Calculus of Hate
The quote, once a flicker on a faded page, now echoed with a hollow, taunting resonance in the cavern of his mind. Hate is too great a burden to bear. It injures the hater more than it injures the hated.
A sardonic, breath-thin smile touched the lips of the man lying supine in the darkness. "A beautiful sentiment," he whispered, the sound swallowed immediately by the vast, frozen stillness of the subterranean base. "And utterly useless."
He was not Coretta Scott King. He was not a creature of peace or civil forbearance. He was Sasuke Uchiha, and his entire existence, from the blood-soaked stones of his childhood home to the chilling clarity of his present purpose, had been forged in hate.
'Hate is what has defined me till this moment. Without hate, I cannot see the path. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering, unlike love.'
Love was a mist—soft, confusing, and liable to vanish when you needed it most. Love was the warmth of his brother's fingertip on his forehead, a gesture that had been a lie designed to cloak a massacre. Hatred, however, was a perfectly sharpened katana, a single, unyielding line aimed directly at the heart of his objective. It did not waver. It did not compromise. It simply was.
He slowly opened his eyes to meet the cold, familiar, reinforced-concrete ceiling. It was the ceiling of his latest temporary prison, a base carved into the earth somewhere beneath a mountain range that rivalled the peaks of the Land of Fire.
"And my path always lies in hate," he muttered, the conviction a sharp, almost physical sensation in his chest. His right hand shot towards the air above, fingers splayed and straining, as if trying to grasp some missing piece of his soul—a piece that had been excised long ago, replaced with the burning coal of vengeance. He grasped nothing but the frigid air, the energy dissipating as quickly as it had manifested.
His hands, calloused from thousands of strikes and now bearing the faint, purple-black stain of eternal sight, slowly unclenched and fell back onto the thin mattress with a sigh of fabric against sheet.
He lay there for a beat—a precious, slow tick of time—allowing his mind to fully slot back into the reality of his existence. Then, he finally dared to get out of bed.
A blast of Siberian-grade cold struck his exposed skin. "Ohhh, it's too cold outside."
He crossed the small chamber to the single, reinforced viewport. The world beyond was a muted palette of white and grey. It was February, and the snow fell not in delicate flakes, but in a thick, relentless curtain, mirroring the desolate beauty of his former home. The climate, in its fierce, protracted winter, was identical to that of the Land of Iron, or even the familiar, snow-bound north of the Land of Fire—but he knew they were further west, buried deep in some unknown mountainous territory.
The Calculus of Power
It had been over a year and five months since he had arrived at Orochimaru's base—or rather, a succession of bases. The Sannin was paranoid, or perhaps simply meticulous, switching their subterranean lairs every two weeks, even in this punishing weather. The constant movement had once irritated Sasuke, but now he merely factored it into his training schedule.
He paused, running a hand through his dark, dishevelled hair, the internal reflection shifting from philosophy to power.
He had gotten stronger. Way too strong. He could feel it in the humming, electric thrum of his chakra network, in the sheer speed of his molecular regeneration, in the instantaneous clarity of his Sharingan perception.
He ran a quick, cold-blooded estimation: he was certainly more powerful than Itachi had been at their final encounter. As for the one who had once been his closest friend, the unpredictable vessel of the Nine-Tails—KCM2 Naruto? It would be a brutal, absolute war, but Sasuke felt a cold confidence that he now held the key to victory.
That key was his Mangekyō Sharingan ability.
He hadn't awakened the full potential of both eyes at once, but the single, overwhelming power they offered was a game-changer.
The right eye, the one he had named Neith (the Egyptian goddess who, among other things, represented time), controlled the flow of time within a chosen boundary—specifically, on himself. He could decelerate his personal timeline, making the world move in slow motion around his lightning-fast movements; or, he could accelerate it for rapid, instantaneous recovery.
He had learned to avoid the ultimate technique: stopping his own time. That would result in him literally turning into an invincible statue, impervious to all damage, yes, but also utterly paralysed. A stalemate, not a victory. Even with the necessary self-control, the raw potential was terrifying. It was the ultimate defensive, time-stalling technique, and he kept it in reserve, a black card never to be played.
Then there was Nenriki, the sheer, unbridled telekinesis that flowed not just from his spiritual power, but from an even deeper, darker well: his willpower. He could make himself fly, defying gravity with a sneer, or he could focus the power to crush a lesser shinobi to paste—a technique he avoided, finding it distasteful in its lack of elegance.
Willpower. He scoffed lightly. In the entire shinobi world, who could rival him? He was the man who had survived two Tsukuyomis—one inflicted by Itachi, the other a consequence of his own growth—and had not just stood up afterwards, but had deliberately chosen the path of greater suffering. He was literally built different, as the vapid modern phrase went.
He moved to the small table where his clothes lay. He was dressed in his typical, almost theatrical outfit: a high-collared white shirt, worn slightly open to reveal the faint, hard lines of his abs—a deliberate aesthetic choice, whether he admitted it or not. Below, he wore black trousers secured with his signature purple, flowing rope around his waist. He looked at his reflection in a polished metal surface—a warrior, fine and lethal.
"I don't want to know the consequence of any of my fangirls seeing me like this," he thought, a fleeting, almost comical ego-boost that he instantly suppressed. He had no time for such trivialities.
He quickly picked up his sword, a blade far superior to the Kusanagi he had wielded before, and tied it around his waist. It was a reflex now. Why was the blade on his bed?
Because Orochimaru was relentless.
The Sannin, in his twisted, research-driven mentorship, had attacked him without discrimination: at the edge of sleep, in the deep hours of the night, when he was eating a meagre breakfast, and even—as Sasuke recalled with a dry, internal sigh—when he was taking a dump.
He had come here for power, and he was getting it. The price was eternal vigilance.
He walked to the door and pulled it open. A loud, grating creaking sound echoed through the stone hallway. God, they need to fix this door. He closed it slowly and moved into the hallway.
He quickly found the door to the study, a cavernous room filled with stacks of books—ninjutsu texts, scrolls, anatomical studies, and esoteric histories. One pile reached near the ceiling, a precariously balanced tower that seemed ready to topple with a single breath.
He scanned the room, relying on his sensory skills rather than his eyes. The study was empty. He followed the trail of dense, cold chakra to the next chamber. The lab.
He entered the lab fully vigilant, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. He saw Orochimaru bent over a stone slab, dissecting a corpse. The air was sterile and cold, but faintly metallic. The body was marked by unusual chakra signatures, confirming a bloodline analysis was underway.
As Sasuke closed the distance, the Sannin paused his work, his scalpel poised above the corpse's exposed abdomen.
"Kukuku, what brings you here so early in the morning, Sasuke-kun?" The smile, as always, was serpentine and unsettling.
Sasuke's voice was flat, devoid of emotion, a pronouncement rather than a request.
"I wanted to learn Sage Mode."
The scalpel clattered lightly against the stone slab, a jarring sound in the sudden silence of the laboratory. Orochimaru froze, his head snapping up from the dissected corpse, his golden, serpentine eyes wide and fixed on Sasuke. For a man who had seen and engineered countless horrors, the sheer astonishment on his face was a profound victory for Sasuke, however fleeting.
"Kukuku... Sage Mode?" Oroochimaru repeated the words, drawing them out in a low, almost incredulous hiss. He slowly straightened his back, the movement unnaturally fluid, like a ribbon rising from water. The lab's fluorescent lighting caught the pallor of his skin and the sharp contours of his face.
"You have already surpassed all of my expectations," he began, his voice carrying the low, hypnotic tone he used when attempting to impress a new victim—or, in this case, his most prized experiment. "You entered the Kage level around just eight months after arriving here. An astonishing speed, even for a Uchiha of your calibre. You continued growing, refining your Chidori variants into true elemental masterpieces, mastering the secrets of your Sharingan through sheer, brute force of will, and your swordsmanship..." He trailed off, a hint of genuine respect in his voice. "I conceded your superiority in the blade months ago. You are now probably near the apex of Kage level."
He paused, folding his long, pale hands inside the sleeves of his dark robes. The air in the lab grew heavy with unspoken appraisal.
"Even then," Orochimaru finished, his eyes gleaming, "you want Sage Mode."
The depth of his curiosity was palpable; his breath seemed to quicken, not from exertion, but from the intellectual thrill of witnessing such unrestrained ambition. Most shinobi, upon reaching Sasuke's level of power, would rest, consolidate, and gloat. Sasuke merely sought the next weapon.
Sasuke met the gaze without flinching, his expression a mask of monotone intent.
"Madara Uchiha was a legendary shinobi, said to be a rival to Hashirama Senju, the man who calmed the Warring States period by himself," Sasuke explained, reciting the history as if reading a dry tactical manual. He didn't need to explain the final piece, but he did, just to ensure Orochimaru understood the magnitude of the target. "And Itachi possesses the same eyes as him. To secure my path, I need as much power as possible."
It wasn't just power for the sake of power. It was insurance. Insurance against a world that kept throwing legendary obstacles in his way.
The reasoning seemed to anchor Orochimaru, calming the frenzy of his intellectual excitement. His eyes narrowed, contemplating the sheer audacity of equating a young Uchiha's goal with the power of the Sage of Six Paths' children. His hands clenched slightly, a low hum of calculation replacing the astonishment.
"To learn Sage Mode," he said, his voice dropping to a serious, almost conspiratorial whisper, "you must go to Ryūchi Cave, the home of the White Snake Sage. You will have to face their trials to earn the right to learn their techniques."
He took a decisive step away from the corpse and closer to Sasuke, his serious mien genuine for once, not a performance.
"But listen closely, Sasuke-kun," he warned, leaning in until his breath was dry and cool on Sasuke's face. "The power of the Sages is not merely a force multiplier. It is a raw nature, demanding control and mental fortitude. Only seeking power without wisdom and self-control will get you killed. The chakra will turn you to stone, a monument to your own greed."
He looked at Sasuke then—not with the greedy hunger of a scientist eyeing a specimen, but with the severe concern of a maestro instructing a brilliant, volatile apprentice. He looked like he genuinely believed Sasuke was about to throw his life away.
Sasuke simply nodded, his resolve unshaken. The warning was duly noted, logged, and disregarded. He knew his willpower was his true weapon; he would not fail.
Orochimaru sighed, then performed a rapid series of hand signs. With a violent poof and a cloud of pale, sulfurous smoke, a creature materialised in the centre of the lab. It was a massive serpent, its scales the colour of oxidised copper, coiled and heavy, its head resting near the ceiling.
Orochimaru approached the colossal snake and began communicating with it, his low, guttural noises entirely mental. Sasuke heard nothing, yet understood the process: the snake was being tasked with transportation.
After a moment, Orochimaru turned back to Sasuke. He ran his eyes over Sasuke's physique—the powerful chest, the tight abdomen, the taut muscles—then muttered something under his breath.
Sasuke arched an eyebrow. "Why is he looking at me like that?'
Orochimaru swallowed, suddenly looking awkward—a rare and deeply unsettling sight. After a perceptible moment of hesitation, he finally gained the courage to speak, pointing a long, white finger at the giant reptile.
"Sasuke-kun, this snake will take you to Ryūchi Cave. You must... allow it to swallow you. The snake will then cancel the summoning, allowing you to bypass the long, dangerous journey through the wilderness."
A flicker of disgust crossed Sasuke's face, quickly masked. He, the last of the Uchiha, the heir of Indra Ōtsutsuki, the one destined to stand at the pinnacle of the shinobi world, was to be transported via the digestive tract of a giant reptile. Perfectly humiliating.
He slowly walked towards the snake, remaining fully vigilant. This was Orochimaru's method, and the Sannin had a habit of injecting cruel jokes into serious operations.
As he stood next to the massive, placid head of the serpent, Sasuke couldn't resist a dry remark. "So, you are going to swallow me."
The snake did not respond. It merely tilted its head slightly, a large, unblinking eye staring blankly past Sasuke.
"Sasuke-kun," Orochimaru sighed, sounding genuinely put out by his own summoning's limitation. "This particular snake... cannot hear. It receives instructions solely through a chakra link."
Ugh. This is truly embarrassing. Before Sasuke could formulate a suitable reply to his sensei's ridiculous selection of transport, the snake's massive jaw unhinged.
The next moments were a disorienting, suffocating rush of darkness, thick, oily wetness, and a powerful, musky odour. He felt himself sliding down a warm, constricting tube. Just as the darkness became absolute, the world suddenly reversed.
With a sensation akin to an explosive reverse-stomach contraction, he was violently puked out onto cold, damp earth.
He lay there for a moment, gasping, covered head-to-toe in a thick, sticky layer of snake saliva and mucus. The material was viscous and smelled powerfully of sulfur and wet stone.
"Great," he screamed internally, the sound a silent, incandescent roar of humiliation. I, Uchiha Sasuke, the last Uchiha, the reincarnation of Indra Ōtsutsuki, am covered in slimy spittle and mucus. My great image is utterly ruined.
What would the future generations say when they heard that their Emperor—the great liberator, the man who shaped the future—was first swallowed by a deaf snake and then violently ejected like a piece of refuse?
He slowly stood up, every fibre of his being recoiling from the wet film coating his clothes and skin. He felt utterly filthy.
He stumbled away from the dissipating summoning smoke, his immediate, primal need overriding all thought of the trials ahead: water.
He needed water, he needed water, he needed water! His skin felt tight and cold beneath the slime. He began walking, his focus singular, but all around him was a dense, impenetrable white fog that clung to the air and muted all sound. Ryūchi Cave was defined by this spectral mist.
Damn, I didn't even eat breakfast. He was beyond merely cooked; he was steamed, boiled, and marinated in snake gastric juices.
As he continued walking, pushing past the heavy columns of mist, he suddenly saw a distinct, pulsing light ahead.
He stopped. Huh. If I remember right, Boruto and his friends walked for hours through the mist, right?
Then why the hell had he found the entrance in just a few minutes? Was his intense chakra signature drawing out the Sages, or was his sheer, repulsive filth acting as a beacon?
He slowly approached the light, which coalesced into a tall, imposing gateway carved into the rock face. Just as he stepped onto the crumbling approach, a figure materialised in front of him.
She was a vision of spectral beauty, with fair skin and dark hair intricately styled into three elaborate buns. She wore a long, loose-fitting white robe trimmed with green, a golden tiara resting upon her brow.
"Welcome, traveller, to Ryūchi Cave," she said, her voice pleasant, like the gentle chime of distant bells. "I am Tagorihime. You must be tired. How about you have some rest?"
He looked past her. Outside the gate, where the rock should have been, was a polished mahogany table laden with an impossible array of steaming dishes: roasted meats, delicate rice balls, fresh fruits—all untouched, pristine, and beckoning.
Something's fishy. Not only was she being overly pleasant, but the food looked utterly synthetic against the grim background.
"Why is there so much food here?" Sasuke asked, his voice still low and grating from his recent bath.
Tagorihime smiled sweetly, a movement that did not reach her eyes. "Please come in. I have some food prepared for such an occasion."
Sasuke let out a quiet sigh, the sound weary but sharp. He brought his left hand up and slowly rubbed the slime from his right eye, activating his Sharingan. The world shimmered.
Then, a grin—not his usual smirk, but a wide, almost sadistic upturn of the lips—plastered itself across his face.
"This level of illusion," he announced, his tone cold and dismissive, "doesn't work on me."
The beautiful tableau shattered. The pristine white robe flickered, the delicious food vanished in a puff of smoke, and the surroundings snapped back into the normal atmosphere of Ryūchi Cave: damp, cold, and utterly choked with mist. The only thing real was the stone gate, the slick earth, and the startled, beautiful woman before him.
Tagorihime gasped, visibly recoiling as if struck by a physical force. She backed away a step.
Sasuke took a single, slow stride toward her. He was a terrifying sight: caked in dried slime, his eyes burning red, and a manic smile still fixed on his face. She tried to dart away, but he was faster. He shot his hand out and grabbed her wrist, his grip like a vice on stone.
His voice dropped to an Arctic chill, cutting through the heavy mist. "Take me to the next trial. Or I might kill you."
The threat was not a bluff. Tagorihime did not hesitate. The pleasure in her eyes was replaced by pure, naked fear. She led him immediately into the depths of the cave.
Tagorihime led him deeper into the labyrinthine network of the cave. Her slender wrist felt fragile and cold in his grasp, and the sheer terror radiating from her was almost pathetic. She did not speak, moving with the frantic, gliding motion of a creature desperate to escape a predator. The mist remained thick, obscuring the ceiling and walls, giving the impression of walking through a hostile, featureless void.
Soon, the open terrain around them shifted dramatically, the rock face giving way to a large, catacomb-like cavern. Massive, rough-hewn rock pillars supported the high roof, and between these shadows, another figure began to materialise.
His guide yanked her arm free the moment they crossed the threshold, instantly retreating into the safety of the fog.
The new presence was another woman, floating with an eerie, ghost-like grace between the rock pillars. She was fair-skinned with dark hair pulled into two intricate buns on either side of her head. Her robe was white and blue, and she wore a pearl bracelet and a golden tiara, her eyes enhanced by deep red eyeshadow.
"My name is Ichikishimahime," she announced, her voice slightly higher-pitched and more theatrical than the last. She waved a hand toward the far wall, a section of rock covered in deeply carved depressions. "You will have to fill that wall with gems around you. It's the only way for you to escape. Even killing me will not free you from here, Human..."
She was arrogance personified, looking at Sasuke with the dismissive pity one reserves for a child attempting an adult task.
Sasuke simply tilted his head, his eyes scanning the cavern. He ignored her posturing completely. He wasn't here to impress them; he was here for the power of the Sage Arts.
"OK," he replied, his singular word dripping with bored condescension.
He looked down. Scattered across the stone floor were thousands of rough, unpolished crystals and pieces of jagged stone. He walked toward the wall and began the task.
The process was simple, tedious, and immediately revealed the nature of the test: it required not strength, but observation, spatial recognition, and patience—the very things that a prideful, overly reliant fighter would lack.
He moved with blinding speed, a blur of motion that belied the tediousness of the task. His Sharingan allowed him to instantly calculate the necessary shapes and angles, matching the hundreds of stones to the carvings. Click. Click. Click. The stones locked into place with machine-like precision.
Ichikishimahime watched, stupefied. She had expected a few hours of frustration, perhaps a day of struggle. The previous contenders had invariably tried to smash their way out or engage her in combat. This Uchiha brat was treating her esteemed trial like an assembly line.
Slowly but surely, the entire wall was filled, except for one, particularly large, awkwardly shaped gap near the centre. Sasuke stopped. He found no stone in the piles large enough to fit the space.
Ichikishimahime finally found her voice, a smug sneer creeping onto her face. "See? I knew it. The complexity of the puzzle is too—"
Sasuke didn't listen. He picked up a piece of stone that was only half the size of the remaining gap. He brought it up to his chest, charging a minute amount of lightning chakra into his fingertips. The air crackled faintly. Then, with a sudden, clean, and perfectly placed pressure, he broke the stone cleanly in half. He adjusted the jagged edges against each other, creating two pieces that fit the gap perfectly when placed side-by-side.
He pushed them into the final space. Click. Clack.
"Done. Now remove the illusion," Sasuke commanded, his tone demanding instant obedience.
"Huh?" Ichikishimahime seemed utterly startled by the simple, brutal practicality of the solution. She had expected him to search for a magical, invisible stone, not use common sense and physics.
She distanced herself quickly, her eyes wide. She realised she had been thoroughly defeated in her own challenge. "Your end will come soon," she muttered spitefully, a final, hollow curse, before she dispersed the illusion with a flicker of chakra, and the cavern dissolved back into the familiar, oppressive mist.
"Sigh, what a bother," muttered Sasuke, clearly disappointed by the lack of any actual challenge. He began walking again, ignoring the lingering, metallic scent of the previous genjutsu.
He suddenly tilted his head sharply to the side, dodging a knife-like gust of compressed wind that sliced through the space where his neck had been moments before. The sneak attack had been launched by a figure whose presence had been completely hidden by the weird, neutralising fog of Ryūchi Cave.
The attacker—the third and final hostess—was caught entirely by surprise. She had not expected him to dodge at all, let alone with such casual ease.
But what she expected even less was the blow that followed.
Sasuke's hand, still coated in the tacky film of snake mucus, shot out and landed a devastating punch directly on her jaw. He pulled the power back just enough to avoid shattering her bones, but the impact still sent her spinning away, a pale flash in the mist.
"Oh, finally an exciting test," Sasuke asked, a genuine, bloodthirsty smile finally gracing his features. "Are you here to fight me?"
The woman, dark-haired and wearing a long, loose-fitting red and white robe, quickly recovered. She approached him with a dark, furious expression, her pride wounded. She wore a golden tiara and a necklace with three red tomoe.
"Human, you are strong," she hissed, her voice low and furious. "But my test doesn't concern your strength. It concerns your heart and willpower!"
"Sigh, so another boring test, huh…" said Sasuke, his smile instantly dissolving into disappointment, a calculated dismissal that successfully annoyed the woman floating in front of him.
Her beautiful features contorted, morphing into the unmistakable, terrifying visage of a serpent. "I'm Tagitsuhime," she announced, her voice now a malicious, vibrating hiss. "This is the final test. If you fail, I will make sure to enjoy torturing you and absorb your chakra before sending you off to the Pure Lands!" She punctuated her threat with a final, echoing hiss before she vanished into the impenetrable fog.
"Their ego is really something," muttered Sasuke, rolling his eyes as he stood alone in the thick mist.
Almost instantly, the world around him began to fill with silhouettes. They were not illusions designed to deceive his senses, but psychological projections aimed directly at his soul.
They manifested as people Itachi had killed, their spectral eyes accusing Sasuke of forcing his brother's hand. They were villagers, friends, and enemies, all raising spectral hands to point, their voices thin, echoing whispers of condemnation.
Then came the true torment: the faces of those he cared about. Naruto, Sakura, Kakashi—and even the spectral shape of his brother, Itachi. Their voices were not angry, but mournful, disappointed.
How selfish you are, Sasuke. Acting without considering our feelings.You throw away love for a path of hatred.You are becoming exactly what you swore to destroy.
The whispers spiralled, weaving a net of guilt, regret, and doubt. This was Tagitsuhime's test: the trial of the heart. It had broken countless candidates, reducing the most ambitious ninja to paralysed, weeping shells of regret.
But Sasuke Uchiha had built his entire identity on the decision to bear the burden of hate, regardless of the consequences or the pain inflicted on others. The accusations were not new; they were the voices that had accompanied him every single night for years.
He simply stared at everything without even responding. He did not move a muscle. He did not blink. He stood like a tower against the psychological storm, an unmovable object facing an inevitable, familiar wave. The mental torment had no foundation, for he had already accepted and internalised all their accusations.
Behind the veil of the fog, the three Snake Sages were watching.
"Why's he not moving? Is he too affected by the trial?" asked Ichikishimahime, confused by the lack of reaction.
Tagorihime responded, her voice tinged with grudging respect. "Is that surprising? My test is about self-control, something that the people who come here usually lack. As for yours, Ichikishimahime, you test resourcefulness and lateral thinking... But both are simple compared to Tagitsuhime's trial. It tests the heart, which is where most of the people that come here fail…"
Tagitsuhime, however, had a smug look on her serpentine face. "It seems like I'm going to have a nice meal today… Soon, he will crack."
But suddenly, a calm, low voice drifted from behind them, startling all three of them.
"Can we get this over with? That was so boring."
And they heard a distinct yawn immediately following the sentence.
The three goddesses turned around in a synchronised rush. The boy they had been watching on the illusory stage had vanished. He was now sitting casually beside them, leaning against a rough rock, his face a picture of intense disappointment.
"Y-You, how did you locate us inside this fog?" asked the perpetually childish Ichikishimahime, her voice squeaking.
Sasuke smirked, a genuine, small, but very tired smile. "Secret of the trade."
Tagitsuhime's serpentine frown deepened, realising the scale of her defeat. He hadn't fought the test; he had simply walked through it, finding her true location while his mind was supposedly under siege.
"Congratulations," she finally conceded, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "You passed all of our trials and earned the privilege of training in our Snake Sage Arts. Please follow me to meet the White Snake Sage."
"Finally," Sasuke muttered, standing up and dusting the grime off his pants. He had wasted enough time. He was going to meet the White Snake Sage and learn Sage Mode.
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Author Note:
I will do slow updates with long chapters like this current chapter. I think this will be better as I have some things to do at home.
So Slow Updates.
Also, how many days did Hashirama and Madara fight? If I remember, it was 3 days, but a commentator said it was 3 days, because of this, I did some research, but I couldn't find the exact manga page that said they fought for 3 days. Instead, I only found people claiming it lasted 3 days. So, Idk.
Bye, bye