Uchiha Gen.
That name lingered in Orochimaru's mind like a venom he could not purge.
For him, this mysterious Uchiha was no longer just a curiosity, but an obsession. The information he had collected on the Sharingan was vast, yet shallow. He understood its basic forms, its three tomoe, its copying ability. He knew of the Mangekyō, its rumored powers—Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi, Susanoo. But knowledge of its true depths was scarce, fragmented, and elusive.
That was why he had tested Uchiha Itachi earlier. Not out of hatred. Not even to kill him. But to provoke a response, to glimpse the forbidden light of those eyes.
Itachi's counterattack had been merciful—just a warning, a reminder of who stood at the pinnacle. Yet even that brief encounter confirmed Orochimaru's suspicion.
There was more. Much more.
Orochimaru's thoughts coiled like serpents. The sudden split between the Masked Man and Akatsuki… Danzo's increasing arrogance… patterns were forming.
It all pointed back to Uchiha Gen.
His Mangekyō Sharingan must hold a hidden power… something beyond destruction. A power that corrupts thought itself. A mental plague… a curse that spreads like a virus.
The scientist in him thrilled at the idea. If the Masked Man were to deliver Uchiha Sasuke here, then Orochimaru could observe firsthand. Would Sasuke's eyes resist the infection? Or would they fall under that same subtle corruption?
The possibilities were endless.
He recalled the whispers from both Itachi and the Masked Man—that Uchiha Gen's Mangekyō seemed tied to concepts like dialogue and wishes. If true, then it was not merely genjutsu, but a rewriting of one's inner world.
It reminded him of Uchiha Shisui's legendary Kotoamatsukami, a genjutsu said to bend wills without awareness. Yet where Shisui's ability was hailed as gentle, a subtle persuasion, Gen's power felt darker. Aggressive. Infectious.
More dangerous.
The thought made his blood run cold—and hot with anticipation.
Before he could sink deeper into his speculation, the air behind him warped. Space itself twisted, and the Masked Man—Obito—stepped out silently.
"Orochimaru."
The voice was low, cold, and carried no warmth.
Orochimaru masked his brief surprise. So fast… He hadn't sensed Obito's approach until the last instant. That space-time ninjutsu was truly formidable.
He bowed his head slightly. "Lord Madara. You've worked hard."
Obito said nothing more. With a flick of his wrist, several scrolls landed heavily at Orochimaru's feet.
"These are the corpses you requested. Gathered from across the Ninja World. I will proceed to bring Uchiha Sasuke here."
Golden eyes gleamed. Orochimaru lowered his gaze, his voice smooth as silk. "You have my gratitude, Lord Madara."
Obito gave a curt nod. Through the single eyehole of his mask, his gaze remained fixed and unyielding. "Do not disappoint me."
"You may rest assured," Orochimaru hissed softly, bowing once again. "Everything will proceed as planned."
Obito did not linger. The air distorted once more, and his figure melted back into the void, gone as swiftly as he had come.
Silence returned.
Only then did Orochimaru stoop to gather the scrolls. His fingers lingered on them, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere.
Slowly, he reached into his robes and drew out another scroll, this one sealed with layers of complex markings. A scroll he had never shown Obito.
Within it rested his most ambitious prize yet—Senju Tobirama, the Second Hokage.
He had not told Obito of this plan. Even though he suspected both Obito and Danzo were not fully controlled by Uchiha Gen's will, caution demanded secrecy. His true ambitions could not be revealed prematurely.
His goal was simple, yet monumental.
Revive Tobirama.
Bring him back to Konoha.
With his prestige, his genius, his ruthless decisiveness, Tobirama could restore order. He was the one man who could both command respect and unify Konoha against the looming planetary catastrophe.
Hashirama had power, yes, but his benevolence made him unfit to lead in an age of crisis.
Tobirama, on the other hand… pragmatic, ruthless, unflinching. He could do what others could not.
Orochimaru's lips curled.
Only Tobirama could save the Ninja World.
Only Tobirama could understand him.
Perhaps, Orochimaru mused, in Tobirama he would find the one kindred spirit who could truly grasp the depth of his vision.
"I go to such lengths… to save Konoha, to save the world… Sarutobi-sensei, you never understood me," Orochimaru whispered into the shadows.
---
Elsewhere, outside Konoha.
In the dense Death Forest, where shadows were long and the air damp with the scent of moss and earth, Hatake Kakashi stood by a rushing stream.
His gaze was sharp, focused. The crimson Sharingan in his left eye glimmered faintly beneath his hitai-ate.
He had trained relentlessly these past days, experimenting, pushing boundaries. The deeper his understanding of the Sharingan, the more inspiration flowed into him. Techniques, tactics, new possibilities—each came to him like sparks in the dark.
Closing his eye, he breathed deeply. Then, with a flash, his hands formed seals.
The waterfall surged. The current exploded upward, bending unnaturally under his command.
"Water Release: Raining Mist."
His voice was low, steady.
At once, the torrent dissolved into a storm of droplets, scattering into the air. Within moments, a dense fog spread, swallowing the forest in white haze.
Kakashi narrowed his eyes, Sharingan spinning. Through the mist, he could trace every thread of chakra, every shift in the currents.
Another flurry of seals. His expression hardened.
"Water Release: Freezing!"
The temperature plummeted. Mist hardened into frost, coating branches, leaves, and stones in a glimmering sheet of ice. The forest seemed to exhale a brittle, crystalline breath.
Kakashi drew several kunai, hurling them into the air. But before they reached their targets, frost encased them mid-flight, dragging them down with a crisp, shattering sound.
He exhaled, satisfaction flickering across his face. These jutsu were crude, new-born, but their potential was immense.
He had expected to refine his Lightning Release, to perfect Chidori and its variants. Yet the Sharingan's clarity had driven him instead toward Water Release. And the results were startling.
So this is what it means… to wield the Sharingan freely.
Mist that blinded foes, ice that shackled movement. Together, they formed a seamless web of offense and defense.
He thought of his father.
The White Fang. Sakumo Hatake.
The image rose unbidden—his father's blade, gleaming in battle, merciless yet honorable. Kakashi's grip tightened around the short sword at his side.
Slowly, he drew it. The blade gleamed, catching the reflection of mist and frost.
He crouched, body low, then launched forward.
Each slash of his blade drew the mist tighter, weaving water vapor around steel. His movements were swift, fluid, precise—every strike aimed for a vital point, every feint masked by haze.
Blade and ninjutsu blended seamlessly. The sword cut through water and fog, turning both into extensions of its edge.
Kakashi vanished and reappeared within the mist, his form elusive, a phantom with steel fangs. His strikes were sudden, merciless, yet beautiful in their precision.
In that moment, he was no longer simply Kakashi of the Sharingan. He was Sakumo's heir. The White Fang reborn.
---
From the shadows, another presence watched.
Obito.
He had come to seize Sasuke, yet found himself pausing, hidden among the trees.
Before him, Kakashi danced with his blade, his aura sharp, his Sharingan glowing in the mist.
For the first time in years, Obito was silent.
Watching.
Remembering.
The boy he had once called friend… had become something else entirely.
---
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)