Chapter 4: "Do You Seek Immortality? I Hid It Within the Great Journey."
"The truth of the world?"
Had Orochimaru heard those words before stepping into the library, he would have laughed them off as the childish arrogance of a pampered daimyō.
But now—standing before endless walls of books, row upon row of scrolls and tomes that seemed to breathe with ancient knowledge—he could not laugh.
The researcher within him, that ravenous scholar who worshiped knowledge as much as he pursued power, could only follow quietly behind Nobunaga, his curiosity alight.
Still, as they walked deeper into the glowing labyrinth of shelves, Orochimaru's golden eyes flickered restlessly, greedily drinking in the sight of so much written wisdom.
At last, he spoke, his tone low and probing.
"What kind of books… are these? And how many—" his voice deepened, "—speak of ninjutsu?"
He tried to sound casual, but the hunger in his voice betrayed him. For all his intellect, Orochimaru's obsession was still the same: forbidden power.
Nobunaga didn't stop walking. His tone was calm—almost condescending.
"Heh. And that," he said lightly, "is why ninja can never move the world forward. You only know how to destroy, not how to build."
He didn't even look back.
Of course Nobunaga understood what Orochimaru truly meant. The snake wasn't after books or philosophy; he wanted jutsu, secrets, techniques that defied death and reason.
When Nobunaga had chosen this second lie—the illusion of a grand library—he had briefly considered filling it with volumes of ninjutsu. But that would have stretched belief too far.
After all, what daimyō, no matter how eccentric, would own a vast archive of shinobi techniques?
It would have been a logical fracture—a lie the world would never believe.
If he had been a Kage, perhaps the illusion would have taken root easily. But as a civilian lord? Impossible.
Still, through careful testing, Nobunaga had learned that even in lies there were loopholes to exploit.
If the lie's core premise was believable, the details within could be shaped with subtle precision.
So when the illusion of the great library had begun to form, Nobunaga had quietly woven a few "anchors" into the tapestry—faint threads of direction.
And now, as he led Orochimaru to the deepest chamber of the library, those threads manifested before them.
A colossal mural, carved into the farthest wall.
The air was heavy with mystery. Even Orochimaru, the man who had dissected both men and monsters, found himself momentarily speechless.
"This is…"
The mural depicted a woman of otherworldly grace, arms spread wide, her forehead adorned with a third eye. Twin horns jutted from her head like crescent blades.
Her gaze was serene—and yet suffocating.
Orochimaru stepped closer, pupils narrowing. His voice trembled—not with fear, but with awe.
"Byakugan…" he murmured.
Those eyes—pale and flawless as moonlight. He knew them. Every shinobi did.
But the third eye…
Rinnegan. And within it—nine tomoe, like a spiral of power older than history itself.
His breath quickened. He could barely contain the thrill of discovery.
"Not the Sage of Six Paths…" he whispered, realization dawning. "The Goddess of the Rabbit—Kaguya Ōtsutsuki."
A slow clap echoed behind him.
"Finally," Nobunaga said, smiling faintly. "A ninja who uses his brain. Not bad—you're not entirely a brute after all."
"Hmmph." Orochimaru straightened, smirking. "I am Orochimaru, after all."
He said it with pride, as if his name alone should explain everything.
But as soon as the words left his mouth, a strange feeling twisted in his chest.
Why… does his praise please me?
For the first time in years, the great serpent felt an emotion he could not immediately name.
Embarrassment? Amusement? Contempt—directed at himself?
His smile faltered. The satisfaction curdled into confusion, then irritation.
Suppressing the muddle of thoughts, Orochimaru schooled his expression back into calm detachment. His eyes, however, never left the mural—the woman whose gaze seemed to pierce through both of them.
Behind him, Nobunaga's voice was soft, but every word struck like a bell in the still air.
"Tell me, Orochimaru," he said, his tone almost tender, "do you seek immortality?"
The snake's eyes glinted.
"Because," Nobunaga continued, turning his gaze to the mural, "I have hidden Her—the secret of eternal life—within the great journey itself."
The words hung between them, heavy with promise and danger, impossible to tell whether they were truth—
or yet another lie, waiting to become real.
Orochimaru's gaze fixed sharply on Nobunaga's face, the slitted pupils gleaming like blades in the dim golden light.
He wanted answers. Real ones.
"The Goddess of the Rabbit," Nobunaga began evenly, "is also known as the Progenitor of Chakra. In the ancient age, there was no chakra in this world—no ninjutsu, no shinobi."
He spoke calmly, almost like a teacher recounting ancient scripture. There was no hesitation, no embellishment. His tone carried the weight of truth—precisely because most of it was true.
He spoke of the Goddess's descent from the heavens…
Of how she brought peace, only to be betrayed by humanity's greed…
Of her two sons—the brothers who would later become the Sage of Six Paths and his kin—who rose against her and sealed her away after a cataclysmic battle.
Everything Nobunaga said aligned seamlessly with what little the shinobi world already whispered about its forgotten past.
He omitted, of course, the darker truths—about the Gedo Statue, about Black Zetsu's manipulation, about Kaguya's true nature. He made no mention of Ashura and Indra's endless reincarnations.
And because his tale was mostly built on reality, the small lies he laced within it—those subtle insertions meant to guide Orochimaru's thoughts—became indistinguishable from truth itself.
At least, until Orochimaru found proof to the contrary.
---
"Immortality?" Orochimaru echoed, his voice dripping with disdain as Nobunaga spoke of how even a goddess could be deceived by the mortal emperor of the ancient Land of Ancestors.
The idea that a divine being had once fallen to human seduction amused him.
But when Nobunaga described how that same emperor, obsessed with the Goddess's eternal life, sought to steal it for himself—and how that greed led to the collapse of his empire and the Goddess's hatred of humankind—Orochimaru fell silent.
He lowered his head, thoughtful.
Logically, the story fit. From a human perspective—especially one steeped in ambition and sin—it made perfect sense.
If he were in that emperor's place…
Would he have chosen any differently?
Love? What was love compared to eternity?
---
"Eternal life… truly possible?" he murmured. "Even the Sage of Six Paths did not live forever."
Orochimaru had long studied the myths surrounding the Sage—believing most of them to be exaggerations or allegory. But here, in this impossible library, before these "records passed down through generations," he could no longer dismiss them as mere fable.
His eyes darted over the towering shelves filled with scrolls. The hunger in his chest burned hotter than ever.
After all, he had seen those eyes—the Rinnegan—reborn in the modern world.
If that was true, then perhaps so too was this.
"It is possible," Nobunaga said softly.
He lowered his eyes, masking the spark of satisfaction within them.
"According to the records," he continued, "the Sage of Six Paths and his younger brother were blessed by all living beings. But when the Goddess sought to destroy humanity, they opposed her. After a long and terrible war that reduced the world to ruin, the younger brother fell."
"The Sage sealed his mother away… at the cost of his brother's life."
Orochimaru's eyes narrowed.
"His brother died?" he said sharply. "But earlier you said the brothers together sealed the Goddess. Now only one survives?"
Nobunaga didn't miss a beat.
"The Rinnegan," he said smoothly, "has the power to bring back the dead."
From a nearby shelf, he pulled a sealed scroll and tossed it lightly toward Orochimaru.
"Perhaps," Nobunaga continued, "the Sage divided his own immortal essence to restore his brother's life. And in doing so, he lost the very thing that made him eternal."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"But had he not done so—had he never shared that immortality—he might still exist, hidden somewhere in this world… just like the Goddess he sealed."
---
Orochimaru caught the scroll. He did not speak.
He studied it carefully, his instincts as a scientist kicking in. He examined the ink, the paper fibers, the style of the handwriting. Then the language itself—archaic, ancient, but undeniably authentic.
The seals were old, the parchment brittle with time. Everything checked out.
When he finally unfurled it, his eyes darted back and forth at blinding speed—absorbing centuries of written history in moments.
His breath quickened.
"This… this is real," he whispered.
For the first time in years, the mask of the Cold Lord cracked. Genuine emotion—wonder, hunger, belief—flickered across his face.
Immortality was no longer an impossible dream.
If a fool of a king once sought to seize it from the Goddess herself, then surely he, Orochimaru—genius of geniuses, serpent among men—could succeed where that king had failed.
But as he scanned through the scroll again, his excitement wavered.
There was one thing missing.
"Where," he demanded suddenly, snapping his gaze to Nobunaga, "was she sealed?!"
In an instant, he blurred forward, the space between them collapsing into nothing.
He stood beside the boy daimyō now, breath cold as poison, his words trembling with anticipation.
"Tell me—where is the Goddess of the Rabbit?"
Nobunaga turned slowly to meet his gaze.
The smile that curved his lips was serene, almost pitying.
"Why," he said softly, "on the moon, of course."
The words landed like a blade wrapped in silk.
And in that instant, Orochimaru realized—too late—that he had stepped neatly into the boy's snare.
---