was merely a host to some larger, darker will.
"Uchiha Gen…" Orochimaru thought grimly, "your shadow stretches farther than I imagined."
But the masked man gave no further explanation. His voice was calm, deliberate, and chilling:
"I am Uchiha Madara, Orochimaru. That is all you need to know."
Orochimaru chuckled softly, though his smile was now devoid of humor. He inclined his head with mock respect.
"Is that so… Lord Madara."
His tone dripped with skepticism, but his curiosity only deepened.
"I am very interested, however…" Orochimaru's golden eyes gleamed with serpentine hunger. "What is the ability of your Sharingan? To silently twist the consciousness of another… to plant seeds of influence without their knowledge? Fascinating."
The question was calculated—a test, designed to see if the masked man would betray awareness of Danzo's condition.
The man tilted his head, as if uninterested.
"You should seek that answer yourself, Orochimaru. My purpose here tonight is not to indulge your curiosity."
"Then what is it you want?" Orochimaru pressed, his tone sharpened with suspicion.
The kunai vanished as the masked man straightened, his lone Sharingan gleaming in the moonlight.
"Cooperation."
The word lingered in the air, simple yet heavy.
Orochimaru arched a brow. His tone turned mocking. "And what does the great Madara seek from me?"
"The Edo Tensei Jutsu."
The moment the words left his mouth, Orochimaru's pupils contracted. His interest ignited like a flame.
"Edo Tensei…" Orochimaru repeated softly, his voice dripping with fascination. He knew its potential better than anyone—the power to summon the dead, to bind them to his will, to wield their strength as weapons. Yet he also knew the jutsu's limitations.
"You know as well as I do," Orochimaru said smoothly, "that Edo Tensei requires suitable sacrifices. Without appropriate vessels, even the strongest shinobi cannot be resurrected to their full potential."
The masked man was unshaken. Slowly, he reached into his spatial pocket and produced a pale, humanoid body. He dropped it before Orochimaru with deliberate calm.
"Then, tell me, Orochimaru… will this suffice?"
Orochimaru glanced at it dismissively at first. But as his eyes focused, his demeanor shifted abruptly. His pupils dilated. His expression twisted into one of unrestrained intrigue.
"This is…?"
The pale body, smooth and organic, exuded an aura of immense vitality. It was unlike anything Orochimaru had seen.
"This is a White Zetsu," the masked man explained coolly. "A special artificial being, brimming with life energy and unparalleled chakra adaptability. An ideal vessel for your Edo Tensei."
Orochimaru's breath hitched. He crouched low, pale fingers brushing over the White Zetsu's skin with the tenderness of a lover caressing treasure. The texture, the vitality, the sheer potential—it ignited a feverish hunger in him.
"Magnificent…" Orochimaru whispered. "Such perfection. I have never seen a body quite like this."
He looked up, his gaze burning with intellectual greed. "You have my attention. But I will need time. Time to dissect, to study, to test its compatibility with Edo Tensei."
"Take all the time you need," the masked man replied, voice low and confident. "I have more of these… plenty more."
His Sharingan gleamed with quiet menace.
But then, suddenly, his posture stiffened. His eye narrowed.
"…He's here."
Orochimaru raised a brow. "He?"
The masked man's tone grew sharp.
"Uchiha Itachi."
The name hung in the air like a blade.
Orochimaru's lips parted in a thin smile. His golden eyes flickered with a greed that bordered on madness.
"Itachi…" he whispered, his voice laced with desire.
The hunger for Itachi's body, for his Sharingan, for his genius—it roared alive once more within Orochimaru.
And in the dark observatory of the Land of Rice Fields, the stage was set for another fateful encounter.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)