Shedding one's skin is no easy feat for a giant serpent.
First, it must grind the corners of its lips against rough stone to tear the skin, then slowly peel away the outer layer—inch by excruciating inch—from head to tail. The larger the snake, the greater the pain. For some, the process risks total collapse.
The White Snake Sage in Ryūchi Cave, the largest serpent in the shinobi world, avoids this agony. She uses a secret technique to grow new skin beneath the old, gradually petrifying and sloughing off the surface layer. Though time-consuming, it is far safer.
Orochimaru had learned this secret art during his time in Ryūchi Cave. But now, he had no time for caution.
The first-generation cells within him were recovering too quickly—more attuned to natural energy than he was. All he could do was force the corrupted cells outward and temporarily suppress their growth through raw molting.
The process was brutal. Skin wasn't a pair of stockings—it bled, tore, and screamed with him. Yet the effect was undeniable.
Bit by bit, Orochimaru clawed back control. For the first time, he stood toe to toe with the parasitic cells ravaging his body.
"He really found a way,"
the Djinn muttered, watching Orochimaru rip away sheets of blood-soaked skin.
Such control wasn't gained overnight. Orochimaru's progress came from years of tireless effort—body modifications, forbidden arts like the Yamata no Orochi, the mastery of sage arts in both Ryūchi Cave and Shikkotsu Forest—all of it culminated here.
"Things have progressed to this stage… There'll be no more surprises."
From all his time observing operations like this, the Djinn knew: with first-generation cell transplants, surviving the initial corruption was the hardest part. Once that hurdle was passed, progress tended to stabilize.
"Tch… Did I just jinx it?"
He smirked at himself.
"Thankfully, nothing happened."
He glanced again at the discarded snake skin, only to notice something strange.
Though Orochimaru's body was beginning to stabilize, his shed skin was still mutating—feeding the barren sand beneath it. Lush greenery spread outward in defiance of the desert.
These fleeting plants would likely perish in the sun tomorrow, but their life, however brief, was undeniable.
"Fragile, yet tenacious,"
the Djinn murmured, recalling his original form—a plant.
He had first grown after humanity destroyed itself in nuclear war. The world had been nothing but dust and radiation. Yet strange fungal lifeforms endured. They formed sprawling, toxic fungal forests in the most hostile terrains.
If not for the poisonous gases they emitted, the Djinn might've believed they were engineered by ancient survivors rather than born from nature.
> "Even the sacred tree is durable," he mused,
"but it was made by the Ōtsutsuki—to drain natural energy from the land. A parasite. Nature's miracles are much grander."
Even now, he wondered: if the fungi of his original world were introduced here, could they counter the divine tree? Could they leech its energy and reclaim the land?
He shook the thought away.
"Tch... what a pointless daydream."
He'd been born from a weak-minded plant, driven by a simple instinct: to grow. In pursuit of that wish, he had scattered spores across every corner of his world.
Of all terrain types, deserts had proven the most difficult—worse even than the ocean depths. At least the seabed had moisture and nutrients.
Still, even if his desert fungi came here, they might not survive.
The Djinn turned his eyes toward the rocky strata below—toward the dragon vein twisting through the earth.
This world was different. A place where people manipulated fire and lightning with chakra, where trees bloomed from bare soil through sheer will.
Here, that extraordinary force was natural energy flowing through the planet's leylines.
Before coming to this world, he hadn't understood why the land remained barren after the divine tree's harvest. In his own scientific world, life didn't rely on mystical energy. It should have bounced back.
After all, when the ten-tails was sealed, its massive root system—spread across the planet—should've fed energy back into the soil.
But… it never did.
In his free time, the Djinn had expanded his awareness, scanning the planet. Aside from the so-called "ninja world" of the Five Great Nations, everything else remained lifeless. A millennium of stasis. Perhaps in ten thousand years, signs of recovery might appear.
He began to suspect that natural phenomena in this world—earth, sky, water—required an external push. Without it, they stagnated. Like a still pond where nothing grows.
And chakra—the flow of natural energy—was that push.
"It's a compelling theory..."
He looked up at the starry sky.
"Even sunlight here contains power."
It was a shame. Despite all their wars and glory, few in this world sought to understand its true nature. Even Orochimaru—brilliant as he was—had chased only the "end" of jutsu, not the truth behind it all.
"Maybe in a century, this world might form a real civilization,"
he thought.
"Or maybe it'll destroy itself first."
After all, threats still loomed—alien enemies, descending from beyond the stars.
"In the original timeline, Orochimaru's ambition was admirable—but his vision and resources were lacking."
"Even with immortality, he couldn't challenge the Ōtsutsuki alone."
But now? The Djinn had given him both—resources, vision, and time.
"Let's see how far he can go."
---
As the Djinn watched, Orochimaru completed the process.
With a final, inhuman screech, he tore away the last layer of his skin—marking the end of the fusion.
He collapsed, breathless, onto the overgrown ritual field.
Half-human, half-snake, his monstrous body lay bleeding and exhausted. Dozens of tons in weight, yet malnourished—gaunt, fragile. His once-glossy white scales now appeared muddy and weak.
Though the multiple molts had been vital to the procedure's success, they had drained nearly everything from him. The entire forest of greenery surrounding him had been born from his discarded skin.
After a moment's rest, he retrieved a rare medicinal elixir from his scroll—gentle enough for ordinary humans, but potent enough to help even his battered form.
Using the great cauldron once again, he drank for a full quarter-hour. Slowly, color returned to his face.
The Djinn floated down beside him.
"Congratulations," he said with a smile. "The operation was a success."
"Yes… it is worth celebrating,"
Orochimaru replied, though his expression held more contemplation than joy.
He examined himself. Strength had undoubtedly increased. But this was only quantity. He had seen it before—Nagato, the Uchiha—the fusion of the spiritual and physical, Yin and Yang. It was supposed to create something more.
But... he didn't feel it. Not yet.
"You're missing the forest for the trees,"
the Djinn replied.
"Spiritual power—true Yin—isn't something you just measure in brute strength. Your soul has been damaged before. Even if it's been repaired by the Pure Land, has it ever truly evolved?"
Orochimaru's spiritual power was immense—he had manipulated magnetic forces, even held off tailed beasts. But that was senjutsu's blessing, not a breakthrough in soulcraft.
"So… the next step is improving my spiritual power?"
Orochimaru frowned.
"But how? It's not like there's a 'first-generation soul' to transplant."
"There is another way,"
the Djinn said, tilting his head with a grin.
"Some of your spiritual power has evolved."
Orochimaru froze—then understood.
"...You mean the Serpentis."
That strange little snake, hidden in the depths of his soul, had changed.
He narrowed his eyes at the Djinn.
"You planned this?"
"Not entirely," the Djinn shrugged.
"But I knew the odds. The ninja world is twisted—its development warped. I couldn't be sure you'd break through without help."
The shinobi world was riddled with contradictions. Power came through bloodlines, not knowledge. Kekkei Genkai like Magnet Release or Lava Release couldn't be taught, only inherited. Those without such blood were simply… obsolete.
"It's absurd," Orochimaru muttered.
"The walls between civilizations are truly thick."
The method didn't matter—whether he pursued the Rinnegan or the Serpentis, the barrier remained the same: the knowledge couldn't be replicated.
He could transplant first-generation cells into others, create copies of immortality—but not elevate anyone's soul.
"Still,"
the Djinn said with a warm tone,
"There's no shame in using external power. The ninja world's development has already gone astray. What you're walking now… is the only true path left."
_____________________
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