The training field was alive with the sounds of children sparring. Wooden kunai clacked against each other, muffled thuds marked every throw, and the occasional grunt or cry rang out when a hit landed. Dust swirled in the air, kicked up by small feet scrambling for footing.
Orochimaru stood at the edge of the field, his pale eyes half-lidded. He observed, not as a child should—with excitement, nerves, or reckless energy—but with the cold detachment of a scientist studying specimens.
His gaze slid past the obvious stars of the Academy.
There was Sarutobi Asuma, the Hokage's own son, already bold and eager despite his age, trying too hard to impress. Next to him, the perpetually lazy Nara child, Shikaku's cousin, who yawned even while holding a kunai, yet struck with frightening precision when forced to move.
Orochimaru catalogued them silently, recording strengths, flaws, tendencies.
But his attention lingered longer on those the others dismissed.
The shy girl at the corner who flinched every time her name was called. Her grip was weak, her stance unsure—but her eyes darted everywhere, drinking in details most missed. A natural observer. If molded properly, she could make an excellent scout.
The loudmouthed boy who boasted before every spar, only to lose almost immediately. Arrogant, insecure, predictable—but if broken down and rebuilt, he might become a loyal pawn desperate to prove himself.
And then there was Danzo.
Even as a boy, Danzo Shimura was different. His movements were stiff, deliberate, his eyes sharp with calculation. When he fought, he didn't simply try to win—he tried to break his opponent, to crush their spirit. A single glance told Orochimaru everything: Danzo wasn't here to learn how to be a shinobi. He was here to learn how to control them.
Orochimaru almost smiled. Cautious little bastard, even now.
The sparring ended, and the instructor—a tall man with a scar running across his cheek—called for a break.
"Orochimaru, you're up next."
The pale boy stepped forward. Whispers rippled across the children. He already carried an aura of unease, as though some instinct warned them he was different.
His opponent was a broad-shouldered boy named Takeda, known for his brute strength and short temper.
Takeda grinned. "Don't faint on me, snake boy."
The insult rolled off Orochimaru like water. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Takeda's stance. Too forward-heavy. Sloppy grip. No discipline in his breathing.
The instructor shouted, "Begin!"
Takeda charged.
In a flash, Orochimaru sidestepped, pivoted, and slammed the butt of his wooden kunai against Takeda's ribs. The boy wheezed, stumbling. Orochimaru didn't give him time to recover. His movements flowed unnaturally smooth, almost serpentine—ducking under Takeda's wild swing, sweeping his legs out, and pressing the kunai tip against his throat before the dust even settled.
The match was over in seconds.
Silence fell.
The instructor blinked, then cleared his throat. "Winner: Orochimaru."
Takeda sat up, red-faced and seething. "You—you cheated!"
"No," Orochimaru said softly, his tone calm but cutting. "You were predictable."
Some of the children laughed nervously. Others shivered.
Danzo, watching from the sidelines, narrowed his eyes. He had seen more than just skill. He had seen control.
Later, during the lunch break, Orochimaru sat alone beneath a tree, nibbling on rice balls he barely tasted. He preferred the solitude; it gave him space to think.
But today, he was not left alone.
The shy girl from earlier approached, clutching her lunch. She hesitated, then bowed slightly. "M-May I… sit here?"
Orochimaru regarded her for a long moment, then nodded.
She sat, quiet at first, then spoke. "You were… amazing out there. You didn't even look scared."
"Fear clouds judgment," Orochimaru replied. "And judgment decides life or death."
The girl blinked, her expression caught between admiration and unease.
Before the silence stretched too long, another voice cut in.
"Don't listen to him. He's just creepy."
It was Takeda, his lip swollen from the spar, glaring down at them. A couple of other boys lingered behind him, egging him on.
Orochimaru stood, brushing dirt from his robes. His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it. "Do you want another demonstration?"
Takeda bristled. He wanted to fight, but the memory of how easily he was beaten still burned in his chest. Instead, he spat on the ground and muttered, "Freak," before stomping off.
The girl exhaled in relief. "Th-thank you…"
Orochimaru glanced at her, expression unreadable. "Don't thank me. I wasn't protecting you. I was protecting my peace."
Still, he noted the way she looked at him now—not with fear, but with a budding sense of reliance. Another thread woven into his growing web.
That evening, as the Academy emptied, Orochimaru lingered behind, gazing at the chalkboard filled with scribbled lessons on chakra control. His mind drifted.
He could see the pathways of chakra in his imagination, could already think of ways to refine the crude exercises the Academy drilled into them.
But more than that, he could see the people around him like pieces on a shogi board. Each had potential. Each could be guided, molded, broken, or sharpened.
He smiled faintly.
The serpent was already slithering through the grass, unseen.
And by the time anyone noticed, it would be far too late.