After winding through the crowd like a coiled storm, the giant python finally stopped, lowering its massive head in a single, deliberate direction.
"Hiss…"
Its forked black-and-red tongue flicked out, spraying saliva laced with a foul stench. The oppressive pressure of its presence loomed so close that no one dared to breathe too loudly.
Then—suddenly—a sharp cry shattered the silence.
The red-haired woman's face twisted with panic. She tried desperately to soothe the child in her arms, but where adults could suppress fear and assess danger, a child obeyed only instinct.
And right now, that instinct was pure terror.
Trembling in her mother's arms, the baby wailed louder and louder. The warmth of her mother's embrace offered no comfort beneath the shadow of the monstrous serpent.
Drawn by the sound, the giant python dipped its head further, fixing its cold, bloodthirsty eyes on the mother and child. The glint in its gaze was merciless.
Frozen in place, the red-haired woman could only watch as death approached. Her legs refused to move. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
The child cried in frantic, piercing bursts. The mother, in contrast, wept quietly, a portrait of helpless sorrow. The raw mix of life clinging to life—and its inevitable loss—gave form to one overwhelming emotion: despair.
Even the crowd, locked in fear, felt a wave of pity wash over them. Even the cold-blooded elders of Kusanagi Village were momentarily stunned.
But the moment passed. One of them sneered inwardly.
Perfect.
A mother and her baby—there could be no clearer image of weakness. And in contrast, Orochimaru's overwhelming power and cruelty only made him seem more monstrous. Few things leave a stronger impression than a legend devouring the helpless.
If only, the elder mused, the mother had been an old woman instead—it might have struck an even deeper chord.
Then, Orochimaru's raspy, magnetic voice cut through the cries:
"So many twists and turns… But I've finally found you."
The crowd froze. What did he mean?
As eyes widened in confusion, a long, serpent-like tongue extended from Orochimaru's arm and gently wrapped around the red-haired woman's waist. Slowly, carefully, he lifted her to the giant snake's head.
Was Orochimaru here to exact revenge—on them?
The elders, still masked like cattle to slaughter, exchanged wary glances. They knew this woman, vaguely. Her features were forgettable, but her crimson hair revealed everything.
The Uzumaki bloodline.
That explained it. For someone like Orochimaru—a man worthy of being called one of Konoha's Sannin—it made sense. His true targets wouldn't be average shinobi, but remnants of a once-powerful clan.
Yes, there were still questions. But in the end, this was a favorable outcome.
If Orochimaru left behind the impression of a monster who preyed on the weak—especially former Konoha allies—it would tarnish Konoha's image, bolster Kusanagi's unity, and maybe even attract more rogue ninjas to their ranks.
And the cost? A single foreigner. A nobody.
They had expected at least a jonin to die.
But as those cold calculations settled in their minds, the situation shifted again.
Orochimaru gently placed the red-haired woman down—unharmed—and reached out a hand, placing it carefully on her shoulder.
The crowd watching the mother and daughter was momentarily stunned.
"Don't be afraid. I'm not here to kill you—I'm here to save you," Orochimaru said softly.
He offered a faint smile, attempting to mimic the warm expression of the so-called Holy Mother Laughing, a revered lamp Djinn. But instead of putting them at ease, the expression only deepened the terror on the woman's face. Instinctively, the child's cries grew louder, echoing with fear.
Orochimaru let out a discontented "tsk."
"...I suppose I'm no Djinn after all."
Still, he had other methods. With practiced ease, he extended two fingers and tapped the baby's pressure points, lulling her into a deep sleep. Then he lightly touched the mother's neck, rendering her unable to speak—but unharmed.
Stockholm syndrome, he mused. A condition where victims begin to feel attachment to their abuser. Perhaps this woman, tormented for so long by the ninja of Kusanagi, had fallen into such a state. Until he could be sure, it was best to silence her—temporarily.
These quick and deliberate movements set off alarm bells in the minds of the Kusanagi elders.
If the Uzumaki woman wasn't Orochimaru's target… then who was?
A cold sense of dread settled over them. Something wasn't right.
Before they could react, Orochimaru's voice rose—clear, calm, and damning.
He began to list Kusanagi's crimes against the Uzumaki women.
"Treated as livestock. As disposable blood bags. As tools for twisted experiments. Such cruelty is unforgivable—anywhere."
Though he spoke quickly, every word carried weight, heard clearly by all around him.
Then, to silence any doubt, he revealed the woman's scarred body—proof of everything he claimed.
The crowd's sympathy, already stirred by the mother and daughter, now deepened into something more volatile.
Some had simply come to the Kusanagi black market for work. Others were unaware civilians. But now, every gaze turned sharply toward the Kusanagi medics and shinobi emerging from their chambers.
And those gazes were no longer neutral.
Bullying the weak… That phrase echoed in their minds.
Yes, the mother and daughter were still the "weak"—but now the true nature of the so-called "strong" had come into the light. And it was far more despicable than anything Orochimaru had done here.
Many of the Kusanagi shinobi—some injured, some intact—suddenly went pale. Blood rushed to their faces. Their eyes reddened with emotion, but not from anger alone.
This was shame.
And more terrifying than that—guilt.
Could villains feel regret? Could monsters feel remorse?
When someone is swept into a group, committing evil as routine, it becomes easy to rationalize. Easy to ignore.
But when those actions are dragged into the open—held up to the judgment of the wider world—fear, panic, and self-reproach follow swiftly behind.
They could no longer deny it. The truth was exposed, undeniable. What once felt distant or abstract had become immediate and damning.
Some simply collapsed, overcome by the crashing weight of guilt. A few, unable to bear it, snapped completely—hurling themselves at Orochimaru in a suicidal frenzy.
He didn't even flinch. The great serpent's jaws struck once—and they were gone.
Others, more calculating, were prepared. These were the ones who had always known. They retreated swiftly, regrouping, eyes cold with conviction.
"Orochimaru!"
"Between you and Kusanagi Village… there can be no peace!"
The two elders' eyes burned with fury. With a cry, they released their jutsu and ordered the Anbu to strike.
Orochimaru merely shook his head.
Without a word, he summoned another giant serpent—its jaws opened wide, swallowing the mother and child whole.
They vanished within it—not consumed, but protected.
And the battle began.
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