The massive serpent coiled atop the glittering gold dunes, and even the Fourth Kazekage's expression turned grim.
Orochimaru. That man was not an opponent to be taken lightly.
Since the Second Great Ninja War, his name had spread like wildfire across the nations. The prized disciple of the Third Hokage, one of the legendary Sannin who had even been acknowledged by Hanzō of the Salamander—the "Half-God" of the Rain. His reputation struck fear throughout the shinobi world.
When Orochimaru's name first echoed across the lands, Rasa had still been a mere soldier, far from his own title of Kazekage. Even now, with the weight of that title on his shoulders, he couldn't confidently say he could defeat such a man.
But this time, retreat was not an option.
Rasa's eyes sharpened, both hands spreading wide. The gold dust beneath him surged like a living sea, rising high into the sky and twisting into a dozen monstrous claws that came crashing toward Orochimaru.
"Then I'll go… rest in the back for a bit. Good luck, Lord Orochimaru!"
Fugaku waved cheerfully, already jumping off the serpent's head. His feet barely touched the ground before he bolted in the opposite direction, leaving only dust behind.
Orochimaru didn't even glance at him, nor did he seem bothered by the man's abrupt escape. He simply smiled, watching the tide of gold approach. That smile was cold, cruel, and faintly amused.
The golden claws came down like mountains, slamming into the giant serpent and encasing it completely. Rasa clenched both fists. The gold constricted.
A scream of pure agony tore through the desert. The serpent's body writhed as blood sprayed from its eyes and jaws, splattering hot across the golden sands, staining the dunes with red. Then the massive creature sagged, lifeless, and dissolved into smoke.
Even that monstrous body had been crushed.
And yet, from the splattered blood rose a figure, drenched in crimson. Orochimaru stepped through the gore with a slow, deliberate grace. His pale skin gleamed beneath the blood, his long hair plastered to his face, and in those slit golden eyes glimmered a cold, serpentine malice.
He had survived—by hiding within the snake's mouth.
"What a vile, persistent creature," Rasa muttered, his brows furrowing. "Disgusting and dangerous."
Without pause, he raised his arms again, commanding the gold dust to strike.
But this time, Orochimaru didn't stand still. He moved.
And when he moved, he didn't look human. His speed was unnatural, his body weaving and twisting like a serpent slithering across the sand. His form blurred, unpredictable, almost impossible to pin down.
"Hidden Shadow Snake Hands!"
Dozens of serpents burst from Orochimaru's sleeves, fangs bared, hissing as they lunged toward the Kazekage.
Rasa didn't underestimate them. The triangular heads, the glinting fangs—he knew poison when he saw it. No puppet master of Sunagakure could afford not to.
He conjured a golden shield before him, blocking their path, but the snakes weren't weapons—they were alive. They coiled and twisted, slithering around the edge of the barrier to strike from the side.
Rasa reacted instantly. His shield liquefied into a golden blade, and with a single sweeping motion, he sliced through the incoming serpents. Their bodies hit the ground, crushed under his next wave of sand.
He exhaled once. Too soon.
Because in that same instant, Orochimaru was already closer.
Rasa turned, hands flashing through signs. Golden shuriken formed behind him, hundreds of them, whirling into a storm. They shot forward like a cloud of locusts, while behind Orochimaru a massive wall of gold surged upward, sealing off every escape.
A perfect pincer attack—blades from the front, a golden tsunami from behind. If Orochimaru didn't dodge, he would be reduced to shreds.
But Orochimaru had never been the kind of man to take the normal route.
He spun, forming seals, and exhaled. "Wind Style, Vacuum Sphere!"
A wave of compressed air burst from his mouth—not powerful enough to harm the sand behind him, but just enough to propel his body forward. Using the jutsu's recoil, he launched himself straight toward Rasa.
Then the shuriken tore into him.
The golden blades pierced his body again and again, until what was left looked like a blood-soaked ragdoll collapsing to the ground.
Rasa didn't relax. He knew better. The Sannin wouldn't die so easily.
And sure enough, the pile of flesh on the ground began to twitch.
Then came the sound—the wet, grotesque sound of something being peeled open.
Orochimaru's mouth stretched wider… and wider… and wider.
Like a bag being torn apart, it unhinged far beyond what any human jaw should manage. Two pale hands emerged from within, gripping the upper and lower lips, forcing them open like a door.
And from that dark, slimy abyss, a second Orochimaru crawled out, dripping in thick, sticky mucus that glistened under the sun.
It was like watching a nightmare give birth to itself.
Rasa's eyelid twitched violently. That glistening substance—whatever it was—slid down the man's neck and chest in slow, disgusting trails.
"This bastard," he muttered, his expression tightening. "He didn't come here to fight. He came here to make me sick."
From the dunes in the distance, Akimichi Chōza lowered his binoculars with a look of horror. "I… I think I just found the ultimate diet aid."
Beside him, Fugaku put down his ration pill with a blank face. "Yeah. I don't think I can eat again today."
Utterly unaware—or uncaring—of the chaos he caused, Orochimaru tilted his head, opening his mouth again. A snake slithered out, its scales glistening, and from the serpent's throat protruded the hilt of a sword.
The handle was slick with mucus, the smell sharp and acidic, like stomach bile.
But Orochimaru grasped it without hesitation, pulling the blade free in one smooth motion. The sword gleamed, razor-sharp, the leftover slime flinging off with a single flick of his wrist.
He stood tall, composed and smiling faintly, the image of elegance and madness intertwined.
Then, without a trace of shame, he tilted his head back—and slurped the snake back into his mouth.
Yes. He literally swallowed it whole again.
A wave of collective nausea rippled across the battlefield.
From that day on, dozens of Konoha shinobi quietly swore they'd never eat noodles again.
Orochimaru, it seemed, had decided to make "disgusting" his true weapon.
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