The rain in the Land of Sound did not wash things clean; it merely made the rot slicker.
Kabutoadjusted his round spectacles, wiping away a smear of mist as he approached the entrance to the Eastern Hideout. The forest here was dense and suffocating, the trees growing tall and thin like prison bars, blocking out the grey sky.
Rising from the gloom was the entrance—a colossal stone sculpture of a snake's head.
It was ancient, the grey stone stained with moss and lichen, its jaw unhinged to reveal a gaping black void. The stone fangs were taller than a man. To enter the hideout was to be swallowed whole.
Rainwater streamed down the stone fangs in jagged rivulets, looking uncomfortably like drool.
Kabuto stepped over the lower lip of the stone beast and descended into the dark.
The air inside changed instantly. The humidity of the forest was replaced by a dry, sterile chill that smelled of wax and formaldehyde.
It was a heavy, preserving scent, the kind that coated the back of the throat and tasted faintly of copper.
He walked down the main corridor. Unlike the cold stone of the exterior, the interior was clad entirely in wood. The floor, walls, and ceiling were paneled in a dizzying, repetitive pattern of swirling grain—interlocking circles and waves that created a subtle sense of vertigo.
The knots in the wood looked like hundreds of unblinking eyes, watching him from every angle.
It felt organic. It felt like walking down a wooden gullet.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
His wooden sandals echoed against the planks. The only light came from candles set in wooden sconces carved to look like smaller snakes, their flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to slither along the walls.
Hiss-pop.
A pocket of sap in a candle wick burst, the sudden noise sharp in the oppressive quiet.
Kabuto moved with efficiency. He had a report to deliver, but more importantly, he had a patient to monitor.
Kabuto bypassed the main sanctum, heading straight for the lower laboratories.
He pushed open the heavy iron doors. The warm candlelight vanished, replaced by the clinical, harsh glow of chakra-infused science.
The Stasis Room was usually a place of quiet humming. Rows of vertical glass cylinders lined the walls, filled with glowing cyan-blue liquid, suspending test subjects in a dreamless sleep. Thick black cables snaked from the ceiling, feeding oxygen and sedatives into the metal caps of the tanks.
Today, however, the silence was broken by the crunch of glass underfoot.
Orochimaru stood in the center of the room, his back to the door.
He was not wearing his usual skin. He was wearing the body of Gen'yūmaru—young, broad-shouldered, and brimming with stolen vitality. He wore a simple white kimono that was already stained with dampness at the hem.
He was staring down at a shattered tank.
"Lord Orochimaru," Kabuto said softly, stepping over a severed black cable that sparked weakly on the wet floor.
Zzzzt.
The spark cast a strobe-like, erratic blue light across the room, making the shadows jump.
The tank had been obliterated. Thick shards of curved glass lay scattered across the tiles. The cyan fluid was puddling in the drains, a distinctly artificial, salty scent.
The fluid was viscous, clinging to the tile grout like mucus rather than water.
Stuck to the jagged edge of one glass shard was a clump of wet, silver-white hair.
"Kabuto," Orochimaru said.
His voice was still the same—that distinct, rasping hiss—but it resonated differently in this new chest. Deeper. Younger.
"It seems," Orochimaru mused, tilting his head to look at a trail of wet footprints leading toward the ventilation shaft, "that the Hōzuki boy decided to end his nap early."
Kabuto looked at the destruction. The metal lid of the tank had been dented from the inside.
"Suigetsu," Kabuto analyzed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "He must have liquified his muscle mass to bypass the restraints, then pressurized the water inside the tank to burst the glass. Impressive hydraulic force."
Kabuto bowed slightly.
"I will assemble a retrieval team immediately. He is dehydrated and disoriented. He cannot have gone far."
Orochimaru nodded, turning around. His face—Gen'yūmaru's face—twisted into a cruel smile.
"Yes. Go. Bring him back before he dries ou—"
Thump.
Orochimaru stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes widened. The vertical slit pupils trembled violently.
He staggered forward, his hand flying up to grip the left side of his face. His fingers dug into the skin, dragging the flesh down, distorting the young features into a grotesque mask of agony.
Squelch.
The sound of wet meat shifting under the skin was audible, a sickening friction of muscle against muscle.
"Lord Orochimaru!" Kabuto surged forward, his hands glowing green with medical chakra.
"Stay back!" Orochimaru hissed.
The Sannin fell to one knee, splashing in the spilled preservation fluid. He gasped, his breath hitching in his throat.
Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, smelling sour and acrid—the scent of a fever spiking in seconds.
Kabuto froze, his hands hovering in the air. He watched the struggle with a clinical, detached horror.
It wasn't a physical injury. It was the soul. The new vessel was fighting back. The spirit of Gen'yūmaru was dead, but the body remembered. The immune system of the soul was trying to reject the parasite.
Orochimaru's neck muscles bulged. A vein popped in his forehead. He let out a low, guttural growl that sounded like two voices screaming in unison.
Then, slowly, the trembling stopped.
Orochimaru exhaled a long, shuddering breath. He lowered his hand. The face smoothed out, returning to the mask of arrogant youth.
He stood up, shaking off the water from his kimono.
"The fit..." Orochimaru whispered, touching his jaw, "...is still tight. It pinches at the seams."
"Your transfer was recent," Kabuto said quietly, lowering his hands. "The rejection symptoms will fade. But you must not overexert yourself."
Orochimaru looked at his hand—Gen'yūmaru's hand—and flexed the fingers.
"No matter," Orochimaru murmured.
He looked back at the broken tank. At the silver hair stuck in the glass. At the wet footprints leading to freedom.
"What about the Hōzuki?" Kabuto asked. "Shall I deploy the Sound Four? Or Kimimaro?"
Orochimaru stared at the wreckage. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"No," Orochimaru said.
He turned away from the mess, walking toward the door, his wooden sandals crunching over the glass.
Crinkle-snap.
The shards pulverized under the wood, turning into diamond dust in his wake.
"He broke the cage himself. He has grown strong enough to make it on his own."
Orochimaru paused in the doorway, the candlelight from the corridor illuminating half of his stolen face.
"Let us see how long he survives in the wild. If he dies, he was unworthy of the jar. If he lives... perhaps he will return to me on his own."
Kabuto watched his master leave. He looked back at the silver hair one last time.
"As you wish," Kabuto whispered.
He bowed to the empty room, turned off the lights, and left the laboratory in darkness.