Chapter 112: The Snake in the Trap
The Borderlands – Rain Country side
The forest was a blur of green and brown as Orochimaru shot through it, a streak of pale skin and dark fabric. Clutched tightly under one arm was Nawaki, the boy's face pressed against his teacher's flak jacket, the world a dizzying rush of motion and danger.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Behind them, the earth itself seemed to rebel. Walls of solid dirt and stone erupted from the ground ahead, not just blocking their path but throwing themselves into the air to create a labyrinthine barricade. Multiple Iwa-nin, their hands synchronized on the ground, were herding them, corralling them.
Orochimaru's vertical pupils narrowed. He changed trajectory in mid-air, his body twisting with serpentine grace, and landed on the thick branch of an ancient oak. He set Nawaki down gently but kept a protective hand on his shoulder. His senses, honed and augmented by his connection to his serpent summons, stretched out, tasting the air, feeling the vibrations in the wood.
"Teacher… we're surrounded," Nawaki whispered, his voice tight but holding surprisingly steady. He was scared, yes, but a fierce, Senju-born stubbornness was fighting the fear.
"Indeed," Orochimaru hissed, the sound dry and calm. Hearing Nawaki's voice, a sliver of the cold, analytical focus that defined him softened. If he were alone, this would be a challenging puzzle, but solvable. He had a hundred ways to slip through nets, to turn hunter into prey in the shadows. But with Nawaki—Tsunade's brother, his student, a bright, noisy spark of life in his otherwise clinical world—the equation changed. Escape while ensuring the boy's safety was a vastly more complex problem.
He would not fail Tsunade's trust. And, he realized with a flicker of something akin to warmth, he did not want this particular spark to be extinguished. The boy's naive declarations about becoming Hokage, his unwavering faith in the Will of Fire… they were fascinating. A vibrant specimen of human idealism.
SHWIP-SHWIP-SHWIP!
All around, on neighboring branches, on the ground below, figures materialized. Suna-nin in beige and blue, their faces grim. From the churned earth, the sinister, drill-headed forms of digging puppets emerged, their multiple lenses clicking as they focused.
Their mission had been simple: strangle Konoha's supply lines. But fortune had delivered a prize beyond expectation—a Sannin and the sole male heir of the legendary Senju Hashirama. Capturing or killing either would be a strategic coup, a blow to Konoha's morale from which it might not recover.
Leading the Suna contingent was Chiyo, her face a mask of cold vengeance. Beside her stood four Suna jonin. The Iwa force was led by a mountain of a man with skin like dark granite—Ishido, Onoki's trusted right hand, an elite jonin whose mastery of Earth Release was said to be second only to the Tsuchikage himself.
"Kukuku…" Orochimaru's laugh slithered through the tense air. "To think the illustrious Elder Chiyo would deign to hunt me personally… and Ishido of Iwa. I am… flattered."
"Orochimaru," Ishido rumbled, cracking his knuckles with sounds like grinding stones. "The Tsuchikage will be pleased when I present your head."
"The last person who wished me dead with such certainty… is already dead," Orochimaru replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. His hand moved to the small of his back, and with a soft shing, he drew a straight, three-foot ninja sword. The polished steel gleamed dully in the filtered forest light. "I hope you are not next."
Before his fame as the Snake Sannin, before his delve into forbidden arts, Orochimaru had been the captain of ANBU Squad Three. And like his rival-turned-commander, the White Fang, he was a master of the blade. In this era, a truly elite shinobi was not a specialist, but a generalist—proficient in ninjutsu, genjutsu, and taijutsu. Even in a future where his hands were sealed, this same Orochimaru would use pure physical prowess to trade blows with a rampaging Four-Tails. His body was a weapon, meticulously honed.
Faced with overwhelming numbers, conserving chakra was paramount. The sword would be his primary instrument for carving an exit.
"Rope Tree," he said without looking back, his eyes scanning the encircling foes. "Stay close. Protect yourself. Do not engage unless you must."
"Got it, sensei!" Nawaki nodded fiercely, drawing a kunai with a grip that was steadying by the second.
"KILL THEM!" Chiyo's order was a whip-crack.
Dozens of Suna-nin surged forward, kunai flashing, wires singing.
Orochimaru moved.
There was no blur, no dramatic burst of speed. One moment he was standing, the next he was elsewhere, his form seeming to dissolve and reform between heartbeats. His sword was an extension of his will—a silver flicker in the dim light, a whisper of parting air.
A Suna chunin lunged; a line of crimson appeared across his throat before he could complete the thrust. Orochimaru was already past him, his sword reversing in his grip to parry a slash from the side, his free hand snaking out to crush a windpipe with a brutal, precise strike. He flowed through the initial wave like poison through water, efficient, silent, and utterly lethal.
Soon, his green jonin vest was spattered with dark blood. Flecks of it dotted his pale cheeks. The cold intellectual was gone, replaced by something primal and chillingly effective. A killer in his element. The thrill of the hunt, the dance of life and death, stirred something he often kept buried beneath layers of clinical curiosity.
"Kukukuku… HAHAHA!"
A wild, twisted laugh escaped him as he beheaded a puppet with a clean, upward slash. He brought the bloodied blade to his face, his unnaturally long tongue snaking out to taste the coppery warmth on the steel. His golden eyes, glowing with manic focus, swept over the momentarily hesitant attackers.
He is not the prey. He never was.
He was the predator they had foolishly cornered.
Even Nawaki, watching from his defensive position, felt a shiver that was not entirely fear. His teacher was… terrifying. And magnificent.
But the jonin of Iwa and Suna were not fodder. As Orochimaru harvested the ranks, Chiyo acted. She unsealed a scroll with a snap. These were not her masterwork Chikamatsu puppets—those were slag, thanks to a certain Rakshasa—but they were well-crafted tools nonetheless. In the hands of a master, even simple puppets became a deadly orchestra.
"White Secret Technique: Puppet Regiment!"
Her hands flew out, ten chakra threads glowing blue as they lanced from her fingertips, attaching to ten waiting puppets that unfolded from the scroll. They were simpler, faster—bladed, needled, armed with spring-loaded traps. They fanned out, not with the intricate artistry of the Ten, but with the brutal, coordinated efficiency of a wolf pack.
A new storm was gathering. Faced with a quasi-Kage level puppeteer and an elite Earth Release master, the young Orochimaru, with a child to protect, stood at the center of a tightening noose.
En Route – The Rescue
Jiraiya and the crimson-masked Rakshasa were streaks of motion across the landscape, eating up the miles between the camp and the last known coordinates of Orochimaru's supply run.
Initially, Jiraiya had harbored a competitive spark. He wanted to test this 'legendary' ANBU's mettle. He pushed his speed, moving from a fast run to a full-out, chakra-enhanced sprint that would leave most jonin in the dust.
Beside him, Rakshasa kept pace. Not with effort, not with visible strain. He simply… was there. When Jiraiya hit his maximum velocity, the masked figure glided alongside him as effortlessly as a shadow, his cloak streaming behind him without a sound. There was no heavy breathing, no flicker of expended chakra. It was deeply unsettling.
Alright, Jiraiya conceded internally, a grudging respect settling in. Hatake wasn't exaggerating. This guy's the real deal.
The journey was made in near-total silence from the ANBU. Partly, Ragnar was a man of few words, especially with someone he didn't know. Jiraiya's chatter would likely be pointless bravado or inappropriate jokes—a waste of mental energy.
But mostly, the silence was because Ragnar was… displeased.
He had given Tsunade his word. Nawaki would return safely. That promise was now a concrete objective, a line in the sand. If the boy died, it would be a failure. It would damage the one sibling-like bond he had in this world. The image of Tsunade's face, crumpled in grief, was an unacceptable variable.
Therefore, the Sand-nin and Iwa-nin who had created this situation were no longer just enemies in a war. They were obstacles to a personal vow. They were targets.
A cold, focused murderous intent simmered beneath the Rakshasa mask, sharpening the air around him as they ran. He wasn't just going to rescue Orochimaru and Nawaki.
He was going to harvest the heads of everyone who had threatened them.
(End of Chapter)
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