Renjiro stood at the edge of the trampled earth, his Sharingan still active, the three tomoe spinning slowly as they tracked every micro-movement of the man across from him.
Across from him, Orochimaru had gone utterly silent.
He's been quiet too long, Renjiro thought, his internal voice sharp with caution. I can't read him. I've never been able to read him.
He remembered previous encounters with the Sannin; the way Orochimaru seemed to exist outside the normal rhythms of human interaction, his emotions masked, his intentions veiled behind layers of charm and menace.
He was impossible to predict, impossible to anticipate, impossible to trust. Every word out of his mouth could be the truth, a lie or something in between. Every gesture could be genuine, calculated or both.
Was revealing the Hashirama cells a mistake? Did I show too much too early? Is he planning to simply take everything?
Renjiro's Sharingan spun a little faster, tracking every micro-movement, every flicker of chakra beneath Orochimaru's skin, every potential threat.
Worst case scenario, he thought, I just fight one of the strongest shinobi alive to the death.
The thought was absurd.
He recognised the absurdity even as he thought it. He was Jonin Commander of Konoha, a seal master, a Mangekyō wielder—but Orochimaru was a legend, a Sannin, a man who had mastered techniques that Renjiro could barely imagine. Fighting him would be a huge task under most circumstances.
Yet I'm prepared for that possibility. I've been prepared from the moment I stepped off Uno's back. I'll fight if I have to. I'll survive if I can. And if I can't—
He did not finish the thought.
Meanwhile, Orochimaru was experiencing something close to excitement.
Behind his impassive mask, behind the still posture and the unreadable eyes, his mind was racing faster than it had in years. The Hashirama cells—Renjiro had Hashirama cells. The substance he had sought for years through channels that were expensive, dangerous, and increasingly compromised. And now, this young man; this Uchiha-Uzumaki hybrid with the Mangekyō Sharingan and the Adamantine Chains, was offering them to him.
Not offering, Orochimaru corrected himself. Bargaining. He thinks we are equals in this transaction.
He almost laughed.
Almost.
But he kept his composure, kept his face still, kept his thoughts hidden behind the mask that had served him for so long.
He has no idea what he possesses.
He thought of his lifelong fascination with the Sharingan. Ordinary Sharingan; stolen from fallen Uchiha, transplanted into unwilling hosts, were useful, but limited. He had observed them for years, had noted the drawbacks with clinical precision: massive chakra consumption that left the shinobi exhausted after prolonged use; the inability to deactivate the copied eye naturally, forcing the shinobi to keep it covered when not in combat. Possessing an entire Uchiha body would solve those issues.
But Renjiro is more than Uchiha.
Uchiha blood for the Sharingan. Uzumaki vitality for the chakra reserves. The Mangekyō Sharingan for the ultimate power. And now, Hashirama cells for the regeneration and compatibility that could bridge any gap.
He's a walking miracle, Orochimaru thought. The Heavens are finally smiling at me.
He thought of the Eternal Mangekyō—the problem had always been the requirement: two Mangekyō from close relatives, ideally siblings. Renjiro had no blood siblings.
But perhaps Hashirama cells could bridge the gap. If Hashirama cells can stabilise Wood Release in a non-Senju body, perhaps they can stabilise Mangekyō transplantation between non-relatives. And if Renjiro already has another set of Mangekyō—
He cut off the thought, his attention sharpening. The boy was still speaking, still negotiating, still offering terms as if they were equals. Orochimaru forced himself to listen, to consider, to calculate. He had been surprised before—by the shadow clone, by the investigation, by the audacity of the hunt.
He would not be surprised again.
Renjiro watched the Sannin's face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. There was nothing.
I need to push, Renjiro decided. I need to see where he stands. I need to force him to commit to something.
"Not all the Hashirama cells would be required for the procedure," Renjiro said, his voice calm, measured, each word chosen with care. "You would be able to keep whatever remained afterwards. Think of it as a mutually beneficial transaction. You get the cells. I get the Eternal Mangekyō. No one loses."
He paused, letting the offer hang in the air.
Orochimaru's smile returned—slowly, deliberately, spreading across his face like oil on water.
"You underestimate the complexity of what you're asking," he said. "The Eternal Mangekyō is not simply a matter of transplantation. It requires two Mangekyō from genetically similar individuals—ideally siblings. Without that, the procedure is... unreliable."
He stepped closer, "But I have a solution. A theoretical procedure that has never been attempted, but that holds promise."
He raised a finger, as if lecturing a student, his yellow eyes gleaming. "First, I would clone you. Create a genetic duplicate, a perfect copy of your body, your chakra, your potential. Then, I would accelerate its growth; force it to mature in weeks rather than years. Next, I would push it toward Mangekyō awakening, through trauma, through conditioning, through whatever means necessary. Once the clone's eyes had evolved, I would harvest them and combine them with your own."
He spread his arms, as if presenting a gift.
"Two Mangekyō from genetically identical individuals. The perfect solution to the sibling problem. A workaround that even the Uchiha themselves never conceived."
Renjiro's internal reaction was immediate, sharp.
If two Mangekyō from genetically identical individuals work... then maybe two Mangekyō that are already mine could work.
If the theory was sound, if Hashirama cells could bridge the gap between non-relatives, perhaps he did not need Orochimaru at all. Perhaps he could perform the procedure himself, with his own resources.
But I need to know how. The steps. The sequence. The seals. I can't reverse-engineer the procedure without understanding the underlying principles.
"What if I already had another set of Mangekyō?" Renjiro asked, as if the question were merely academic.
"How would you combine them? What's the process?"
Orochimaru's eyebrow rose—a flicker of genuine surprise that he did not bother to hide.
"And how exactly does someone acquire a second set of Mangekyō?"
Renjiro did not answer.
"All the Hashirama cells," he said, changing the subject, his voice firm. "In exchange for the method. I don't need your direct assistance, only the knowledge. Write it down. Explain it to me. I'll take it from there."
Orochimaru's smile widened, becoming predatory.
"Tempting," he admitted, and there was genuine hunger in his voice. "Very tempting. But I'm afraid my price has changed."
He stepped closer, close enough that Renjiro could see the texture of his pale skin, the slight dilation of his pupils, the subtle tension in his jaw.
"I'll simply take your body."
Orochimaru elaborated, his voice dropping, becoming almost intimate, as if he were sharing a secret with a trusted confidant.
"You are the ideal vessel, Renjiro. Everything I need to perfect the Living Corpse Reincarnation is already present in you."
He tilted his head, studying Renjiro like a connoisseur examining a fine wine.
"Why settle for a few cells when I can have the entire organism?"
His smile widened.
"You came to me seeking the Eternal Mangekyō. I will give it to you—in a manner of speaking. When I take your body, your eyes will become mine. And I will have all the time in the world to evolve them as I see fit."
Renjiro's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm.
"I'm offering a good deal. You get the Hashirama cells. I get the Eternal Mangekyō. There's no need for violence. We can both walk away from this clearing with what we want."
Orochimaru laughed—a soft, amused sound that echoed through the clearing.
"What did you expect? That I would help you out of the goodness of my heart?"
He shook his head slowly, his expression almost pitying.
"We are the same, you and I. Monsters, both of us. You are willing to harvest eyes, to experiment on yourself, to cross lines that most shinobi would not even approach. You track me across the continent, dismantle my supply lines, attack my caravans—all for your own purposes, not for the village's."
He stepped closer.
"The only difference is that you still feel guilty. You still cling to the illusion that you are doing this for noble reasons. But you're not, Renjiro. You're doing this because you want power. Because you want to survive. Because you want to shape the future into something that serves your vision."
He spread his arms.
"There is no nobility in that. Only ambition. And ambition, unchecked, becomes something else entirely."
Renjiro did not respond.
Orochimaru is wrong, he thought. All the eyes I'm planning to use are mine. I'm not harvesting from others. But I can't tell him that.
He exhaled slowly, accepting that negotiations were over. The mask of diplomacy had served its purpose, but now it was time for the truth—or as much of the truth as he was willing to reveal.
"Then you leave me no choice."
Then his Mangekyō Sharingan bloomed in his eyes.
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