The night was a black curtain shot through with stars, their light scattering across the restless sea. We stood at the forecastle, peering ahead at the port wedged between beach and jagged rock. The last time we had been here, this place had been nothing but empty shore.

Now even under cover of darkness the port was alive, ships of every size drifting in the bay, lanterns swinging at their masts, their hulls laden with goods from foreign shores. Our vessel moved toward the wharf, sails unfurled and drawn as we coasted to a stop, the wooden hull bumping gently against the pier. A figure on the dock raised his hand, the crew moving to secure the lines, and the gangplank lowered, its edges scraping against wood. We took our time stepping off the deck, a blood clone trailing behind us like a shadow.

We moved under the red Torii gates, entering the city proper, cobblestones beneath our feet. Eateries and sake shops lined the street, their facades carved and painted in intricate detail. We breathed in the night air, heavy with the scent of roasting meat, jasmine tea, and sandalwood. The market stretched before us, sprawling, and the merchants' calls rose in the darkness—silk, cinnamon, fox fur, minx fur, oranges, mint. The endless litany of goods for sale.

We tossed a coin into the straw hat of a cripple playing his shamisen, the sound haunting in the darkness. Pausing by a calligraphy shop, we eyed a few of the scrolls hanging there. One caught our attention, ink dark and bold: The Tales of Nüwa. The old shopkeeper shuffled out, ink-stained brush in hand.

"How much?" we asked.

"How much you think?" he replied, his accent broken, halting.

We looked at the scroll for a long moment. "Alas," we said, "I cannot pay its full worth." We pulled the coin purse from our sleeve and tossed it to the man. He caught it, eyes wide.

"This one owes you a favor," we said, taking the scroll, turning away. We passed a shrine where a crowd had gathered, spent minutes watching an old woman rake her zen garden. Watched a play on a noh stage, actors masked and moving slowly in the lantern light.

The city glowed ethereal under the night sky, lanterns lighting up streets where geishas glided by, their faces pale, their kimonos bright. We looked up.

There it stood.

A statue two hundred meters tall, bronze, a likeness of us.

Or rather, of our clone, Jinrui.

----------------------------------------

"We like what we’ve done with the place," we said, our voice quiet, our eyes on Jinrui.

The blood clone had led us into a room dimly lit, air thick with incense, sake, and tea. The shoji door slid shut behind us. We watched as the clone set seals along the edges, ensuring privacy. Then it sat, gesturing for us to do the same.

"Tea?" the clone asked.

"No," we said. "The plan needs to move faster. The current shifts. We must move with it."

"We know," the clone said. "We’ve been preparing. We heard about the arm—has it been dealt with?"

We glanced down at the crude wooden prosthetic attached to our stump, chakra strings working the joints. "No," we said, dispelling the henge and setting the contraption aside.

"We assume it is not fit for combat."

"It is not. An alternative exists?"

The clone reached for a scroll, releasing it to reveal a prosthetic—bone white, polished. "Spring wood from a thousand-year-old spirit tree," the clone said, "chakra conduits from chakra metal alloy, armor made from the bones of a Kaguya clansman. It holds poison, projectiles, scroll cartridges, a blade." A sliver of chakra activated the mechanism, a grey blade sliding out, silent and deadly.

"Useful," we said, taking the arm, turning it in our hands. "Very useful."

"It should be," the clone said. "It cost thirty-nine million ryō."

We nodded, attaching the new arm, testing its movement. "We are sending a delegate to Nadeshiko," we said, "to expand our hold on the island."

"Why?"

"We expect a child there. Our influence must grow to ensure its safety."

The clone nodded. "Speaking of children—Tsunami has requested another. Should we oblige?"

"As long as it does not interfere with our plans for Inari."

"Understood." The clone paused. "Anything else?"

"Tobirama was revived. He is now immortal. Konoha has a jutsu that brings dead Kages back to life. But we have stolen one of their techniques." We traced our finger along the table, inscribing a formula. "Flying Thunder God. A teleportation jutsu."

The clone nodded. "Useful."

We agreed.

"About Kiri," the clone said, "is there anything we can do to help?"

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

"Funds," we replied.

"How much?"

"Enough to bribe a Kage."

----------------------------------------

We blinked, the forest around us dark and overgrown, tangled vines and underbrush untouched by human hands. The air was alive with noise, the constant hum of a place left alone for too long. Beneath us lay a technique formula carved decades ago, the rock long since covered by a thick carpet of moss. The seal itself had endured, untouched by time.

We stood, orienting north, moving quickly, silently toward the edge of what we assumed was a training ground. In one leap, we scaled the steel fence that loomed ten meters high, the perimeter of Training Ground Forty-Four. We moved through the shadows, heading toward Kabuto's hiding place. A potent henge altered our form, the disguise familiar—ANBU number five. Our hair shortened, lightened, shifting to match Yūgāo's distinct purple. Eyes warming from onyx to brown, lips darkening into a deeper shade. Our good hand formed the tiger seal, chakra moulding, solidifying into the porcelain mask—cat-like, three stripes of red.

The kimono gone, replaced by ANBU's uniform, black and grey flak jacket, the arm guards cold and metallic. A broken branch plucked from a drain became the katana, chakra moulding the driftwood until it was indistinguishable from the kunoichi's distinctive blade.

Disguised, we moved, leaping across rooftops, the neighbourhood crowded below. We dropped onto the balcony of an apartment.

"Kabuto," we called, sensing the presence lying in ambush within. "I am coming in."

"Yūgāo-san?" the shadow clone spoke, genuine surprise in its voice. "What brings you here?"

The Sharingan surfaced.

"...Sasuke?" the spy asked, the recognition quick.

"Snake's testicles," we replied, the code words slipping past our lips as we tossed him a scroll. "I need you to pass this to Orochimaru. It's tagged with a space-time ninjutsu that will let me teleport to him when he receives it. Can you do that?"

"...Yes." The clone paused, forming the seals of a summoning jutsu. A puff of smoke, a snake coiled between us.

"Take this to Orochimaru," the clone commanded. "Tell him to expect Sasuke."

A hiss, a second puff of smoke, and the snake was gone.

"Has he received it?" we asked.

Kabuto shrugged. "He should have."

We nodded, and with a flicker of thought, used the Flying Thunder God technique, returning to the Land of Waves. We gave little notice to the blood clone assisting Jinrui in tagging the vessels with the modified formula. Another flicker, and we were gone.

We appeared in a damp, shadowy forest. A building rose beside us, its foundation built beneath the gnarled roots of a tree. Markings reminiscent of snakes adorned its walls, a carved skull atop the entrance.

"Where is this?" we asked, our gaze meeting the sannin's.

"Otogakure's headquarters," Orochimaru replied, his voice a sultry whisper, brow arched. "You've been busy."

Our eyes flicked over the four shinobi behind him. Dismissed. No threat. Our lips curled into a smile, our focus settling on Orochimaru.

"I have a gift for you," we said.

"Oh?" Orochimaru's golden eyes flashed, intrigued. "Do come in."

----------------------------------------

Tayuya stood in the room, uncertain of what was unfolding before her. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, the pale light casting strange shadows across the walls. Orochimaru hovered over a stainless steel table, his eyes glinting with a mix of fascination and detachment. Before him lay a cadaver—alive, or something like it—wires and tubes leading from its body to a collection of machines. Orochimaru's gloved hands moved deftly, adjusting a piece of delicate apparatus nestled in the exposed entrails. His eyes shifted to a parchment covered in intricate diagrams, then back to the corpse.

"Brilliant work, Sasuke-kun," he murmured, his voice low and cutting through the tension like a blade. "Brilliant work."

Behind him, the Uchiha boy sat on a stool, his face a mask of indifference. By his side stood a masked kunoichi, her dark hair giving nothing away. Her identity was a mystery, her origin and purpose unknown. She wore a plain grey kimono, much like Sasuke's, and gave nothing to decipher.

Tayuya's eyes went back to Sasuke. She'd heard much about him but never paid it much heed. It had been easier to dismiss him, to assume he was like all the other so-called "prodigies." But now, in his presence, her opinion was wavering. A small part of her still wanted to challenge him, to test his mettle, to wipe that smug air of entitlement from his face. But the more sensible part of her held those impulses in check. She had seen how Orochimaru looked at him.

Like a bowl of poisoned udon—irresistible but not without consequences.

Anyone who could make the snake rein in his darker impulses was not someone she would willingly cross.

Orochimaru’s fingers danced over the controls with an unsettling blend of precision and excitement. He reached absentmindedly for a boxy console on a nearby table, covered in switches and buttons. The cadaver jerked, a faint whir of machinery filling the room as tubes glowed dimly.

“All vital signs stable, despite the nervous system being completely inert. Is it permanent, or does it fade?” Orochimaru asked, his voice tinged with wonder.

“It’s not permanent,” Sasuke replied, his voice calm. “The effect wears off after thirty-six hours. Aside from the absence of a soul, the body is biologically alive. I studied the Living Corpse Reincarnation jutsu you tried to use on me during the Chunin Exams and modified it. The version I possess syncs perfectly with the Modified Blood Clone Jutsu. I imagine you’ll appreciate the ease of use and the lack of rejection this combination offers. With this, I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. I need you to fulfil yours.”

Orochimaru fell into a contemplative silence. Then, almost softly, he spoke. “...Thank you.”

Wait. What?!

Tayuya's eyes widened, shock giving way to something like fear. Her gaze shifted between Orochimaru and the Uchiha, disbelief evident.

He made the madman thank him?

Tayuya caught the eyes of the rest of the Sound Four, who stood at the edge of the room, watching. Subtly, they edged back from Sasuke.

“Don’t thank me,” Sasuke said. “I presume, judging by how much you’ve recovered since our last encounter, that you have a jutsu for enhanced regeneration? I need it. Regenerating my arm with standard mitosis would take too long, and though this prosthetic serves well enough, I cannot be sure how it will fare against someone like Tobirama.”

“Regular human cells are limited,” Orochimaru nodded, his tone understanding. “The drawback of regeneration is that cells have a finite number of divisions in one’s lifetime. Accelerating that division shortens lifespan. Prolonged use is why you look so much older than you actually are. To bypass this, I modified my body with Hashirama’s cells, removing those limits. It did lead to certain… side effects—cancerous growths, unchecked wood release—but I found a way around them.”

“How long would these modifications take?”

“To regrow limbs overnight? Six months.”

“Too long. Perhaps useful if I lose something else, but not for my immediate needs. I want a sample of the Hashirama cells and your notes on the process. The prosthetic will have to do for now.”