Orochimaru could never forget what happened six years ago.
In Year 48 of the Shinobi Calendar, the Third Great Ninja War had finally ended.
Konoha, besieged on all sides, had paid a terrible price to claim its final victory.
But…
"What's the point of it all?"
Orochimaru's thin lips moved soundlessly as he gazed ahead, his expression calm.
The sky was blanketed by lifeless clouds. The already cold graveyard looked even more desolate and sorrowful. The people bowed their heads like reeds bent by rain, their sobs mingling with the sound of falling water. Countless black umbrellas clustered together, resembling a murder of crows.
He stood among the sea of black, his eyes fixed on the old man at the front, his esteemed teacher, the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi.
Sarutobi brushed the rain from a gravestone. Perhaps moved by the sight, the gathered crowd's grief deepened, spreading like a silent tide.
"…"
Orochimaru's gaze drifted to a boy with a watermelon-shaped haircut standing nearby.
He knew the boy. He had often seen him running laps around Konoha with his father, a lowly genin, both of them doing handstands as if it were some game. They were always full of enthusiasm and idiotic optimism, ignoring the disdainful looks of others.
But now…
It was the first time Orochimaru saw that boy cry, ugly, pitiful tears, snot, and rainwater mixing into mud on his face.
It was said that the boy's father had encountered the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist during a mission. The so-called "useless genin" had rushed in to protect his son's escape and, alone, managed to kill four of them. The remaining three fled in shame, wounded and broken.
The father died in that battle.
And the other boy…
Orochimaru's narrow pupils shifted toward another child standing alone in the rain, not even holding an umbrella as water soaked his body.
His sobs were weak, hoarse, and broken, like cloth being slowly torn apart. Tears streamed down his cheeks in thin rivulets, blending with the rain.
His name was Hyūga Arata, a timid, frail boy, unable even to activate his Byakugan while his peers already practiced Gentle Fist. Within the Hyūga clan, he was notorious as a "failure."
His father hadn't even died on the battlefield. After carrying a severely injured branch-family member to safety, he had his chakra nearly drained and was later tortured to death by the main family elders using the Caged Bird Seal.
That man had once served under Orochimaru during the Second Great Ninja War.
And those boys, what were they, nine? Ten?
'Heh.'
'So young, sent to war, and already stripped of everything they loved.'
Orochimaru's gaze turned again to his teacher. Lightning split the clouds, dyeing the world in black and white. The old man's shadow stretched across the ground, long and gnarled like a demon's claws. The sorrow etched into Sarutobi's face was divided sharply between light and darkness.
A deep, sickening disgust rose in Orochimaru's chest, so strong it nearly made him vomit.
All these people who died in war, what meaning did their lives have?
Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.
When the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed, the rain continued to fall on the lonely gravestones.
Orochimaru stood before Nawaki's grave, black umbrella gleaming in the rain. He placed a white chrysanthemum at the base of the stone. Staring at the familiar name, he felt no sadness, no anger, no pity, nothing.
And yet, he was not calm.
As he watched the rain trickle along the engraved letters and vanish into the cracks, he felt a creeping fear deep within his heart.
"Um… e-excuse me…"
A timid voice came from behind him, squeezed out like a whisper.
Orochimaru turned, startled, and met a pair of pale Byakugan eyes.
The boy flinched under his cold gaze but, trembling, managed to stand his ground.
"I-it's just… you looked pale, so I thought…"
His voice grew quieter under Orochimaru's stare.
Looking down at the boy, Hyūga Arata, Orochimaru realized he must have stood at the grave too long. The boy was likely worried about him.
'Kind-hearted, yet cowardly.'
'Truly… a failure.'
Orochimaru made that judgment silently and turned to leave,
"Orochimaru-sama."
The voice came again, and somehow, Orochimaru paused.
"Do you know… the meaning of life?"
He narrowed his eyes and turned back. The boy looked nervous, gazing up at him with confusion. "My father used to mention you. He said you were a hero of Konoha. So I thought… someone like you must know many things…"
"There is no meaning," Orochimaru interrupted softly. "And if there is, it exists only while life persists."
"The dead have no meaning."
Death, to him, was the ultimate equality, utterly fair to all.
No matter what you did or possessed in life, death stripped it all away.
The thought chilled him to the bone. His fingers clenched around the umbrella handle until they turned white.
Yes, when you die, you lose everything.
He didn't want to lose everything. He wanted to possess everything.
So he would not die. He could not die.
"Orochimaru-sama," Arata suddenly asked, "do you believe that gods exist?"
Orochimaru blinked, then chuckled softly.
He had no patience for talk of gods or prophecy, no more than he did for Jiraiya's childish belief in a "Child of Destiny."
In his eyes, gods were just the fantasies of the weak, illusions to comfort themselves.
"All-knowing, all-powerful gods don't exist," he said. "And if they did, they'd merely be beings stronger than us."
"What if… such a god possessed eternal life?"
Seeing the mockery in Orochimaru's eyes, Arata spoke hurriedly, "My father left me a scroll and a… a body. He said the scroll holds the Hyūga clan's greatest secret, but I've never been able to open it. The body… it belonged to our ancestor. It never died, and it never will, it only lost its soul…"
His voice grew weaker, as though he barely believed his own words. But Orochimaru's slitted pupils trembled.
No one in the shinobi world understood the soul better than Orochimaru.
To most, it was an illusion, an idea. But to him, a man obsessed with the essence of life, it was something real, something attainable.
And the Hyūga were one of the oldest clans…
"…"
He studied the trembling boy before him, a cold sweat forming on the child's forehead, and, somehow, he believed him.
Perhaps… it was worth seeing for himself.
Arata suddenly felt the rain stop falling on him. Looking up, he saw Orochimaru holding the umbrella over his head.
"Tell me," Orochimaru asked softly, crouching to meet his gaze. "Why tell me this, instead of your clan's elders?"
The boy lowered his eyes. "Father said… if he died, I could trade the scroll and the body for a good life from the clan. But… I don't trust them. They killed him."
Orochimaru noted the faint hatred in the boy's trembling voice, and, surprisingly, a trace of courage.
"You want me to help you take revenge?" Orochimaru smiled thinly. "Aren't you afraid I'll just hand you over to them instead?"
"I don't think someone like you would," the boy said quietly. "And even if you did… I wouldn't lose much."
"Only myself."
Orochimaru stared at him for a long moment, then laughed softly and rested a pale hand on the boy's head.
Indeed… life might be meaningless.
But to live was to encounter fascinating people, and this child was one of them.
Later, Hyūga Arata gave Orochimaru the scroll and the preserved body.
He managed to partially unseal the scroll and read its early passages, discovering the truth of the Ōtsutsuki Clan, beings from beyond the stars.
Each pair traveled from world to world, planting a "Divine Tree" that devoured all life, leaving one member to oversee its growth while the other returned to their home planet.
The body Arata had given him belonged to one such "branch family" member, an Ōtsutsuki who had passed down chakra itself and birthed the Hyūga bloodline.
The secret thrilled Orochimaru. Such a perfect body, such flawless structure, far beyond humanity.
Eternal life was real. The soul could endure beyond death.
If he unraveled this mystery, he would one day grasp the truth of all existence.
Six years passed.
In that time, Orochimaru believed he had completely mastered Arata. The boy adored him, obeyed every order without question, and even acted as a spy among the Hyūga and Root.
And though he lacked talent as a ninja, Arata showed rare insight in research, his curious mind often inspiring Orochimaru unexpectedly.
It was… rare.
Even Tsunade, gifted healer that she was, cared nothing for the essence of life itself.
For that reason, Orochimaru almost, almost, grew fond of the boy.
But in the end, his hunger for truth and immortality outweighed that fleeting sentiment.
Until now.
As he looked upon the boy who had suddenly turned against him and the headless corpse at his feet, Orochimaru felt a surreal absurdity, like the last six years had been nothing but a dream.
"You…"
The usually composed man spoke a foolish question.
"What are you doing?"
Arata only smiled faintly. "Thank you, Orochimaru-sama."
"As you told me once, true ignorance isn't the lack of knowledge, but the refusal to seek it."
"And I'd like to tell you this: weakness and ignorance are not obstacles to survival."
"Arrogance is."
Yes. It was arrogance that blinded Orochimaru.
He had never seen this "failure," this timid child, as anything more than a tool.
He focused only on the Ōtsutsuki corpse, ignoring all else.
After all, what could a weakling child possibly do?
He never noticed the depths beneath the boy's quiet surface until it was too late.
It wasn't he who had chosen Arata.
It was Arata who had chosen him.
He had been played.
Realization dawned, and Orochimaru laughed, furious and deranged.
"You think you can escape from me?"
In that instant, he vanished.
A killing intent colder than death itself exploded outward, like a frozen river bursting apart, the flood beneath roaring free.
Whiiing!
A shrill sound tore through the air, a kunai, too fast to see.
Even weakened, Orochimaru was far beyond what Arata could handle.
The boy knew this. Yet his pale eyes showed no fear.
And as the kunai flashed toward him, he stepped forward.
Shhk!
Blood burst from his throat, spilling across the floor.
The blade had severed half his neck, cutting through the windpipe and into the bone. Death was inevitable.
"Of course…"
Arata smiled faintly, lips moving soundlessly.
"Even now, you couldn't bring yourself to strike the heart."
'Then that means I've won.'
BOOM!
A thunderous crash rang out. Orochimaru turned, startled, meeting the furious gaze of the Third Hokage.
"Orochimaru! What are you doing?!"
The shout echoed as Arata closed his eyes, collapsing onto the operating table.
'Heh. A caged bird. A failure.'
'What a miserable script fate has written for me.'
'But it's fine.'
'I was born the best actor.'