Land of Rice Fields — Orochimaru's Hidden Base
In the heart of the Land of Rice Fields, beneath a jagged mountain range cloaked in mist, stood a monolithic observatory—black, silent, and looming like a forgotten relic of war.
Inside, the air buzzed with a low hum of chakra-imbued machines. At the very top, amid a cathedral of steel and serpentine pipes, stood Orochimaru, his golden eyes narrowed, fixed upon the vast and indifferent starry sky beyond the glass dome above.
His expression was unreadable, but deep within those serpentine pupils stirred unease.
It had lingered ever since his most recent encounter with Danzo Shimura.
That meeting had been brief… yet disturbing.
Though Danzo concealed his thoughts well, Orochimaru had sensed it—a foreign aura, like phantom strings pulling at a marionette. Subtle, but unmistakable.
It was the touch of a powerful Sharingan—but not one he'd encountered before. Not Itachi's eye, nor even the infamous Mind-altering Mangekyo of Uchiha Shisui. This was different. Older. More invasive.
He had dissected and studied souls before. He knew spiritual contamination when he felt it.
And if his theory was correct…
Even though Uchiha Gen had long since perished, his chakra signature, his psychic residue—his will—was not only lingering… it was infecting the world.
Through eyes. Through minds. Through ambitions.
Was it simply the power of the Sharingan?
Or… was it something else entirely?
As the chill of this speculation gripped his spine, a sudden voice echoed behind him—low, hoarse, and crawling with malice.
It came without chakra signature. Without sound.
As if the air itself had spoken.
Orochimaru turned smoothly, not startled—but alert.
From the shadows, a man in a spiral mask stepped forward. The pale moonlight pierced through a crack in the ceiling, casting cold light on the grotesque swirl of his face.
His presence was… unnatural. Not alive, not dead. He was slipping through reality itself.
Orochimaru's lips curled into a smile—but it lacked any real warmth.
"Isn't this a rare guest… Tobi, of the Akatsuki?"
The masked man tilted his head slightly.
"Tobi?" he repeated, the word almost amused.
"I go by another name. One you should remember well."
His single eye gleamed crimson.
"I am Uchiha Madara."
For a moment, silence lingered.
Orochimaru's grin stiffened slightly.
He let out a dry chuckle, voice steeped in skepticism.
"That's not a very funny joke."
But before he could speak another word, Orochimaru's sleeve bulged—
A black tide of venomous snakes erupted forth, lunging toward the masked man in a hissing fury.
The snakes passed clean through him.
As if he were made of mist.
Before Orochimaru could process the failure, Tobi reappeared behind him, a kunai silently drawn, its tip brushing against his pale throat.
Still calm, Orochimaru twisted, chakra surging—
In that fleeting instant, Orochimaru felt it: a familiar spiritual resonance—the same he had once felt radiating from Danzo's body.
That dark chakra signature. That ancient pressure. It was him.
Not necessarily Madara…
But the same hand that had puppeteered Danzo.
For once, Orochimaru's voice was thick with genuine uncertainty.
"Who exactly are you?"
Then Tobi replied with calm finality.
"I am Uchiha Madara."
Orochimaru did not argue again. Not because he believed him—but because something in that chakra… had weight. History. Legacy.
Perhaps it wasn't Madara in the flesh—but it was something close enough to be feared.
"Very well, Lord Madara," Orochimaru said, his tone level. "Then allow me to ask..."
"…What kind of Sharingan is capable of influencing a man's mind without him ever realizing it?"
Vague, yet precise enough for the initiated.
If this man truly was behind Danzo's strange spiritual tampering, he would understand.
But Tobi offered no direct answer.
Instead, he tilted his head with a soft chuckle.
"Curiosity is your greatest weapon, Orochimaru," he said with a dangerous glint in his eye. "But it is also your deepest weakness."
"I didn't come here to talk about Danzo."
Orochimaru's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then what did you come for?"
That single word hung in the air like venom.
Despite himself, Orochimaru was intrigued.
"…And what could I possibly provide that the mighty Madara cannot do alone?"
Orochimaru blinked once. Slowly.
Now that got his attention.
"You wish to raise the dead."
"You've perfected it. A technique to summon the deceased with nearly their full strength intact. I will need such forces soon… and I hear you've made improvements."
The very name of the technique sent tremors of pride through Orochimaru's twisted soul.
"And what," he asked softly, "do you offer in exchange?"
Without a word, Tobi pulled a figure from his dimensional space and cast it at Orochimaru's feet.
It was pale, humanoid, and unmistakably unnatural.
Orochimaru crouched, brushing his fingers over its supple, resilient skin.
His pupils dilated slightly.
"Artificial," Tobi said. "Massive chakra reserves. High cellular adaptability. Genetically stabilized for rituals and transplants."
"In other words," Orochimaru murmured, "a perfect sacrificial vessel for Edo Tensei…"
He couldn't hide the wonder in his voice. "This is beyond anything I've ever seen."
"Take your time to test it," Tobi said. "I have countless more."
That last line made Orochimaru pause.
Just how vast was the infrastructure behind this man?
What was the Masked Man really preparing for?
Before he could ask further, Tobi suddenly turned, his body tense.
His Sharingan pulsed.
"…Uchiha Itachi is here."
At that, Orochimaru's golden eyes gleamed—not with fear, but with raw, possessive hunger.
"…So the prodigy comes."
His tongue flicked from his lips.
A smirk slowly bloomed across his face.
"So many eyes… so many secrets…"
"And I want them all."