Orochimaru kept his eyes locked on Ren like a snake watching its prey before the strike. It wasn’t just scientific curiosity—it was a sick kind of fascination, patient, cultivated over time. To him, that boy wasn’t simply “another” promising body: Ren was a rarity, seemingly shaped to fit perfectly into the emptiness Orochimaru carried inside.

  He had been observing him for years.

  Reports came and went, pages filled with clinical descriptions and cold details: performance above expectations, tactical intelligence, decisions unusual for his age. His spies spoke of him as much as they did of his brother, but Ren always appeared as the discordant note—the outlier. The more Orochimaru read, the more he felt that itch in his mind, that urge to open him up, take him apart, and understand.

  A healthy body. A rare bloodline. A powerful kekkei genkai. And above all, a sharp mind… a mind that didn’t break easily.

  A “perfect combination.”

  Ren was there, head lowered, his body marked by recent wounds. His posture didn’t look like total surrender—until then, it looked like someone who had reached the very limit of what he could endure. As if resisting no longer made sense. As if the pain had pierced the skin and settled inside him, silent and heavy.

  Orochimaru smiled slightly—small, joyless.

  “Kabuto… bring him.”

  The order came out naturally, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: a gesture, and the problem would be solved. Kabuto only nodded, adjusting his gsses with a familiar motion, and began to advance. He wasn’t impulsive; he was careful, calcuting, used to weighing risks and reading signs before taking the next step.

  Even so, when he got to within about ten meters of Ren, something happened.

  There was no explosion, no loud sound, no obvious technique. And yet, a chill crawled up Kabuto’s spine like living ice. The warning hit whole—brutal, instinctive—not a vague suspicion, but an almost physical certainty, driven into his mind.

  If I take one more step… I die.

  His feet stopped before his reasoning caught up. Kabuto immediately stepped back, as if he’d brushed against an invisible bde. His heart pounded harder, his entire body tensing, ready to react.

  He kept his eyes fixed on Ren.

  Behind him, Kimimaro also sensed the shift. Orochimaru, for his part, didn’t blink.

  The air around Ren began to feel… heavier. It wasn’t just “chakra pressure” the way it was described in training—it was as if the atmosphere had thickened, as if shadow itself had gained weight and depth. A subtle, suffocating cold spread out, and even the light seemed duller.

  Ren, who had looked broken just moments before, began to change.

  The wounds on his body—cuts, gashes, fresh bleeding—began to close. It wasn’t fast, absurd, instantaneous regeneration. It was slow. But still visible to the naked eye. Skin knitting little by little, blood slowing, flesh returning to pce as though obeying a silent command.

  Kabuto swallowed hard.

  That wasn’t normal. Not like that. Not right then.

  Ren lifted his head, slowly.

  The motion was deliberate, almost ceremonial, as if every inch were a choice. And when his face was fully exposed, his eyes revealed what hadn’t existed before.

  The Sharingan’s three tomoe were gone.

  In their pce, a new pattern opened, like a flower blooming in the dark: five defined, symmetrical petals forming a design that was both beautiful and terrifying. A symbol that didn’t feel like an “upgrade,” but a transformation—as if his gaze had crossed a boundary that should never be crossed.

  Orochimaru’s expression changed.

  It was brief, but real: the mask of calm cracked. His pupils narrowed. The smile vanished. For one second, there was something almost human there—surprise, discomfort, and a memory that surged up violently.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen an “unusual” gaze. But it was the first time in a long while that a pattern triggered an old reflex, a visceral reaction.

  Memories rose like filthy water from the bottom: a gaze with a different pattern, yet strangely simir… and with it, the sensation of humiliation. Of helplessness. Of fear.

  Fear.

  Orochimaru hated admitting it, even inside his own head, but that look shoved him into a pce he preferred to pretend didn’t exist. Anger came right after—anger at having felt fear, anger at remembering, anger at standing before something he didn’t control.

  Kabuto, noticing the change in his master, shifted one step to the side and opened his mouth, trying to understand.

  “Orochima—”

  “The pn failed. Retreat, now.”

  Orochimaru’s voice cut the sentence like a bde.

  It wasn’t a request. It was an absolute order, delivered in a tone that didn’t allow argument. Kabuto froze for a fraction of a second, and Kimimaro—though he didn’t question—tightened his jaw, not in defiance, but in surprise. Even so, both obeyed immediately.

  They withdrew quickly.

  Even while retreating, they didn’t take their eyes off Ren, because some part of their minds refused to accept that this was “safe.” It was like staring into an abyss: you know you should back away, but you feel that if you turn your back, something worse happens.

  Ren didn’t pursue.

  He only watched them. His posture was steady, but there was no hurry. That alone was terrifying: the sense that he didn’t need to rush. That, in that moment, the threat wasn’t an attack—it was potential.

  They vanished into shadow and speed, and only when the distance felt great enough did Kabuto dare slow his pace a little. The silence between them sted far too long. It wasn’t common to see Orochimaru retreat, much less issue such a direct, urgent command.

  Finally, Kabuto let the question slip—burning in his throat.

  “Orochimaru-sama… why abandon the pn? The three of us could handle him.”

  It was carefully phrased. Kabuto wasn’t challenging; he was offering logic. In his mind, three against one—with Orochimaru present—should be enough. Kimimaro said nothing, but his rigid expression and alert eyes held the same doubt. He trusted Orochimaru absolutely, but he also carried a dangerous honesty: if there was a chance to win, he wanted to take it.

  Orochimaru didn’t answer right away.

  He kept looking forward as they moved, as if the road itself needed to occupy his mind so he wouldn’t have to face what he’d seen. The wind cut past them, trees blurred by, and yet the image of those eyes still lingered—clear, persistent.

  “You wouldn’t understand…” he said at st, and the words came out lower than usual, carrying something uncommon.

  Kabuto stayed silent, attentive.

  “The terror of those eyes…” Orochimaru continued, and the way he said terror held no irony. It had weight. “Even if we won… it would still cost too much.”

  Kabuto pressed his lips together, processing. He wanted to ask cost what? He wanted details, wanted to dissect the expnation the way he did bodies and jutsu. But Orochimaru’s tone had already said enough: it wasn’t a ck of power. It was too much risk for a prize that, right then, wasn’t worth the exposure.

  Kimimaro, for his part, looked even calmer than before—but that was his mask. He was loyal, and loyalty came with a quiet decision: if Orochimaru said no, then no. Still, inside him, something like frustration grew—not at disobeying his master, but at being unable to fulfill what he considered his duty.

  Kabuto took a deep breath and replied, controlled:

  “I understand.”

  The word didn’t mean everything is clear. It meant I accept your decision. Even so, he stored the question for ter. Kabuto was like that: he didn’t push at the wrong moment. He simply noted it mentally and waited for the right time.

  Orochimaru exhaled slowly, as if speaking had expelled some poison.

  “From now on… leave Ren alone.” His voice returned to firm, almost cold. “All our focus will be on Sasuke.”

  Kabuto lifted his gaze, surprised only by the immediate shift in priorities. But at the same time, it made sense: Sasuke was still an essential piece—an objective more predictable, more “controlble” than a boy whose eyes could make even Orochimaru retreat.

  “Understood,” Kabuto answered.

  “Understood,” Kimimaro echoed at the same time, like a synchronized reflex.

  The decision was made.

  And they kept moving.

  Hours passed as the world around them changed—the vegetation, the terrain, the roads. Their pace was fast, constant, efficient. None of them spoke much. Each carried his own thoughts, and the silence was almost an agreement: don’t stir what’s still fresh.

  Kabuto ran through possibilities. If Ren had awakened something at that level, what did it mean for future pns? How long until other forces learned of it? What would his vilge do? What would happen if Sasuke, for some reason, crossed the same line?

  Kimimaro… Kimimaro simply followed. For him, the path was simple: protect Orochimaru, obey orders, endure his body as long as possible. His illness was a constant shadow inside him, a reminder that his time was short. And precisely because of that, every decision mattered more.

  Orochimaru, for his part, kept his chin slightly raised, as always—but inside, there was a discomfort he didn’t like to acknowledge. The sensation that certain things… weren’t his. Weren’t within his reach. The feeling that nature could still produce monsters beyond his grasp.

  Some more time passed when they finally reached the entrance of a vilge. There was no ceremonial arrival. Just a waypoint—a pce where they could reorganize without drawing attention.

  Orochimaru slowed and issued the order without looking back:

  “Kabuto… make preparations for Pn B. We move in two months.”

  Kabuto didn’t hesitate.

  “As you wish, Orochimaru-sama.”

  He was already opening lists in his head: contacts, resources, hideouts, routes, identities, experiments that needed accelerating, pieces that had to be shifted without raising suspicion. Pn B meant the gears would change—and Kabuto was the kind of man who felt comfortable when there were gears to turn.

  Then Orochimaru turned his face toward Kimimaro, and the change of subject was as natural as it was inevitable.

  “Kimimaro… you’re coming with me. We need to treat your illness.”

  Kimimaro didn’t respond immediately. Not because he didn’t want to, but because words were always less important to him than actions. He knew. He had always known.

  Treatments helped, but they didn’t cure. At best, they prolonged things. They bought time.

  And time was all he could offer.

  He stepped forward and simply followed Orochimaru as his master began to walk, not waiting for confirmation.

  Kimimaro followed.

  Inside, the conclusion was simple and serene—like a silent prayer: if that little extra time could be used to help Orochimaru… then it was worth it.

  And as they moved toward what was to come, the earlier words continued to echo like an omen:

  From now on… Ren would be left alone.

  Because some prizes cost far too much. Some eyes… weren’t a trophy.

  They were a warning.

  (Early access chapters: see the bio.)