The kid couldn't have been more than fourteen. Bloodied, bruised, but alive. No crying. Just quiet breaths and sharp eyes scanning the mess around him, the dead bodies, the scattered weapons, like he was solving some kind of puzzle.
Orochimaru tilted his head, watching with interest.
Huh. Interesting.
At first, this had been a nothing mission. A favour, really. Wipe out some rogue elements. Clean-up duty. An easy afternoon in the rain.
But then he saw the name on the scroll.
Tanuki Shigaraki.
That gave him pause.
Not a big name. Not in this world. Maybe not in any. Just another one of Danzo's throwaway ghosts. Root had plenty of them, quiet kids trained to kill, then vanish.
But Orochimaru… he knew things others didn't.
He knew what this boy would one day become.
In another life, Tanuki would have a daughter. Sumire Kakei. Sweet, polite, quiet. A student in the same class as Boruto Uzumaki. Always smiling.
But underneath that smile?
A weapon.
Built by her father.
This same boy, standing here in the rain.
After Danzo's death, Tanuki wouldn't mourn. He'd act. Cold. Calculated. He'd raise his daughter like a tool. And worse, he'd build something. Something that could eat chakra, teleport, heal, create energy constructs. Like a man-made tailed beast, stitched together with seals and science.
It wouldn't be perfect. But it'd be close.
"Sir?" the boy croaked, kneeling in the mud like it was second nature. Root drilled that obedience into the bone.
Orochimaru didn't answer. Just stared. Half-lidded eyes, faint smile. Like he was looking at a rare test subject, one with potential.
"So young… and already hollow," he murmured. No hate in his voice. No pity either. Just… curiosity.
The boy didn't even know what he was becoming yet. But the path was there. The seed was planted. Orochimaru could smell it.
He stepped closer, crouched to meet the boy's gaze.
Tanuki didn't blink.
"When you sleep," Orochimaru said softly, "do you see it? The thing you'll build? Do you already dream of it, even if you don't understand what it is?"
No answer. Just blank silence.
Orochimaru chuckled and stood up.
"Go," he said, flicking a hand lazily.
Tanuki vanished, back into the shadows.
Now alone, Orochimaru stood in the rain, eyes still fixed on where the boy had been.
"Ōtsutsuki…" he whispered.
A chill passed through him, but he welcomed it.
Gods from outer world. Planet-eaters. Parasites. They'd be back. They were already here in some form.
He thought of Kara. Of Isshiki. Of the outer members spreading like a virus.
That organisation would reshape everything.
"And the scientific ninja tools…" Orochimaru muttered. "That's no accident. That's part of it."
Tech wasn't just tech anymore. It was the new battlefield.
Scientific ninja tools weren't advancement. They were infiltration. Corruption disguised as progress.
Orochimaru looked up at the sky, rain falling harder now, washing away the last of the blood.
Things were changing.
And he wasn't going to stand on the sidelines.
"I'll need my own network," he muttered, scanning the treeline like the answers were hidden between the rain and the branches.
Sure, he had access to Root and ANBU. But those weren't his. Not really. They followed orders stamped with Konoha's seal, orders written by hypocrites.
He remembered how many of those who'd supported him during the Second Ninja War conveniently died in the Third.
"Sarutobi-sensei… how long were you planning it?" he asked the rain, voice flat.
No answer. Just the sound of thunder rolling in.
Orochimaru had stopped pretending he and the village shared the same future.
He needed freedom, no oversight, no masks, no mission reports.
Not just spies or soldiers.
A system.
A channel that didn't ask for permission or play by inherited codes. Something outside the shinobi world's crumbling scaffolding.
He wasn't looking for heroes.
He needed people who crawled through filth. Who lied like they breathed. Who chased whispers in the dark.
People who didn't flinch when the job got dirty, because dirty was the job.
The broken ones. The used ones. The ones thrown away and still breathing.
Because survival was a kind of genius. And Orochimaru respected genius in any form it took.
They'd steal, spy, blackmail, sabotage. Destabilise countries if needed.
And he'd be the one holding the leash.
The villages could keep their heroes and monuments. Let them polish legacies while the ground beneath them crumbled.
He had no interest in preserving the system.
He wanted to gut it.
Rebuild it from the marrow out.
But to do that, he couldn't play their game.
He'd tried. Missions. Ranks. Titles. The lie of unity under a flag soaked in blood.
And what did it get him?
Dead allies. Empty promises. A Hokage who preached peace while feeding children into the machine.
He shook his head.
No matter.
He wouldn't be a bystander.
He'd be the architect of what came next.
Because this world wasn't ending.
It was mutating.
And he planned to be the one holding the scalpel.
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