The woods were still for a moment too long, unnatural, like a breath being held. Even the insects had gone quiet, the hush so complete it pressed against the skin like mist. Then came a distant shuffle of feet, the irregular scuff of sandals dragging over root-knotted soil, low voices murmuring curses between labored breaths, and the dry rustle of wind slipping through high branches. The Sound Four dragged Sasuke's sealed body with grim determination, their movements stiff with fatigue, clothes damp with sweat and blood. Each step kicked up the heavy scent of earth and rotting leaves. The coffin bumped against stones and snagged roots, seals etched along its sides flickering dimly. Beneath the lid, his curse mark pulsed faintly, slow and serpentine, leaking a twisted heat into the air, like a coal that refused to die out. It stank of venom and promise. Not far behind, Akamaru's ears twitched sharply, a low growl beginning in his throat. Kiba's nose flared as he crouched low, the scent of Sasuke's chakra muddied now, darker, warped. 'We're getting close... but something's wrong.'

"They've stopped," Kiba whispered, crouched low among tangled roots and shifting leaves, his breath barely stirring the cool forest air. His eyes flicked toward the fading silhouettes ahead, muscles coiled tight beneath his dark jacket. Beside him, Naruto exhaled slowly, a gust of warm breath mingling with the damp scent of moss and earth. His hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into palm leather, eyes burning with fierce resolve. "Now's our chance."

From the canopy above, Neji's pale eyes gleamed through the shadows. He gave a slight nod, his voice steady and cold. "We strike hard. We strike fast."

Shikamaru's brow furrowed as he surveyed the uneven ground littered with roots and fallen branches, calculating every angle, every potential trap. "We don't go in head-on. They're expecting us. Let me handle the distraction." His voice was low, deliberate, weighed with cautious strategy. They moved into formation, Naruto, Kiba, Akamaru, and Chōji slipping silently through the underbrush to take the flanks, their breaths shallow, steps light against the forest floor. But before they could fully commit to the attack, a shrill whistle pierced the stillness like a razor. The sharp crack of exploding tags ignited in a blinding flash, scorching light and choking smoke swallowing the path ahead, shattering the calm and throwing their advance into chaos.

Sakon and Ukon's laughter echoed sharply through the smoke-choked clearing, cruel and mocking, cutting through the haze like shards of glass. "Did you think we wouldn't sense you tailing us?" Sakon's voice dripped with cold amusement, reverberating off the twisted trunks surrounding them. Shikamaru's jaw clenched tightly, muscles taut beneath his skin as the invisible web of chakra traps tightened with a sudden, snapping tension that bit into the air like a drawn bowstring. Above them, Kidōmaru moved with eerie grace, his eight limbs stretching wide and unnatural, fingers weaving glowing threads of spider silk that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Before any of them could react, the web surged downward, ensnaring Naruto, Kiba, Chōji, and Akamaru in a suffocating, sticky cocoon that clung to their skin and gear, dragging them into helpless stillness amid the choking scent of burnt wood and damp earth.

"Predictable," Kidōmaru sneered, landing with a thud that shook loose leaves from the branches above. Kiba swore under his breath and tossed a smoke bomb at his feet. The gray fog billowed rapidly, swallowing the tangled web in a swirling mist that blurred edges and muffled sounds. Kidōmaru's smirk deepened, unfazed by the haze. "Won't matter," he said, voice smooth and taunting. "You're not going anywhere." But within the thick smoke, shadows flickered, sharp, deliberate, controlled.

Shikamaru's calm voice cut through the murk, low and steady: "You sure about that?" Four sinewy black lines shot from his fingertips, slicing through the mist with uncanny precision to latch onto each member of the Sound Four, binding them like puppets caught mid-performance. Sweat beaded on Shikamaru's forehead, his chest rising and falling with the effort of control, but his eyes were steady, unyielding.

"I let myself get caught," he said, voice flat but edged with quiet satisfaction, "just so I could trap you."

For a moment, the bindings held tight, the Sound Four frozen, muscles rigid, eyes blazing with restrained fury. But the stillness shattered. Sakon's snarl ripped through the air as a surge of dark chakra snapped the shadow threads apart like brittle twigs. "You little punk," he spat, voice low and venomous. Before anyone could brace themselves, Jirōbō's massive palms slammed into the ground with a bone-rattling crash. The earth beneath them groaned and fractured, jagged stones rising swiftly to form a towering dome of dense, packed earth. The barrier shimmered faintly, as if breathing, alive with a subtle pulse that hummed deep in their bones.

Inside the choking sphere, the air grew thick and heavy, charged with the weight of stolen chakra twisting and binding the space itself. Shikamaru's fist hammered against the unyielding stone, grit grinding between his teeth. "Dammit." His frustration was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Kiba let out a furious roar, spinning into a wild drill of unrestrained rage. His Passing Fang struck the earthen wall with raw force, gouging deep furrows into the barrier, but each strike was swallowed quickly as the dome sealed itself seamlessly, undeterred. Neji's gaze swept over the barrier through the milky-white clarity of his Byakugan. His voice was tight, edged with urgency. "It's absorbing chakra. Repairing itself."

"And it's feeding him," Chōji muttered, eyes narrowing as he glared at the undulating walls that seemed to pulse with stolen energy. The heavy silence inside the dome pressed in on them like a physical weight, thick with tension and the bitter scent of dirt and sweat.

Shikamaru's gaze flicked toward the center where Jirōbō stood, unmoving, his broad form a looming shadow against the earthen prison. Taking a steadying breath, Shikamaru lifted his voice, sharp and calculated. "Hey, Jirōbō! What if we don't pursue Sasuke? Let us go, and we'll turn back." The words echoed hollowly, swallowed by the oppressive silence, no answer came.

He exhaled slowly, frustration creeping into his tone. "Okay then... just let me go. I'll trade my life for theirs." His eyes met the shocked gazes of his teammates.

Naruto's body tensed, and with a burst of motion, he lunged forward, voice raw with disbelief. "What the hell are you saying?!"

Kiba's eyes flared bright, voice fierce with outrage. "You're out of your damn mind!" But Chōji remained still, jaw clenched, knowing the weight behind Shikamaru's words. Neji's calm expression tightened with understanding, silent acknowledgment passing between them all as the reality settled in deeper.

"That's not what he's doing," Neji said coolly, his voice steady amid the tension. His pale eyes scanned the dome's surface, sharp and unblinking. "Shikamaru's tracking the weakest point of the dome. Look closely. When Kiba hit the wall here," He pointed to a faint, hairline crack, its edges still raw and uneven. "it healed slower."

Shikamaru's eyes narrowed, fixating on the same spot with grim focus. "That side's the thinnest. Which means Jirōbō's feeding off this side," he confirmed, the weight of the strategy settling over the group like a cold shadow. Chōji's fingers moved quickly, pulling a small pouch from his belt and retrieving his emergency soldier pills with practiced ease. The faint clink of the capsules was almost drowned beneath the heavy breaths and quiet rustling of their clothes.

"He's giving us an opening," Chōji said quietly but with fierce determination. Naruto's expression flickered, a storm of understanding and simmering fury crossing his features. His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides, every muscle coiled and ready for the strike they had to make.

"I'll hold him off," Chōji said, his voice steady despite the tremor of adrenaline in his limbs. He stood taller now, broad chest rising with each breath, the tension in the dome pressing like a weight against his back. "That's what you'd do, right, Shikamaru?" His friend didn't answer at first, just nodded, jaw tight, eyes shadowed with both pride and dread. Chōji pressed his palm flat against the warm, pulsing stone wall. It vibrated faintly beneath his fingers, like a living thing breathing through the earth. "Then it's my turn."

Their heads turned. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant rumble of Jirōbō's chakra. Shikamaru's brows knit together, voice low. "What?"

"I'll take care of Jirōbō," Chōji repeated, louder now, louder than the fear behind his ribs. He squared his shoulders and shifted his weight forward, grounding himself. "You all go. Sasuke's getting farther away."

"Chōji," Naruto started, stepping forward, his voice raw with disbelief. "Don't be stupid-" But his words caught, unspoken grief catching in his throat, because he already knew. He could feel it in the air. Chōji had already decided.

"I'm not being stupid," Chōji interrupted, his voice low but firm. "I'm being a shinobi." The words hung between them like stone, heavy, undeniable. His hands curled into fists at his sides, fingers brushing the seam of his pouch, feeling the shape of the final soldier pill beneath his palm. He looked straight at Shikamaru, waiting ,hoping, maybe, for him to say no. To tell him there was another way. But Shikamaru only stared at him for a long, searching beat. His expression shifted, surprise, grief, then something steadier. Acceptance. He saw the steel behind Chōji's usual softness, and it silenced him.

"...I trust you," Shikamaru said finally, voice hoarse. "We'll catch up later." No one argued. They couldn't. There wasn't time. As they turned and sprinted into the trees, their footsteps pounded against the soft earth, kicking up dust and scattered leaves. The canopy split light in broken shards across their backs as they vanished, their retreat echoing louder than any farewell. Chōji didn't move. He stood rooted, watching the brush settle, the branches still. The silence that returned was deafening, too loud, too final. Wind stirred the dust around his feet like ash. Then he turned. Jirōbō was already there. Freed from the dome's shattered core, the brute lumbered forward, skin scraped raw, blood streaking down his cheek. His breath was thick with rage, fists clenched so tight the ground cracked beneath each step. His eyes locked on Chōji, hungry, vengeful. Chōji inhaled slowly, deeply. The last warmth of his team's chakra lingered faintly in the air, and then, it was gone.

"So, you're the one staying behind?" Jirōbō sneered, cracking his knuckles as he stalked forward, slow and deliberate. "Figures. You're the weakest link." Chōji didn't answer. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes shadowed beneath his brow. The insult stung, but he let it pass. He reached into his pouch with shaking fingers, knuckles brushing the cold metal tin. It clicked open with a soft snap, and there it was: the red pill. Just one. Small, almost unremarkable. But his heart thudded as he swallowed it. The effect was immediate. Chakra ignited in his body like dry timber catching fire. It surged through his limbs in a radiant bloom, hot and wild. His muscles bulked with unnatural speed, cords of strength rippling beneath his skin, his breath hitching as his chest tightened against the sudden growth. Light shimmered faintly across his arms, then faded, replaced by the sheer weight of power. Chōji let out a roar and charged, each step thunderous against the earth. The ground gave slightly beneath him. His fist swung like a wrecking ball, air splitting with the force of it. He caught Jirōbō square in the chest, bone cracked on impact. The Sound ninja grunted and staggered back, stumbling, his smugness flickering for the first time.

"What the-?!" But the shock vanished as quickly as it came. Jirōbō's features twisted in fury. The black seal along his skin darkened, spreading like roots. His body convulsed as the Cursed Seal activated, Stage One. His skin turned a sickly shade, veins bulging grotesquely at his neck and arms. He slammed his fists together with a loud crack, and the chakra pressure doubled, slamming into Chōji like a wave. Then he was on him. Jirōbō lunged with brutish force, each swing of his fists tearing through air like stone mallets. Chōji ducked the first but caught the second across his shoulder, it sent him spinning sideways, the ground tearing under his feet as he crashed, skidding across the dirt. Rocks scraped skin. Pain lanced down his side, sharp and blooming in his ribs. Something cracked. He wheezed, breath caught in his throat. His vision blurred for a heartbeat. But he didn't stop. Chōji fumbled into his pouch again, each movement a battle against his shaking muscles. He pulled out the second pill, green. His hand trembled as he raised it to his lips. He swallowed. This time, his entire form shifted with a deep, seismic groan. Muscles ballooned, limbs thickened until they resembled tree trunks wrapped in steel cords.

His chakra flared outward like a gathering thunderhead, so vast and suffocating it warped the air around him. "Super Multi-Size Technique!" The cry tore from his throat like thunder. In the blink of an eye, he expanded, his shadow blotting out the canopy above. The ground cracked beneath him as roots were wrenched from the earth. Trees bowed and groaned under the weight of his overwhelming chakra. Leaves whipped into the air. The forest itself seemed to flinch. With a roar that shook the treetops, Chōji hurled his massive body forward like an avalanche. The earth buckled in his wake. Jirōbō barely had time to raise his arms before he was crushed beneath the sheer weight of Chōji's chakra-infused bulk. The impact was deafening, earth split, dust exploded outward in a wave, and the shockwave knocked loose entire branches from the trees above. For a heartbeat, all was still. Then the rubble shifted. Jirōbō's growl pierced through the dust cloud like a beast in agony. The chakra around him twisted unnaturally, foul and oppressive. With a monstrous cry, he shoved upward, and Chōji was forced back, his massive body crashing into the earth like a fallen boulder. Jirōbō emerged, hunched and snarling. His form had mutated, Stage Two. His skin was pitch-dark, his shoulders jagged with protrusions, fangs gleaming beneath lips pulled back in a feral grin. His eyes were no longer human. Only madness lived there now.

"You're not good enough!" he bellowed, spittle flying. The force of his voice alone rippled the grass. Chōji coughed, doubled over, and tasted blood on his tongue. Warm and coppery. His hands shook as he propped himself up, ribs screaming with every breath. 'I can't win like this. Not with just two pills.' His gaze dropped to the tin now lying open in the dirt beside him. One pill remained. The yellow one. His fingers hesitated above it, trembling with exhaustion. The golden shell glinted in the filtered light, innocent and final. The memory of his father's voice echoed from some deep, guarded place: "The third pill destroys everything... to give you everything. Power that burns your body's life away. Death is almost certain. Almost." Chōji's breath caught. His heart thudded once, hard. Every instinct in him screamed to stop, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he stared at it, not with fear... but with resolve.

"I can't let them down." His voice cracked as he said it, barely above a whisper. Then he swallowed the yellow pill. It burned. The moment it slid down his throat, his chakra didn't just flare, it detonated. A pulse of golden light exploded from his body, surging outward in a blinding wave. The earth heaved beneath him. Stones split. Leaves were ripped from branches and scattered like embers caught in a storm. Even the air screamed, filled with a high-pitched whine as if nature itself recoiled from the sheer force of it. Chōji's body slimmed, yes, but the energy around him became colossal. It didn't rise. It roared. His chakra screamed like a divine gale, golden and wild, snapping through the trees with every beat of his heart. The lines of the butterfly crests blazed to life across his back. Wings of radiant chakra unfurled, elegant, translucent, and massive. They pulsed once, and the forest swayed. Jirōbō's breath hitched. His monstrous eyes widened. Fear, the first real fear, flickered across his distorted features. Then Chōji moved. He blurred. A streak of light. An instant. A blink. And then the blow landed. A single fist met Jirōbō's chest, and the world split open. "Akimichi Style: Butterfly Bullet Bombing!"

The impact shattered the air like a cannon blast. The chakra wings flared bright behind him, halos of pure force. Jirōbō's chest caved in, bone cracked like dry wood, blood bursting in a sick spray from his mouth. The ground beneath them fractured, spiderwebs of destruction racing outward with the force of the strike. A shockwave tore through the clearing, flattening the grass, slamming debris into trees.

Jirōbō's eyes rolled back. His monstrous form faltered, cracking, then crumbling. He didn't scream. He didn't speak. He just fell. Silence followed. Heavy. Final. The Sound Four member's body hit the ground with a deadened thud, kicking up dust and splintered roots. His cursed form melted away, leaving a hollow husk of what once was power. Chōji's knees gave out. He dropped to the earth, trembling. Each breath he took was labored, wet. His skin was pale. His fingertips were numb. Everything ached. He felt... light. Too light. Like his body was unraveling. Like he was no longer anchored to the world. His gaze drifted slowly toward the trees, where his teammates had gone. Where Shikamaru had gone. Where Naruto was running, full of fire and foolish hope. "I... did it... guys..." he whispered. His voice vanished into the wind. Then his eyes slid closed, and the world went dark.

Kidōmaru traps the remaining five, Kiba, Akamaru, Naruto, Neji, and Shikamaru. The forest had gone too still. No birds. No breeze. Only the heavy creak of silk straining under weight. Naruto thrashed against the cocoon, muscles corded with tension, every vein in his neck and arms bulging.

"Damn it-! I can't move!" he growled, his voice hoarse from effort. The spider silk clung tighter with every chakra pulse, tightening like a noose around his limbs. It wasn't just sticky, it burned, laced with chakra so dense it repelled even his raw power. Above them, between crooked branches, their bodies hung like bait on a line, prey, perfectly positioned. The threads gleamed in the dim forest light, glinting like knives.

Kiba bared his teeth, eyes wild. "Akamaru!" he shouted. The pup yelped, limbs kicking uselessly, his fur matted with sticky resin. Kiba's rage was animal, but helpless. He couldn't even twitch. Shikamaru's breathing was sharp and quick, his mind racing behind narrowed eyes. Every angle. Every strand. Every opening. But there were too many. And crouched high in the trees, Kidōmaru watched. Grinning. Patient. His golden eyes gleamed with delight as he pulled back a web-strung arrow, his fingers graceful and methodical. "You squirm so pretty," he cooed, chakra funneling into the tip. The arrow pulsed. Sharpened. Aimed straight at Naruto's heart. Then, a flicker. A sound like silk tearing, and Neji was gone.

"Wh-?!" Kidōmaru's grin faltered. One of the strands twanged, snapped, curling wildly through the air. He turned. Neji stood below the web, pale eyes blazing, Byakugan veins flaring down his temples. His hand smoked, fingers still glowing from the chakra-infused strike that had severed his binds.

"Your web's strong," he said calmly, lifting his chin. "But you missed the one person who can see everything." Kidōmaru's face twisted. His arrow snapped upward, aimed at the Hyūga now. Neji didn't flinch. The fight had begun. Neji reappeared in a burst of motion, faster than breath, faster than thought, sliding between Kidōmaru and Naruto like a blade drawn clean. His palm glowed with concentrated chakra, veins around his eyes bulging as the Byakugan flared. Thrust, strike,strike-! Each blow landed with surgical precision. The first palm smashed into the anchor thread holding Naruto, and the second ruptured the chakra-laced silk at its core. A burst of raw force exploded outward, a ripple of compressed chakra that tore through the air like a thunderclap. Threads unraveled midflight. Dust and shattered bark rained across the clearing.

Kidōmaru staggered back, limbs scraping for a hold, skidding across a tangle of his own threads. "Tch-!"

"Go," Neji barked, never turning. His stance was already grounded, arms poised, legs wide in the Hyūga clan's iconic guard. His pale eyes didn't blink. "This one's mine."

Naruto gaped, heart pounding, the remnants of the trap still clinging to his limbs. "Neji-!"

"I said go!" Neji's voice cut like steel, sharp and resolute. His chakra surged outward in a short burst, enough to tell Naruto: I am not moving.

A pause, then Kiba grabbed Naruto's shoulder. "We have to move." Still breathless, Naruto nodded once. His chest tightened, but he leapt after the others without another word. Shikamaru followed. Kiba scooped Akamaru. Leaves flared behind them as they vanished into the trees, and Neji... stood alone in the clearing, wind tugging at his sleeves. Threads drifted through the air like dead snow. Ahead, Kidōmaru crouched low, eyes narrowed, six arms twitching with anticipation.

Kidōmaru landed with practiced ease on a high branch, his six limbs flexing like a predator stretching after the chase. He wiped a smear of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked it from his knuckle with a slow grin. "Tch... So that's the Gentle Fist up close," he mused, voice thick with anticipation. "Orochimaru always said you Hyūga brats were something special." Neji didn't answer. His expression was carved from stone. He shifted lower into his stance, knees bent, arms out like flowing water. His lungs expanded once, slow and deep, drawing stillness into his core. The veins along his temples bulged, crawling like white lightning beneath his skin. His Byakugan pulsed, sight absolute. He could see Kidōmaru's muscle tension before it snapped. The chakra threads on his fingers before they launched. The flaw in the next attack before it formed. They moved.

Kidōmaru's webs fired out in a dense barrage, filling the air with glistening, deadly threads that shimmered like frost under sunlight. Neji surged forward, chakra erupting at his fingertips in concentrated pulses. Thrust, slice, parry- The silk shredded midair, torn apart by bursts of precision chakra. The air cracked with the rhythm of his palms, each strike punctuated by the sharp snap of thread unraveling. But Kidōmaru wasn't slow. He twisted through the branches, agile and cunning, each leap perfectly timed, every web spun from angles just outside Neji's immediate field. He ducked beneath a strike and flung a counterweb. Neji dodged, but just barely. A flick of Kidōmaru's wrist, and a cluster of threads exploded outward like a net. Neji felt the catch before he saw it.

"Gotcha." Silk bound his arms to his sides, pinning him against the rough trunk of a tree with a solid thwack. Bark dug into his spine. The threads burned as they tightened, chakra-infused and searing hot. Kidōmaru landed lightly, grinning, steps slow and savoring. "You guys always act like you're untouchable-" He lunged. Only for Neji to vanish. The threads collapsed into slack. Crack. From behind the tree, a sudden burst of chakra detonated, Neji spun out from the opposite side like a cyclone, unharmed, his feet tearing bark as he twisted back into stance. Eyes sharp. Breath steady. Chakra humming against his skin like an electric current. Kidōmaru skidded to a stop, blinking. That smirk faded.

"Chakra points aren't just in the hands," Neji said calmly, brushing a smear of blood from his brow. The strand of hair clung wetly to his temple before he pushed it aside, fingers trembling with effort but precise. His chest rose and fell in quiet, focused rhythm. "They flow through every pore in the body."

Kidōmaru narrowed his eyes, lip curling. "Tch..."

"Let me show you." Neji blurred forward, sandals scraping bark as his body cut the air like a blade. His palms moved faster than thought, controlled, exact. "Eight Trigrams Sixty-Four Palms!" The air cracked. Kidōmaru threw up a shield of webbing, but it was like holding paper against a storm. Chakra detonated from Neji's strikes in perfect intervals; two, four, eight... each blow a pulse of concussive force. Silk splintered. The branches groaned. Webs dissolved under pressure, bursting into shredded fragments that floated like snow.

Kidōmaru snarled, leaping into the canopy as the last strike crushed his defense into dust. "Fine then!" He bit his thumb, smearing blood across his chest, and the Curse Mark flared. Veins blackened. Marks slithered over his arms like oil in water, blooming with malignant heat. His eyes gleamed gold with bloodlust. Bones lengthened. His muscles swelled with power as his form twisted unnaturally. "Let's take this up a notch." He slapped his hands together. The forest hissed. A sound, wet and skittering. From behind the trees, spiders poured forth. Dozens. Then hundreds. Fangs glinting, chakra-threaded mandibles twitching. A wave of writhing limbs and hunger. They poured toward Neji like a black tide. But he didn't retreat. Didn't even flinch.

He stepped forward, legs grounding into position, arms flowing into that deadly, elegant stance once more. "Eight Trigrams... One Hundred Twenty-Eight Palms." Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack- Each strike was a blur, a thunderclap wrapped in silk and precision. His fingers pierced air and flesh alike, palms erupting chakra like shockwaves. Spiders exploded mid-lunge, liquefied by raw pressure. Legs curled in on themselves before they ever reached him. But even Neji, even Neji wasn't invincible. Between the heartbeat of his final rotation, between one spider's disintegration and the next surge of movement, he hesitated. Just for a breath. Sweat stung his brow. His left shoulder dropped a fraction too low. His vision flickered with pain. Kidōmaru saw it. A blink. A blind spot. 'There.' Grinning wide, he launched kunai, honed with webbing, reinforced for penetration, guided by calculation. They whistled through the air like sirens. Thunk. One buried deep into Neji's shoulder, near the collarbone. His body jerked from the impact. Thud. Another pierced the flesh of his thigh, skimming the muscle. Neji staggered, breath catching in his throat. His palm faltered mid-strike. Blood dripped down his arm, warm and thick, soaking into his sleeve. But he didn't fall. He grit his teeth, and held his stance.

"Still standing?" Kidōmaru chuckled, voice hoarse with exertion and thrill. "Let's see how long that lasts." The air grew thick with menace as he activated the second stage of the curse mark. Black tendrils writhed across his flesh, and his body contorted, bones snapping and reforming under his skin. Plates of hardened, chitin-like armor erupted across his limbs. His face twisted into something insectoid, mouth split by jagged fangs. From his back, thick cords of golden chakra-thread pulsed outward, weaving themselves into a grotesque mockery of craftsmanship. A bow took shape, colossal and sleek, strung with chakra that hummed with vibration. The air around it warped from pressure. Then the arrow formed, long and barbed, gleaming with venomous light. The point shimmered with deadly precision, aimed at Neji's chest with inhuman calm. Across the clearing, Neji stood still, each breath sharp and shallow. The ground beneath him was sticky with his blood, warm trails dripping down his side. His vision blurred at the edges, shadows flickering in and out, but his resolve stayed sharp. The thought of Naruto, of Sakura, Lee, Tenten, burned in his mind. 'I won't let this be the end.' Kidōmaru let the arrow fly. The world seemed to snap as it tore through the air, a high-pitched whistle followed by the thunderclap of impact. Neji moved. Not far. Not fast. Just enough. The arrow punched through his chest. A sickening crack. The force of it lifted him off his feet for a moment. Blood exploded from his back and lips in a red, frothy arc. His knees buckled. His body screamed. But he didn't fall. His hand reached up, slow, shaking, and grabbed the chakra thread still connected to the arrow shaft, now protruding from his sternum like a cruel spear. Kidōmaru's triumphant smirk faltered.

"Wait, what are you-?" Neji's fingers clenched. His chakra surged like a thunderstorm through the line, white-hot, furious. The thread ignited in a flash, like lightning ripping through copper wire. The backlash screamed down the connection. Kidōmaru convulsed violently, eyes going wide, limbs spasming as smoke curled from his back. He couldn't scream, his jaw locked. Neji staggered forward. One step. A breath. His sandal scraped earth soaked in his own blood. Then another step, slower. Shoulders trembling. The pain was unbearable, but it didn't matter. He reached him.

"Eight Trigrams... Sixty-Four Palms." Neji's voice was steady but laced with exhaustion, each rapid strike a precise echo in the tense silence. His palms struck with surgical accuracy, each blow a fleeting whisper cutting through flesh, muscle, and finally piercing the invisible chakra pathways that powered Kidōmaru's unnatural form. The impact sent ripples of energy across the clearing, cracks in the bark, dust falling from leaves disturbed by the shockwaves. But Neji didn't stop at sixty-four. His strikes flowed seamlessly into the next sequence, relentless as a storm. Sixty-five, sixty-six... his body trembling, breath ragged, yet every motion was unyielding, fueled by fierce determination and the weight of his comrades' hopes. Each hit chipped away at Kidōmaru's monstrous armor and will, his movements slowing, his breath ragged and shallow. Finally, with a final, precise strike, Neji's palm landed squarely over Kidōmaru's chest. A wet, sickening crack echoed as the Sound Four's heart ruptured beneath the cursed seal's corruption. The hulking form crumpled, collapsing onto the earth with a heavy thud that stirred fallen leaves and soil. The forest fell silent once more, as if holding its breath. Neji sank to his knees, muscles trembling violently under the strain. The arrow still protruded from his chest, a cruel reminder of the fight's toll. His vision blurred, edges fading into soft darkness, but a faint smile curved his lips, a fragile beacon of resolve. 'Naruto... Get Sasuke back. Everyone. Go,' his thoughts whispered in desperation, a silent plea carried on the wind. 'This is as far as I go.' His eyelids fluttered once, then closed as his body slumped beside his fallen foe. The world around him softened, the pain dulling into heavy unconsciousness, but his spirit remained unbroken, proud in the sacrifice made.

Tsunade guided her steadily through the hospital's rear entrance, the soft thrum of healing chakra pulsing faintly through the air like a gentle heartbeat. The corridor walls, pristine and pale, seemed to absorb the muffled sounds of footsteps and distant voices, growing quieter with every step they took. The faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the subtle warmth of concentrated chakra, wrapping around them like an unseen veil of calm and focus. As they moved deeper into the building, the ambient hum faded almost completely, until at last they arrived at a heavy, reinforced door etched with delicate seals that shimmered faintly in the fluorescent light. Tsunade pressed her palm against the activation rune, and the door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a small training chamber tucked away near the basement. Inside, the room was bathed in crisp, even light that reflected cleanly off the spotless floors and sterile white walls. The air was cool but held a faint trace of heat from the chakra-infused atmosphere, a quiet energy that seemed to vibrate just beneath the surface. At the center lay a single cot, its plain white sheets meticulously arranged, and beside it, a chakra dummy crafted from intricately layered muscle-weave fibers, taut and lifelike, its synthetic sinews faintly rippling as if waiting to respond. The space felt sacred and precise, an arena for honing skill and discipline, stripped of distractions and noise.

Tsunade turned sharply, her gaze steady as she gestured toward the training dummy. "This isn't just any target," she said, voice low and commanding. "It mimics every layer; skin, muscle, blood vessels, even chakra flow. Show me what you've got."

Sakura drew in a slow, steadying breath, the weight of the moment settling deep in her chest. Her fingers twitched with anticipation as she stepped forward, the subtle scent of earth and resin from the dummy mingling with the faint hum of ambient chakra. "Yes, ma'am," she replied, voice calm but resolute. Tsunade folded her arms, her eyes never leaving Sakura as the first flickers of green chakra kindled at the tips of her fingers. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air vibrating subtly with the precision and control that radiated from Sakura's touch, no longer mere textbook mastery but something fluid, instinctual, almost effortless. Placing her palms lightly over the dummy's chest, Sakura whispered,

"I'll begin with a basic diagnostic scan." The pulse of chakra beneath her skin rippled outward, intertwining with the dummy's own simulated flow, as her senses sharpened to the intricate dance of life beneath synthetic flesh. The glow deepened, a gentle but steady pulse radiating from Sakura's palms as the cone of sensing chakra extended, spreading like ripples through water across the dummy's synthetic form. The sterile scent of the training room faded into the background as Sakura closed her eyes, tuning out everything but the faint, rhythmic thrum of the dummy's artificial chakra network beneath her touch. Her breath slowed, measured and quiet, as her awareness stretched inward, peeling back layers of simulated flesh and bone. She felt the subtle unevenness beneath the surface, a cold, jagged line where the programmed fracture lay hidden beneath the false skin. Deeper still, the slow, irregular flutter of chakra interruptions in the left lung, faint like a distant heartbeat faltering. Then, a wet, sticky sensation of blood pooling in the abdomen's upper left quadrant, an artificial clot carefully coded into the model's circuitry.

Sakura's voice was barely above a whisper, steady and precise as she named each detail. "There's a fracture on the lower rib. Artificial clot forming in the upper left quadrant. Chakra circulatory flow is staggered." Tsunade's sharp eyes narrowed, watching Sakura with quiet admiration, silently acknowledging that despite lacking formal medical training, this girl's innate skill and control surpassed expectation. The room seemed charged with unspoken promise, the pulse of life and healing hanging heavy in the air between them. Sakura shifted her stance, fingers hovering just above the fractured rib, the warmth of her chakra coalescing into delicate, threadlike filaments that pulsed rhythmically with the dummy's artificial heartbeat. The green glow wasn't merely light, it shimmered, each thread weaving through the invisible currents as if sewing the damage with needle-fine precision. The fracture slowly knit closed, the uneven pulse smoothing, the flow of energy aligning perfectly once more. She moved smoothly to the abdomen, her breath steady, even, hands steady as stone. As she began sealing the simulated vessel, Tsunade's voice cut through the quiet hum of the room.

"Do you feel it?" Tsunade asked, stepping closer, her eyes keen.

Sakura didn't pause. "Feel what?"

"The way the chakra responds to you. It doesn't just obey, it listens. Most medics force their will into their healing, wrestle with it. You don't. You guide it like a conversation."

Sakura's lips pressed into a faint smile. "I don't have to." Her voice was soft but certain. "It already wants to heal."

Tsunade's eyes narrowed, searching. "And where did you learn that kind of control?"

Sakura hesitated, the flicker in her gaze deepening, becoming almost ancient, like the weight of untold lifetimes resting just beneath her youthful surface. "It's instinct," she said finally, "but some is from the various scrolls I've studied. Old techniques, lost arts."

"Which scrolls?" Tsunade pressed, voice low, curious.

Sakura met her gaze steadily, a quiet fire burning in her eyes. "Too many to list. Some forbidden, some forgotten. But each one adds a thread to the whole."

Tsunade's brow lifted in subtle approval, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "You're more prepared than you realize. Let's see just how far you can take this." Tsunade circled the dummy with the slow, deliberate gait of a seasoned shinobi who had seen too many fail to place her hope easily. Her eyes flicked from the slight shimmer of residual chakra still glowing at the dummy's torso to the girl standing calmly beside it, hands lowered now, but not trembling. There was a weight in the silence between them, broken only by the faint hum of chakra containment seals embedded in the floor. When Tsunade finally turned to face her, her voice was low, almost reluctant. "That level of control... the precision, the chakra regulation, the stamina, you're not just ready for medical training. You're already past the basics." The words settled heavily in the room.

Sakura's shoulders straightened, her breath held in that single heartbeat of acknowledgment. Her voice was clear, calm. "Then please, train me past them."

Tsunade raised an eyebrow. There was no arrogance in the way Sakura said it, only certainty, like the sky declaring itself after the storm. "You're not afraid of the pressure?"

Sakura inhaled deeply, the sterile scent of the chamber grounding her. "No," she said simply. "Not anymore."

Tsunade studied her for a long moment, then chuckled, quiet and low, like thunder beneath a calm sea. "You remind me of myself. Back when I still thought I could outrun loss." She tilted her head slightly. "But you've already looked it in the face, haven't you?"

Sakura nodded once. "I held a blade when I wasn't supposed to. I saw what happens when strength is all you have, and it still isn't enough. I don't want to feel that helpless again. Ever."

That struck a chord. Tsunade's expression sobered, her golden eyes sharpening. "And if this training breaks you?"

"Then I'll rebuild," Sakura replied. Her hands flexed at her sides, fingertips tingling faintly with chakra. "Smarter. Stronger. I don't want to be saved anymore, I want to be the one who saves."

Tsunade stepped forward, close enough now that the age-lined strength in her gaze met Sakura's resolve head-on. "Then let's begin," she said quietly, the weight of a promise behind it. "You're ready, I've seen what happens when the world waits too long to recognize a medic who can reshape it so I won't hesitate ." A pause. Then Tsunade's voice dropped to something more personal, almost reverent. "You're going to be the one to surpass me." Sakura's lips curved, barely, but it was there. Not a smile of pride, but of understanding. Of acceptance.

The chamber reeked of rot and old blood, thick with the stench of dying flesh that clung to the lungs like damp smoke. Every breath Kabuto took seemed to lodge somewhere behind his sternum, sour and suffocating. Orochimaru lay sprawled across the stone altar in the heart of Otogakure's inner sanctum, the cold granite slick with the sheen of sweat and blood beneath him. His body spasmed in jerks that cracked bone against stone, movements too jagged to be human. His once-elegant arms, those precise, murderous tools, now hung limp, mangled from within, twitching with the grotesque rhythm of ruptured nerves. Blackened veins bulged beneath paper-thin skin, pulsing as though some foul, serpentine parasite writhed inside, searching for a way out. Blood pooled steadily beneath his back, thick and almost gelatinous, a sluggish tide of ruin. Kabuto stood at his side, face strained behind a mask of calm professionalism.

His gloved hands pressed uselessly against the open wounds, each bandage soaking through faster than the last. "You'll die at this rate, Lord Orochimaru," he said, adjusting his glasses, though they slid against the sweat slicking his temple. His voice was low, urgent, fraying at the edges despite himself. "The decay is accelerating. Your soul will unravel before Sasuke even sets foot in the village. You must take a new host now."

Orochimaru's breath hitched, a hiss rising from clenched teeth. His golden eyes, slitted like a viper's, burned with a feverish glint, madness and longing in equal measure. "No," he rasped, voice raw and bubbling in his throat like phlegm. "Not yet. It must be Sasuke. No one else." His refusal was not reasoned. It was obsession, spoken with the stubbornness of a dying god who believed himself eternal. The air around him shivered with chakra leaking from the cracked vessel of his body, tinged with death and desperation. Kabuto glanced down again at the worsening wounds and swallowed against the rising bile. He could see it now, Orochimaru's flesh failing, cells collapsing one by one, not just dying but rejecting him. He was being unmade.

Kabuto's jaw tightened, the tendons in his neck straining as he pressed harder against the gaping wound at Orochimaru's side. Blood oozed between his fingers, sticky and warm, painting his gloves in deep crimson. "He may not arrive in time," he said, voice low and urgent. "The Sound Four have met resistance. The vessel will die before you reach it."

For a moment, there was silence, then Orochimaru's laugh broke through, a sound as thin as parchment and soaked in bile. It scraped out of his throat like rusted metal dragged across stone, bitter and wet with blood. Frothy crimson dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he turned his head slightly, eyes gleaming with a fevered, decaying light. "Then I'll die grasping for perfection." Kabuto's breath caught. That wasn't determination, it was madness, and it chilled him more than the rotting air around them.

He swallowed, then bent closer, his voice nearly a whisper, as if daring to speak against the finality already tightening around his master's limbs. "Take me instead. My body is prepped. Loyal. You know I'm capable of sustaining-"

"No." The word cut like a lash, Orochimaru's voice laced with venom despite its weakness. His head jerked, eyes boring into Kabuto with a feral intensity that made the medic recoil slightly. "You are a servant, Kabuto. Sasuke is evolution." His lip curled in disdain, blood glistening along his teeth. "I will not settle." Kabuto froze, fingers still pressed to the wound that would not heal. For all his loyalty, for all the years spent rebuilding this broken god from the shadows, Orochimaru's rejection hit with a dull, unforgiving weight. Servant. Not vessel. Never enough. He bowed his head, just slightly, and the bitter taste of failure rose in his throat. Kabuto bowed his head, lips tight, the rejection burning behind his lowered eyes. For a moment, the only sound was the soft, wet rasp of Orochimaru's labored breathing and the slow drip of blood onto the stone. Then Kabuto turned, spine straightening with clinical precision.

The soft swish of his coat echoed faintly as he strode from the chamber, footsteps clicking coldly on the marble. "If you won't choose a vessel," he said, voice low but steady, "I'll create one." The air grew colder as he descended into the lowest levels of the base. Here, the corridors narrowed, the walls changing from carved stone to rough, iron plating that bled rust down their seams like old wounds. A dim green light pulsed overhead, flickering with a sick rhythm that made the metal groan. The scent of antiseptic barely covered the rot, burned skin, old blood, the acrid stench of chakra forced into places it didn't belong. Iron-walled cells lined either side of the corridor, their bars crusted with dried ichor. Whispers clung to the walls, dry-throated murmurs, incoherent cries. Kabuto didn't flinch. His footsteps brought him to the edge of the central catwalk, where he paused and looked down into the pit below. There, a dozen prisoners shifted in the darkness, naked, scarred, and broken by years of failed transmutation. Some blinked blindly into the light, others twitched with convulsions of ruptured chakra flow. One man's arm had been replaced by a serpentine appendage of stitched muscle and bone. Another wheezed through a throat that glowed faintly, pulsing with stolen chakra that never settled. Kabuto's eyes narrowed behind his glasses, reflecting the dim green glow like glass over flame. "Evolution demands sacrifice," he whispered, not to them, but to himself, and perhaps to the silence that watched him back. "Orochimaru-sama no longer has use for failures," Kabuto called, his voice slicing through the stale air like a scalpel. It echoed off the metal walls, clear and sharp. "But he has room for one survivor." A pause. The silence hung heavy, like a held breath before a storm. Then his tone shifted, cool, almost playful, laced with something inhuman beneath the civility. "Kill the rest, and you may leave. Live, and you may serve again." For a heartbeat, nothing stirred. The prisoners remained frozen, eyes wide, some too broken to even register what had been said. Then, like a match to dry bone, a scream split the quiet. It was ragged and shrill, a sound torn from a throat that had forgotten speech. The scream became a signal. A man lunged, his body sparking with unstable chakra, and the sound of bone snapping rang out as his arm crushed into the skull of another. What followed was madness.

The pit descended into chaos, a frenzy of motion and agony. Fists flew. Chakra flared, wild and unfocused, some of it crackling with lightning, others burning blue with unstable fire. Flesh seared. The air filled with the wet sound of impact, the low gurgle of someone choking on blood. One woman screeched as her sharpened fingernails tore through a rival's throat, red spray painting the floor in bursts. Kabuto watched from above, unmoved. The stench of sweat, panic, and iron-rich blood rose up like incense. Screams echoed, blending with guttural growls and sobbing gasps. The prisoners had ceased to be people, they were animals now, clawing for breath, purpose, survival. One collapsed, his body convulsing from internal chakra recoil, his last exhale bubbling red. Kabuto adjusted his glasses, unmoved by the carnage. "Let the strongest decide their worth," he murmured, more to the blood-soaked air than to any one soul below. While the screams echoed like distant thunder behind him, Kabuto walked down another corridor, this one colder, smoother, its silence unnerving in contrast. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting sterile white light across polished tile that clicked softly beneath his sandals. The air was filtered and still, devoid of blood or dust, thick only with the hum of machines and the faint scent of antiseptic.

He paused at the threshold of the chamber, then entered. Inside, Kimimaro lay stretched upon a narrow medical bed, the blanket over him so thin it seemed more ceremonial than functional. His body looked carved from wax, skin nearly translucent, clinging tightly to bone and muscle like silk draped over a dying flame. Wires threaded from his arms and chest into softly pulsing monitors, steady, mechanical, and uncaring. They kept his body alive, barely, but did nothing to ease the slow collapse within. As Kabuto approached, Kimimaro turned his head with aching slowness. His hair, once sleek, hung limp around his face. But his eyes, though dimmed by pain and the slow poison of time, still held that same quiet fury. A hollow sort of strength. A fire caged in brittle glass. Kabuto didn't smile. "Still breathing," he said, clinically.

Kimimaro blinked once, his voice a cracked whisper. "Only until Lord Orochimaru needs me."

Something tightened in Kabuto's throat, but he only nodded, adjusting one of the IV lines with gloved fingers. "Then you'll wait. And endure. Like always... They're tearing each other apart for nothing," Kabuto said, voice low as he sat beside the bed, the sterile cushion barely creaking beneath his weight. He folded his hands over his knees, not looking at the boy beside him. "Orochimaru-sama will not last. You were meant to be his vessel."

Kimimaro's gaze shifted from the ceiling, dull fluorescence painting pale shadows across his cheekbones. Slowly, with quiet scorn, he turned his head away again, eyes fixed on a crack in the plaster like it might split open and swallow him whole. "I was ready," he murmured. "I gave myself to him. But this illness..." A dry, splintering cough tore from his chest. He pressed his fist to his mouth, and when he pulled it back, his fingers were dusted in red. The blood looked almost delicate on his skin, like a blossom blooming where it shouldn't. He stared at it a moment, then curled his hand into a fist. "Now I am useless." Kabuto didn't answer. The machines filled the space between them, soft whirs, beeps, the mechanical hum of life refusing to give up. They didn't need to say it. Sasuke had become the future, and Kimimaro, the body meant to house perfection, had become a relic too fragile to hold it. The silence pressed inward until Kimimaro slowly began to sit up, joints creaking beneath skin pulled taut by pain. Each movement cost him, his breath hitched, his muscles trembled, but he did not stop. Sweat beaded at his temple, and his arms shook as he propped himself upright, spine rigid with pride. "I may no longer be a vessel," he said, voice low and steady, "but I can still be a path."

Kabuto's frown deepened, concern flaring beneath his careful mask. "You can't even walk unaided."

"Then I'll crawl." The words were soft, but they sliced through the room like steel through silk. "If I die ensuring Sasuke reaches Orochimaru-sama... then I have not wasted this borrowed time." Kabuto rose slowly, watching in wordless silence as Kimimaro reached for his robes. Each gesture was heavy with effort, fingers stiff, breath shallow, but there was reverence in the way he tied the cloth around his frail frame. Like it wasn't a uniform, but a vow. When he finally stood, cloak settled over trembling shoulders, his body was skeletal, his movements brittle. But his back was straight. His chin raised. And in his eyes burned something death hadn't yet dimmed, purpose. Final. Absolute.

As he turned toward the door, his cloak trailing behind him like the veil of a funeral procession, Kabuto spoke at last, voice low, threaded with something between reverence and disbelief. "Even with death breathing down your neck... you still walk like a weapon."

Kimimaro didn't pause. The corridor's cold light stretched across his shoulders, outlining his fragile frame in stark silver. He didn't look back, his gaze was forward, his presence already departing. "I am," he said, voice like a whisper cut from steel. Then he vanished into the hallway, the fabric of his cloak whispering against the walls, each step soft but firm, deliberate. The sound of his sandals against stone echoed faintly behind him, measured, fading, like the final heartbeat of something sacred refusing to die quietly.

Blood soaked the stone floor, thick and congealed in dark puddles that clung to the uneven surface, sticky and metallic in the stifling air. It reeked of copper and rot, the scent curling in Gen'yūmaru's nostrils like smoke. The dim torches lining the chamber flickered against the damp walls, casting long, twitching shadows over the mangled bodies around him, limbs bent at unnatural angles, faces frozen in pain or fear. The underground pit was silent now, save for the ragged rasp of his breathing, hollow and uneven, as if his lungs were collapsing in on his will. Gen'yūmaru stood at the center, swaying slightly, the soles of his feet slick with gore. Pain burned with every breath he dared to take, the deep cuts across his chest and arms pulsing with the rhythm of a barely-beating heart. Yet he did not fall. His gaze was vacant, fixed somewhere beyond the carnage, beyond the weight of what he had done, or been forced to do. Around him lay the broken corpses of those who had once shared his cell, his hunger, his hope. They had names once. Now, they were only sacrifices. The heavy iron door groaned as it opened above, the sound slicing through the stillness like a blade. Cold air spilled down the stairwell, brushing against his blood-warm skin. Kabuto's silhouette appeared, descending slowly, boots striking each metal step with deliberate cadence. The echo rang like a countdown. He didn't bother to hide the curve of his smile, the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes behind his glasses, a scientist admiring a successful experiment, not a mourner stepping into a massacre.

"Well done," Kabuto said smoothly, the low timbre of his voice sliding across the blood-drenched room like oil on water. He adjusted his glasses with practiced ease, the faint gleam on the lens catching the flicker of torchlight as he reached the bottom of the steps. "You've proven yourself worthy of a purpose." His words were hollow praise, carefully sculpted, meant to flatter, not comfort. Gen'yūmaru didn't answer. His dark eyes, once keen with quiet defiance, now stared ahead, unmoving. They were blank but not empty, as if they had retreated inward to a place untouched by this ruin. The weight of what he'd endured, what he had become, settled across his features like ash. Resignation etched every line of his sharp face, his clenched jaw the only sign he still had breath to hold onto. Kabuto led him down the corridor, his footsteps light and measured against the slick stone floor. Gen'yūmaru followed in silence, the cold clinging to his skin, seeping into the cuts on his arms like tiny knives. The walls around them seemed to breathe with old suffering, scarred with deep gouges, stained in places where screams had died but never been forgotten. Every shadow whispered, and every echo reached back with fingers of memory. At last, they arrived at the sanctum. Orochimaru sat upright now, draped in black robes that hung off his skeletal frame like a shroud. The fabric shimmered faintly in the torchlight, slick and unnatural, like the sheen of a serpent's skin. Though his arms still trembled visibly beneath the sleeves, flesh mottled with corruption and pain, his face had returned to its mask of cruel elegance. His lips curved ever so slightly, not in welcome, but in want. Hunger gleamed in his slitted eyes, cold and patient. He did not speak, but the silence was louder than any command: 'Come closer.'

"You survived," Orochimaru murmured, his voice a rasp that slid like a blade over stone, hoarse, but disturbingly steady. It filled the cold chamber like smoke, curling in the shadows. "Excellent. You will do." Gen'yūmaru bowed low, his movements mechanical, drained of reverence. This was not surrender, not loyalty. It was the final motion of a man who had outlived everything but purpose. His body trembled slightly under the strain of wounds and exhaustion, but his expression didn't shift. He was past fear. Past pride. Only a numb clarity remained. Orochimaru rose with eerie grace, each motion deliberate, careful, as if even gravity was reluctant to touch him. His black robes whispered across the floor as he stepped forward, slow and unhurried. He swayed slightly, thin frame flickering between strength and decay, yet his presence remained immense. Unnatural. A storm pressed into the shape of a man. His golden eyes gleamed, not with malice, but with insatiable need. "As promised..." Orochimaru's words slithered into the silence like poison into water. "One request. Anything." He smiled faintly, a curve without warmth. "And then your body becomes mine."

Gen'yūmaru's eyes lifted slowly, blood still drying in streaks down his cheek. "Then... stop," he said, voice low but firm, each word dragged from the marrow of his will. "Stop experimenting on my clan. Leave them in peace." The air thickened, heavy with the weight of that plea. For a moment, silence stretched like a blade between them, taut and gleaming. The torches lining the sanctum flickered, casting long shadows over the walls scrawled with forgotten seals and failed names. Kabuto's brow twitched, just slightly, an instinctive reaction, unreadable but not indifferent. He glanced toward Orochimaru, but said nothing.

Orochimaru's smile unfurled, slow and reptilian. It didn't reach his eyes. Thin and glinting, it was the kind of smile one might give a dying thing, admiring its fight, but savoring its end. "Ah," he whispered, almost fond. "So noble, even now. As you wish," he murmured, voice curling like smoke. "Your clan will be untouched. I give you my word." Gen'yūmaru didn't flinch when Orochimaru extended his hand, fingers pale and clawlike in the low torchlight. He didn't recoil as the serpents of chakra began to curl outward, their sinuous tendrils crackling with sickly green energy. The air grew thick, humid with power, laced with the scent of blood and scorched stone. Gen'yūmaru only closed his eyes, a single breath leaving his lips, resigned, not afraid. Then the chamber ignited in a burst of blinding white as Orochimaru raised his arms.

The Living Corpse Reincarnation technique erupted like a summoned storm. Snakes burst from Orochimaru's body, writhing and coiling through the air, their hissing deafening beneath the roar of swirling chakra. Symbols bled from the walls and spiraled around them in midair, drawn into the eye of the storm. Gen'yūmaru's body jerked violently, his mouth wide in a scream that never found voice, soul peeled away in threads of light. Orochimaru's flesh split, sloughed like molted skin, falling in wet slaps onto the stone as his essence bled forward. The vortex howled, then collapsed into stillness. From the steaming chaos, a new figure emerged, upright, breathing, born again. Orochimaru stepped forward, reborn in Gen'yūmaru's frame. Younger. Stronger. Cold sweat clung to his new skin, and steam curled off reknit muscles still settling beneath the surface. He flexed his fingers slowly, savoring the sensation of power humming beneath the flesh. Then he smiled, lips curling with venomous satisfaction. "Perfect." Kabuto exhaled at last, shoulders loosening. Half in awe. Half in quiet, trembling relief.

But far above them, beneath the grey light of early dawn, another shadow moved through the forest beyond Otogakure's outer gates. Mist clung to the underbrush, curling like ghost-breath around the roots of trees, and dew slicked the leaves overhead. Kimimaro stood at the village's edge, the wind tugging faintly at the hem of his dark cloak. Beneath his pale skin, bone shifted in slow, silent ripples, like knives waiting to be drawn. The forest around him breathed in damp quiet, the distant cries of crows the only witness to his presence. He did not look back.

His gaze was fixed forward; toward the border, toward the Sound Four, toward Sasuke. Toward the path only he could walk. Each breath came slow, shallow, threaded with pain like glass splinters lodged behind his ribs. But his spine remained straight. His steps, unyielding. The ache was nothing new. It had lived with him for years, curled in his lungs like a parasite. What mattered now wasn't how long he had left, but how far he could carry his purpose before the end came. He thought of Orochimaru's eyes, that gaze that had seen him, truly seen him, not as a relic or a freak, but as a vessel of meaning. A weapon with value. The memory of it ignited something quiet in his chest. Not joy. Not hope. Just a vow, old and unbroken.

"I will not fail at this too," he whispered, voice almost lost to the wind. Not for pity. Not for redemption. For loyalty. And with that, Kimimaro vanished into the forest, like a blade loosed from its sheath, sharp, silent, and certain. Carrying death and devotion in every breathless step.