The underground hideout was quiet. But it was not the quiet of peace or rest. It was the other kind — the kind that clung to the air like something alive, coiling and tightening around the skin.
It was the kind of silence that did not soothe, but instead pressed down, heavy and cold, until the weight of it sat on the shoulders and crept up the back of the neck. It was a quiet that carried the feel of something waiting.
The air itself seemed thick inside the stone chamber, each breath drawing in the damp, cool weight of moisture that clung to the walls.
Faint streaks of moss crept along the cracks between the old, uneven stones. The scent of the place was a mixture of earth left wet too long and the faint metallic tang of rust or something like blood.
At the chamber's exact center sat a single candle. It burned alone, its narrow flame unsteady yet persistent.
The wax had begun to pool around its base, a slow drip trailing down one side and hardening into a frozen rivulet.
The light it gave was dim — too dim to truly push back the surrounding darkness. Instead, it simply marked a small circle of wavering illumination in which shadows danced and warped across the walls, distorting with every subtle shift of the flame.
From the edge of that circle, from the deeper dark beyond it, something moved.
The first sign was the faint scrape of soft fabric over stone, but even that was barely audible. Then the figure emerged.
Skin pale enough to seem almost luminous in the candle's weak glow.
Hair black, sleek, framing a face that was far too composed, far too controlled, to be mistaken for anything human in its warmth.
And the eyes — narrow, slitted, yellow like molten gold cooled into a predator's gaze.
Orochimaru's steps were slow, measured, each one deliberate.
His head tilted fractionally, the subtle sway of his body like the side-to-side motion of a snake testing its distance from prey.
As he stepped forward, the tip of his tongue slid out, brushing across his lips in that serpentine, almost casual motion. It was not an idle gesture — there was savor in it, like someone tasting the anticipation of what was about to unfold.
He stopped just inside the edge of the candle's reach, where light licked faintly across his face but left most of him swallowed in the half-shadow.
His voice, when he spoke, came low and slow, the syllables stretched thin, almost stroked into shape.
"Itachi Uchiha," he said. The name was given not like a greeting, but like something valuable being unwrapped for inspection. "So young… and yet… so very different from the rest of your clan."
The sound of his words hung in the heavy air for a moment after he finished speaking, as if reluctant to fade.
At the far side of the chamber's entrance, standing framed perfectly within the rectangular outline of the doorway, Itachi remained still.
He did not move forward. He did not step back. He simply stood, his form tall and balanced, not a single unnecessary motion betraying his thoughts.
The light from the candle reached him only in pieces — a slant across his cheekbone, a gleam along the straight, clean line of his jaw. Most of his face remained shadowed. But the eyes… the eyes were visible.
Dark, spinning, the three tomoe of the Sharingan turning slowly, lazily.
The motion was not rushed, not aggressive. It was steady, almost deliberate in its lack of urgency. Not a threat, but a statement.
Orochimaru's lips curled wider, though the expression could never be mistaken for warmth. It was a smile that hinted at hunger rather than friendliness.
"You… fascinate me," he continued. The words seemed to stretch even further, his tone lowering, dripping almost like the wax on the candle. "Such potential… such eyes. I could give you power beyond imagination.
You could become more than just a prodigy…" His smile edged further, his pupils narrowing in something close to delight. "…you could become eternal."
The chamber seemed to subtly change with each of his steps forward — not in the stones or the candle, but in the air itself. It tightened, constricted, as though something unseen was shrinking the space between the walls.
Even the candle's flame bent slightly in his direction, as though leaning toward a stronger, more dominating presence.
And still, Itachi did not move.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. But it carried. The tone was neither raised nor hurried, yet each word slid through the space between them like the draw of a perfectly honed blade from its sheath.
"You seek my body for your ambitions," he said. The way he said it left no room for doubt — not a question, not speculation, but the simple stating of a truth he had already known. "But you will find it impossible to take what you desire."
It was then that the stillness between them broke.
It did not happen gradually — it snapped. One instant there was space, time, distance. The next, there was nothing but the sharp distortion of reality itself.
Orochimaru's perception faltered for the briefest moment — and in that sliver of time, the floor seemed to vanish beneath him.
His vision fractured, splintering into pieces that shifted and spun, each shard reflecting a different angle, a different depth of the same impossible sight.
The Sharingan had bloomed into something greater.
Mangekyō.
Itachi's eyes now carried a vortex of power that did not simply see the world — they altered it.
In that instant, Orochimaru's body felt the press of a thousand invisible blades, each one peeling away the illusion of control he had carried into the chamber.
His mind registered the sensation as if it were both happening and not happening at once — as if the injury was real and yet suspended, a threat both immediate and eternal.
When the world reassembled around him, the feeling did not vanish entirely. It lingered at the edges of his awareness, the memory of sharpness ready to return.
Orochimaru's smirk — that unfaltering, snake's grin — was gone. In its place was something far rarer in his expression. Not fear, not yet, but caution.
Itachi's gaze remained steady, unbroken. "Leave… while you still can."
The candle burned on, its small flame tilting faintly as if caught in the wake of a departing wind.
Orochimaru's tongue flicked once, briefly, tasting the weight of the moment.
His eyes narrowed, not in anger but in calculation. Without further movement, he eased himself back into the darkness from which he had come.
Step by step, he retreated until only the faintest outline of his form remained visible.
Then, even as the darkness claimed him, his voice came again — softer now, colder than before. "We shall meet again, Itachi-kun. And next time… I will be ready."
The candle lowered itself further into its pool of wax. Shadows pressed deeper into the room.
And when the last sound of Orochimaru's retreat had gone, the air itself felt changed — heavier, colder, and far more dangerous than it had been before.
-
The forest at night was thick with mist, the moonlight smothered under a curtain of dark clouds.
Itachi stood at the edge of a silent lake, his reflection rippling faintly in the water.
The air felt… wrong.
A faint hiss slid through the stillness.
It wasn't the sound of wind, but something alive.
The water's surface stilled completely, as if even nature itself was holding its breath.
From the shadows between the trees, a pale figure emerged.
Orochimaru's eyes gleamed golden in the dim light, narrow slits of predatory hunger.
His smile was slow, deliberate, and venomous.
> "Uchiha Itachi… I've been waiting for the perfect moment to greet you."
Itachi didn't move.
Only his crimson Sharingan rotated lazily in the darkness.
> "Orochimaru. This is unexpected."
> "Oh, not unexpected for me. I've been studying you… admiring you. And now, I think I'll take what I want."
The last word was still on his tongue when a burst of movement shattered the night.
Dozens of serpents exploded from Orochimaru's sleeves, their jaws open wide, fangs glistening.
Hidden Shadow Snake Hands!
Itachi's shuriken flashed, spinning like silver arcs through the dark.
Each blade struck with perfect precision — severing heads mid-lunge, pinning writhing bodies to tree trunks.
The forest filled with the wet thud of bodies hitting dirt.
But Orochimaru was already gone.
The ground beneath Itachi shifted.
A pale hand burst from the earth, followed by a gleaming blade — the Kusanagi Sword, stretching unnaturally toward his chest.
The strike was fast, but not fast enough.
Itachi's body shimmered — then crumbled into a flock of crows.
Orochimaru's eyes narrowed.
> "Genjutsu already…?"
He turned his head just as the real Itachi emerged from the mist, three kunai already in flight.
Orochimaru twisted, the blades grazing his robe.
In the same motion, he lashed out with his sword, the blade elongating again, spiraling like a serpent's strike.
Steel met steel in a sharp clash as Itachi parried with a kunai.
Sparks bloomed in the dark.
The air between them was thick with killing intent.
Orochimaru's grin widened.
> "You have talent, Itachi… but I wonder—how will you fare against this?"
He slammed his hands into the ground.
Earth Release: Striking Shadow Snakes!
The forest floor erupted, thick serpents the size of tree trunks bursting upward, their bodies coiling around the trees to cut off escape routes.
They lunged in unison.
Itachi's Sharingan spun faster.
His movements became a blur — sidestepping, weaving between strikes, each counter precise enough to sever a serpent's neck in a single motion.
His expression didn't change once.
A flicker in the air — Orochimaru was suddenly behind him, his hand reaching for Itachi's shoulder.
Not to strike.
To claim.
But his fingers passed through nothing.
Orochimaru's vision warped.
The trees bent and twisted.
The ground bled red.
> "A genjutsu… inside a genjutsu…"
Orochimaru's voice was a low chuckle, but his eyes betrayed irritation.
With a violent shake of chakra, he shattered the illusion.
The world snapped back — just in time for him to see Itachi already closing the gap.
A flash of movement.
Steel kissed flesh.
A shallow cut opened along Orochimaru's cheek.
He froze.
Itachi's kunai was only an inch from his throat.
The gap between them was undeniable.
The pale sannin stepped back, licking the blood from his cheek with a slow, reptilian flick of his tongue.
> "Magnificent. Truly… magnificent."
He let out a low laugh, retreating into the mist.
> "One day, Uchiha Itachi… your body will be mine. And on that day… I will become complete."
The last of his words hissed through the trees before his presence faded completely.
Itachi stood still for a moment, the moon emerging from the clouds above, its pale light spilling across the lake once more.
He looked at his reflection — calm, unshaken, but with eyes that seemed to see far beyond the present moment.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, the ripples in the water slowly settling behind him.
---
End of Chapter
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