Uchiha Gen...

Of all the enigmas circulating through the chaos of the modern Shinobi world, none gripped Orochimaru's curiosity more than him.

His own research on the Sharingan was extensive, meticulous—comprehensive even. He had dissected eyes, memories, bloodlines. But the Mangekyō Sharingan, the elusive, cursed evolution of that dojutsu, remained a frustrating blind spot.

That was why he had provoked Uchiha Itachi earlier.

Unlike the future, when Orochimaru's greed for the Sharingan had been blatant, this probing was surgical, almost clinical. And Itachi's response—precise, controlled, calculated—was telling. It wasn't meant to kill. It was a warning.

A warning... but not a rejection. That, in itself, was intriguing.

As Orochimaru processed the encounter, patterns began to form in his mind like strands of DNA assembling in a petri dish.

The Masked Man—once deeply embedded in the Akatsuki—had suddenly severed ties without explanation.

Danzo, that old war hawk, had grown increasingly erratic and unhinged, his ambitions boiling into madness.

And throughout all of it, there hovered a subtle, infectious pressure. It was like a mental toxin... one that seemed to spread not through chakra but through ideas.

"Uchiha Gen's Mangekyō... It doesn't just destroy. It infects... corrupts... contaminates."

The changes Orochimaru was observing were too consistent to be coincidence. The behaviors of powerful shinobi were bending like reeds in a slow wind—a wind blowing from Gen.

It was, he theorized, a genjutsu not unlike Shisui's legendary Kotoamatsukami—a jutsu that alters will without the victim ever realizing it.

But Gen's was darker. Less a manipulation of thoughts... more a distortion of desire itself.

Orochimaru's musings were interrupted as the space behind him twisted and split like liquid glass.

Obito—the Masked Man—stepped through the Kamui rift with silent precision.

Orochimaru stiffened. He's faster this time, he thought, keeping his expression neutral.

"Orochimaru..." Obito's voice was low, cold, mechanical.

"Lord Madara," Orochimaru said with his usual mocking reverence. "You've returned so quickly. You've been working hard."

Obito didn't reply. He merely dropped three heavy scrolls at Orochimaru's feet.

"These contain the corpses you requested. From the Valley of the End. The Sand's crypts. Even an old battlefield from the Third Shinobi War."

Then, as if he were listing grocery items, he added:

"I'll retrieve Uchiha Sasuke next."

"Your efficiency is... invaluable," Orochimaru said, bowing just slightly, suppressing the grin twitching at his lips. "You never disappoint, Lord Madara."

Obito's gaze through his single eye narrowed. "Don't waste them. You know what's at stake."

And just like that, he vanished into the void once again, leaving only the rustle of swirling air and the weight of unspoken tensions.

Once alone, Orochimaru crouched down, unsealing the scrolls one by one. The corpses were intact. Preserved. Powerful.

But what truly mattered was the other scroll he had tucked away in a hidden compartment—one he hadn't told Obito about.

A priority sample.

Senju Tobirama.

The Second Hokage.

He had obtained the DNA years ago, in secret. But only now did he have the materials, chakra flow schematics, and Edo Tensei conditions to make full use of it.

"Let the Akatsuki have their little meetings... let the villages hold their summits... I'll summon someone with the power and authority to rip through all of it."

Orochimaru's expression grew thoughtful as he stared at the sealed scroll.

Tobirama was more than just power—he was a strategist, a realist, and, above all, a nationalist. He might have despised the Uchiha, but he understood the rot in the system better than any modern Kage.

"No one today—neither Nagato, nor the Five Kage—can lead the world through planetary annihilation. But Tobirama might. He wouldn't freeze. He'd act."

He had no intention of revealing this plan to Obito. The Masked Man may be useful, but he was also tainted—likely another pawn in Gen's slowly growing empire of corrupted minds.

Orochimaru needed a clean slate.

And Tobirama, with his prejudice, brilliance, and brutal decisiveness, was the best candidate to seize power and break the stalemate in the chaos to come.

But there was something else—something even more personal.

"Tobirama... He's the only one who might truly understand me."

Not Sarutobi, not Jiraiya, not even Kabuto.

Only Tobirama, the architect of Konoha's political machinery, could appreciate Orochimaru's brilliance. Only he might understand why one would conduct unsanctioned human experiments—not out of cruelty, but out of necessity.

The Ninja World was crumbling, poisoned by idealism and indecision.

And Orochimaru—smiling with unsettling calm as he ran his fingers across the Second Hokage's scroll—whispered:

"I'm going to great lengths to save this world, Sarutobi-sensei... You'd call me a traitor. But in the end, I may be its last salvation."

Outside Konoha Village, Death Forest

The sound of rushing water echoed through the dense forest, blending with the occasional rustle of wind-tossed leaves. Amidst the misty veil surrounding the terrain, Hatake Kakashi stood still on a jagged rock near a waterfall, his lone visible eye narrowed in silent concentration.

The cascade roared beside him, but his thoughts were louder.

His understanding of the Sharingan had recently evolved—no longer a burden, no longer a borrowed gift that drained his stamina. Now, he could activate and deactivate it at will, and with that freedom came a new wave of inspiration.

He closed his eyes briefly. A breath in.

Then, with a sharp exhale, his fingers blurred into rapid hand seals.

"Water Release: Raining Mist."

The moment the words left his mouth, the waterfall surged unnaturally. Streams of water twisted skyward as if defying gravity, then burst mid-air into countless glimmering droplets.

The entire forest was instantly blanketed in a shimmering haze.

Fine mist drifted through the trees like a living entity, and Kakashi's Sharingan flared to life. The scarlet wheel spun slowly, tracking even the most minuscule chakra signatures within the fog.

He formed a second series of seals—faster, more complex.

"Water Release: Freezing."

A chill swept through the forest. The mist, once soft and graceful, hardened into something unnatural.

Temperature plunged. Leaves crackled as frost rapidly formed on their surfaces. The damp soil stiffened. Even the air itself seemed to freeze in place.

Kakashi moved without hesitation. His hand darted to his pouch, pulling out three kunai, which he hurled through the mist with calculated precision.

But before they could reach their targets—targets only Kakashi could see—they iced over mid-flight and fell with a brittle crack to the frozen ground.

He stared at the frost-covered kunai, his expression unreadable.

His initial assumption had been that, with the new flexibility of his Sharingan, he'd expand on Chidori, or create new Lightning Release variants. Yet in the solitude of the forest, what had flowed most naturally... was Water.

Not merely attacks—but layered tactics.

The mist disrupted vision.

The chill hindered movement.

And within that obscured, freezing world... Kakashi moved freely.

He reached down and slowly unsheathed his short sword—the White Fang's heirloom. Its blade gleamed dully in the mist, catching glints of refracted light.

He lowered his body, muscles coiled.

Then he vanished.

A whisper of steel through air. A glint of silver threading through fog. His swordplay was fluid, blending with the water vapor as if the mist obeyed him. Each movement—refined, silent, deadly.

The Sharingan guided his strikes, aiming for phantom vitals, cutting through spectral illusions only he could see.

Within this self-made world of mist and frost, Kakashi became something else—not a shinobi, not a copy ninja—but a phantom blade, gliding through silence with the ghost of his father at his side.

His strikes came and went like snowfall—graceful, ephemeral, lethal.

Hidden beneath the canopy, in the cover of shadow—

Obito watched.

He had arrived to abduct Sasuke Uchiha, but paused when he sensed a familiar chakra nearby.

And now… he stood in silence, a witness to something unexpected.

Kakashi—his old friend, his former rival—moved with a strength and precision that resembled Sakumo far more than the boy he once knew. The same blade, the same rhythm, the same quiet, deadly efficiency.

For a fleeting second, the old bitterness in Obito's chest was replaced by something else.

A memory.

And a pang.

Then it was gone.

He melted into the shadows once more—his task not yet complete, but his heart stirred ever so slightly.