The underground laboratory was silent except for the faint hum of machines and the slow, deliberate sound of Orochimaru's breathing. The air was thick with a metallic tang, laced with the scent of disinfectant and blood. Beneath the dim glow of lanterns, shadows stretched long across the stone walls, making the place feel like a tomb for forgotten secrets.
Danzo Shimura sat upright on the operating table, his expression cold and resolute. His body, already a grotesque canvas of experiments, was about to undergo yet another transformation.
Originally, his right arm had been embedded with ten Sharingan. That monstrous limb, overrun by Hashirama's cells, looked less like flesh and more like a grotesque sculpture of gnarled tree roots. It pulsed faintly, veins glowing as though it contained a life separate from Danzo himself.
Now, under Orochimaru's meticulous hands, more Sharingan were being implanted into his body—one after another, layer by layer.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
The number continued to rise. With each addition, a new wave of Chakra rippled outward, filling the chamber with a suffocating pressure. The fusion reaction between the eyes and the Hashirama cells grew stronger, more violent, as though two ancient powers were wrestling for dominance within the same vessel.
Yet Danzo endured.
His face betrayed no pain, though sweat clung to his pale forehead. He looked less human with each passing moment, more like a vessel of wrath stitched together from the remnants of Konoha's darkest ambitions.
Orochimaru's hands moved deftly, his scalpel gleaming under the lantern light. He was a surgeon, but also an artist of forbidden science. Every slice, every insertion was done with precision. He placed Sharingan not only along Danzo's arm, but across his shoulder blades, down his back, and even into the crevices near his collarbone. No space was wasted. Every eye was given a place to watch, to stare, to hunger.
By the time the number reached twenty, the atmosphere in the room had shifted entirely.
The Sharingan, one by one, began to open and close in eerie unison, their crimson glow illuminating Danzo's body like embers in the dark. The chakra of the First Hokage's cells, instead of spiraling into chaos, seemed to calm under the combined force of so many ocular powers. It was as if a monstrous equilibrium had been achieved—a balance born from corruption itself.
The aura that leaked from Danzo was no longer merely oppressive. It was demonic.
The Mangekyo Sharingan belonging to Uchiha Shisui, already embedded in his right eye, began to tremble faintly. Its power surged like a restless tide, now resonating strangely with the newly implanted eyes.
From the corner of the room, Orochimaru observed with narrowed, gleaming eyes. His lips curved in the faintest of smiles, though the shadow of caution lingered behind it.
He whispered almost reverently, "The last Sharingan... is it Fugaku's?"
Danzo's expression did not change. His voice was low, steady, carrying a weight that silenced the room.
"Yes. A pity. If his eyes had awakened the Mangekyo, the power would have been immeasurable."
For the briefest moment, even Orochimaru paused. The name Uchiha Fugaku carried with it a history of leadership, ambition, and a potential that had been cut short the night his clan perished. To use his eye now as another tool in Danzo's arsenal felt like spitting upon the Uchiha legacy itself.
And yet, here it was.
Orochimaru retrieved a sealed glass container from the tray beside him. Inside floated a single crimson eye, suspended in nutrient fluid, its tomoe faintly spinning as though restless even in death. He held it delicately, almost admiringly, before implanting it—not on Danzo's back, not on his shoulder, but into the open palm of his right hand.
The symbolism was obvious.
Power, clutched in his grasp. Control, literally within his hand.
The moment the eye fused into flesh, Danzo slowly curled his fingers, his palm closing over it as if he had just claimed dominion over something eternal. The Sharingan quivered faintly, as if the soul of Fugaku resisted, but the resistance was smothered under Danzo's will.
"Fugaku's left eye," Orochimaru murmured, a hint of regret in his tone. "The other one lies with Hiruzen, as a keepsake. How ironic."
Danzo's voice emerged like a whisper from the depths of a cavern.
"Orochimaru, is this not what you wanted to see? This appearance of mine?"
Orochimaru's golden eyes glinted. His serpentine smile widened. "Appearance? Hehe... perhaps. Though I must admit, it surpasses even my expectations."
The laboratory grew heavier, darker, as if the shadows themselves recoiled. The resonance between Shisui's Mangekyo and Fugaku's Sharingan deepened, twisting Danzo's chakra into something that felt neither human nor entirely alive.
Danzo rose slowly from the table. His movements were steady, deliberate, as though every step he took was weighed down by power. The Sharingan implanted across his body flickered open in unison—twenty-one crimson eyes, glowing in the half-dark like a host of vengeful spirits.
The sight was grotesque, terrifying, almost divine.
Orochimaru, who rarely betrayed his emotions, felt something stir in his chest. Was it fear? Fascination? Or the perverse curiosity of a man who lived for forbidden knowledge? Perhaps it was all of them at once.
Danzo flexed his shoulder, and the eyes blinked as though alive, blood vessels pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He clenched his palm, the Sharingan within glowing faintly between his fingers.
At last, he spoke, his tone neither loud nor angry, but heavy with authority that brooked no argument.
"I will warn you once more, Orochimaru. Do not attempt to resurrect Lord Tobirama."
The words carried the weight of iron. Not a threat, but an edict.
Orochimaru chuckled softly, the sound like scales dragging over stone. His smile widened, but it did not reach his eyes.
"I naturally wouldn't dream of it... Lord Danzo."
The words were smooth, deferential, yet empty. Both men knew the truth—Orochimaru's ambitions were not so easily restrained.
Danzo studied him in silence for a moment. He gave a cold snort, the flicker of killing intent flashing briefly across his eyes. But he said nothing further. Orochimaru was still useful. For now.
"Don't think I believe you," Danzo muttered under his breath.
He lifted his arm. In the faint light, all twenty-one Sharingan opened together. Crimson tomoe spun in unison, their collective gaze piercing the air. It was as though an entire clan of vengeful spirits stared through him, silently condemning the world.
Orochimaru said nothing. He only observed, eyes gleaming, his smile twisting into something unreadable.
"The Uchiha," Danzo whispered, his voice carrying like a curse, "are once again... united within me."
---
Elsewhere – Land of Fire, Noon
Far from the darkness of the laboratory, sunlight poured down upon a lively street in the Land of Fire. The scene was almost jarring in contrast—children laughed, merchants called out their wares, and travelers bustled through the market. The illusion of peace blanketed the world, even as doom crept closer with each passing day.
In the midst of the crowd walked a man in an Anbu cloak. His silver hair caught the sunlight, though his single visible eye remained sharp and wary. Kakashi Hatake's footsteps carried him to the corner of a quiet street, where a small, worn tavern stood.
The door curtain swayed lightly, releasing the faint scent of sake and charcoal.
Kakashi pushed the door open.
Inside, the atmosphere was dim, heavy with age and solitude. At a wooden table in the corner sat Jiraiya, one of the legendary Sannin. Half a flask of sake rested beside him, already half empty. His broad frame was hunched slightly, his expression stripped of its usual carefree mischief.
"Kakashi, you're here," Jiraiya said softly, without looking up. His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the gravity in his voice.
Kakashi approached, bowing his head slightly. "Lord Jiraiya."
At last, Jiraiya raised his gaze. His eyes, marked by years of battle and loss, were filled now with something heavier—clarity, and sorrow.
He took a small sip of sake, then set the cup down, gazing out the window at the bustling street beyond. His voice was steady, but each word seemed weighed by inevitability.
"The Great Sage of Mount Myōboku has contacted me. The Ninja World... is going to be destroyed."
Kakashi's heart tightened. He had suspected as much, yet hearing it spoken aloud struck like a blade.
The toads of Mount Myōboku were ancient beings, tied intrinsically to the fabric of fate itself. If they had foreseen destruction, then the collapse of the world was no longer speculation—it was prophecy.
Jiraiya tilted the flask back, finishing it in one gulp. His familiar boisterous demeanor was gone, replaced by a quiet resignation.
"I once thought, after three Great Ninja Wars, this world might finally know peace. But... it seems I was a fool."
His voice grew softer, almost a whisper.
"What a pity. Even now, it is unavoidable."
The words of the Great Toad Sage echoed in his mind, haunting him like a death knell:
"The Cursed Eye will begin on the night of the Blood Moon... cursing the entire Ninja World until the moment of its demise."
The prophecy reverberated through Jiraiya's soul, cold and inescapable...
Kakashi said nothing. He knew better than to interrupt.
Finally, Jiraiya's hand tightened around his cup, his gaze hardening.
"But before the end comes... there is still someone I must bring back."
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