Space distorted. One Renjiro became two.
The first Renjiro charged aggressively, his body flickering through the smoke and flame, his hands already weaving seals. Explosive tags flew from his pouches, scattering across the battlefield in a pattern designed for maximum chaos. Fire techniques erupted from his mouth—not aimed at Orochimaru directly, but at the trees, the ground, the corpses of fallen snakes. The explosions were deafening, and the flames rose higher, feeding on the dry underbrush, spreading through the clearing like a living thing.
The second Renjiro retreated into the smoke, his movements silent, his presence masked by the chaos.
Orochimaru watched the split with narrowed eyes. The Bunshin no Aida technique was still disorienting—even after experiencing it multiple times, he could not determine which Renjiro was real. The chakra signatures were identical, the bodies equally solid, the threat equally lethal.
He's trying to create distance, Orochimaru thought, his snakes pursuing both targets. Why? His eye is failing. His vision is deteriorating. He should be desperate to end this, not prolong it.
The explosions continued. Fireballs roared through the smoke. Trees collapsed, their trunks splintering, their branches crashing to the ground.
It doesn't matter, he decided. I'll find him.
Inside the smoke, the second Renjiro moved with desperate speed. His hands were already reaching into his pouch, withdrawing a sealed jar, its surface covered in preservation seals.
He had no time for the careful, measured approach that such a procedure demanded. He had only seconds before Orochimaru's snakes found him.
He formed Chakra threads with his mind—microscopic tendrils of energy that extended from his fingertips, precise as surgical tools. He guided the threads to his left eye, and he began the removal.
The pain was excruciating.
His tri-wheel Mangekyō detached from its socket, the optic nerve screaming as the threads severed its connections. Blood poured down his face, hot and thick, and his vision in that eye went black. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to continue, forcing his hands to remain steady.
Faster, he thought. Before he finds me.
The right eye followed. Darkness closed in from both sides, and for a moment—a terrible, suspended moment—he was blind. The world existed only as sound and memory of his chakra field.
He reached for the six-pointed eyes.
They were cold against his fingertips—colder than they should have been. He guided the first eye to its socket, and he pushed.
The chakra pathways screamed as the new eye connected—rejecting, accepting, fighting, surrendering. The six-pointed Mangekyō flared, its pattern spinning wildly, and vision exploded back into his consciousness, sharper than before, clearer than before, different.
The second eye followed. The pain redoubled, and Renjiro's body convulsed, his knees nearly buckling, nausea flooding through him. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.
But he could see.
The smoke cleared.
Orochimaru emerged from the chaos, his snakes flooding around him, their bodies coiling and striking. His Kusanagi was extended, its tip gleaming with the blood of the trees he had cut down. His yellow eyes swept the battlefield, searching for his prey.
He found him.
And he froze.
Different eyes, Orochimaru thought. Different Mangekyō. A second set.
The tri-wheel pattern was gone, replaced by six-pointed stars that gleamed with an eerie light. Renjiro's expression had changed; no longer desperate, no longer fading. The blood on his face was still fresh, but his eyes, those new, terrible eyes, were clear.
How? Orochimaru's mind raced, cataloguing possibilities. Additional Mangekyō source? Self-harvesting? Cloning? Time manipulation?
Every answer made Renjiro more valuable. More fascinating. More desirable.
For perhaps the first time in years, Orochimaru felt genuine excitement.
You are full of surprises, Orochimaru thought, his smile widening. What else are you hiding?
Orochimaru did not hold back. The massive snake horde descended with a hand seal, not the smaller serpents he had used for testing, but the true summons, the giants that could level forests and crush mountains.
The battlefield became a tidal wave of scales and death.
Renjiro made one motion.
Calm. Silent. The six-pointed Mangekyō spun.
And then—green flames erupted.
They were not normal fire. They were pale, ethereal, almost beautiful—a soft green glow that seemed to come from somewhere else, somewhere beyond the physical world. They spread across the battlefield, consuming nothing physical, but touching everything chakra.
The snakes moved through the flames.
At first, nothing happened. They continued their advance, their bodies unaffected by the ethereal fire. But then—movement slowed. Coordination broke. The snakes began to writhe, their bodies twisting in patterns that had nothing to do with attack or evasion.
Green wisps began to rise from their forms—chakra, pure and visible, being pulled from their bodies like smoke from a dying fire. The summoning formulas that bound them to Orochimaru's will began to unravel, their inscriptions flickering and fading.
The first snake collapsed. Then a dozen. Then a hundred.
Thousands of serpents fell, their bodies dissolving into chakra mist, their energy flowing toward Renjiro, being absorbed by the flames, being converted into something he could use.
Renjiro felt the fatigue lessen. The pain in his eyes dulled. His chakra reserves began to rise.
Orochimaru felt it too—a subtle pull, a siphon, a theft. For the first time in the battle, something was touching his chakra. Not attacking it, not destroying it; draining it.
This isn't normal flames, he thought, his eyes widening. This isn't anything I've ever seen.
He severed connections immediately—pulling his chakra back, cancelling portions of the summoning network, sacrificing the snakes that were already compromised to protect the rest. The green flames continued to burn, but the flow of energy slowed, then stopped.
"Chakra-consuming green flames," Orochimaru said, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "You absorbed my snakes' chakra and replenished your own."
He tilted his head, his yellow eyes gleaming.
"A Uzumaki with a Mangekyō that feeds."
His smile widened.
"You're a walking ouroboros, Renjiro-kun. I'm almost jealous."
If this develops further, Orochimaru thought, his internal voice cold and calculating, if he survives long enough, if he masters these eyes—even I may not be able to control him.
The conclusion was inescapable.
Take him now. While he's still mortal.
He abandoned large-scale summons. They were useless against the green flames—they only fed his enemy. Instead, he switched to assassination speed—the lightning-fast, close-quarters combat that had killed more enemies than any of his grand techniques.
Kusanagi Cage.
The sword extended—not in a single thrust, but in a web of silver arcs that filled the battlefield. It sliced through trees, carved open the earth, created a lattice of death that left no room for evasion. The blade was everywhere and nowhere, its tip seeking Renjiro's heart, his throat, his eyes.
Shadow clones.
Four additional Orochimarus appeared, each one wielding a Kusanagi, each one moving with the same lethal grace. They surrounded Renjiro, their blades creating a cage of steel and death.
Renjiro recognised the danger immediately. These were not Naruto-style clone spam—each one was almost Kage-level dangerous, each one capable of killing him in an instant.
"Purge of the Wicked."
The green flames exploded outward from his mouth; not as a wave, but as a targeted assault, focused on the shadow clones. The flames touched their chakra structures, and the clones began to destabilise. Their forms flickered, their Kusanagi wavered, and one by one, they collapsed—their chakra absorbed, converted, fed into Renjiro's reserves.
Three clones fell. Then four. Then all.
But the real Orochimaru was already behind him.
Blind spot. Maximum speed. The Kusanagi struck, its blade piercing Renjiro's shoulder, punching through muscle and bone, emerging from his back in a spray of blood.
"Got you," Orochimaru breathed.
But the victory did not feel right.
Renjiro reacted instantly. While impaled, his hands formed seals.
"Fire Release: Point-Blank Burst."
The flames erupted from his mouth, engulfing Orochimaru in an inferno. The explosion was massive—BOOM—and the Sannin was forced back, his robes scorched, his skin blistered, his body retreating across the clearing.
The Kusanagi slid free from Renjiro's shoulder, and blood sprayed, but the wound was already closing.
Orochimaru watched, his yellow eyes fixed on the healing injury. The flesh was knitting together—fast, far faster than normal medical ninjutsu. The green flames continued to flicker around the wound, accelerating the regeneration, feeding the process.
Uzumaki vitality, he thought. Hashirama cells. Mangekyō absorption. Dual Mangekyō sets. Adamantine Chains.
If he survives today, Orochimaru concluded, he may become the greatest specimen I have ever seen.
Across the clearing, Renjiro stood with his new eyes active, his shoulder healing, his breathing hard.
He had survived. He had adapted. But he was still losing. Orochimaru remained overwhelmingly dangerous, and the green flames, for all their power, could not counter the Sannin's speed.
The flames work on his jutsu, Renjiro thought, his mind racing. But he's too fast. I need something bigger. Something he can't simply dodge. I need that.
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