June 4, 1 bNb
.
As Orochimaru and he made their way through the cave, the remaining serpents of Ryūchi Cave offered their assent.
Manda, Aoda, or any other snake of comparable size to Garaga refused to make their presence known, a fact which did not surprise Izuma much.
Orochimaru had mentioned he would have to gain the approval of the so-called 'great snakes' individually. So, although he had Garaga's acknowledgment, if he ever wished to call upon another snake who could rival the might of Red Snake, he would have to do it the hard way.
That was fine, for the moment, Garaga was enough. Not to mention, something Orochimaru had said sparked an idea within Izuma, should he ever face an opponent who outclassed him.
Izuma glanced to the right, where a herd of eyes, amber in colour, blinked from fissures and vaulted openings of side-tunnels. Hissing noises filled the air in a low susurrus.
As he passed, the snakes gave contemptuous, yet somewhat fearful looks to Orochimaru, whilst opting for confused, and dare he say, happy looks toward himself.
Izuma could hazard a guess based on some of the information Orochimaru deemed him fit to learn only after he successfully gained the approval of Garaga, much to his chagrin.
The emotion in the gazes directed toward him was because of Garaga.
The Red Snake was renowned as one of the apex predators of Ryūchi Cave. The story, however, did not end there. Garaga's attitude toward all was far more conspicuous in comparison to any of the other true hegemons of this place.
Even a being such as Manda, who in the current Shinobi world had become synonymous with killing, was relatively inconspicuous in its endeavors in Ryūchi Cave. It remained in its own separate abode, and rarely clashed with other serpents, unless a young upstart snake sought out the Snake Sannin's personal summon themselves, hoping to prove their competency in battle.
Garaga, however, was not of such mind. No, rather, Garaga took great pleasure in terrorizing all inhabitants of Ryūchi Cave. Be it a timid mid-tier serpent, one who would cower before Garaga, a great snake like Manda, or even a human such as Orochimaru, Garaga would hunt them all down.
Consequently, all inhabitants had grown fearful and annoyed with the red snake. However, now that Izuma had successfully gained Garaga's reluctant concession, the smaller snakes dared to feel a semblance of hope.
After all, he had succeeded where Orochimaru had failed.
Unfortunately for the weaker inhabitants of Ryūchi Cave, those who were truly at the mercy of Garaga, Izuma had no intention to do anything. At least not yet.
Maybe in the future, when—and Izuma was certain it was a when, and not an if—Garaga became more fond of him as a summoner, he'd try and persuade the snake to focus his all-encompassing wrath against whoever Izuma summoned him to fight, but based on the personality the crimson serpent had thus far displayed, Izuma doubted it.
The walk back was long, and it warped in a way that made the distance feel greater than it was. The passageways twisted horribly; every few steps, whoever was unlucky enough to pass through here was forced into winding turns.
The cave narrowed and widened at random intervals. Where Garaga's abode had been cathedral-esque in its spaciousness, these corridors were tighter—gullet-like.
Orochimaru trailed a few paces behind.
Izuma kept his eyes forward and his posture loose. Unfortunately, the rare hits that Garaga landed—even those that simply grazed him—left him bruised, but he didn't let any of it show.
Not here; rather, not with him.
"You've truly done well, Izuma-kun."
Izuma didn't respond.
Orochimaru spoke anyway, unbothered and convivial. "Garaga," he mused, as though discussing nothing more than the weather as opposed to a snake the size of tailed beasts, "refuses to tolerate, to be frank, anyone. Yet, you proved to be…entertaining."
Izuma could feel his lip twitching. Entertaining was indeed a…conservative way to put it.
They passed a narrow archway that opened onto a side cavern.
Orochimaru's tone remained light, and he seemed incapable of taking a hint. Preferably, he would have shut up by now; regrettably, he continued the conversation by his lonesome.
"I believe we're overdue for that favor."
Izuma whistled a tune. "Name it."
He didn't need to look back to know that Orochimaru was smiling.
"When our beloved Lord Third retires," Orochimaru said, his voice tinged with a rare, genuine sense of mild sorrow, "and I am declared a candidate for Hokage…"
"…I expect both you and Fugaku to endorse me," Orochimaru finished. "Publicly."
Despite his brain pausing for a moment, Izuma didn't let his steps falter.
The words spoken were both surprising and predictable.
Izuma turned his head back, catching a glimpse of the outline of Orochimaru's face in the dim glow. The Sannin's expression was soft, perhaps even bordering on gentle, as if he were asking for something innocuous.
A borrowed book, a tool to write an exam with—a minor courtesy.
The predatory golden eyes filled with endless greed and evil ruined that illusion.
"You want the Uchiha to stand behind you?"
"And?" Orochimaru asked, treating his question as opposition.
Izuma held the line of his stare. "You think I can deliver that?"
"I think," Orochimaru corrected, "that you will."
Izuma sighed, thoroughly fed up with dealing with the Snake Sannin. "You already have fame. Strength. The village's fear, if not its affection."
That part was a mild lie; the current Orochimaru was treated with both fear and respect by the masses. Truthfully, it was only the higher-ups who had a gleam of his true nature, but even then, they didn't know quite how far the legend had fallen into debauchery.
Orochimaru's smile widened imperceptibly, understanding the unspoken question.
"Why I want your support, well, that is something you can figure out on your own, Izuma-kun," he said, voice turning languid.
Izuma's fingers nearly clenched at his side.
Fuck him, he thought, his hate growing exorbitantly.
"And if I refuse?"
Orochimaru's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners in amusement. "Then you would be forcing me," he said pleasantly, "to reassess my generosity."
The words were honey. The meaning was venom.
Izuma allowed a bark of laughter. "Garaga was no generosity."
Orochimaru grinned. "Semantics," he said, waving his hand.
He shook his head in disbelief at Orochimaru's shamelessness.
Before he could reply—before he could feign compliance—the stone beneath them fractured with a flash of summoning smoke.
The world twisted.
And then—
Poof!
They landed back in Hiruzen's office with a sharp burst of smoke and the abrupt return of lamplight. The scent of pipe tobacco hit Izuma, and he'd never been more thankful for it.
Orochimaru stepped out of the smoke as though he'd merely returned from a stroll. He adjusted his sleeve, smoothed the fabric at his wrist, and dipped into a low bow.
"Thank you for your time, sensei," he said. A faint smile curved his mouth. "I leave him in your hands."
He didn't wait for permission.
Izuma remained standing where he'd landed.
Hiruzen lifted his head from his desk.
The Hokage's eyes were tired, yet he still studied Izuma's face.
"Izuma," Hiruzen said slowly, each syllable measured. "What happened?"
He met the Hokage's gaze, and with all the giddiness of a child snitching on another, began singing.
…
Orochimaru - POV
Orochimaru stepped into the corridor leading upward to his laboratory with the barest hint of a smile. The stone beneath his sandals did not echo as he marched into the building. It never did.
Izuma-kun.
The thought of the young Uchiha prodigy brought a predatory gleam to his eyes. He couldn't help but lick his mouth at the thought of it.
He had seen the boy at his youngest, when he was yet to mature into the shinobi he had currently become. Even then, the boy's potential was great enough for Orochimaru to consider taking on a gennin squad.
Ultimately, however, he had decided against it. And so, the boy had been saddled with Fugaku Uchiha—certainly a capable shinobi in his own right.
Yet, the boy did not remind him of Wicked Eye Fugaku despite being his prized student.
Not truly. Fugaku was cut from the same rigid mold as his predecessors, unyielding and in many ways, predictable.
In that sense, amusingly, Izuma was indeed sharper. He had a remarkable… flexibility to his thinking. Not to mention, there was a kindness that he—rather pathetically—exhibited, which drew even Sarutobi-Sensei to become fond of.
But this short, yet fruitful, trip had also shown something else. Something which drew Orochimaru's own eye: a carefully restrained appetite.
The endless greed he had when speaking to Ryōta, or the unbridled hunger he showed when confronted with Garaga.
In that way, Izuma was similar to himself. He saw a beast of great power and had to have it for himself.
He was indeed also certain that a part of Izuma took a great deal of pride in triumphing where Orochimaru had failed. That notion brought him great joy.
It was like looking at a mirror of himself.
He had seen it most clearly on the battlefield: how Izuma turned any terrain into leverage.
The seamless interlacing of jutsu and stratagem was indeed one of the many teachings of the Third Hokage.
He reminds me of Sarutobi-sensei, Orochimaru thought, idly continuing to walk.
He walked past desks cluttered with scrolls and dissected ink diagrams, into the wide main hall of his "official" laboratory. Shelves lined the walls, filled with tagged blood samples, jars of desiccated organs suspended in green fluid, and flasks bubbling faintly with half-finished concoctions.
ANBU patrolled the outer halls.
But inside the far chamber, the lights were dim.
He entered.
The occupants within recoiled instinctively. They always did.
The prisoners inside the cell shrank instantly. There were over a dozen, emaciated, slack-eyed, hollowed by time and hopelessness. Their wrists were chained overhead. Their backs slumped. Some trembled. Others whimpered.
Every pair of eyes snapped toward him, and then away just as quickly, terrified of being caught staring.
Orochimaru smiled, merely the slightest quirk of the mouth.
"How well-behaved," he murmured.
They flinched, and Orochimaru bit back an amused laugh.
He gestured lazily toward the masked operatives stationed near the exit. "Leave us be and guard the perimeter. I'll be conducting long-form chakra analysis."
They obeyed without hesitation.
Of course they did.
They were already entangled within the illusions he had woven earlier, convincing them they were protecting an innocuous research cycle. Soldier pill tolerances. Metabolic thresholds. All perfectly legal.
All perfectly false.
And by the time they went to report to Hiruzen, the genjutsu would have been dispelled.
Once they were gone, Orochimaru moved to the far wall and pressed a sequence of hidden grooves.
The stone slid aside quietly, revealing a passage.
Danzo had indeed been useful, proving his choice to work with him to be correct.
The war-hawk had pulled some strings to make it so no Uchiha nor Hyuga would be assigned to his laboratory. In other words, no inconvenient scrutiny.
He'd even provided two test subjects from the Land of Rivers as a gesture of goodwill.
Orochimaru descended, moving through the narrow tunnel, passing dust-choked ducts and unused cells. Then he tapped a pressure plate hidden near the baseboard. Another wall rotated and opened into a stairwell that twisted downward.
He didn't take it.
Instead, halfway down, he placed his hand on a seemingly random groove in the floor.
Click.
The real door opened.
He dropped down into his true laboratory.
The cavity had secretly been hollowed from stone, its surfaces slick with condensation. The air was humid.
Faint seals glowed along the walls, providing light.
A muffled choke ran out, and Orochimaru restrained a sneer.
He turned his gaze to the offending figures.
Bodies lined the walls.
Some were conscious. Some were not. All were restrained in ways of containment. Their presence registered less as people and more as lab equipment.
If Sarutobi-Sensei ever found this place, he'd indeed be thoroughly disappointed.
Orochimaru chuckled at the thought and allowed his gaze to wander from one broken figure to the next.
Some were young, barely older than academy age. Others were shriveled from dehydration. Men, women, shinobi, civilians. Innocent or guilty—it didn't matter.
They hung from rusted hooks and embedded nails, some by their wrists, others pierced straight through the collarbone. They were still alive.
Mostly.
Their mouths were gagged with iron. Wrought-iron devices forced between their jaws, bolted shut. Their eyes—wild, red, and swollen—pleaded and screamed without sound.
Orochimaru passed by them.
One whimpered as he approached. Another pissed himself.
A third, a child of no more than thirteen, began to seize, shaking against the chains, mouth foaming, body thrashing in terror.
Orochimaru watched without emotion until the fit stopped.
They truly are fragile things, aren't they?
To him, it was something bordering on peaceful.
The perfect environment.
He walked to his central table, where rows of organs were laid out under glass panels. Hearts, lungs, livers, all were laid bare.
He lifted a scroll and jotted down a new observation with practiced elegance.
The soldier pills still result in rupture after the third ingestion cycle. Internal hemorrhaging begins within seven minutes. Fascinating.
In the official lab, a weaker strand of these pills was sanctioned—approved for testing on captured criminals deemed unsalvageable. There, he reported weekly to Hiruzen. There, he recorded data with sanitized detail.
Here, however, the work was not so constraining.
Here, he corrected the human form, allowing his science to chase the impossible.
Experimental chakra re-mapping, surgical integration of external tenketsu, grafting of senjutsu-imbued flesh, and internal redistribution of coil lattices. Whatever thought he had would blossom into more here.
One must evolve if they wish to keep up, after all.
He passed by a sealed case where a still-beating heart floated, pierced through with chakra needles.
Orochimaru smiled again.
He turned to the next experiment. The girl had a remarkable bloodline, and it would be a waste not to preserve it.
He picked up a scalpel off-handedly.
Orochimaru walked deeper into the chamber, the damp stone squelching faintly beneath his sandals.
His gaze swept across the wall of bodies, analyzing.
Most would die within the week. A few had already begun necrotic breakdown from previous tests. But one or two… one or two showed promise. Their chakra coils weren't entirely ruptured. Their minds hadn't yet collapsed.
They were ones worth keeping alive; they still retained something resembling will, after all.
Those were the ones he liked most.
Senjutsu requires more than obscene amounts of chakra, he thought as he passed by a twitching teenager foaming from the mouth. And to house my soul…
He paused, gaze narrowing on a barely-conscious boy, ribs visible beneath parchment skin.
They must endure without breaking.
He was close now. Closer than he'd ever been.
His technique—Living Corpse Reincarnation—that would allow him to body-hop was nearly perfect. But each vessel needed more than simply genetic compatibility. A body strong enough to survive Sage Mode and maintain structural integrity long enough to contain his essence.
Which brought him back to Izuma.
His tongue flicked across his lips at the thought.
That boy...
He had taken him to the cave under the guise of alliance-building.
But the truth was indeed more nuanced.
He had wanted to see Izuma bleed.
To see how far he could push him. To see what secrets he would give away when he was desperate, tired, and cornered.
But in a rare occurrence, he had miscalculated, underestimating the strength of the Uchiha boy.
Izuma hadn't shown him anything new, not even once.
Every jutsu he used in that battle had been confirmed and previously documented.
Even his exhaustion had been suspicious. He'd shown fatigue, yes, but Orochimaru had noted the way his breathing recovered quite quickly.
Was it real, or was it bait to cause him to further underestimate the prodigy?
"Indeed," he murmured aloud, fond. "Even though it seemed we visited Ryūchi Cave merely to commune with the snakes…"
He chuckled.
"…we were probing each other. He and I."
A game of masks, otherwise more aptly known as politicking. Izuma had seen through his intentions at a glance, and hidden his own just as cleanly.
How very amusing.
Worthy, Orochimaru thought, licking his lips slowly. Worthy of consideration. Worthy of Sarutobi-Sensei's teachings.
He turned his head slightly as another thought slithered through: Danzo.
That old man's hatred of the Uchiha clan ran unbelievably deep.
It was petty and short-sighted. But oh, how convenient. It ensured even more scrutiny on the clan.
More pressure and more political friction meant more reasons for Orochimaru to operate without suspicion.
Orochimaru laughed, absolutely delighted.
He turned, eyes falling on a small frame nailed into the stone wall. A malnourished child—maybe eight years old, maybe ten—gender indiscernible beneath the filth and bruises.
The body shivered violently, whimpering behind the muffling iron brace locked across the mouth.
"You've lasted longer than most," Orochimaru said kindly.
The child flinched.
Orochimaru reached up and unpinned them with surgical care, prying rusted nails out of flesh with a practiced hand. The child's legs gave out immediately, but Orochimaru hoisted them over his shoulder like dead weight, utterly unaffected by the weak thrashing and hoarse, muffled cries.
He brought the child to the center table—the cold stone slab slick with old blood, stained black from repeated washings—and dropped them onto it.
Metal shackles clanged as they locked over thin wrists and ankles.
Orochimaru's smile returned.
"There we are."
He turned to his tools, shrapnel to be specific. He preferred it. It made the reactions more colorful.
He held the jagged piece of metal up to the light, watching it with mirth. Then he turned.
The child's eyes were wild, unfocused, mouth twisting uselessly beneath the muzzle.
"I'm very curious about you," Orochimaru whispered.
Then he leaned in.
The shrapnel pressed against the skin.
And as he began to carve—slow, meticulous, careful not to go too deep—the child screamed, high and hoarse behind the metal, until their throat began to rasp and crack.
Orochimaru laughed.
.
[ Laboratory Image ]
Thanks for reading, and join the Discord for all the images and chapter updates.
Discord link: https://discord.gg/s2DVMbqSf4
And a quick update as I see this story has gained some following.
One chapter per week. But some folks did want me to get a Pa-atreon so there are more chapters on the site.
Link: Sinbad_
You can just search that up or look up the story's name.