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Chapter Text

The desert plain at the border of the forest to Hi no Kuni was burning. Fire consumed the oil-soaked trenches, flames licking greedily across the ground and spitting sparks into the heavy dusk. The sky itself seemed fevered, painted in searing shades of orange and crimson against the bruised edges of the encroaching night. Each plume of smoke unfurled like a serpent, writhing upward until it blotted out the stars that had begun to stir awake. The air was thick, oppressive—every inhalation dragged cinders down the throat, a coarse reminder that there was no escape from the battlefield’s suffocating embrace. 

The screams of the dying rose and fell in jagged rhythm, colliding with the shriek of steel and the unnatural roar of jutsu that tore through air and sand alike. Shuriken hissed through the air like locusts, kunai struck stone with merciless clangs, and the ground itself shuddered beneath detonations. The smell was an abomination: scorched flesh seared into memory, acrid sweat heavy with fear, and bitter poison drifting like invisible threads that clung to the back of the throat. The haze did not simply linger—it smothered, clinging to skin, hair, lungs, until every soldier wore death’s perfume.

Orochimaru stood in the midst of it all, eerily composed, still and serpent-like amidst the storm. His pale figure seemed carved from the flames around him, dark hair whipping about in the heat-born winds. His breath rattled faintly, a sound that had haunted him for weeks. Each inhale dragged across lungs heavy with an ailment he refused to name, and each exhale rasped as if sand had lodged itself in his chest. A weight pressed against him constantly, threatening to bow his frame, yet he bore it with chilling indifference. Battle left no room for weakness. He had never allowed himself such a luxury.

The golden of his eyes burned with the reflection of the fires, narrow pupils fixed with precision. The deep violet clan markings upon his skin framed his gaze harshly, making him appear less human than shadowed predator. They gleamed with detached sharpness, never wavering, never betraying the fever dragging at his body. Panic threatened at the edges of his consciousness, rising like bile, but he crushed it with the same ruthless efficiency he used to crush an enemy’s windpipe. Panic dulled the mind. And his mind—cold, dissecting, unrelenting—remained the only constant he trusted.

His gaze swept across the battlefield as if it were a corpse laid upon the slab, every movement dissected, every weakness carved out with an invisible scalpel. To the left flank, a squad of Suna Fuuton users regrouped, their movements eerily synchronized. Their fingers wove through practiced sequences, and the air itself began to tremble, quivering like flesh beneath a blade. Orochimaru recognized the pattern instantly—Fuuton: Shinkuuha. He could already hear the slicing gale in his imagination, could already envision his men shredded into ribbons of red. A single breath, a single lapse, and they would be reduced to gore. There was no time for hesitation.

Kusanagi flashed in the firelight, a silver arc cutting mercilessly through the chaos. The blade cleaved one shinobi clean in two, blood scattering in a fine spray across the sand, before it swept outward again to sever the arms of a puppeteer going for the youngest on his team. The man shrieked as his construct collapsed forward, its steel claws still dripping with toxins that shimmered under the flames. The severed threads danced like broken veins, and Orochimaru’s narrowed eyes caught the stuttering rhythm of the puppet’s collapse. These were not ordinary poisons. He recognized the craft immediately—venoms designed to linger in the bloodstream, incurable, engineered for deaths that stretched across days, each hour more agonizing than the last. He had studied enough such horrors in his youth to know precisely what fate they promised.

A cough seized him suddenly, tearing through his body with brutal insistence. It raked his lungs raw, forced his vision to blur until the battlefield swam in molten colours. Sweat clung to his skin in an unrelenting sheen, drenching his uniform until the fabric weighed heavy against him. The fever gnawed at his bones, a parasite eating him alive, but he forced himself upright, forcing his sight to steady. He would not allow it to master him. He never had.

Ahead, cutting through the haze, came a wall of spears and kunai. Their advance was relentless, merciless in its rhythm, a drumbeat of inevitability. There was no artistry in their march, no finesse—only brute certainty of number, a tide of steel and sand determined to crush all before it. Their footsteps resonated through the ground like the pounding of war drums, a dirge promising blood.

The situation was dire, and he knew it with the clarity of a surgeon examining a fatal wound. The Suna shinobi outnumbered them heavily, shadows and sand converging in an overwhelming press of bodies. This was never meant to be a battle. Their orders had been reconnaissance—quiet observation, the gathering of information, not open confrontation. But one man’s failure to adhere to protocol had stripped them bare, had handed the enemy their advantage. The ambush had come swift, merciless, leaving Orochimaru with dwindling options and fewer men with every passing breath.

The Sannin knew his men were holding the ground by the thinnest of margins. They fought like animals driven into a corner, but their bodies lacked the resilience to stand within the storm for long and remain untouched. Each clash drove them back further into exhaustion. Each scream punctured the air like another nail sealing their fate. Orochimaru let his tongue flick across bloodstained lips, tasting iron, measuring the thrum of his own chakra as though weighing it on a scale. Weeks of unending skirmishes had eroded his reserves into a hollow shell. His body was heavy, every movement dragging against him, each strike of Kusanagi costing him more strength than it should. If they remained here, if they stood shoulder to shoulder until the end, they would choke on sand and blood within minutes.

His fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his blade. He inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing air past the rattle in his lungs, refusing to let the cough break his focus. His thoughts turned cold, clinical. Options. There were only three. The first: stay as a unit, sacrifice everyone—including himself—in a futile stand that would end in corpses strewn across the desert. The second: fall back together, attempt to retreat, only to be cut down by the merciless wave of Suna shinobi mid-flight. And the third: send his squad away, scatter them into the haze, while he himself became the wall—the sacrifice. It was not even a choice. It was inevitability.

With deliberate precision he cut through another wave of attackers, Kusanagi dismembering three Jounin in a flurry of silver, denying them the chance to complete their forming seals. Their blood hissed as it struck the burning sand. He staggered, coughing harshly, the sound raw in his throat, before he turned. His cloak whipped in the desert wind as he fixed his men with a glare sharp enough to pierce steel.

Their eyes widened when they met his, desperation clinging to them like smoke, waiting for him to speak words of reassurance that he had no intention of offering. His voice, when it came, was cold as forged steel.

“You will not stand a chance. Retreat. I will keep them here.”

For half a heartbeat the battlefield seemed to fall silent around them, even the chaos dimming beneath the weight of his command. The young shinobi he had saved earlier, blood still seeping dark through his torn flak jacket, staggered forward. His voice cracked, strangled between loyalty and fear.

“But, Taichou—we can still fight—”

Orochimaru’s golden eyes locked onto him, pupils narrowing, sharp and unyielding though fever dulled their glow. The weight of his gaze was suffocating, merciless.

“Are you questioning my command?” he asked, the words soft yet serrated. “Or should I take this as insubordination?”

The reprimand landed heavier than any blade. The boy’s mouth snapped shut, his protest crushed under the force of discipline. Around him, the others exchanged bitter, wounded glances. They wanted to fight, to stay, but fear and obedience moved their bodies faster than the fragile hope in their chests. With grim determination they gathered the wounded, bearing their comrades’ weight upon their backs, and began the retreat. Their silhouettes blurred quickly into the haze of smoke and blood.

Just before they vanished from sight, the young shinobi turned once more. His gaze caught the slender, weakened form of his captain standing between them and the advancing enemy, a solitary figure drawn in firelight and shadow. That sight etched itself into him as a vow. He would never forget the sacrifice.

Only when the last of their forms disappeared into the distance did Orochimaru allow his shoulders to ease, just slightly. The momentary release was almost imperceptible, a faltering breath drawn through lungs that burned with each inhale, the air tasting of smoke and iron. Every cough rattled through his thin frame, wracking his chest until it felt as though his ribs might splinter beneath the force. The sound was muffled under the roar of distant jutsu, but to him it reverberated painfully, an intimate reminder of his body’s rebellion. His chakra coiled taut within him, strained and stretched thin, warning him with every pulse that he had already pressed himself far past safety, yet still he demanded more.

But his enemies did not see the exhaustion.

To them, he was something altogether different. A lone figure standing amidst the carnage, pale skin streaked and smeared with blood both his own and borrowed, the shadows of the battlefield clinging to him like a shroud. His golden eyes burned like molten metal caught in the firelight, their brilliance disguising the fever-glass dullness that had set behind them. His cloak hung in tatters, black hair whipping about his gaunt face in the furnace wind, the strands sticking to sweat at his temples. He looked less like a human and more like a spectre—a god of war who had chosen this ravaged ground as his altar, and the corpses strewn around him as his offerings.

Orochimaru’s mouth curved into a thin smile, cruel and knowing, cutting across the blood at the corner of his lips. His voice, low and roughened by cough and smoke, was a whisper that blended seamlessly with the roar of flames. “So be it.”

His hands rose slowly at first, then steadied, weaving through the familiar seals with movements sharp, deliberate, each sign forced through the tremors running along his arms. Fingers remembered what flesh threatened to forget. He bit into his thumb without hesitation, iron flooding his mouth, a taste that mingled with ash. He dropped low, the tatters of his cloak brushing sand and blood, and slammed his palm against the scorched earth with a sound like thunder.

“Kuchiyose no Jutsu—Manda.”

The world convulsed in response. Cracks splintered like jagged lightning across the battlefield as the summoning seal carved itself into the sand. The air itself seemed to buckle, folding inward before shattering outward in a shockwave of raw chakra. From the ruptured ground, a mountainous coil of violet scales surged upward, the dunes collapsing around its mass as sand cascaded like a storm. A thunderous rumble rolled across the field, the serpent’s body unfurling in a vast, sinuous wave that seemed to blot out the very horizon, blotting even the flames with its enormity.

Enemy shinobi staggered back, their confidence bleeding away with each second as the colossal form rose higher and higher above them. Their weapons trembled in uncertain hands, the clatter of kunai against sand betraying their faltering courage. The serpent’s head loomed vast and terrible, eyes like burning amber slits narrowing with predatory contempt. Its presence was a living shadow that stretched across the carnage, swallowing the battlefield whole.

Manda’s gaze, cold and slit-pupiled, locked onto Orochimaru. His tail lashed once, gouging deep furrows into the sand, the sound alone echoing like the crack of a hundred whips.

“You dare summon me in this wretched state?” The serpent’s hiss reverberated through the ground itself, scales grinding as the massive head lowered, heat radiating off his body like the breath of a furnace. “You can barely hold yourself up.”

Orochimaru’s smile widened, edges sharp and cruel, the flicker of madness glinting behind his exhaustion. His reply came without hesitation, voice rasping with strain yet ironclad in command. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ll feed well tonight. Kill them all.”

The battlefield stilled, frozen in the space of a single heartbeat. Every breath caught, every blade half-raised in disbelief. Then chaos broke like a dam. Manda struck, his great body surging forward with impossible speed, jaws unhinging as he descended upon the enemy ranks. Screams tore the night apart, scattering upward into the smoke-thick sky as the massacre began.

The earth buckled under the crushing weight of Manda’s coils as the serpent struck, the desert trembling as though it were nothing more than fragile paper. The massive body rolled like a living avalanche, each movement shifting dunes and grinding stone into dust. Jaws unhinged with a sound like rending timber, opening wide enough to swallow a man whole. A squad of Sunagakure shinobi vanished in a single snap of fangs, their screams smothered beneath the crunch of bone and the hiss of venom that sizzled as it seeped into wounds. The sand heaved violently with every lunge, spraying outward in wild sheets, as though the desert itself had become an ocean whipped by a storm.

But Orochimaru did not simply stand back and let the beast devour. His golden eyes burned with predatory brilliance, a fever-bright glimmer laced with cruelty, as he surged forward with Kusanagi gleaming in his hand. He wove through Manda’s immense shadow as though serpent and summoner shared one breath, one rhythm—two predators bound by blood and hunger. His silhouette slithered and bent, unnatural and elusive, never where his enemies expected him to be.

A kunai gleamed and darted toward his throat. Orochimaru bent backward at an impossible angle, spine arching with inhuman fluidity, his body folding like a serpent’s coil unravelling. In the same breath, his sword thrust upward, piercing through the chest of his attacker with surgical precision. The man gasped once, blood bubbling, before collapsing, sliding from the blade in silence. Orochimaru twisted free, movements flowing as though gravity itself bent around him, more slither than step.

Behind him, Manda’s colossal tail slammed down with the force of a falling mountain. The impact shattered the air and flattened three puppets at once, their wooden limbs breaking into jagged splinters. Poison gas hissed as canisters ruptured, sickly green tendrils curling across the battlefield, eager to cling to flesh. Orochimaru had already leapt clear, his body cutting through the haze like a shadow with fangs. From his sleeves burst a writhing mass of snakes, scales glistening black and wet, fangs flashing as they sank into the exposed flesh of a nearby puppeteer. His scream rang sharp, then guttered into silence as venom overtook him.

The enemy faltered. Tight formations collapsed, order disintegrating into panic. Some shrieked commands to regroup, their voices cracking with desperation; others broke, scattering across the blood-soaked dunes like startled prey. Orochimaru cut through them with relentless focus. His blade sang a merciless song, cleaving muscle and armour alike, while his free hand flicked through seals with mechanical, unhurried precision. A wall of mud surged upward to block a volley of poisoned senbon, the needles burying themselves harmlessly into the earthen barrier. Lightning answered next, jagged and searing, crawling across the sand to seize those too slow to flee. Their bodies convulsed, twitching grotesquely before falling lifeless.

And still he pressed forward. Always forward. Golden eyes glinted with a merciless certainty, his presence as unstoppable as the serpent at his side.

A kunoichi broke from the ranks, chakra flaring violently as her hands carved through the air. A gale roared forth—the slicing winds shrieking as they split sand, stone, and bone alike. Orochimaru lowered his head, pupils narrowing to predatory slits. In the instant before the blades of air reached him, Manda’s immense coil whipped across the field, colliding with the jutsu in an explosion of sand and dust. The gale fractured, scattering harmlessly. Through the settling haze, Orochimaru darted forward, swift and merciless. His sword speared cleanly through her chest. She gasped once, eyes wide in disbelief, before collapsing into the crimson sand.

Blood smeared across his pale skin, streaking down his jaw, dripping steadily from the tip of his blade. The desert plain had become a charnel house, its surface churned into crimson mud. Corpses lay half-buried in the sand, puppets broken and discarded like children’s toys abandoned in violence. The very air sagged beneath the weight of death, heavy, suffocating.

From afar, to the terrified eyes of his enemies, he no longer resembled a man. He was something other—terrible, magnificent—a war god draped in flesh, his serpent avatar looming at his side.

But beneath the divine veneer, Orochimaru felt the truth cut deep. Every strike sent fire up his arms, tendons straining to breaking. Each jutsu gouged deeper into reserves that no longer existed. His lungs burned with sickness, every inhale a wheeze torn from his chest, and his legs trembled with weakness he would not allow anyone to see. Behind the mask of cruelty and divinity, he knew: his body would betray him soon. He was already breaking.

Manda noticed. The serpent hissed low, his massive head dipping down beside Orochimaru, voice vibrating through the chaos like thunder rolling beneath the earth, the sound carrying over screams and clash of steel.

“You are faltering, Orochimaru.”

The sannin coughed, blood flecking his lips, the motion shaking his entire chest, but his golden eyes still held their terrible gleam. “I will hold,” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw from smoke, sand, and strain. His blade lifted again, arm trembling with hidden effort, the muscles in his wrist twitching with fatigue. From his sleeves burst snakes, their jaws snapping as they sank fangs into an enemy who had crept too close. The shinobi shrieked once, high and cut short, before collapsing into the sand. Orochimaru drew another ragged, uneven breath, a sound half cough, half growl. “I must. There is no other option.”

The serpent rumbled, a note of irritation threaded with dark concern, scales grinding and sending showers of sand cascading. Still, he obeyed, swinging his immense body with ruthless precision. Manda swept through another rank of shinobi, his jaws dripping gore, broken bodies flung aside like dolls ripped apart, ensuring none dared close the distance to his summoner.

Orochimaru pressed forward, grin stretched thin and feral, carved into his pallid features as though mocking death itself. His cheeks were hollow with fever, yet the cruel smile did not falter. He had already accepted what his men could not: that tonight, this battlefield would be his grave. The desert would consume him whole. But if it did, he would make certain Sunagakure choked on the taste. He would drag them down into the abyss with him, take as many lives as possible into the sand’s embrace.

The clash raged on, a din without end, screams clashing with the clang of steel and the shriek of jutsu. Enemy shinobi fell beneath his blade, their blood mixing with the sand until the ground itself seemed to bleed red. Manda’s colossal strength carved swathes through their ranks, the serpent and summoner together a tide of ruin. The desert shuddered beneath the weight of slaughter, as though even the land recoiled from the magnitude of death.

And with every breath, Orochimaru felt himself unravel. Air clawed at his lungs, refusing to fill them fully, each inhale stabbing like knives twisting within his chest. His chakra guttered low, scraped hollow, every jutsu gouging into reserves that no longer existed. His arms ached as if weighed down with stone, his body trembled, fever gnawing into sinew and bone with each heartbeat. His vision blurred at the edges, spots dancing before his eyes. And then—at last—his knees began to betray him, the tremor of collapse creeping into his stance.

The borderlands gave way, at last, to the whispering forests of Hi no Kuni. The oppressive heat of the desert began to fade, replaced by cooler air that clung damp against the skin, thick with the scent of moss, pine, and wet soil. It was a balm, subtle but welcome, against the acrid sting of sand and smoke that still clung stubbornly to Sakumo’s platoon as they wound their way through the tangled underbrush, every man drinking in the change but too disciplined to voice relief.

No birdsong greeted them. The forest was unnervingly still. The animals knew better than to break the hush when the air was stained with blood. Each step sank into damp earth muffled by fallen needles, but the silence was brittle, poised to shatter at the faintest intrusion.

Hatake Sakumo moved at the head of his platoon, posture honed and unyielding. His silver hair caught what little light filtered through the canopy, gleaming faintly like a beacon against the shadowed green. Strapped across his back was the chakra blade that marked him as the White Fang, its familiar weight pressing between his shoulder blades. His men followed in practiced silence, eyes sharp, every gesture restrained. The Second War had taught them all caution—that ambush could sprout like weeds, even in places where the trees seemed to whisper safety.

The first sign of trouble came not in attack but in sound: a rustling ahead, branches snapping under dragging, uneven feet. Shapes emerged slowly from the fog that curled low across the forest floor.

Konoha uniforms. Familiar insignia.

But something was wrong. The formation was broken, no discipline in their approach. Faces pale, uniforms torn, bodies marked with grime and blood. Half were dragging the injured, the rest stumbled on their own, eyes wide with something rawer than fatigue—eyes that carried fear, guilt, and horror.

Sakumo’s hand lifted, palm outward, halting his men behind him. He stepped forward alone, his presence cutting a line of authority through the mist. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, even, but it carried like tempered steel across the quiet.

“You are Konoha shinobi,” he called, his gaze steady. “Where is your captain? Report your status.”

The battered platoon froze at once at the weight of his command. Their gazes flicked to him, then dropped away as though unable to bear it, shame written deep across their faces. For a moment, silence reigned. Then one of them—a young Chuunin with a raw gash across his cheek—swallowed hard and found his voice. It cracked under the strain.

“Orochimaru-taichou… he stayed behind.”

The words stirred the group into uneasy motion. Murmurs rippled like a current, shame tangled with dread.

Sakumo’s brows furrowed, a sharp crease deepening between them. “Stayed behind?” His voice cut the air. “What do you mean by that?”

“He—he ordered us to retreat,” another blurted, his tone hasty, defensive, as though rushing to excuse the act. “Said we wouldn’t stand a chance. Said he would hold the enemy.”

A bitter laugh cut through the air from further back. A tall Jounin, his jaw tight, spat into the leaves at his feet. “Of course he did. That snake always thought himself perfect—better than anyone. Better to let the monster deal with the mess than dirty our own hands.”

The words hung foul and heavy, like rot creeping through the clearing. Some of the platoon kept their eyes on the ground, refusing to meet Sakumo’s gaze. Others shifted uneasily, shoulders tense, but no one spoke up to challenge the insult. The silence that followed was sharp as a blade’s edge, filled with judgment and unease in equal measure.

Something hot flared in Sakumo’s chest, an anger that burned deeper than the casual cruelties of war, striking him with a force that left no room for hesitation. He moved before the Jounin could blink. One stride closed the distance, and his fist slammed squarely into the man’s jaw with a brutal crack, echoing through the trees like a branch splintering under frost.

The soldier reeled backward, staggering, clutching his face with both hands. Blood trickled between his fingers, bloody spit flecking the ground as his eyes went wide with shock and disbelief. Around them the forest seemed to hold its breath, the very air tightening as though afraid to move.

When Sakumo spoke, his voice was low, controlled, but every word was honed to a lethal edge. The weight of it struck harder than his fist.

“You dare,” he said, each syllable drawn slow and sharp, “to speak in such a manner of a comrade who bleeds for you?” His silver hair caught what little light filtered through the canopy, turning his silhouette stark and commanding, his shadow stretched long and fierce across the moss. “A comrade who stood when you could not, who sacrificed himself so you may see your loved ones again. Orochimaru stands alone to hold the line. He has bought your lives with his own blood—” his tone dropped lower, colder, “—and you repay him with coward’s talk?”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the leaves seemed frozen, even the wind stilled. Not a breath stirred. Sakumo’s own platoon—men hardened by fire and grief, who had seen the White Fang’s fury only on rare occasion—straightened unconsciously, spines rigid, as though his wrath alone demanded it.

The Jounin, jaw swelling beneath his hand, tried to form words, lips trembling as if to conjure defiance. But when he met Sakumo’s eyes—storm-grey, blazing with cold fury—the words died soundless in his throat. He lowered his gaze, shame and fear twisting together until he dared not breathe.

“Remember this,” Sakumo said, his voice steady as stone, deliberate as a hammer striking an anvil. “The true monster is the one who abandons his comrades. Orochimaru is still there. Fighting. Alone.”

Again, the forest fell still, but the silence was no longer empty; it rang heavy with judgment. Only the ragged, uneven breathing of Orochimaru’s retreating platoon broke the hush. The man Sakumo had struck slid down against a tree, eyes averted, cowed utterly beneath the weight of the White Fang’s fury.

Sakumo turned at last to his own men. His features were carved into an expression of iron command, unyielding. “See to them,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “Bind their wounds. Stabilize the injured. They will not reach Konoha alive if we leave them in this state.”

His platoon obeyed at once, discipline in every movement. Medical kits snapped open, canteens were passed down the line. Hands moved quickly, wrapping gashes, splinting limbs, pressing salves into blistered skin. The forest, moments ago tense with rage, now filled with the quiet rustle of bandages tightening, the hiss of ointments on burns, and the strained but grateful sighs of the wounded.

Yet Sakumo himself did not linger among the tending. His gaze was fixed beyond them, fixed on the distant horizon where smoke rose in a black, writhing column against the night sky. Even here, the battle’s echoes reached them: the thunder of jutsu cracking the air, the guttural hiss of something massive striking earth, faint cries carried on the shifting wind.

His hand tightened on the hilt of his chakra blade until his knuckles whitened. In his mind’s eye he saw it with cruel clarity: Orochimaru, standing alone in the inferno, outnumbered, burning his body to ash for comrades who now dared slander his name.

The vision carved something dangerous in him, an edge of fury too sharp to stay contained.

He stepped forward, his white cloak brushing through the undergrowth, every movement deliberate. His voice, low but implacable, cut through the still air with the finality of steel drawn from its sheath.

“I’ll go on ahead.”

One of his men straightened abruptly, breaking the hush that lingered like a taut string. His voice cracked with urgency. “Taichou—if you’re going, then let us go with you—”

Sakumo’s gaze snapped toward him, grey eyes cutting like tempered steel. The look silenced him at once, though there was no cruelty in it—only a weight that pressed harder than any blow. His reply was calm, but it carried the weight of command, unshakable and final. “No. These men are Konoha’s, too. Their lives are on your shoulders now. Do not fail them.”

The authority in his tone allowed no room for defiance. His platoon bowed their heads in unison, shoulders bracing as though bearing a physical weight, accepting the burden their captain had laid upon them.

Sakumo turned his back to them, storm-grey eyes narrowing toward the distant plume of smoke bleeding into the night sky. Without hesitation, he bit into his thumb, copper flooding his tongue. His hands formed the familiar, practiced sequence of seals, movements as fluid as breath. He dropped to one knee, palm slamming against the damp forest earth.

The ground trembled. Rings of chakra spread outward like ripples through water, glowing faintly against root and moss. A thick plume of smoke exploded upward, and from it emerged ten massive wolves. Their forms towered, pelts silver and grey, amber eyes gleaming like molten fire in the moonlight filtering through the canopy. Their silence was menacing, broken only by low growls that rumbled deep and heavy, vibrating through the soil underfoot.

Sakumo did not turn to acknowledge them. His gaze remained fixed forward, his stance taut and resolute. “It’s time to hunt,” he said, his voice low, steady, carrying into the stillness like the toll of a distant bell.

A blur of white cut through the trees as his body launched forward, the forest whipping past in a rush of shadow and wind. Branches clawed at his cloak, but he never faltered. His silver hair streamed behind him like a banner of resolve. The wolves followed as one, a silent pack streaking through the undergrowth, every stride promising death.

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy in their wake, the absence of his presence leaving a hollow behind. One of the men left standing exhaled sharply, tension spilling from him. “The White Fang,” he murmured, half in awe, half in weary resignation. “Charging into hell again.”

Another, crouched over a wounded comrade as he tied off a bandage, gave a short nod, his voice quiet but certain. “He’ll make it. He always does.”

The last of the bandages were bound, the injured eased against roots and stones to rest. Only then did Sakumo’s platoon exchange looks, unspoken understanding passing between them like a current.

They had seen the smoke. They had heard the thunder of battle beyond the trees. They knew Orochimaru’s name, knew the terror it inspired. And they knew—if Sakumo deemed it worth his life to stand beside him, then so would they.

One by one, they rose, weapons gripped tighter, eyes turning toward the horizon where fire licked at the heavens.

“We’ll finish here,” one muttered, jaw set, voice rough with determination. “And then we follow.”

The forest swallowed their vow, leaving only the hurried shuffle of hands, the rhythm of racing hearts, while ahead, alone, Sakumo Hatake cut through the shadows toward the battlefield where gods and monsters clashed.

The battlefield was silent in a way that only followed slaughter, a silence heavy and oppressive, pressed down upon the ears until even the faint crackle of flame seemed too loud. Fire smouldered in blackened pits across the sand, their smoke curling sluggishly upward, tongues of flame licking faintly at the edges of corpses and shattered weapons. Acrid smoke clung to the air, biting at the eyes, catching in the throat, coating the tongue with the taste of ash. The desert seemed almost reluctant to breathe, sluggish and shrunken, recoiling from the violence it had just borne witness to, the ground itself still trembling faintly as though afraid to settle.

Orochimaru stood swaying amidst the ruin. His pale form was painted in blood, dark streaks running down his arms, across his throat, matting into his hair. Some of it was his own, much was not. His golden eyes still gleamed, sharp and venomous, but the gleam was dimmed by exhaustion, their glow flickering like a candle fighting against a storm. The coil of chakra within him had unravelled thread by thread until little remained, each pulse weaker and fainter than the last. Every breath dragged raw through his lungs, scraping like glass, and every step felt carved from stone, anchoring him further into the earth. The sickness he had carried for weeks, ignored with stubborn pride, surged now to the surface, seizing its chance. Combined with the endless chain of missions—missions he had taken one after another to prove his worth, his loyalty to a sensei who never turned his gaze his way—it left his body hollow, burning itself away.

Before him, Manda’s coils still lashed, the massive serpent scattering shinobi like brittle dolls tossed into the air. His enormous bulk carved troughs through the dunes with every strike, sand erupting into waves that crashed and fell back on themselves. His hiss thundered across the field, a rolling roar that shook the marrow in the bones of friend and foe alike. Yet even in the midst of his destruction, the serpent’s slitted eye gleamed with knowing.

Manda’s enormous head lowered, close enough for the gust of his breath to whip Orochimaru’s hair about his face, his single burning eye locking onto the swaying figure. His voice came as a guttural rumble, reverberating through the wreckage.

“You are spent.”

Orochimaru’s lips twitched into the faintest of curls, sharp but weary, his reply little more than a rasp. “Not… yet.”

But the denial rang hollow. His chakra slipped through his grasp like water through open fingers, no matter how tightly he tried to close them. It bled away with each heartbeat, seeping out of him even as he clawed to hold it fast. The bond between master and summon frayed, threads snapping one by one until the edges of Manda’s massive body began to shimmer, his form wavering and transparent against the smoke-choked horizon.

The serpent thrashed in fury, not at Orochimaru but at the weakness of the tether unravelling between them. “Damn it! You cannot hold me—” His coils lashed out one final time, snapping across the battlefield, crushing three shinobi beneath tons of scale and muscle. Bones splintered under the impact, the sound echoing like drumbeats across the empty plain. And then the smoke rose thick and dark, curling around his colossal frame, consuming the serpent’s vast body.

Manda was gone, his hiss thinning, fading into nothing.

The absence was deafening.

Orochimaru’s knees buckled, his blade slipping from blood-slick fingers. The steel struck the sand with a muted thud, quickly swallowed by the copper-stained grit. He collapsed forward, palms sinking deep into the warm, damp earth darkened by spilt lives. For a long moment he remained there, head bowed low, hair falling across his face, listening only to the jagged rasp of his own breath. Each inhale grated like fire, each exhale tore from his chest in broken pieces. A cough wracked him, wet and violent, spraying the ground with crimson. His muscles shuddered and convulsed, but they no longer answered his command. His body was finished; it had reached its bitter end.

The enemy saw it.

“There! He’s down!”

From the haze ahead, a Sunagakure shinobi broke ranks, charging across the churned battlefield, his sword glinting wickedly in the fickle firelight. Behind him others shouted encouragement, their voices sharp with vicious glee that cut through the smoke.

“Take his head!” “Bring it back to Suna—let them see the snake’s skull on a pike!”

Orochimaru’s eyes lifted slowly, dulled by exhaustion yet still unflinching. He knew too well the truth of their threats. In wars past, the heads of famed shinobi had been paraded through village streets, grotesque trophies of victory and symbols of humiliation. He could already envision it: his own severed head dangling from a spear, Suna’s children pointing, mocking, their elders laughing at Konoha’s disgrace for failing to protect one of its most dangerous, prized weapons.

Perhaps it was fitting. Perhaps this was the punishment he deserved.

He exhaled through bloodied lips, golden eyes narrowing upon the figure rushing toward him. He had slain many of them, but still they pressed on, relentless. And now he had nothing left—no chakra to summon, no strength in his arms to lift the blade that lay discarded in the sand. The end had come. He greeted it with a cruel, thin smile.

So, this was how it ended.

Not by betrayal in some shadowed corridor, nor by poison slipped into his cup, but by exhaustion on the open field—felled by the sword of a nameless shinobi. Would Jiraiya ever learn of it, wandering Ame as he was? Would Tsunade, drowning in her grief, care enough to raise her head? And Sarutobi-sensei… Orochimaru doubted the man would even pause his duties to mourn.

Would anyone miss him?

Perhaps not.

But perhaps, at last, he might see his parents again. Their faces had blurred with time, little more than fragments of a child’s fading memory, but the thought of reunion offered a strange, quiet comfort.

The Suna shinobi leapt, blade high, its edge catching the firelight as it came down in a brutal arc aimed for Orochimaru’s neck.

Orochimaru did not close his eyes. He met the strike head-on, golden gaze still burning, defiant even in the face of death.

At least I uncovered some secrets, he thought thinly, lips quirking with dark amusement. Though… I would have liked more. At least this will end the silence.

The blade whistled downward.

And then the world shattered into white.

A massive wolf, its fur pale as moonlight, surged from the shadows with terrifying speed. The beast’s paws struck the ground like thunder, sending sand scattering in violent sprays. Its jaws clamped around the Sunagakure shinobi midair, teeth punching through armour and flesh alike, bone snapping under the pressure with a sound like splintering timber. The man’s scream was strangled in his throat, cut short as the wolf shook him once, twice, like prey already claimed. Blood sprayed in a fine arc, spattering across the sand, before the beast tore him apart in a spray of blood, viscera, and sand. Pieces of him rained down, falling lifeless to the ground, staining the dunes darker still.

Gasps and shouts erupted from the Suna ranks, the iron edge of fear sharpening their voices. Panic rippled through them like cracks racing across glass. Then, from the treeline, the forest edge broke wide, shadows splitting apart—and more wolves poured into the open. They came in a rushing tide: huge, wild shapes, pelts bristling, eyes gleaming like cold amber fire. Their fangs flashed white, bared in feral hunger, and their howls rose together in a dirge that rolled across the plain, low and mournful yet terrible in its promise. The sound made the very air tremble. And then they were upon the enemy, merciless in their fury, fangs ripping, claws shredding. Shinobi who only moments ago had dared to taste victory scattered like frightened prey, cut down as they turned.

Orochimaru’s eyes widened faintly, golden irises reflecting the storm of fur and fang. The faint gleam of shock flickered in them, and for the first time that night, something other than venom stirred in his chest—wonder.

And then a streak of silver cut past him.

Not fur this time, but hair—bright as lightning against the dark. A man, swift, unrelenting, his blade glowing with white chakra’s lethal light. The White Fang.

Hatake Sakumo tore into the battlefield, his chakra blade carving arcs of silver brilliance that seared through the haze. Each strike was clean, decisive; each motion honed to lethal perfection. Every enemy who dared stand in his path fell within a breath, crumpling beneath the precision of his fury. He carved through the Sunagakure shinobi as though they were reeds before a storm, his wolves closing in at his heels, their howls and snarls blending into the slaughter.

Sakumo’s presence was merciless, inexorable—he was the inevitability of death itself.

The massacre began anew.

But this time, it was no serpent’s feast.

It was the hunt of the wolf.

The battlefield trembled beneath the weight of wolves and steel. The earth shook with every pounding paw, each clash of blade against weapon reverberating like thunder, every scream that tore free of dying throats cutting through the smoky night. Smoke and flame curled together above the carnage, painting the dunes in red and black, their shadows long and writhing like phantoms of the fallen.

Sakumo was a blur amidst the chaos, his white chakra blade igniting the darkness with each strike. He moved like a storm given human form—silent in approach, devastating in impact. His presence split the din like lightning, sudden and merciless. A line of Sunagakure shinobi rushed to meet him, spears levelled, jutsu already sparking across their hands. In one seamless motion he cut through them, the arc of his blade tracing silver crescents that ended in the wet spray of blood. Bodies fell where they stood, lifeless before they even knew they had been struck.

At his flank, a wolf lunged with a snarl that shook the air, its jaws clamping around another shinobi’s throat. Armor and flesh gave way in a wet rip, blood arcing high before the beast shook him violently like prey already slain. The scream gurgled, then snapped off, the man cast aside in broken ruin.

“White Fang!” someone screamed, voice shrill and cracking with panic. The cry sliced across the battlefield like steel. “It’s the White Fang of Konoha!”

The name spread faster than wildfire, and terror bloomed in its wake, choking and sharp. Shinobi who, moments before, had clamoured for Orochimaru’s head now stumbled over one another in their frantic rush to retreat. Sakumo pressed forward relentlessly, his blade flashing in merciless arcs, while his wolves swept the field like hunters, herding the enemy like cattle driven toward slaughter.

He struck down a puppeteer, the chakra blade shearing through glowing threads mid-gesture. The puppet collapsed into the sand with a hollow clatter, its master pitching backward with his throat split wide. Another enemy fumbled through seals, chakra rising into a swelling wind technique, but Sakumo was already upon him. The white blade pierced clean through his chest before the jutsu left his lips, the words dying unfinished as blood spilled hot down his figure.

The wolves gave no quarter. Their howls rose into the sky, long and mournful, like a dirge sung for the doomed. They crashed into the fleeing shinobi with ruthless finality, dragging them down into crimson-soaked sand. Claws shredded armour, fangs tore flesh, and the night became a chorus of rending, the stench of iron-thick blood, and the thunder of relentless paws.

When at last the screams dwindled, when the only sounds were the ragged panting of wolves and the crackle of dying fire, only a pitiful handful of Suna shinobi remained. Their formation was shattered beyond repair, their courage bled dry. They fled into the night, stumbling into the desert with terror etched into their souls, knowing they would carry the tale home—the tale of a battlefield haunted by two monsters: the serpent and the fang.

Sakumo exhaled slowly, the tension rolling off his shoulders in a long, weary shudder. His chakra blade dripped scarlet, the droplets glinting as they fell to the sand, catching the glow of embers where flames licked hungrily at broken bodies. Around him, silence fell heavy once more, thick and absolute, as though even the earth itself stood in mute shock at what had transpired.

He turned.

And there stood Orochimaru.

The sannin’s body shook visibly, shoulders trembling with every breath he dragged in. His white-knuckled grip on the hilt of the Kusanagi seemed the only thing anchoring him upright. His golden eyes still burned fever-bright, sharp even through the haze of sickness and exhaustion, though the skin beneath them was pale and slick with sweat. His frame looked gaunt, his uniform hanging loose over a body carved down by weeks of fever and unrelenting strain. Sakumo’s mind snagged on that detail—he did not remember Orochimaru as frail. The man who stood before him swayed on his feet, as though the mere brush of wind might topple him. Yet his lips curved, thin and cutting, into a sarcastic smile.

“Well,” Orochimaru rasped, his voice low, ragged, broken by a cough that shook his chest, “seems I’ll live to disappoint Sarutobi-sensei another day.”

Sakumo almost barked a laugh at the sheer audacity, but the sound caught in his throat when Orochimaru’s eyes rolled back, his body finally surrendering.

“—Orochimaru!”

He caught him before he struck the ground, strong hands seizing his shoulders as the sannin collapsed forward. Orochimaru’s head lolled back, black hair spilling like silk over Sakumo’s arm. His face, pale beneath streaks of blood and grime, radiated fever heat that burned against Sakumo’s skin. Each breath rattled shallowly in his chest, thin and fragile.

For the first time, Sakumo truly saw him—not as the serpent feared by comrades, not as the inhuman war god who had carved terror into the battlefield, but as a man. His features were sharp, almost delicate beneath the grime, his lashes long and dark against fever-flushed skin. The hollowness of his eyes, the bruising beneath them, nearly matched the deep purple of his clan marks. Sakumo brushed sweat-damp strands of black hair from his face, his calloused fingers pausing at the fragile warmth of his skin. Despite the carnage strewn around them, he found himself marvelling. Even broken, dragged to the very edge of death, Orochimaru’s beauty struck him like a blade driven straight into the chest.

And gods—how light he was. Far too light for his twenty-three years. Too light for someone who had carried the weight of entire platoons and the hatred of enemies alike. Sakumo gathered him fully into his arms, shocked at how easily he fit there, how insubstantial the sannin felt after holding the line alone against an army.

A deep protectiveness rooted itself in Sakumo’s chest, fierce and unyielding. This man had been ready to give everything—body, life, honour—and in return, he had been spat upon by the very people he had saved. Fury surged at the thought, hot and dangerous, but Sakumo forced it down, tempering it into hard resolve.

“You won’t be left alone,” he murmured, the words scarcely louder than breath, spoken only for the unconscious man in his arms.

He shifted Orochimaru’s weight carefully, mindful of every shallow rise and fall of his chest, securing him close against his own. The sannin’s head rested limply against his shoulder, lips parted in faint, uneven breaths, the sharp line of his jaw brushing against Sakumo’s collarbone with each step. Fever heat radiated through the thin fabric of Sakumo’s cloak, scalding in its frailty.

Turning from the field of corpses and smoke, Sakumo began the steady walk back toward the forest. Each stride carried purpose. He would deliver Orochimaru to safety, report the enemy’s retreat, and then demand answers for why one of Konoha’s finest—despite being sick—had been driven through mission after mission until he collapsed on a battlefield like this.

The undergrowth stirred as he advanced. Branches parted, and his own platoon emerged from the shadows, their faces drawn and hollow, illuminated by the dying glow of the inferno behind them. The battlefield’s smoke clung to their uniforms, streaks of blood and dirt marking each weary expression.

Their eyes widened at the sight before them: the field of corpses spread out behind, the blood-slick wolves padding silently at their summoner’s side, and at the centre of it all, Sakumo—the White Fang—carrying Orochimaru in his arms as though he weighed no more than a child.

No one spoke. They didn’t dare.

Some exchanged glances, wary and uncertain, but not a single word passed between them. The weight of what they had witnessed—the massacre, the monsters unleashed, and the strange tenderness that followed—was too heavy for careless tongues.

Sakumo halted just long enough to let his gaze sweep over the field once more. His voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with iron. “Seal the fallen,” he ordered. “No one is left behind.”

At once, several of his men broke formation, moving quickly to retrieve scrolls, kneeling by the bodies of their comrades. Paper rustled, chakra flared faintly in the still night as the sealing process began, drawing each fallen shinobi into safety so they might return home with honour.

Only when the last was sealed did Sakumo resume his pace. The only sound was the crunch of his sandals pressing into the forest floor, steady and unrelenting, as he bore Orochimaru into the shadows. Behind him, his men fell into silent step, their formation closing around them like an oath unspoken.

The walk through the forest was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears until every step seemed to echo. Sakumo carried Orochimaru in his arms still, the sannin’s frail form held carefully against his chest. His men followed in measured silence, sandals crunching softly on the undergrowth, while the wolves padded at the formation’s edges, pale shadows gliding between the trees.

On their way back, they collected Orochimaru’s squad, who had been left deeper in the forest under the watch of one of Sakumo’s own. When they emerged, their eyes went at once to their captain—pale, fevered, his breaths rasping shallowly in Sakumo’s hold. None spoke. The silence was taut, laden with shame and uncertainty. They had fought beside him, witnessed his power again and again, yet seeing him brought low unsettled them in ways words could not reach.

The march toward Konoha was slow, every step chosen with care for the wounded. They paused often. During each break, Sakumo would kneel, laying Orochimaru onto a cloak spread carefully over the ground. From the sannin’s own pack he took standard fever medicine, crushing the tablets into powder and mixing them with water until it turned cloudy. With careful patience, he lifted Orochimaru’s head, coaxing the liquid between his lips in small sips so he would not choke. Droplets spilled down the pale line of his jaw, and Sakumo wiped them gently with his sleeve, his touch precise, almost tender despite the grime of battle.

Orochimaru’s squad watched in silence. Their captain’s skin glistened with fever-sweat, his breathing ragged and rustling like torn cloth. They could not meet one another’s eyes. The Jounin Sakumo had struck earlier was especially subdued, his bruised jaw clenched, his gaze locked to the ground as though the sound of Orochimaru’s uneven breaths weighed heavier than any reprimand.

At one point, the young Chuunin edged closer, voice hesitant. “Taichou… do you need help carrying him?”

Sakumo looked up, meeting the boy’s worried gaze, and gave him a small, steady smile. “I’ve got this,” he said simply, his tone brooking no argument.

And so, he carried him, kilometre after kilometre. What should have been a one-day return stretched into two, slowed by wounds and halts to tend them. Yet when at last the familiar walls of Konoha rose from the treeline, every chest eased, every soldier exhaled a breath they had not known they held.

At the gates, Sakumo signed them in, his name steady on the scroll despite the exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. He gave quiet orders: the uninjured were to proceed at once to the mission desk—his own team and second-in-command and a few of Orochimaru’s squad—to begin drafting the reports. He himself would take the wounded to the hospital and follow later. None disagreed; none questioned.

At the hospital, the injured were taken swiftly, healers whisking them into side rooms. Orochimaru was lifted gently from Sakumo’s arms onto a gurney, orderlies hurrying him away down the corridor. Sakumo’s eyes lingered on his receding figure until he vanished from sight. Then he turned to a nurse, his voice calm but weighted with command.

“Is Tsunade here? She should see her teammate.”

The nurse’s expression shifted, guilt flickering in her eyes. She shook her head. “Tsunade-sama is on an undefined leave.”

Sakumo’s jaw tightened. He let out a slow breath, heavy with resignation. “Then I’ll return later. Please… take good care of him. He’s been ill for some time.”

The nurse bowed her head. “I’ll tell the doctors at once.”

Sakumo allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Thank you.”

And with that, he turned away, his boots sounding a steady rhythm as he made for the mission desk—and the Hokage’s office.

At the mission desk Sakumo found his squad quickly, their faces drawn with fatigue yet disciplined in bearing. He joined them, going through the details of their mission with a soldier’s precision, ensuring every movement, every order, every clash on the battlefield was accounted for and written down. When that record was set, he turned to the report of Orochimaru’s squad. Together they wrapped it up, noting the encounter with Team Orochimaru and the aid rendered. Once both accounts were finished, Sakumo read over the scroll again, eyes sharp for any gaps or errors. Only when he was satisfied did he roll it with deliberate care, binding it tightly with cord, ready to hand it to the desk Chuunin.

But before delivering it, Sakumo stepped toward one of the Jounin from Orochimaru’s squad. She sat a little apart, pen in hand, shoulders tight above the scroll. He stopped beside her, his voice low but steady. “Tell me everything. From the beginning. How did it come to this?”

The woman stiffened, hesitation flickering in her expression. For a long moment her pen hovered, scratching ink but forming no words. Then she lowered her gaze, nodding faintly. “We were on reconnaissance,” she said at last. “Orochimaru-taichou told us to stay low, keep hidden. He laid it out clearly—no unnecessary risks, no deviation from protocol. He even repeated it twice before we set out.” Her voice tightened, shame bleeding into it. “But one of us… he thought he saw an opening. He went too far ahead, ignored the signals. He stepped straight into enemy traps we hadn’t marked. The sand shifted, and suddenly we were exposed. Suna’s eyes fell right on us.”

Her hand clenched around the pen, blotting the parchment with ink. “They came fast. We were scattered, outnumbered. Orochimaru-taichou—he didn’t hesitate for a second. He put himself between us and the enemy. He bought us time to regroup, to retreat, to breathe. Every time we faltered, he was there—pulling us back, cutting us free. Every order he gave, every step he took… it kept us alive as much as possible.”

She sighed, shoulders sagging, and forced her hand to keep writing, words stiff and deliberate. “It spiralled from there. All we could do was follow his commands and survive. Without him—” she broke off, drawing a shaky breath, “—without him, we would have been slaughtered in the sand.”

Sakumo sat in silence, letting the weight of her words linger in the ink-stained air. After a moment, he asked more quietly, “Did he look ill from the beginning?”

Her pen froze mid-word. Brows furrowed, she hesitated, then slowly lifted her gaze to him. “Now that you say it… yes. He did look unwell. Pale, with his breathing heavier than it should have been. He coughed, too—more than once. But he kept going. He led us without pause, never faltering, never letting it show.” Her teeth caught her lip, regret softening her voice. “We should have noticed. We should have said something, asked him to step back. But if it hadn’t been for him…” Her eyes glistened faintly. “If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t see my family, my husband, my children again.”

A small smile touched her lips, weary but sincere. “We’ll have to thank Orochimaru when he wakes. We owe him that much.”

Sakumo listened, silent as stone, his expression unreadable. When her words faded, he rose to his feet, nodding once. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was calm, but it carried weight.

He turned then, scroll in hand, and made his way toward the mission desk to deliver the reports.

The world returned to him in fragments.

First, the sound—the slow, steady beeping of a monitor, the faint hiss of air moving through tubes, the muffled shuffle of feet down distant corridors. Then came the brightness—harsh, sterile white that pressed insistently behind his eyelids until he could no longer fight it. Reluctantly, he opened them.

Orochimaru’s golden eyes flickered into awareness, dulled but unbroken.

The ceiling above him was an endless white expanse. The sheets beneath his palms felt stiff, starched, foreign. The air reeked of antiseptic, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. A low ache throbbed through every limb, deep and consuming, as though his body had been hollowed out and stitched back together with coarse thread. He drew a breath—and winced. The simple act sent knives of pain lancing through his chest. Something tugged at his nose; cold air slid into his lungs in a steady stream he had not asked for, each intake a reminder of weakness.

Turning his head fractionally, he caught the reflection in the window: tubing taped to his face, the faint green glow of monitoring seals affixed to his skin, the needle buried in the back of his hand feeding fluids and medicine into his veins. Machines hummed beside him with indifferent rhythm. His body felt unbearably heavy, his limbs sluggish, as though even gravity sought to pin him here.

The door slid open with a muted creak. A nurse stepped inside, her eyes widening before relief softened her features. She set her chart down quickly, approaching with careful haste.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, moving to his bedside. Her hands worked with practiced care, checking the seals at his chest, adjusting the oxygen flow, eyes flicking between the monitors as she changed an IV bag. “You’ve been unconscious for three days. We weren’t sure when—or if—you would wake.”

Her voice wavered only slightly as she recited the litany of his injuries. “Multiple fractured ribs, deep lacerations, chakra coils strained to near tearing… and severe aspiration pneumonia from battlefield exposure, left untreated for weeks. It’s nothing short of a miracle you’re alive at all, Orochimaru-sama.”

He barely absorbed her words. His body screamed for rest, his mind heavy with fever, but one thought carved its way through the haze, sharp, unrelenting. His lips parted, his voice a rasp, raw and strained with effort.

“…my team?”

The nurse froze, eyes flicking away. Her hands faltered on the chart, grip tightening, before she shook her head, guilt written clear across her face. “I—I haven’t seen them. I’m sorry.”

The words hollowed something deep within him, leaving only silence in their wake.

Orochimaru let his gaze drift upward, golden eyes dim and unfocused, and allowed the truth to sink, heavy and cold, into the marrow of his bones.

Of course Jiraiya was still in Ame, drifting aimlessly after ideals that had never truly belonged to him. Orochimaru could picture him there, tall and brash, wandering beneath unending rain that washed nothing clean, chasing answers that would never be found. A wanderer chasing ghosts, mistaking the storm for purpose.

Tsunade—ah, Tsunade was drowning. Dan’s death had shattered her, swallowed her whole, leaving behind only broken shards of the woman she had once been. She could not even lift her head to grieve for another—not even for the one she had once called brother—for there was nothing left within her to give. She was lost to her own sorrow, her strength consumed by grief.

And Sarutobi-sensei? Orochimaru’s lips twisted faintly, bitter as bile. His old sensei would not so much as flinch. Not for him. Perhaps he would send flowers, a polite gesture devoid of weight. Perhaps not even that. Not until war demanded his presence again—until the serpent was needed to bleed for Konoha once more.

His throat burned raw, but he let the thought slip free, voice rasping like ash on stone. “Not even worth a bedside visit.”

The nurse’s heart clenched at the sound, the words slicing through the sterile quiet like a blade. She fumbled for something, anything, to push back against the despair that clung to him like a shadow too long cast.

“But… Hatake-san will come back,” she offered quickly, almost desperately. “He brought you in himself. He said he would return to check on you once his next mission was done.” Her voice held a fragile hope, as if the promise itself might steady him, anchor him to the world.

Orochimaru’s gaze shifted faintly, the golden light dulled but catching on memory. A flicker of something unreadable stirred there. The White Fang. That streak of silver light in the carnage had not been fevered hallucination. He had been carried from the battlefield after all.

It surprised him—no, unsettled him—that the one to remain had not been comrades of years, nor his so-called family, but a man bound to him by little more than reputation and the cruel chance of war.

“…I see,” he murmured, voice rasping through the oxygen stream, each word dragged as though it cost him dearly. A pause followed, brittle and heavy. “Thank you.”

The nurse adjusted the sheets around him, fussing longer than needed, her hands moving gently as if to make up for the harshness of the world outside these walls. “Rest, Orochimaru-sama. You’ve carried too much. More than anyone should.”

She lingered a heartbeat, watching his half-lidded eyes sink once more beneath exhaustion, then turned for the door.

At the threshold, she hesitated. Once, she had feared him—the pale prodigy with the serpent’s eyes, too cold, too strange, too dangerous to be human. But now, lying there fevered and frail, his mask had slipped away.

Sadness, grief, and something sharper—betrayal—were etched plain across his face, unguarded. He wore them so openly it ached to look upon him.

As she stepped into the dim corridor, she thought how foolish her fear had been. And silently, she hoped that he would heal—not only his battered body, but also the unseen wounds carved by abandonment, wounds no medic’s jutsu could ever truly mend.

The days bled together in silence, each one indistinguishable from the last.

Orochimaru drifted in and out of shallow, fevered sleep, his dreams broken by the rasp of pneumonia heavy in his chest. The hiss of the oxygen line in his nose became the only rhythm tethering him to wakefulness, a sound that mocked him with its constancy. Machines blinked and beeped beside him in cold indifference, their dull lights flickering in his golden eyes whenever he managed to pry them open. His body ached with every breath, ribs bound tight beneath linen wrappings, chakra coils screaming whenever he so much as shifted against the sheets. Even the act of swallowing burned. Even stillness brought pain.

Yet what weighed heavier than the physical agony was the stillness of the room itself.

No familiar voices came to break the monotony. No footsteps ever stopped at his door. The silence was complete, suffocating.

Jiraiya—always running, always fleeing when reality pressed too close, when it became too real, too harsh. Orochimaru’s thoughts curled bitterly around his name. Had their friendship never meant anything to him? Was Orochimaru the only one still clinging desperately to the bonds they had once sworn mattered?

Tsunade—her grief after Nawaki’s and Dan’s deaths had drowned her so completely that she had vanished beneath it, ignoring all else. He remembered her words of chosen family, of standing together in their darkest hours. Were those words nothing more than a lie? He had been there for her, again and again, and yet she could not lift her gaze long enough to see him now.

And Sarutobi-sensei… the thought soured in his mouth like poison. Too consumed by duty, too willing to let one of his own students waste away in a hospital bed, unremarked upon, unseen. Had his sensei always been this cruel? Was he always so blind to the things nearest him?

Was Orochimaru not even worth a visit? A thought? Was he really this unloved?

The silence gnawed at him. Day by day it grew heavier, pressing down like a mountain of stone upon his chest. He had spent his life clawing for recognition, for proof that his existence mattered beyond the blood-soaked field. And yet here he lay, lungs rattling, strength stripped bare, and the people he had once called family had vanished. He had always tried to never abandon them—yet they had abandoned him.

He thought back to the last mission. How he had forced himself to rise though fever burned his veins raw, never once requesting respite. He had fought to make his sensei proud, hoping that finally they all might see his loyalty—to his friends, to his teacher, to the village. But it seemed no one saw. No one ever had.

The realization sat cold in his chest, heavier than the bindings around his ribs. He told himself it did not matter, that he needed no one, but the loneliness bit deep, carving into him with teeth sharper than any blade. In the darkest hours of the night, when even the machines seemed to hush, he wondered: if he were to slip quietly away, would anyone notice? Would it ripple through the village at all? Or would they notice—and feel relief that the serpent was finally gone?

On the fourth day, when his fever had ebbed just enough for him to register the passing hours again, the door opened slowly, hinges sighing against the quiet.

For a fleeting moment, he thought it would be another nurse with a chart and perfunctory words. But the figure who entered was taller, broader, his presence filling the sterile space with a weight that was at once steady and commanding. Hair silver as falling moonlight caught the dim light, bright against the dull white of the ward.

Hatake Sakumo.

The White Fang.

Orochimaru’s breath caught faintly in his throat—not from the pneumonia this time, but from raw surprise. Of all people, it was this man who had come, the one whose name carried both reverence and dread.

Sakumo carried a small woven basket under his arm. He set it carefully on the bedside table, his movements unhurried, quiet but assured, as though nothing in the world could displace his composure. “You look better than when I last saw you,” he remarked, his voice low, warm but calm, as if the battlefield massacre had been little more than another day of duty. A faint wryness tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That’s not saying much, but it’s something.”

Orochimaru blinked slowly, the words settling strangely in his fevered mind. His lips parted, voice rough and brittle from disuse and the tubing that tugged faintly at his nose. “…you came back?”

“I said I would,” Sakumo replied simply. The conviction in his tone was quiet but unshakable, a promise carried without need for ornament.

From the basket, he unwrapped containers with deliberate care—miso soup still warm, neatly packed onigiri, pickled vegetables brought in a container. The faint aroma of a homecooked meal unfurled into the room, pushing back against the stale tang of antiseptic and recycled air. He poured the soup into the small thermos cup, steam curling upward, and held it out with steady hands.

Orochimaru’s fingers trembled as he accepted it, hands still too thin, too weak to fully mask their unsteadiness. The cup rattled faintly in Orochimaru´s hand, but Sakumo made no comment, only adjusted his hold so it did not spill.

“You’ve had nothing but broth and porridge for days,” Sakumo said, his voice softened at the edges, carrying both concern and command. “Eat something with flavour. Let it remind you you’re still alive.”

The first sip burned faintly down Orochimaru’s throat, the warmth spreading slowly into the chill that pneumonia had left behind, seeping into places the fever could not reach. He did not answer, but his eyes lingered on Sakumo longer than he intended, golden gaze flickering with something unreadable, unsettled.

The silence that followed was not the crushing absence that had haunted him all week. This silence was different. It was steadier, gentler, made lighter by presence rather than absence.

Sakumo returned the next day. And the day after that.

Always with food. Sometimes simple onigiri, pressed firm and wrapped in crisp nori that crackled faintly when torn. Sometimes tamagoyaki, rolled into neat golden slices that gleamed softly in the sterile light, their sweet scent warming the cold air of the ward. Sometimes oyakodon, steaming and fragrant, the savoury aroma lingering long after the lid was lifted, curling into corners of the room like a reminder of kitchens and homes far away from war. By the fourth visit, a quiet pattern revealed itself: Orochimaru’s pale fingers, thin and trembling, always reached first for the egg dishes. He never remarked on it aloud, but from then on, every meal Sakumo brought contained something with egg, placed deliberately within easy reach.

Orochimaru never voiced it, yet each time, a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps reluctant surprise—passed across his golden eyes before he smoothed his expression back into its habitual mask of indifference.

They fell into a rhythm.

Sakumo would settle at Orochimaru’s bedside, his posture steady, the kind of stillness that carried both vigilance and ease. Sometimes he spoke, his words weaving through the room in a low timbre, sometimes he remained silent, as though simply guarding the space was enough. He told stories of missions that had gone sideways in absurd ways: of comrades tripping over their own kunai mid-charge, of a Jounin who had leapt boldly into a pond only to discover it was filled with startled carp instead of hidden enemies, of one poor fool who had mistaken a flock of geese for scouts from Iwa and returned covered in bruises and furious peck marks. His voice carried a quiet humour, never jarring against the stillness, never careless, but warm enough to crack through the sterile quiet like faint sunlight through a shutter.

Orochimaru would occasionally arch a brow, letting a sharp remark slip—his sarcasm dry as desert sand—but the edge was dulled by fever and fatigue. There were moments when the corners of his mouth twitched, not quite yielding into a smile, yet softer than disdain.

On the fifth visit, as Sakumo laid out a steaming bowl of chawanmushi, the fragrance of savoury egg custard curling warmly into the chilled room, Orochimaru’s voice rasped through the quiet, hoarse but cutting.

“…don’t you have better things to do?”

Sakumo glanced up from unpacking the food, silver hair catching the dim light as he lifted his head. “Better things?”

“You’re Hatake Sakumo,” Orochimaru murmured, golden eyes narrowing faintly, their glow muted by exhaustion but no less sharp. “The White Fang. And you have a child. A son. Shouldn’t you be with him instead of wasting your time here?”

For a moment, Sakumo was still, as if weighing how much to reveal. Then at last he gave a small smile, one corner of his mouth lifting with quiet fondness. “I do have a son. Kakashi. Two years now—just since last week.” His tone carried the kind of pride that softened even the hardest words.

Orochimaru said nothing, but his eyes lingered, faint curiosity flickering beneath the exhaustion, betraying his attention despite himself.

Sakumo’s voice lowered, softened until it seemed to ease even the chill that clung to the ward. “He’s clever already. Climbs out of his crib whenever he wants. Nearly scared me half to death when I found him perched on the windowsill one morning, babbling at the birds as though he belonged among them.”

The memory drew a quiet chuckle from him, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck as if he could still feel the tension of that moment. “He won’t sleep unless I read him a story. And if I dare stop halfway, he smacks the book with those little hands until I keep going. Stubborn—like his father, I suppose.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Sakumo’s lips, gentler now. “He calls me Papa. Before it was always Dada. The first time he said it, I nearly cried.”

Orochimaru’s expression did not shift, his face still as pale marble, yet something in his chest tightened—sharp, unfamiliar, unwelcome. “…sounds troublesome,” he muttered, the words caught between dismissal and something else.

“Troublesome, yes,” Sakumo admitted without hesitation. His grey eyes lifted to meet Orochimaru’s, steady, unflinching, kind. “But worth everything.” He let the words settle, then added with quiet conviction, “And you shouldn’t be alone either. You deserve someone who stays.”

The words lingered in the sterile air, warm enough to sting, clinging to the space between them.

Orochimaru looked away, swallowing down the rasp in his throat. He told himself it was the pneumonia. He told himself it was nothing more. But for the first time in weeks, the silence that followed did not suffocate him.

It was almost—almost—bearable.

Pneumonia was a merciless bitch.

The fever lingered, his chest rattling harshly with every breath, each inhale scraping like shards of glass through inflamed lungs. His body refused to obey him. Orochimaru despised the weakness most of all. He could feel his chakra coils, battered and raw, sluggish to replenish and slow to answer even the faintest call. Every time he tried to push himself upright for too long, the room tilted, darkening at the edges, threatening to pitch him into unconsciousness. He loathed the oxygen line at his nose, the steady beeping of the monitors that seemed to sneer at his fragility, the sterile air that smelled of disinfectant and helplessness.

He hated being trapped.

But Sakumo came. Every day when he wasn’t out on a mission, without fail, the door would slide open, and the quiet presence of the White Fang filled the room.

Always with food—tamago dishes, mostly, since he had caught on to Orochimaru’s preference. Sometimes he was quiet, simply sitting with his arms resting loosely, watching without intruding. Sometimes he filled the space with stories of missions gone astray, of comrades who tested his patience, and of his young son, the boy whose stubborn antics brought a warmth to his words. He was always present in a way that never felt suffocating. He spoke of ordinary things: the turning of leaves in the village gardens, the training of his wolves and their obstinacy, Kakashi’s mischief that left him half exasperated, half endeared.

Piece by piece, the silence in the hospital room began to shift. It no longer pressed quite so heavily against Orochimaru’s chest. It no longer reminded him quite so cruelly of absence. It became something else—a silence that could be shared.

On one such evening, after Sakumo had set down a dish of omurice, steam curling fragrant in the dim light, and sat with his usual calm, Orochimaru spoke first.

“…once, when we were still Chuunin, we were assigned guard duty at the village archives,” he rasped, his voice quiet, brittle, yet carrying a faint thread of amusement that seemed to surprise even himself.

Sakumo glanced up, surprise flickering across his face, though his attention sharpened instantly as he leaned in, giving the words his full weight.

Orochimaru’s thin lips curved faintly, almost against his will. “Jiraiya thought it would be amusing to use a jutsu from one of the restricted scrolls as a prank. Tsunade nearly broke his jaw. And Sarutobi-sensei…” His golden eyes glimmered for a brief moment, catching faint light as memory tugged at him. “…he nearly lost his mind. I have never heard him shout like that before.”

Sakumo chuckled under his breath, shaking his head with the faintest smile. “I can imagine,” he said, voice low, carrying both humour and understanding.

But the faint curl of Orochimaru’s mouth faded as quickly as it had appeared. His gaze turned distant, unfocused, shadows settling back into the gold of his eyes, and his fingers curled loosely over the thin sheet, knuckles stark and pale against the white fabric.

The silence stretched, heavier now, settling between them like a weight. At last, the words slipped out, rough and quiet, as though forced past a barricade of pride.

“No one has come,” he murmured, almost to himself, eyes fixed on some far point beyond the ceiling. “Not once. Not Jiraiya. Not Tsunade. Not sensei.”

Sakumo’s chest tightened. Still, he did not interrupt. He simply let the silence cradle the confession, his own hands folding in his lap, jaw set but his gaze steady.

“Jiraiya abandoned us in Ame,” Orochimaru went on, voice low and rasping but strangely steady now, the rhythm of his bitterness carrying him. “Mid-fight. He saw three war orphans and decided to stay. He forgot his students. His comrades. He left me to catch the slack—training his boys when I never wanted students again, while still running my own missions. It was… exhausting. And yet no one questioned him. No one cared what it cost me.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy. The fever sweat at his temples glistened under the lamplight, strands of black hair clinging damp against his cheek.

“Then Nawaki died. And after him, Dan. Tsunade shattered. I tried—Sage, I tried—to keep her afloat. I never knew if what I did was right. Or enough. But I kept trying, because someone had to.” He turned his gaze toward the window, voice tightening like a blade being honed. “I organised Dan’s funeral, because Tsunade was in no state to do so. And since then, she’s ignored me. But Nawaki was my student as well. Dan was one of the few friends I had.”

A deep cough seized him, rattling his thin form, dragging harsh sound from his chest until his body shook. He closed his eyes, enduring the wave of dizziness until it ebbed. His breath scraped raw, but he forced it back into rhythm.

When he opened his eyes again, golden and glassy, they fixed on the ceiling, staring somewhere far away.

“And sensei…” His voice hardened, bitter, the rasp roughened into steel. “…Sarutobi praised me. For battles won. For research completed. For every breakthrough, every advancement. But never—not once—did he ask if I was well. If I was tired. If I was… anything but a weapon to wield.”

His breath hitched faintly, and in that fragile moment his face seemed younger, carved not from stone but from sorrow. “Apparently, I was never important enough. I think it was always that way. Since childhood. I simply never noticed until now.”

The beeping of the monitors filled the silence that followed, steady and indifferent, like a cruel metronome.

Sakumo sat utterly still, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Rage stirred in him—not the hot fury of battle, but a cold, bone-deep anger at the thought of a comrade so utterly abandoned by those who should have stood by him. At how easily they had left Orochimaru to rot here, with nothing but machines to bear witness to his pulse.

None of it touched his face. His expression remained calm, composed, but inside, his resolve forged itself into iron.

They had abandoned Orochimaru. He would not.

Sakumo reached across the small table and nudged the bowl of omurice closer, the steam curling upward like a gentle offering. His voice was steady, quiet, but certain, carrying weight far heavier than the words themselves.

“Eat. You need your strength back.”

And though he didn’t speak it aloud, the vow thundered in his chest: I will bring you back. From this sadness. From this grief. You will not be left to drown alone.

From the day Orochimaru spoke of his loneliness, something shifted.

He hadn’t meant to reveal so much. The words had slipped free like blood from an unhealed wound, raw and unguarded, and part of him expected Sakumo to recoil, to offer hollow platitudes and then vanish. That was what people did, wasn’t it? They vanished when he showed weakness, when the mask slipped.

But Sakumo did not vanish.

He still came the next day, and the day after that. Always with food—simple yet warm, meals chosen with deliberate care, paying attention to every small preference Orochimaru let slip. Always with his steady voice, his quiet laughter, his calm presence that filled the sterile white room with something almost human again, something dangerously close to comfort.

Orochimaru listened in silence, feigning disinterest, telling himself it meant nothing. The White Fang’s rambling about missions, wolves, and village markets was surely nothing more than noise to pass the time. But slowly, inevitably, the words threaded their way through cracks in his defences.

Sakumo’s voice was steady, unhurried, rich in detail, weaving images vivid enough that Orochimaru could almost see them beyond the confines of the hospital walls. He spoke of his wolves refusing to return to the summons realm, slipping away to run wild through the forests of the Hatake lands, returning only when hunger drove them back. He spoke of comrades who bickered like children during missions, of blunders so absurd they became legends retold with laughter around campfires. And he spoke of Kakashi—always Kakashi—each tale touched with a tenderness that seemed to soften even the cold, sterile air.

“Kakashi’s decided he doesn’t like carrots anymore,” Sakumo said one evening, setting down a neatly wrapped datemaki with careful hands, as though presenting an offering. “Spits them right back out if I try to sneak them in. But fish? He eats until his cheeks bulge like a squirrel preparing for winter.”

A faint sound escaped Orochimaru then—a quiet hum, half amusement, half disbelief. His lips curved just barely. “Selective, even as a toddler.”

Sakumo’s smile widened, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening with warmth. “Selective, yes. Stubborn, too. He’ll be trouble when he’s older—and clever enough to know it.”

That was how it began. Small things, almost imperceptible at first. Orochimaru’s lips twitching faintly when Sakumo recounted how a squadmate had managed to blow up half of his own equipment by inscribing a seal wrong. The faintest glimmer flickering in golden eyes when Sakumo described Kakashi’s newest mischief, the kind of stories laced with warmth that did not belong in sterile walls.

Piece by piece, Sakumo wore down the jagged edges of his solitude, smoothing them with patience rather than force.

One night, as rain pattered softly against the hospital windows, dripping in steady rivulets down the glass, Orochimaru shifted against his pillows, the oxygen line still pricking uncomfortably at his nose. His voice rasped low, unsteady but genuine, the sound of someone speaking against their own nature.

“You’re persistent, Hatake.”

Sakumo glanced up from where he was carefully unpacking a container with steaming tenshindon, his silver hair catching the lamplight. “Persistent?”

“Most would have left by now. My company isn’t exactly… pleasant.” His golden eyes narrowed faintly, testing, wary. “Yet you keep coming back.”

Sakumo set the food down gently, his expression calm but his gaze unwavering. “Because you need someone here. And I meant it when I said you shouldn’t be alone. I don’t go back on my word.”

The words sat heavy between them, resonating in the hush broken only by the rain and the beeping of the machines. Orochimaru looked away, lashes lowering, but something in his chest eased, just a fraction, loosening where it had been tight for years.

Days slipped into weeks. His fever broke a little, no longer the raging fire it once was, but still there, his breathing steadied though the pneumonia clung stubbornly like a shadow. He remained tethered to the machines, ribs aching with every movement, chakra coils painfully slow to knit back together. But through it all, Sakumo was there.

Sometimes they sat in silence, the White Fang content simply to share the space, his presence a weight that reassured rather than suffocated. Sometimes Orochimaru spoke—rarely, but more often than he expected. Once, he told Sakumo about his snakes, about how Manda begrudged him but obeyed, because in truth he was just a grumpy snake with an inferiority complex. Another time, he recounted how Jiraiya had once mistaken the daimyo’s wife for a man, and how Sarutobi’s fury had nearly rattled the foundations of the village itself.

Those moments ended in quiet smiles, sometimes even laughter that surprised them both. And when the laughter faded, Sakumo remained, steady as stone, an anchor against the tides that had nearly drowned Orochimaru.

For the first time in years, Orochimaru realized he no longer listened for footsteps that never came.

There was someone who had chosen to stay.

Even when Sakumo left the hospital, Orochimaru remained with him.

At night, when he cradled Kakashi against his chest, the boy’s soft breaths warm against his collarbone, Sakumo’s mind would drift back to the pale figure in the hospital bed. He could see him too clearly: Orochimaru, too thin under the stiff sheets, machines blinking with indifferent rhythm at his side, oxygen tubing fixed beneath his nose. Small. Far too small for someone who had carried entire platoons on his back, for someone who had stood against an army until his body finally surrendered.

And yet—even like that—he was striking. Arresting. Beautiful, even.

Not in the delicate way Maki had been, with her soft eyes and easy smile, but in something sharper, untamed, impossible to soften. The hard cut of Orochimaru’s cheekbones against lamplight, the fall of black hair over fever-flushed skin, the molten gleam of his golden eyes, accentuated by the purple clan markings, when they met Sakumo’s across the sterile room. Even the lightest laugh, coaxed from him only after days of persistence, was airy, rare, like hearing an instrument long kept silent and suddenly brought to life.

Sakumo found himself waiting for it. Wanting it. Missing it when he left the room, the sound echoing stubbornly in memory.

He had loved Maki. He would never deny that. She had been his friend first—trusted, steady, with a wit that had always drawn laughter from him on long missions. One night of drunken foolishness had led to Kakashi, and he had married her without hesitation. Not out of fiery romance, but out of respect, loyalty, and a deep affection that had been enough. He had been determined to make her happy, and she, in her way, had done the same for him.

When she died, giving life to their son, it had broken him. He had loved her in his own steady way, and yet he had not grieved as a man loses the other half of his soul—he had grieved as one loses a partner in arms, a trusted comrade, a dear friend who had walked beside him through fire and mud. The loss had left him hollow, stripped of colour, but not destroyed; he had learned to keep moving, for Kakashi if not for himself.

And now, sitting beside Orochimaru’s bed day after day, listening to the rattle of weakened breaths and the quiet hum of machines, Sakumo understood why.

Because what he felt stirring now was different. Completely different.

The pull was deeper, sharper, almost frightening in its intensity. It was not built on loyalty or the bond of shared duty, but on something older, instinctive. A need to protect. A need to see that fragile laugh coaxed out again. A need to remain, to anchor him in a world that had turned its back.

At home, when Kakashi fussed and clung to him, Sakumo held him close and still his thoughts drifted back to Orochimaru. To the sannin who, for all his brilliance and fearsome reputation, looked so small and fragile in that hospital bed. To the man who had fought until his body gave out and yet had been left by his so-called family to wither in silence.

It made Sakumo livid, a cold fury that burned deeper with each passing day. But more than anger, it cemented something within him, heavy and unyielding as iron.

He would not abandon Orochimaru. Not now. Not ever.

So, his visits grew more frequent when he was home. Morning, evening, sometimes both. Each time he carried not just food but the same unhurried presence, ordinary chatter, the warmth of company that did not demand anything in return. Orochimaru grew less stiff in his presence; the sharpness of his tongue dulled, his silences less cutting, shaded now with a patience that had not been there before.

There were moments now where Sakumo caught himself staring—at the way Orochimaru’s black hair spilled across the pillow like ink, at the faint curve of his lips when a rare smile was permitted to surface, at the long, elegant fingers wrapped around a cup of miso soup as though they had been crafted for finer things than bandages and war. Beauty, fragile and terrible, lay wrapped in fever and exhaustion, yet it compelled Sakumo all the same.

Nearly four weeks passed, and still Orochimaru remained. The pneumonia clung stubbornly, an enemy he could not cut down, keeping him bound to the bed, too weak to leave though his eyes burned with the will to rise.

One afternoon, as the late autumn light slanted gold through the hospital window, Sakumo arrived carrying more than food.

Kakashi, perched in his arms, wide-eyed and restless, hair sticking out in soft tufts that caught the sun.

The boy clutched at Sakumo’s flak jacket with small, determined fists, staring at the pale man in the bed with unfiltered curiosity, unblinking.

Orochimaru, propped slightly on pillows, turned his golden gaze toward them. Surprise flickered there—then, beneath the fever-dulled gleam, something softer, unreadable, that almost unsettled him.

“You brought your son,” he rasped at last, voice still weak but steadier than it had been in weeks.

Sakumo adjusted Kakashi on his hip, one hand steady against the boy’s back, and gave a small smile. “You asked once why I come here when I have him waiting at home. I thought… it was time you met him.”

For a moment, the silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Kakashi reached out a chubby hand toward the dark fall of Orochimaru’s hair, fascinated, fingers curling in the air as if drawn by instinct.

And something in the sterile room shifted again, subtle but profound, as though the walls themselves acknowledged the change.

The first meeting was awkward, edged with tension and uncertainty.

Orochimaru had propped himself slightly on his pillows, golden eyes still dulled by the lingering fever when Sakumo stepped into the hospital room with Kakashi balanced securely against his chest. The boy squirmed restlessly, little legs kicking against the fabric of Sakumo’s flak jacket, small hands clutching with surprising strength, eyes bright and searching despite the babyish roundness of his cheeks.

“This,” Sakumo said simply, his voice warm but steady, carrying a gentleness that softened the sterile air, “is Kakashi.”

Orochimaru blinked, gaze sliding from father to son. His long pale fingers tightened against the blanket, nails indenting the fabric. Children were not his realm—he knew scrolls, experiments, battlefields, not soft limbs and babbling mouths that spoke in a language all their own.

Sakumo carried the boy closer, unhurried, and Kakashi leaned forward with unhesitating curiosity, mumbling in toddler sounds that tumbled out like secrets only he could understand. One small hand stretched toward Orochimaru’s hair, fascinated by the dark fall of it against the white pillow, fingers reaching as though drawn to him.

Orochimaru stiffened, every instinct telling him to recoil, to pull away from the intrusion, but he did not. Golden eyes met the child’s wide grey ones, and in them he saw something unsettling. Intelligence. Sharp, glimmering, as though the boy already understood more than he should, as though he was weighing the world with infant clarity.

“…he stares,” Orochimaru murmured at last, voice rasping but quieter, more thoughtful than dismissive.

Sakumo chuckled softly, the sound rich with fondness. “He does that. Watches everything. My mother always said it’s a Hatake trait—always looking, always learning. Nothing escapes those eyes.”

Kakashi babbled again, tugging lightly at a strand of black hair that had fallen over Orochimaru’s shoulder. For a long moment, the sannin simply sat there, unsure how to respond. His hands hovered, hesitant, the tips of his fingers twitching, before finally—awkwardly—he reached up and allowed Kakashi to curl his tiny fingers around one pale fingertip.

The grip was surprisingly firm. Orochimaru’s brow furrowed faintly, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his features. “Strong,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Sakumo smiled, warmth softening the silver of his eyes as he watched them. “He’ll be like you one day, then,” he said quietly, not as a jest but as a promise.

With each visit, the awkwardness lessened, melting away layer by layer like frost under morning sun.

At first, Orochimaru allowed Kakashi to babble and tug at his hair while he sat stiff-backed, uncertain how to respond. The sannin’s posture remained rigid, golden eyes half-lidded with rest fever and fatigue, as though bracing himself against some intrusion he could not categorize. His hands hovered close to his blanket, knuckles tense, every line of his body taut with hesitation. But the child was relentless in his innocence—grinning with his small teeth, cheeks flushed, babbling strings of nonsense with grave intent, as if conducting a serious conversation only he understood.

And Orochimaru… listened.

The sharp glimmer in those grey eyes fascinated him, pinning him in place. Between the nonsense sounds were inflections, small shifts of tone, intent—patterns of observation woven through childish noise. This was no ordinary child. This was someone watching, learning, absorbing the world piece by piece even now.

“You’re sharper than you should be,” Orochimaru murmured once, his tone low, equal parts wonder and unease. The words slipped free before he could bite them back.

Kakashi responded by smacking his tiny palm against Orochimaru’s sleeve, crowing in delight at the reaction, his laughter ringing bright and unrestrained in the sterile room, a sound so alive it jarred against the quiet machines.

Sakumo, seated nearby with quiet ease, laughed softly in turn, the sound rich with warmth and pride. “He likes you,” he said gently, his eyes lingering with rare softness.

“…hm.” Orochimaru’s reply was brief, almost dismissive, but his hands never moved to push the child away. Instead, he allowed Kakashi to remain nestled against him, the small fingers curling confidently in the dark strands of his hair, as if they belonged there.

Another two weeks passed. Orochimaru’s strength returned, but in agonizing increments, like water dripping from a cracked jar. Pneumonia clung to him stubbornly, forcing him to remain in the hospital long past what his restless mind could tolerate. Each breath rasped with effort, each movement reminded him that his body had not yet forgiven him. And yet—through it all—Sakumo came, steady as ever. More often now he brought Kakashi with him, insisting gently, almost stubbornly, that the boy should not always be left behind.

With every visit, Orochimaru’s stiffness eased a fraction. He learned to hold Kakashi’s small hand without flinching, to let the child tug at his sleeves or weave curious fingers through his hair without protest. Occasionally, when Kakashi babbled with fierce determination as though demanding an answer, Orochimaru inclined his head and murmured something dry in return—an imitation of dialogue that, strangely, seemed to satisfy the boy. Those moments left the room warmer than the heaters ever could.

Then, one evening, it happened.

Kakashi wriggled restlessly in Sakumo’s arms, little legs kicking until his father relented and set him down upon the bed. The boy wasted no time, crawling across the blankets with surprising determination, his small palms landing with soft, deliberate thuds, babbling all the while as though narrating his own expedition. With clumsy persistence, he clambered into the crook of Orochimaru’s arm and settled there as though it had always belonged to him.

Orochimaru froze. His golden eyes widened, pupils narrowing to slits as he stared at the small head pressed against his chest. Kakashi exhaled a tiny sigh, soft and content, and promptly drifted to sleep, his fingers curled with unconscious trust around a fold of Orochimaru’s robe.

The sannin sat utterly still, every muscle locked, as though one wrong breath might shatter the fragile peace. His chest rose shallowly against the hiss of the oxygen tube, his long pale hands hovering in the air before, at last, lowering—hesitant, awkward—until they rested gently against the child’s back.

Sakumo, watching from the chair, felt something seize inside his chest. The sight of Orochimaru—so often feared, whispered about in tones of suspicion—now cradling his son with such raw fragility was almost too much to bear. The image carved itself into his memory: the feared serpent, holding his boy as though he were the most delicate thing in the world.

For Orochimaru, the moment was stranger still. He had never believed himself capable of being anything but a weapon, a mind, a survivor honed to a blade’s edge. He had never been safety, not for anyone. Yet here was a child, sleeping against him without hesitation, without fear—as though he were not a monster at all, but sanctuary itself.

And for the first time in years, something fragile stirred within him. Something uncoiled, hesitant and raw, trembling with life. Something that felt dangerously, achingly close to belonging.

Bringing Kakashi had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, born not from planning but from the tug of a child’s desperate need.

That day, Kakashi had clung to him with surprising force, wide-eyed and restless, refusing to release his grip on Sakumo’s flak jacket when his father tried to hand him over to the nanny. The boy’s cries had escalated into a storm of wails until hiccups rattled his tiny frame, little fists knotting into the fabric as though he feared being torn away forever.

Sakumo had stood in the doorway, torn painfully between the call of duty and the raw demand of fatherhood. He looked down at the flushed, tearstained cheeks pressed into his chest and, after a long breath, he had said softly, with a gentleness he rarely allowed himself, “All right… you’re coming with me.”

So, he carried Kakashi to the hospital, the boy’s head tucked stubbornly beneath his chin.

At first, Sakumo worried. Orochimaru was not the kind of man one pictured with children—his world was battlefields and scrolls, not toys and babble. But as soon as Kakashi reached for him, babbling strings of nonsense with bright, curious eyes fixed on the sannin, Sakumo’s concern eased.

Because Orochimaru did not pull away.

He sat awkwardly at first, long pale fingers stiff as Kakashi tugged at his hair and pawed at his sleeve. But he didn’t stop him. He didn’t sneer. He simply let the boy explore, golden eyes glinting with a strange, fascinated curiosity that Sakumo had never thought to see in him.

Sakumo watched with quiet amusement, his heart swelling as the interaction unfolded before him. Every small hesitation Orochimaru overcame—allowing Kakashi to hold his finger, allowing him to crawl into his lap—made something tender twist tight in Sakumo’s chest.

And then, the moment that undid him.

Kakashi clambered into Orochimaru’s arms one evening with single-minded determination, wriggled once, and promptly surrendered to sleep against the sannin’s chest, his breath soft and even.

Sakumo’s breath caught in his throat.

It looked so natural it was almost painful.

Orochimaru—the man who had faced armies and borne the hatred of his own comrades—sat with his golden eyes wide with disbelief, holding a child who trusted him completely. His hand, pale and thin, hovered in uncertainty before lowering at last to rest against Kakashi’s small back with a hesitance so raw it broke Sakumo’s heart.

The sight was beautiful, in a way that words could never truly capture.

Sakumo sat in silence, drinking it in, happiness flooding him so fiercely it almost hurt. He had not seen such peace in years—not in Orochimaru, not in himself. The quiet of the hospital room wrapped around them like a fragile cocoon, broken only by the soft rhythm of two steady breaths.

And one evening, when the rhythm of their visits had settled into something soft and steady, it happened again. Kakashi had wriggled his way into Orochimaru’s arms, sighing into sleep with the instinctive trust of a child, and not long after, Orochimaru himself had drifted off. His breathing evened, his head tilted slightly, strands of black hair spilling like silk over Kakashi’s silver crown, the two of them pressed close as though they had always belonged that way.

His son and the man Sakumo’s heart had begun to ache for.

The sight rooted itself deep in him, tender and unshakable, a memory carved into the marrow of his bones.

He rose carefully, every motion deliberate, easing Kakashi into his arms without waking him. Orochimaru stirred faintly but did not wake, his lips parted in shallow breaths, face softened by sleep in a way Sakumo had never seen before. Fragile. Human. Beautiful beyond words.

Sakumo hesitated. For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching, torn between reverence and the pull of something deeper. The urge rose unbidden, overwhelming, and before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned down.

His lips brushed Orochimaru’s forehead—light, devoted, almost trembling with restraint.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, so softly it barely stirred the air, a vow woven into the syllables.

Orochimaru did not wake.

Sakumo straightened slowly, Kakashi’s weight warm and solid in his arms, and left the room with his heart brimming—brimming with tenderness, with resolve, with something that felt dangerously, achingly close to love.

Six weeks in the hospital had worn Orochimaru thin.

Not only in flesh—though he had grown even thinner under the stiff white sheets, his already narrow frame sharpened further by fever, illness, and bitter medicines—but in spirit. Pneumonia, which he had neglected for weeks, clung like a curse: the rasp of every breath, the heaviness in his chest, the fits of coughing that tore at his ribs no matter how tightly they were bound. Even standing had become an ordeal; when he pushed himself upright, the monitors at his bedside beeped in protest as his pulse spiked alarmingly and the nurses rushed in with worried eyes.

The healers called him resilient, marvelling that he had endured. Orochimaru called it tedious, a humiliating waste of time.

And yet, when the head medic finally pronounced him “well enough” to be discharged, it was with a litany of conditions: no missions, continued inhalations twice daily, bitter tonics that seared his tongue, and rest. Always rest, the word repeated until it seemed a chain they sought to bind him with.

Orochimaru listened with his usual mask of indifference, though beneath it he was already calculating how quickly he could slip past their restrictions. His body was still unsteady, but his will remained sharp as ever. He would go to the mission desk, request deployment, and drown this suffocating stillness in work. That was how he had always endured—by moving, by never stopping.

The door opened before he could rise, interrupting the thought.

Sakumo entered with the calm weight of someone who already knew how this conversation would unfold. His silver hair caught the light like a blade, his expression firm but not unkind. In his arms he carried a folded bundle of fresh clothes, simple but carefully chosen which he had brought from his own house.

“You’re released,” Sakumo said, setting the bundle on the bed with quiet finality. “Good. Because you’re coming home with me.”

Orochimaru blinked slowly, golden eyes narrowing, his voice still rasping, thinned by fever and the oxygen that had kept him breathing when his lungs faltered. “…home with you?”

Sakumo’s grey eyes softened, though his tone left no room for refusal. “Yes. To the Hatake estate. I’ll monitor your recovery myself and make sure you actually rest.”

A rasp of laughter escaped Orochimaru’s throat, thin but edged, more bitter than amused. “I am no child to be carried for, Hatake. I can handle myself.”

“Handle yourself?” Sakumo’s voice carried quiet amusement, but the firmness underneath it was unmistakable. He folded his arms, gaze unwavering. “I can already see the plan forming in your eyes. You’d walk out of here and straight to the mission desk. By tomorrow you’d be back at the frontlines, coughing blood into the sand until it swallowed you whole.”

Orochimaru’s brows furrowed, a flicker of annoyance and surprise betraying him. Because that was exactly what he had intended.

Sakumo smiled faintly, the expression curving his lips with a quiet gentleness. “Which is why I’ve already filed your medical leave. Signed, sealed, and delivered to the Hokage’s office. No missions until you’re cleared. No exceptions, Orochimaru.”

The sannin stared at him, silent. His first instinct was anger—he should have felt livid at this interference, resentful that his autonomy had been stripped away so easily. His golden eyes narrowed, his lips parted as though to strike back with venom. But the familiar burn of outrage never came.

Instead, there was something else.

Relief.

Thin, unfamiliar, curling through him like warmth after too many cold nights. For once, he did not have to claw and fight and demand. For once, someone had decided for him—not out of dismissal, not out of exploitation, but out of care.

Care for him.

The realization unsettled him. His shoulders sagged faintly against the pillows, his breath rattling but quieter now. He exhaled slowly, lashes lowering, and allowed himself the smallest concession.

“…very well,” he murmured at last, his voice low, the syllables edged more with fatigue than venom. “Do as you please.”

Sakumo inclined his head, a note of satisfaction in his calm tone. “Good. Then we understand one another.”

He reached for the bundle of clothes and placed them in Orochimaru’s lap, unfolding them with deliberate care. “Clean robes. Softer fabric than hospital gowns. I thought you’d prefer something less sterile.”

The fabric was dark, fine linen, smelling faintly of cedar wood and the crisp air of the Hatake estate. Orochimaru’s long fingers lingered on it longer than he intended, surprised by the thoughtfulness in the choice. He dressed slowly, his movements stiff, every shift of his ribs reminding him of how fragile his body still was. The coughing seized him once, twice, forcing him to brace himself on the bed’s edge, his chest aching until the spasm passed.

Sakumo was there immediately, steadying him with a firm hand on his shoulder. His voice dropped, low and reassuring, the timbre steady as stone. “Easy now. Don’t rush yourself.”

Golden eyes flicked up, sharp but not dismissive. For once, Orochimaru did not shrug the hand away.

When he finally stepped out of the hospital, the autumn air wrapped cool and sharp against his skin. He expected to feel that old, gnawing weight of returning to his cold, empty home. But it was not toward solitude that Sakumo led him.

It was toward the Hatake estate—toward a place where, for the first time in his life, someone had put him unapologetically first.