Danzō watched them withdraw, one by one, their silhouettes dissolving into distance, and felt something rare tighten in his chest.
Restraint.
From the beginning, his intent had been clear.
Close in on Orochimaru.
Deploy Kotoamatsukami.
End it decisively, of course, only while advancing with Fū and Torune at his flanks, a full ring of Root elites already closing in around him.
It should have worked.
And yet, every time he edged closer to committing there, that Uchiha girl moved on to target him first and closed the distance further.
A reminder. A threat.
She forced caution out of him.
In the end, he did nothing.
That alone burned.
His gaze shifted, lingering on the receding white-haired boy.
"Some obscure bone-based kekkei genkai…" Danzō thought, jaw tight.
But he wasn't a fool. He had survived this long precisely because he wasn't.
He was one of the most knowledgeable shinobi alive, or he would never have acquired this arm, Shisui's eye, or the collection of Sharingan embedded into his flesh to fuel Izanagi.
And this?
This was not some crude mutation.
Not a novelty bloodline that twisted one function of the body and called itself special.
This was the real thing.
To raise a forest of bone on that scale, to sustain it, to command it with that level of control, required chakra reserves that did not simply appear.
Power like that had lineage behind it.
Depth. History.
The true danger wasn't the form of the boy's kekkei genkai.
It was its essence.
That vitality. That density.
That body, signaling power the moment it entered the field.
Not unlike an Uzumaki. Not unlike a Senju.
And Danzō had never heard of him.
No records. No rumors. No clan name worth remembering.
How had something like this slipped past him?
That question gnawed deeper than the battlefield losses.
Then there was Shisui.
Or whatever that thing was now.
Danzō's eyes tracked the other direction, where the monk and the samurai had also withdrawn, and with them, the figure that felt like Shisui Uchiha.
Same chakra texture. Same echo. Same unbearable familiarity.
And yet, not a glance.
Not a flicker of recognition. Not rage. Not an accusation.
Nothing.
That disturbed him more than hatred ever could.
He remembered the mission. The agreement among the elders.
Yet, he ambushed him at that time when it was supposed to be carried out.
The eye stolen. The poison. The slow, inevitable end disguised as suicide.
Danzo had been his superior.
That moment of betrayal was also his key to saving the clan from itself.
And now, seeing him again, there was no confrontation.
As if Danzō did not matter.
As if whatever stood there was no longer bound by grievances small enough to include him.
His thoughts spiraled further.
Kakashi Hatake.
Why did that man now carry the aura of his dead father?
Why did Sakumo's presence, his pressure, his unmistakable sharpness, suddenly walk the battlefield again through his son?
And then the masked man.
The one likely from the Uchiha compound years ago.
The one Danzo had even suspected was Uchiha Madara the entire time.
The same figure who had helped execute the massacre with Itachi.
The same one who had quietly split the Sharingan afterward with Danzō, an unspoken division of spoils, a silent understanding between collaborators.
So why return now?
And why, of all things, take Kakashi's eye?
Why that single, outwardly unremarkable Sharingan, and why now, when he already possessed so many of them already?
If he truly was Madara, or something close to him, why bother with such a seemingly trivial thing in the middle of this chaos?
Why not pursue a much greater objective, where he was already there?
Why not strike elsewhere, escalate further, reshape the battlefield entirely?
Too many contradictions.
Akane Uchiha.
The Hyūga side-branch girl.
The Uzumaki–Yuki hybrid.
The blood-controlling girl.
Orochimaru's betrayal was absolute.
Decades of silent cooperation, unspoken boundaries, mutual restraint, all of it shattered without warning, without negotiation, without even the courtesy of pretense.
He had escalated far beyond what they had agreed upon just before today.
Not a calculated push.
Not a controlled crisis.
An outright rupture.
The Hyūga clan had remained aligned with his and Hiruzen's vision for decades, or so he had believed, and now that loyalty curdled into something closer to insult.
They had hidden power on that scale while presenting themselves as compliant, restrained, almost meek, all while it sat beneath his nose.
And whatever the white-hair had stolen from them, from the village itself, during the chaos of the Konoha crisis, he had walked away with it in plain sight.
The realization left a bitter taste.
Too many blind spots.
Too many assumptions exposed as arrogance.
His thoughts shifted immediately, cold and methodical.
What intelligence failures had allowed this?
Which networks needed to be rebuilt, which shadows reinforced?
What preparations would be necessary to close the widening gap between himself and the monsters now moving openly through the world?
Because power like that could not be ignored.
And it could not be allowed to remain beyond his reach.
Everything Danzō thought he understood about leverage, about patience, about power, so far, of this world, unraveled in a single afternoon.
For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, his worldview cracked.
He had previously believed for years that a handful of Izanagi activations, borrowed seconds of false immortality, that grotesque arm grafted to his body, and Shisui's right eye, a flawless instrument of control without the need for brute force, would be enough to carry him to the summit of Konoha.
Then to the top of the world by extension.
Now, watching monsters walk away unchallenged, watching realities bend around teenagers and ghosts, he felt something cold settle in his gut.
Not fear.
Humiliation.
He had been playing with knives in a world that had already moved on to gods.
Only then did Danzō's thoughts finally shift away from the immediate aftermath of the attack, not toward any short-term pursuit of the culprits, which was unrealistic, but toward something far more familiar to him.
How this sudden vacuum in Konoha might be exploited by him as well next.
How order could be "restored" and how he, at last, might step into that seat of Hokage, if only as a consolation prize for a day that had stripped everything bare.
...
Meanwhile, as they moved through the forest on their own route, Kabuto remained unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
His glasses caught a faint glint as his gaze drifted, unfocused, replaying what he had just witnessed.
A teenager.
Younger than him.
That was the part that refused to settle.
He hadn't held it against Kimimaro, not even for a moment.
If anything, it made the assessment worse.
Someone that young, already operating on that level, already eclipsing Orochimaru in raw offensive output, and doing so without frenzy, without strain.
Composed. Deliberate. Purposeful in a way Kabuto rarely saw.
Not ambition.
Not hunger.
Not outright, at least.
Something already shaped, colder and sharper, restrained to a degree that made even Orochimaru seem indulgent by comparison.
Kabuto prided himself on reading people.
Years of espionage had trained him to catch the smallest tells, the unconscious habits that betrayed fear, arrogance, insecurity.
Kimimaro had none of them.
No cracks.
And worse still, his subordinates had been just as unsettling.
Each of them operated on a level Kabuto knew, uncomfortably, was above his own many times over.
Kabuto's fingers curled slowly into his palm.
Orochimaru noticed, of course.
"That look doesn't suit you," Orochimaru said lightly, his tone amused as he slithered along beside him. "You're not the type to sulk."
Kabuto exhaled through his nose. "I'm not sulking."
"Mm."
"I just…" He hesitated, then continued honestly. "For the first time in a long while, I felt insufficient. Embarrassingly so. As your aide."
Orochimaru laughed softly, a sound without warmth. "Oh? In front of them?"
Kabuto nodded. "Yes."
Orochimaru tilted his head, eyes narrowing with interest rather than displeasure. "Good."
Kabuto blinked.
"That feeling," Orochimaru continued, unbothered, "means you're still capable of growth. And you're right. But, this one wasn't your failure alone." His smile thinned. "I let you rot in Konoha for too long. Playing the obedient tool. Wasting years."
Kabuto stiffened slightly.
"I won't make that mistake again," Orochimaru went on. "Whatever path you choose now, whatever research catches your interest, I'll allow it. No restraints."
Kabuto's eyes widened, just a fraction.
"…You mean it?"
"Of course," Orochimaru said, almost fondly. "Monsters don't grow in cages."
Something shifted in Kabuto's chest.
The embarrassment didn't vanish, but it changed shape, compressing into something cleaner. Sharper. Motivating.
He lowered his head slightly. "Then I'll make myself useful. You will not regret it. Not as a shadow. As something… distinct."
Orochimaru's grin returned, pleased. "That's the spirit."
As they vanished deeper into the forest, Kabuto adjusted his glasses, resolve settling in his gaze.
If the shinobi world was entering an era ruled by monsters—
Then he would carve out a place among them.