The village lay in ruins, a desolate tableau of devastation that whispered of violence long passed but not forgotten. Once, this place had pulsed with life—merchants barking over produce, children chasing each other down sun-warmed alleys, shinobi standing watch over gates with casual confidence. But now… now there was only silence.
Charred timbers jutted from the scorched earth-like skeletal fingers clawing skyward, their once-strong wooden spines now splintered and blackened by fire. Rooftiles lay scattered and broken, crunching underfoot like brittle bones. Houses had collapsed inward like dying beasts, leaving behind ash-dusted shadows and smouldering ruin. The acrid scent of blood, smoke, and singed hair clung to the wind, thick and suffocating. Every breath was a reminder of what had transpired here—a massacre, efficient and deliberate and least but not all, a death of dreams held by the villagers.
Crows circled above in widening spirals, their harsh kaaw! cries slicing through the stillness. A distant ember crackled as it devoured what was left of a merchant's cart, and from beneath the smog-filled sky, the sun bled faint orange light upon a scene of absolute destruction.
Orochimaru moved through it all with the serenity of a serpent gliding through tall grass. His sandals squelched softly in the blood-soaked earth, each step causing crimson to bubble between fractured stones. His pale, near-luminescent skin shimmered faintly beneath the grime and smoke like the moon rising over a battlefield. He still had to keep up with the performance. He walked slowly, almost reverently, as though cataloguing the aftermath of a carefully executed experiment. His golden eyes, half-lidded and emotionless, swept across fallen shinobi and civilians alike, drinking in the aftermath with cold satisfaction.
He paused beside a broken wall, dragging two fingers against a charred streak on the surface. He then brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply. "Hmm," he murmured to himself. "A blend of explosive tags and lightning chakra. Crude, but effective. It seems Kumogakure still cared about them."
Behind him, ash drifted gently in the air like dirty snow. Through this unnatural haze came a figure—blond-haired and tall, with piercing blue eyes dimmed by what he saw.
Minato Namikaze stepped lightly over a crumpled shinobi corpse, his movements almost too gentle for the field of death around him. His flak jacket bore fresh burns and blood spatters, and his brows were drawn tight over eyes filled with anger and sorrow.
"Was this... necessary?" he said softly, his voice carrying over the crackling debris to his other self.
Orochimaru stopped mid-step, turning his head slowly as a smirk curled one corner of his lips. He faced the younger shinobi fully now, his serpentine gaze unnerving even in the daylight.
"Necessity," he echoed with languid amusement, "is such a flexible term, Some call it cruelty. Others call it… strategy."
In all this, Zetsu did not find the irony of talking to himself during one of the few times he was away from his better, or worse, half.
Minato's fists clenched at his sides. "Strategy shouldn't leave villages like this. These people weren't soldiers."
He really sounded like a voice of Reason, or truth.
"They were witnesses," Orochimaru said, gesturing lazily to the burned homes. "Loose ends. If Kumo wishes to provoke a war, we merely ensure the provocation reaches full bloom."
Before Minato could reply, three figures emerged from the periphery—Renjiro, his red hair singed at the ends, flanked by two shinobi. Their faces were stoic, but a strange shimmer danced across their skin, a distortion that rippled like heat waves.
"I don't think they were friends so all of this is pointless," Renjiro shrugged as he leaned on a wall.
"If it was Jiraiya instead of Orochimaru, then all of this would be perfect." the young Jonin continued.
"Yeah, too bad we can't use him since Kumo wouldn't believe this, it limits my expression," Sumida remarked.
Then, all at once, they began to unravel.
Their skin flaked away like peeling paint, but instead of blood or muscle beneath, pale white tendrils unfurled—fibrous, alien, and wrong. The false shinobi collapsed into a mass of writhing growth, each strand pulling backwards toward a shared nexus. The mass churned, folded inward, then reconstituted with shocking speed.
Within moments, only one figure remained in their place: White Zetsu, or rather, Orochimaru's imposter.
He stood straightening himself with a theatrical yawn, his mismatched face—half-plant, half-man—twisting in a grin. "Ah, the performance is over," he announced cheerfully, arms spreading as if on a stage. "Time to return to the audience."
White Zetsu closed his eyes, and the moment he did, a shudder ran through the earth beneath them. A sound like oozing tar preceded the appearance of another shape—rising from the ground as if birthed by the soil itself. A dark, oily mass formed, thick and pulsing with malicious energy. From it emerged Black Zetsu, his body hunched and slick, with a single glowing eye staring balefully at them all.
"Have we done enough?" White Zetsu asked, his tone breezy.
Black Zetsu's voice was low, soft, and filled with contempt. "It may not seem like much… but it will be sufficient. Kumo has always been thirsty for war. All they needed was a little... push."
"Push," White Zetsu echoed with a chuckle, "more like a kick down a cliff. So, what's next? Do we drop a sandstorm over Sunagakure and see what happens?"
Black Zetsu shook his head, slowly, deliberately. "No. That would make the manipulation obvious. We don't need another massacre. Not yet. The Raikage will not take this lying down. He'll rage. He'll blame Konoha."
"And he'll be right," Orochimaru added with a faint, toothy smile.
Black Zetsu ignored the remark. "Our job now is to feed that rage. We'll infiltrate the other villages—plant whispers, stir suspicions, and ensure that whatever response Kumo gives… is seen as excessive. Unjustified. Reckless. Their bloodlust will become their undoing."
"Ah," White Zetsu mused, tapping his chin, "a war ignited not by the blade, but by perception. Beautiful."
"It's not beauty," Black Zetsu muttered, "it's necessity."
Orochimaru let out a soft hiss of amusement. "And once again, we come full circle."
Far away, in another corner of the elemental nations, Konoha to be specific, sunlight struck polished stone through thin slits of high windows, but the corridor remained suffocatingly dim. The light could not chase the gloom away, nor did it reach the man walking within it.
Renjiro moved slowly down the corridor, the soles of his sandals scraping faintly against the cold stone. Dust hung in the air, unmoved by the golden glow of morning outside. Shadows loomed on either side—long, oppressive shapes that reminded him of grave markers. He passed doors long sealed and columns whose carvings had eroded with time.
He came to a large chamber—its doors already open.
Inside were ten figures, all seated in silence. Each had their own posture: tense, relaxed, indifferent. But none spoke as Renjiro stepped into the room.
He looked them over once, slowly, allowing the silence to stretch until it pressed down like a weight.
Then he said, with complete calm:
"Good. You're all here. Now let's discuss how you're going to keep your lives during the upcoming great war."
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