Chapter 82: The Serpent and the Professor
A cold, sharp kunai pressed against his throat, but the Third Hokage's gaze remained unwavering. He did not panic at being held hostage by his former student. Instead, he stood with a composure forged by decades of leadership, his eyes burning with a fire that belied his age.
"It really is you, Orochimaru," Hiruzen Sarutobi said, his voice steady and low. "I should have known I couldn't escape your notice for long."
A slow, sinister smile spread across the face of the Fourth Kazekage as a hand reached up and pulled away the disguise. The skin mask peeled back to reveal the pale, hauntingly cold features of Orochimaru. His golden, snake-like eyes held a predatory gleam, and his presence seemed to suck the warmth from the very air, turning the top of the watchtower into a chilling pocket of dread.
"It truly deserves to be hailed as the Professor of the Shinobi World," Orochimaru hissed, his voice a dry whisper. "You always were perceptive, my old teacher."
The powerful, malevolent chakra that rolled off the Sannin was a physical weight, a storm of killing intent that announced the arrival of a legendary and fearsome rogue ninja. The claws of the legend were finally unsheathed.
"I knew this day would come eventually," the Third Hokage stated, his own potent chakra rising to meet Orochimaru's pressure. Though aged, his reserves were deep and vast, creating a stalemate of pure energy between the two masters. "However, it will not be so easy to take my head."
A cruel, wicked smile twisted Orochimaru's lips. "I told you long ago that you should have named a Fifth Hokage. Because… you are going to die here today, old man."
With a shared, explosive burst of speed, the two figures became blurs, leaping from the stadium stands to the highest watchtower overlooking the chaotic village. They landed with practiced silence, the Third Hokage now putting distance between himself and his captor.
From below, several figures gave chase. Four Sound ninja, marked by their Otogakure headbands, reached the base of the tower first. Close behind them were two Konoha Anbu operatives, their animal masks hiding their expressions of grim determination.
"Do it," Orochimaru commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion.
"Yes, Lord Orochimaru!"
The four Sound ninja moved as one, their hands flying through a synchronized set of hand seals. A strange, resonant hum filled the air as their chakra intertwined.
"Barrier Ninjutsu: Four Violet Flames Formation!"
A wall of shimmering, translucent purple energy erupted around the top of the watchtower. It looked deceptively simple, but the air within the barrier immediately grew hot and heavy.
BOOM!
The two Konoha Anbu, arriving a split second too late, slammed into the purple wall. Instead of breaking through, they were thrown back by a powerful recoil. A searing, violet flame ignited where they had made contact, the heat wave forcing them to retreat hastily.
"A futile effort," Orochimaru sneered from within the barrier, his eyes locked on the Hokage. "The flames of this barrier will incinerate any who touch it. No one can enter, and no one can leave. This cage is just for us."
"I know you are not a man who acts on simple spite," Hiruzen said, his tone that of a teacher trying to understand a wayward pupil one last time. "You have no clear purpose, no true motive."
"A purpose?" Orochimaru's chuckle was a dry, rustling sound. "If you must have one… I find moving things interesting. Still, stagnant things are unbearably boring."
He gestured vaguely toward the village of Konoha, where plumes of smoke were beginning to rise.
"A windmill that does not move has no value. In short, I wish to use the destructive wind I bring to set Konoha's broken windmill spinning once more. To see what new shape it will take as it shatters."
"You truly haven't changed at all," Hiruzen said, a sad smile touching his lips as he began to gather his chakra.
The two legendary shinobi flashed into motion, taking up positions at opposite ends of the enclosed space, their stances mirroring a deadly dance they had performed countless times in the past.
"Hehehe… I didn't expect to cross blades with you again. It is… exhilarating."
Orochimaru stood tall, his long black hair flowing in the heated air, an aura of malevolent kingship radiating from him.
Though old, the Third Hokage stood agile and resolute, his will as strong as the village he protected.
This battle was the final chapter in the story of a master and his student. All the fetters of the past would be severed here.
"Have you come to terms with your death, sensei?" Orochimaru asked, a playful and cruel arc forming on his lips as killing intent surged within his slitted pupils.
Outside the Violet Flames, the two Anbu could only watch in helpless frustration.
"Damn it! This barrier can only be broken from the inside!" one of them growled, clenching his fist in fury.
"All we can do is hope the Hokage can defeat one of the users. Then we can assist," the other replied, his voice tight with anxiety as he stared at the impenetrable wall of fire.
Seeing their concern, the four Sound ninja exchanged smug glances. "Let's ensure there are no interruptions," one said.
Their hands moved again, and a second, identical layer of violet energy shimmered into existence around the first. The double-layered barrier made the situation utterly dire. Even the Third Hokage's expression, visible through the shimmering haze, grew several shades grimmer.
"Hmph. It seems it will not be so simple for this old man to leave after all," he muttered.
"Don't say that," Orochimaru crooned. "Letting them in would only distract you. This way, you can focus all your strength on me… before you die."
His gaze was final, that of a predator who had already sealed his prey's fate. He was utterly confident that his power would be enough to behead the aging Hokage.
As the two shinobi of legendary power prepared to clash, none of them noticed—not the Hokage, not the Sannin, not the Anbu or the Sound Four—the barest, most fleeting ripple in the space high above them, within the very confines of the double-layered barrier. It was a subtle distortion, a pocket of air that seemed to hold its breath, concealing a presence of such immense and suffocating pressure that it defied perception. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving no trace for any to find, a ghost observing the opening moves of a play it intended to rewrite.