A sharp blend of roasted meat, rich alcohol, and clean mountain air hit Ryo the moment he stepped across the boundary into Kumogakure.
Strangely enough, walking into this so-called "cloud fortress" felt easier than returning to Konoha. The irony wasn't lost on him. While Konoha was still limping from war wounds, Kumo had turned its terrain and specialty exports into gold. Wealth clung to every stone, every shout in the street.
Ryo looked up.
The entire village was built into the side of a steep mountain, tiered structures stacked along narrow ridges like a fortress grown out of rock. Stone buildings gleamed coldly in the sun, exuding raw, deliberate power.
The streets were alive. Merchants with varied accents laughed over drinks. Porters hauled crates through tight alleys. Kumo's prized exports, high-mountain beef and strong liquor kept purses open across the shinobi world. The place was war-ready, sure, but the commercial front was impossible to miss.
Everyone here walked tall. Twice, the shinobi world had carved chunks out of Konoha's strength. But these Kumo folk? Muscle-bound, cocky, and thick-necked, they strolled the streets like they owned them. That energy? Ryo didn't hate it.
He stopped at a street stall, grabbed a wide-brimmed traveler's hat, and pulled it low over his eyes. A quick Transformation Jutsu followed, a poof of smoke and his features shifted. Softer lines, tougher skin, clothes downgraded to rough traveling gear. A generic gold-seeker from the borderlands. It wasn't flawless, but it would fool the guards.
Hat low, posture loose, Ryo merged into the crowd.
Stone slabs clacked beneath his boots. Weapon shops glittered to one side. Butchers swung cleavers beside beef legs larger than most men. Liquor vendors sold drinks that smelled like they could peel paint off walls. Kumo's average villager easily dwarfed Konoha shinobi. Surrounded by walking biceps, even Ryo's disguised "miner" figure felt wiry.
He snorted internally. Exports: highland beef, liquor barrels, and steroid bros.
One man passed carrying half a cow on his shoulder like a backpack. Ryo muttered under his breath, "If this world had bodybuilding competitions, Kumo would sweep gold every year."
His stomach growled.
If he was here, might as well sample the local flavor. He followed the strongest scent trail into a bustling tavern. Inside, chaos reigned. Shirtless men slammed down tankards. Skewers crackled over flame. Spit flew. Laughter rumbled loud enough to shake the walls.
"Boss! One beef shank, extra crisp on the outside!" Ryo shouted as he slid into a bench by the wall, taking in the air like a man coming off a fast.
"Got it!" came the booming reply. A hulking chef swung his cleaver into a slab of roasted meat bigger than Ryo. With one brutal chop, a caramelized shank thudded onto a wooden tray and landed in front of him.
It was massive. But the scent of pine-smoke, charred fat, and secret marinade made his mouth water.
Ryo wasted no time. He tore into the shank. Fat burst on contact, rich and addictive. The meat practically dissolved. He grabbed the nearest bottle of local barley liquor and knocked it back. The spicy kick hit hard and fast, opening every pore in his body.
"Ahhh. That hit different," he muttered.
Around him, the chaos grew louder. He kept chewing, but his ears never stopped working.
"Did you hear? The Land of Rain's going crazy. Leaf, Suna, Iwa, even that so-called 'demigod' Hanzo showed up."
"demigod? He's half-baked! They stir up mess in neutral zones 'cause they wouldn't last ten minutes facing Kumo."
"And don't forget. The Third Raikage's backing us! Strongest shinobi alive!"
More laughter. Thick with pride. Kumo arrogance was overflowing. They'd grown fat on peace, rich on trade, and high on their own strength. That kind of mindset? Ryo smiled. The more arrogant they got, the more cracks they left.
After polishing off the shank and wiping grease from his fingers, Ryo stepped back onto the street. He played the wide-eyed tourist, slowly exploring the inner districts. Stone carvings marked ancient clan lines. Steep paths curved around waterfalls. Towering above all, a massive statue of Raijin loomed like a guardian deity.
He grabbed some dried meat, a few bottles of liquor, and a carved wooden souvenir etched with a thunder motif. Cheap stuff. But the perfect props for a "rich outsider." Stuffed wallet.
By the canyon falls, a faint pulse ticked across his senses.
Flying Thunder God seal.
Orochimaru had arrived.
Ryo didn't approach. Instead, he swept the area passively with sensory technique. The seal buzzed faintly from behind a pile of discarded building debris. Orochimaru's chakra lingered. Cold. Tense. Coiled like a snake waiting to strike.
"…After the mission, you'll leave Kumo and return to Konoha. Your infiltration ends," Orochimaru's voice cut through faintly.
"Yes, Orochimaru-sama!" the spy answered, trembling like someone who'd survived execution. Used and discarded, but still breathing.
"Go," Orochimaru said, shooing him like a fly.
The house fell quiet.
Ryo kept walking, hands behind his back, wooden carving spinning lazily in one palm. His gaze brushed past a weather-worn door hidden in the shadows.
He didn't linger. Orochimaru hadn't noticed him, and Ryo's Flying Thunder God seal was already embedded. Even if Orochimaru slithered to the far corners of the earth, Ryo could follow. Unless he unlocked real immortality, there was no escape.
The days passed.
Ryo stuck to his act. Tourist. Rich. Curious. He mapped out open routes, guard rotations, blind spots, and explosive points of opportunity. His mental map grew more detailed with each lap.
Orochimaru moved differently.
He had taken over a run-down meat shop near the outskirts. The air stank faintly of medicine. The original owner was likely dead. Orochimaru played the role of a mute street chef. Just skilled enough to avoid suspicion. But the plan was clear—he'd use the restaurant as his base to strike the Eight-Tails' jinchūriki.
Kill the host. Trigger panic. Leave enough evidence to blame Iwa. Whether Iwa did it or not didn't matter. Kumo would explode, and Orochimaru would vanish in the smoke.
The target this time wasn't a Killer B-type genius. The host was weak. Ostracized. Mentally unstable. A perfect puppet for Orochimaru's twisted games.
Five days passed. No movement.
Then, at twilight on the fifth day, everything snapped.
Ryo's sensory net exploded.
A tidal wave of violent chakra burst into being. Hot. Wild. Twisted. The source: directly behind Orochimaru's shop.
"He's already started?!"
A scream echoed across the village. Inhuman. Agonized. Drenched in hatred.
A column of dark red chakra spiraled into the sky. Lava-like, pulsing with raw destruction. At the center, a vague human silhouette distorted as chakra wrapped around it like living armor.
A tailed beast cloak.
"RRAAAAAGHH!!"
A second roar followed. Deeper. Full bestial.
"Fukai! Get a hold of yourself!"
"Sound the alarm! Jinchūriki's lost control!"
Kumo's hidden ANBU units erupted into motion. One fired a flare.
Thump. Pop.
A blood-red signal lit the sky like a warning sun, blooming high above the village.
Ryo's gaze narrowed.
Inside the chaos, shinobi paused, looked up, then froze.
"That flare—"
"Top alert?! That's… near the Jinchūriki's zone!"
"That chakra… that's the Eight-Tails!"
"Mobilize! All Jōnin, move now!"
Panic spread like fire.
Merchants bolted. Civilians screamed. Shinobi burst from every alley, chakra signatures lighting up like stars across the skyline.
The tailed beast cloak trembled.
Then exploded.
A massive silhouette formed in the smoke. Bull horns. Tentacle tails. The Eight-Tails' monstrous frame towered over the rooftops. Pure chakra flooded outward like a tidal wave.
"RRROOOOAAARR!! DIEEE!!"
The ground cracked. Ten buildings shattered. Shockwaves tore through the lower blocks. Stone chunks rained like meteors. Kumogakure plunged into chaos.
And inside a tiny, soot-stained restaurant tucked near the epicenter…
"Heh… heh… heh…"
Orochimaru set down a greasy rag.
His "chef" face remained blank, but those golden snake eyes glittered with delight. On the counter lay a scroll tucked beneath an apron. Beside it, a fingertip-sized vial shimmered with faint purple light.
Clear. Odorless. The trigger for this mess.
Then—
"Nice job, Orochimaru."
A calm voice rang behind him.
Orochimaru froze.
Every nerve tensed. His snake-like instincts screamed. That voice wasn't just familiar. It was loaded.
He turned slowly.
"Ryo-kun… popping in like that could give someone a heart attack."
Ryo raised an eyebrow. "That so? I thought your nerves were already coiled tighter than a viper's jaw."
Then—
CRACK.
(To be continued.)