Orochimaru woke with the sun spilling across the thin blanket of the orphanage bed. His small body shifted in silence, golden eyes opening without the sluggish haze that most children had. He didn't need time to "wake up." His supercomputer mind was already running simulations before his feet touched the floor.
The dormitory echoed with snores and shuffles, kids twisting in their sheets. At the far corner, a boy with wild black hair snored so loudly that it made two others throw pillows at him. Near the window, a timid girl curled up tightly, clutching her blanket like a lifeline.
Names surfaced instantly. Genji, the loud sleeper. Ayame, the timid one. Their habits, personalities, and family histories unfolded in his mind like indexed files. Ayame's parents had been killed on patrol; she barely spoke. Genji's parents were farmers; he joked too much, masking insecurity about being weaker than the clan children.
Ordinary kids. But Orochimaru studied them like test subjects, cataloguing weaknesses and potential uses. Every interaction mattered. He wouldn't waste even this.
At the Academy that morning, chatter filled the classroom before the teacher arrived. The Uchiha boy from yesterday—Ren Uchiha—sat stiffly, glaring at Orochimaru from across the room. His cheeks still burned with humiliation from being pinned so easily. Around him, a small knot of other clan children whispered, occasionally darting glances at Orochimaru.
They were children, but children of power—heirs to Hyūga, Uchiha, Inuzuka, Nara, Akimichi. Even their arrogance was worth studying.
"Hey, Ren," one of the Inuzuka boys muttered, smirking, "don't let the pale freak scare you again today."
Ren scowled. "He just got lucky."
Orochimaru tilted his head, pretending to look out the window. In truth, his mind was cataloguing their chakra signatures, their micro-expressions, the rhythm of their speech. Every scrap of data could be used later.
The door slid open. Hiruzen Sarutobi, not yet the Hokage but already a respected jōnin instructor, stepped in. His voice carried calm authority as he called for order.
The children scrambled to their seats. Orochimaru noted the subtle deference in their movements—Hiruzen commanded respect without raising his voice. A different sort of power.
"Today," Hiruzen said, chalk scratching across the board, "we will review chakra theory, then move outside for shuriken practice."
The lesson began. For most children, chakra theory was confusing, half-understood through metaphors. But for Orochimaru, with his Infinite Knowledge System, it was child's play. He processed the information with machine precision, cross-referencing it with Earth's biology, physics, and energy systems.
When Hiruzen asked a question—"Why is chakra control essential for jutsu efficiency?"—half the class fumbled with guesses.
Orochimaru's voice cut through the noise, calm and sharp. "Because chakra is limited. Excessive leakage through poor control results in wasted energy. Even a powerful shinobi can collapse from exhaustion if inefficient."
Hiruzen's eyes lingered on him, thoughtful. "Correct. Well said, Orochimaru."
The room quieted. For a moment, all the children stared. The pale, unsettling boy who rarely spoke had just answered with more clarity than any of them.
Ren scowled, jaw tightening.
Outside, wooden targets were set up in the training yard. The sun beat down as the children lined up with their practice shuriken.
"Focus," Hiruzen instructed, "breathe, align your chakra, and throw."
One by one, shuriken clattered against the wood. Some hit center, most scattered. The Inuzuka boy landed two near the bullseye and howled proudly. The Hyūga girl hit dead center every time with cold precision.
When Orochimaru's turn came, whispers followed him.
"Bet he misses."
"He's too weak-looking."
"Creepy eyes, creepy kid."
Orochimaru ignored them. He lifted a shuriken, his small fingers curling with surgical steadiness. His mind calculated trajectory, air resistance, rotational velocity. The throw was perfect before his arm even moved.
He flicked his wrist.
Thud. Dead center.
A second shuriken followed, splitting the first.
Silence rippled.
Ren stepped forward next, jaw tight. He threw hard, fast, his clan pride burning. His first shuriken struck near the center, the second just outside. Respectable. But not perfect.
His teeth clenched as he glanced at Orochimaru.
The teacher nodded, expression calm. "Good form. Both of you."
But Orochimaru saw it—the flicker of calculation in Hiruzen's eyes. He was already being watched. That was both dangerous and useful.
During lunch, the children gathered under the shade of trees, sharing rice balls and laughter. Orochimaru sat alone, deliberately. Solitude invited curiosity.
Sure enough, a shadow fell across him.
It was Tsunade, hair tied in messy pigtails, her eyes bright with mischief. "Hey, snake boy," she said, plopping down beside him without asking. "You're weird. But you're strong. I like that."
He studied her. Granddaughter of the First Hokage, brash, impulsive, but with natural charisma that drew others. Even now, kids orbited her like moths to flame.
Jiraiya appeared moments later, scratching his head. "Oi, Tsunade, don't hang out with him. He looks like he eats bugs."
Tsunade smirked. "So what if he does? Maybe bugs taste better than your cooking."
The kids nearby laughed. Jiraiya turned red.
Orochimaru merely chewed his rice slowly, eyes half-lidded. He didn't need to defend himself. Tsunade had done it for him. That told him everything he needed to know about her.
She was bold. Loud. But also fair. That kind of ally—or shield—had value.
Later that day, while the children sparred again, Orochimaru felt a new presence watching from the shadows beyond the training ground.
His enhanced senses picked up the faint shift of fabric, the controlled breathing of a seasoned shinobi.
Danzo Shimura.
Even without seeing his face, Orochimaru knew. Danzo's reputation for caution, for lurking in shadows, was already whispered among the older students. He was Hiruzen's rival, a man of paranoia and schemes.
The man's gaze lingered on him, heavy and calculating.
Orochimaru hid his smirk. Yes. He was being observed. By Hiruzen's gentle guidance on one side, and Danzo's cautious hunger on the other. Perfect. He would play them both.
That night, at the orphanage, Orochimaru sat cross-legged by candlelight, system interface flickering before his eyes.
[STAT UPDATE]
Chakra Control: 55% → 58%
Throwing Accuracy: Basic → Intermediate
Observation Skill: Intermediate (NEW)
The small increments pleased him. Progress, step by step.
But more important were the files he had been reviewing.
[Search: Wealth accumulation in pre-industrial societies]
[Search: Chemical substitutes in low-tech environments]
[Search: Psychological manipulation of children]
Knowledge stacked endlessly, feeding his schemes.
A snake slithered across the windowsill, pausing to stare at him. Orochimaru lifted it gently, letting it coil around his arm. Its tongue flicked against his skin.
"You'll be useful," he murmured.
Tomorrow, he would test more. His classmates, his teachers, even the orphans he lived with. Each was a piece on the board.
He smiled faintly in the candlelight, pale face half in shadow.
The serpent was quiet now. Waiting. But soon, the grass would move with his steps, and none of them would notice until it was too late.