Noticing the thinly veiled smirks and mocking expressions on the faces of the two Hokage advisors, Orochimaru simply curled his lips and said nothing.
There was no point trying to get them to understand his true intentions—just as the Fourth Raikage had failed to. Expecting Koharu and Homura to see the bigger picture was a waste of time.
Still, one thing was certain: after this conversation, Konoha had shelved the idea of sending troops to the Land of Lightning. Instead, they chose to stand by and watch from a distance—waiting for the two great shinobi villages to exhaust each other in open conflict.
Of course, that didn't mean Konoha would sit around doing nothing.
Based on current intel, Kumogakure appeared to have the upper hand. Konoha would take advantage of this by applying diplomatic pressure, pushing for peace negotiations—while squeezing them for more compensation under the guise of diplomacy.
This sort of political maneuvering was no longer Orochimaru's concern. The details were left to the two Hokage advisors. Though they might not be capable of turning the tide of war, they were very good at exploiting chaos and "kicking a dog while it's down."
(And no, that's not meant as sarcasm—true incompetence is when someone still fails despite having the wind at their back and allies at their side.)
In any case, after endless battles and tedious back-and-forth discussions, Orochimaru finally had a chance to rest.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the map, a shadow clone he had sent out earlier had just reached its destination.
---
Land of Grass — The Small Country of Quer
Like the Land of Stone, the Land of Grass serves as a strategic buffer between the Land of Fire and the Land of Earth.
But unlike its neighbor, the ninjas here were doing surprisingly well. In fact, they were relatively organized and had enough resources to maintain their own shinobi village—Kusagakure.
This wasn't because they had superior strength, or some legendary figure like the Rain Country's Hanzo, the so-called "Demi-God of the Ninja World." No—their survival came from something far more pragmatic:
They knew they were a small country, and they acted accordingly.
"You big nations treat us like a buffer zone? Fine. We'll build strong walls, shut our mouths, and flood you with intelligence when it benefits us."
The Grass ninja made full use of the chaos within their borders—stealing bloodlines, copying forbidden techniques, and scavenging what they could from larger nations. They'd do whatever it took to survive.
They were ruthless to themselves, even more so to outsiders, and absolutely merciless to anyone caught within their borders who wasn't considered "one of them."
Just look at Karin's mother—cast adrift in the Land of Grass and exploited for her healing abilities. A poor woman, reduced to a tool by Kusagakure shinobi, simply because she had regenerative blood.
This is the world of small nations, where the Matthew Effect reigns: "The strong get stronger, the weak get weaker."
The major villages dominate the task markets, attract clients, and grow stronger by competing only among themselves. In contrast, the smaller villages struggle for scraps—and eventually vanish.
That's the harsh future awaiting every small ninja village.
Rain Country got lucky with Hanzo, whose strength forced even the Five Great Nations to acknowledge his authority. It earned them a temporary seat at the table.
But Kusagakure had no such figure. They didn't rely on dreams of miracles.
Instead, they kept their heads down, focused on the ground beneath their feet, and did the dirty work necessary to survive.
In short—Kusagakure's leaders were brutally practical.
There were no truly powerful figures in Kusagakure—but there were many weak ones. And if those weaklings couldn't grasp the broader trends of survival, they would inevitably lose their way.
Not strong enough? Then push your subordinates to work harder.
Medical ninjutsu falling behind? Then coerce someone into biting into the "blood bottle" again.
Through this cycle of desperation and exploitation, even a village like Kusagakure—once as common as overgrown weeds—managed to grow serrated fangs. Their roots dug deep into blood-soaked soil, and somehow, their missions maintained a decent success rate.
What was more chilling, though, was the unity born from shared guilt. The entire village was complicit, and that forged a kind of twisted cohesion.
Unlike the Land of Rain, which had once leaned on Hanzo the "Demi-God of the Shinobi World"—a man destined to die with no equal to succeed him—Kusagakure had something else. They had blood. The blood of the Uzumaki.
Yes, that woman's blood would one day run dry. Her vitality would reach its limits. But if her daughter lived, if she matured... then the same exploitative cycle could begin anew.
It was cruel—cruel to both mother and daughter, and to any of their future descendants.
But who in Kusagakure cared?
Cannibalism was grotesque, inhuman. But could they really be blamed, when the great shinobi nations pressed them harder with every step? If not for that pressure, would they have turned into this?
After all, Kusagakure once had its own moment of glory. There was a time when it nearly stood at the top of the shinobi world.
With that legacy in mind, the village leaders refused to bow to the major nations. They embraced weakness as an identity, but also as an excuse—not to help the weak, not to uplift others, but to justify their own survival.
If they ever collapsed completely, they'd just pin the blame elsewhere.
"It's the world's fault."
"It's the fault of the great nations."
"It's all Konoha's doing."
"It's because of them."
Never once would they say: "It's our fault."
And maybe, just maybe, the world would pity them for their performance of regret.
Even in the worst-case scenario, they wouldn't be wiped out completely. Someone would slay the "culprit," and the rest would be spared—no matter how many had taken from the blood bottle.
To be fair, Orochimaru held a twisted kind of respect for the Grass ninja. They had, at the very least, survived in this brutal world. That meant something.
In the past, he might have looked at a scene like this and simply sighed: "The strong eat the weak." And moved on.
But now... he felt differently.
The act of "raising and harvesting" others for gain wasn't the problem—it was how crudely Kusagakure did it. No finesse, no style—just the overwhelming stench of blood. It was animalistic.
Even the Lamp Djinn, for all his talk of "leeks" and "harvesting," still saw those people as human.
Orochimaru himself didn't mind being a "leek"—if it meant being part of a greater plan, consumed by something divine. He could even enjoy it.
But Kusagakure... they raised humans like animals, devoured them like animals—and in doing so, became animals themselves.
They weren't even trying to be people anymore. That wasn't just cruel—it was regressive. A step backwards in history.
What a shame.
Truly, what a shame.
Walking through the streets of Kusagakure, Orochimaru felt a twinge of pity. It wasn't even his village, but he still felt its wasted potential.
Such a waste.
He remembered one of the strange phrases the Lamp Djinn liked to say—catchy, grand-sounding slogans like:
"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west—don't look down on the poor and young!"
"I've never seen someone so shameless!"
And now, another phrase popped into his head—something once used by bandits as a battle cry:
"Heavenly treasures and virtuous people live here!"
Of course, everyone interprets "heavenly treasures" and "virtue" in their own way. It was ironic, really.
But Orochimaru was now sure of one thing: the mother and daughter of the Uzumaki clan had no place in Kusagakure. This village was unworthy of them.
Kusagakure had lost its humanity—and with it, any claim to "virtue."
He would take them away himself.
They deserved better.