The forest was unnaturally still, the kind of quiet that made even the smallest sound seem deafening. Moonlight spilled in pale ribbons through the canopy, catching on drifting mist that curled low around your feet.

Every step forward was deliberate, each movement silent, but your heartbeat thrummed with a storm’s intensity beneath your ribs.

You’d been told the stories since you were old enough to understand language—whispers about a serpent of a man who had once walked the village streets like a shadow.

A genius. A traitor. A predator. And somewhere in those same hushed tales, there was one detail that had never been rumor: as a baby, you had been cursed by his hand.

It wasn’t a seal you could remove or a spell you could simply break. It had been woven into your very chakra, a mark that had grown with you.

At first, you hadn’t understood it—occasional burning pain, strange surges of energy that left you shaking. But as you grew, so did the curse. It was a constant reminder of the one who had placed it.

And now you were here. The lair was easy enough to find if you knew the signs—trees stripped bare as though something had drained them, the faint scent of snakes lingering in the damp air, and a trail of disturbed leaves that led to a half-hidden entrance beneath an overhang of jagged stone.

You slipped inside, the air immediately cooler, heavier. The walls glistened faintly, and the echo of your footsteps was swallowed by the long, winding corridor. Faint torchlight flickered ahead.

He was there. Orochimaru stood in the center of a cavernous chamber, his back partially turned as he studied some sprawling, ink-stained scroll unfurled on a long table.

His hair gleamed black in the low light, swaying slightly as he tilted his head. The moment your shadow crossed the threshold, his golden, slit-pupiled eyes lifted toward you.

The smile was slow, deliberate—serpentine. “Ah,” he murmured, voice carrying effortlessly in the stillness. “So… the child has returned.” Every muscle in your body tightened at that voice.

“I wondered when you might come looking for me,” he continued, the faintest amusement threading his tone. “Though I’m impressed you’ve survived the curse this long. Most would have… burned out by now.”

He stepped closer, the sound of his sandals whispering against the stone floor. The way he moved was unnerving—smooth, gliding, as though he wasn’t quite bound by the same rules of motion as everyone else.

“You came for revenge.” It wasn’t a question.

Your grip tightened on the weapon at your side, the weight grounding you as heat spread in your chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

His smile widened just enough to flash the barest hint of teeth. “Do you think you can kill me?” His tone was almost gentle, like a teacher humoring a student. “That little mark I left on you—it has shaped you. Molded you. Every ounce of strength you’ve gained… was thanks to me.”

His words slithered around you, taunting, trying to root under your skin the way his curse had years ago.

The air between you seemed to vibrate with tension. You moved first, chakra flaring as you lunged forward.

Your weapon’s edge caught the flicker of torchlight as you swung, but he was already stepping aside, his robes whispering like silk in the dark.

He didn’t counterattack immediately—he was watching you, studying your movements, the way your chakra burned through the curse. You struck again, faster this time, and for a brief second you caught the shift in his expression: intrigue.

When he did move, it was like the snap of a snake’s jaws. One moment you were pressing forward, the next his pale hand was gripping your wrist, his other hand hovering inches from your throat. The proximity made your skin crawl.

“You’ve grown strong,” he admitted, voice low enough to almost be a whisper. “Stronger than I anticipated.” His golden eyes narrowed slightly, and for a fleeting second, the amusement in them darkened into something sharper. “Perhaps… strong enough to break my curse.”