The cave was a pocket of absolute silence after Renjiro's departure, a vacuum that seemed to swallow even the distant, muffled roar of the waterfall outside. The silence was not peaceful; it was a physical presence, a third entity in the cave with them, and it was deafeningly loud.
Orochimaru was the first to break the stillness, though he did not speak. A slow, almost imperceptible smile curved his thin lips. His golden, slitted eyes remained fixed on the dark entrance where Renjiro had vanished, but his gaze was turned inward, consumed by a voracious intellectual hunger.
'Special. So very special,' his mind purred, the thought as smooth and cold as polished serpentine.
'The Uzumaki vitality, the Uchiha visual prowess, and now this… this evolution. A Mangekyo ability that manifests as chakra-devouring flame? The genetic potential is… exquisite.'
His scientific curiosity, a ravenous beast that was never sated, was now fully awake and salivating. He mentally catalogued every detail: the spectral silver of the construct, the way the green fire seemed to leech energy from the very air, the sheer volume of chakra required to sustain it. 'He would be the perfect subject for… that jutsu. The data he could provide…'
The idea was intoxicating. But then, his smile widened into a faint, knowing smirk.
'But so defiant. So clever. He didn't answer a single question. Deflection and diversion mastered at such a young age. A fascinating specimen indeed.'
Jiraiya, in contrast, stood with his arms crossed, his broad shoulders slumped slightly under an invisible weight. His usual boisterous demeanour was entirely absent, replaced by a deep, troubled contemplation.
His thoughts were not of scientific marvels, but of human cost. Shiba's report from the border skirmish replayed in his mind—the near-fatal wounding of Miwa, the brutal efficiency of Renjiro, and the raw power of the Eight-Tails and the subsequent mild fallout. He had seen it as a tactical loss, a harsh reality of war.
'I didn't know,' he thought, a pang of genuine remorse cutting through him. 'I didn't know it was that personal for him. To him, it wasn't just a battle. It was his aunt. His family.' He ran a hand over his face, feeling the grit and fatigue of the long war. He wanted the boy to understand. 'Sensei's plans… they're built on a scale he can't see yet. The perspective from the Hokage's office is different. It's about nations, about generations. It's about preventing a fire so vast it consumes the entire forest, even if it means letting a few trees burn now.'
He sighed internally. 'But how do you explain that to the tree that's on fire? Where does this depth of hate come from? Is it just the recent battle? Or does it go back further… to the Two-Tails incident? To the accusations after?'
As if plucking the very question from Jiraiya's mind, Orochimaru's sibilant voice cut through the silence, smooth and analytical.
"He is an Uzumaki."
Jiraiya grunted, glancing at his teammate. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You forget," Orochimaru continued, his gaze still fixed on the darkness, "he is not just a Konoha shinobi. He is an Uzumaki. And it was Kumogakure who spearheaded the siege of Uzushiogakure. They hunted his father's people to the brink of extinction. Of course, he would hate them with a passion that burns that brightly." A dry, humourless chuckle escaped him. "Especially with Uchiha blood now running through his veins. That clan has never been known for their moderate emotions."
He left the thought hanging, but his own mind finished it, a thrilling hypothesis clicking into place.
'Maybe that was the trigger. Maybe the combined weight of his people's genocide and the near-loss of his last living Uzumaki relative… maybe that was the emotional crucible that forged his Mangekyo.' It was a theory he would very much like to test.
=====
A few meters away, shrouded in the deep darkness of a side tunnel he had instinctively ducked into, Renjiro stood frozen, his back pressed against the cold, rough stone. He had only meant to put a few steps between himself and their suffocating logic, but he had remained a silent, unseen spectator to their conversation. Every word had lashed against his raw nerves.
'Wait, did I really mean that?' The question echoed in the quiet chamber of his own mind, startling in its clarity. When he had 'lashed' out, it had been a weapon, a means to deflect their probing questions about his eyes, to vent the seething frustration and pain. But now, the words rang with a terrifying truth.
He tried to grasp the storm of emotions within him, but it was like trying to clutch smoke. There was rage, yes—a deep, abiding hatred for Kumo that felt as much a part of him as his own bones, a legacy written in the blood of Uzushio. But beneath it was something else: a profound sense of betrayal, not by individuals, but by the entire shinobi system.
There was disillusionment, a crushing weight of cynicism, and a loneliness so vast it felt like he was standing at the edge of the world. He couldn't put a name to the amalgamation, but he knew it was dark, and it was cold, and it was changing him.
'I guess shinobi are really just tools,' he thought, the realisation landing with the finality of a tombstone sealing shut. The idealised, black-and-white world of the anime he once watched had dissolved into a murky, morally ambiguous nightmare.
There were no heroes and villains; there were only pieces on a board, moved by Kages who played a game he was only beginning to understand. He was a prized weapon, a unique blade to be kept sharp and pointed at the enemy, but never allowed to choose its own target.
He let out a long, slow sigh, the sound swallowed by the darkness. The tension slowly bled from his shoulders. The frantic, panicked energy of the fight and the following confrontation was gone, leaving behind a weary, melancholic acceptance.
'Damn,' he thought, a grim finality in the word. 'It seems I finally got my answer. Staying in Konoha after the war… it would just mean becoming a sharper tool in a bigger shed. A kept weapon.'
A cold night wind found its way through a crack in the cave wall, brushing against his skin like a ghost's touch. It carried with it the scent of damp earth and distant pine, a reminder of the world outside this tiny, conflicted pocket of reality.
His mind, ever strategic, began to map out an escape. 'There's Obito's attack… the Nine-Tails' rampage… the chaos… maybe I can wait until then. Use the confusion as a cover. It's the perfect distraction.'
The thought was carefully contained, a secret plan locked away behind mental vaults, ensuring not even the faintest whisper of it could be sensed.
He took a final, steadying breath, consciously pulling the frayed edges of his emotions back in, rebuilding the walls around his heart. The world dimmed, the hyper-clarity vanishing, leaving him feeling strangely numb and ordinary.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, flat, and carried a weight of weary acceptance that seemed far too old for his years.
"We are now going to enter the final phase of the great war," he muttered, the words not a question, but a sombre statement of fact. "With what happened tonight… all the Kages will be making their moves now."
The statement hung in the air, devoid of excitement or anticipation. It was simply the next, inevitable, tragic act in the long, choreographed play he now found himself trapped in. The melancholy in his tone was a silent elegy for the simplicity of the battle he thought he was fighting, and for the naive boy who had believed in it.