The city was a wreck — broken roofs hanging like torn cloth, walls punched through by old jutsu, and people too tired to even raise their heads. The fighting was technically over, they said. Sure. If you ignored the way the air still crackled with tension, thick like mist that just refused to clear.
This was the Land of Brine — a strange little country jammed between bigger, meaner neighbours. Cliffs, rain, mist — that's all they had. No hidden village, no real shinobi force. Just a name that managed to stay out of Kumo and Kiri's wars. Neutral on paper. But in the shinobi world, neutrality was a joke. Power wasn't always about armies. Sometimes, it was about the dirt you knew.
And Brine? It was a filthy goldmine.
Underneath all the grey streets and sad fishing towns, there was a black market that could make even Rain Country jealous — stolen scrolls, rogue ninjas trading favours, weapons nobody should be selling. If you needed to disappear, this was your place. If you needed to die, that was even easier.
Like right now.
Steel slammed against steel — a loud, sharp clash that echoed through the mist.
The Kumo jōnin didn't even blink. Didn't waste energy chasing a shadow. He just stood there, muscles coiled tight, kunai ready.
A bead of sweat slid down his face, slow as syrup.
He couldn't see the enemy anymore. And in this kind of fight, that only meant one thing:
They were already close enough to kill.
A voice floated through the fog — light, playful, and somehow sharp enough to cut.
"Not bad," it said. "You're better than most."
The jōnin spun instantly, his kunai flaring with chakra.
"Nagare Isou no Jutsu!"
Lightning exploded along the blade, crackling like a hungry beast, and he slashed straight through the mist toward the voice.
It should've torn the enemy apart.
Instead, it sliced through nothing — a clone popping into mist with a soft hiss.
And before he could even swear, he felt it — cold steel biting into his throat.
His knees buckled. Blood poured down his armour, hot and sticky, and every breath came out wet and ragged.
Through the blur of pain, he saw a figure step out of the mist, peeling back a simple mask.
Pale, almost sickly skin. Yellow eyes that didn't blink like normal people's. A lazy, cruel smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Orochimaru.
One of the Sannin.
Fear stabbed deeper than the wound itself — but the jōnin was already falling, already drowning in black.
Not far away, another Kumo ninja saw him go down.
No yelling. No hesitation. They had made peace with the risks before they even stepped into the Brine.
One would bait. The other would strike.
The second jōnin's hands flashed through seals — sharp, practiced, ruthless.
Above him, the mist shivered.
Dozens of lightning arrows sparked into existence, each one humming with deadly energy, vibrating with raw voltage.
"Raiya Ranryū no Jutsu!"
And just like that, the sky started falling.
The arrows didn't just shoot straight — they twisted mid-air, hunting the target through the mist like living things.
It was like there was no way to escape.
But only for someone inexperienced.
Orochimaru watched the storm come down.
And he smiled like someone being handed an interesting new puzzle.
He moved, smooth as water, body bending at angles that felt just a little wrong to watch. The lightning bolts stabbed the ground around him, tearing craters into stone, throwing steam and rubble into the air. But Orochimaru slipped through the gaps like a snake weaving through falling branches.
Still — a few arrows grazed him.
Thin, smoking cuts opened along his arms and ribs, burning and crackling with leftover electricity.
He watched his own blood drip onto the broken street. Sniffed the smoky air like he was trying to taste it.
"You almost got me," he said, voice low and amused, his tongue flicking out far too long to be normal.
There was no panic. No rage. Only the cold amusement of a predator who had already decided how this was going to end.
He had let the arrows hit him on purpose. Measured the power. Decided it wasn't worth being serious.
Before the second Kumo jōnin could form another jutsu, Orochimaru was just there — a blur that barely even seemed to move.
The kunai punched straight into the man's ribs, sliding through armour like it was wet paper.
He twisted the blade once for good measure.
The Kumo ninja gasped, blood spilling out between his teeth, body shuddering.
Orochimaru leaned in close, so close the dying man could see his own fear reflected back in those snake-like eyes.
The jōnin sagged against him, dead before he even hit the ground.
The mist swallowed him whole like he had never existed at all.
And somewhere deeper in the city, more targets were still breathing. For now.
Orochimaru wiped the blood from his blade with a lazy flick of his wrist and crouched beside the fallen Jōnin, searching his body. His fingers brushed over several scrolls before picking one.
A quick flick of his wrist, and the seal unraveled.
A limp figure dropped to the ground.
The spy.
Blood covered his body, deep wounds crisscrossing his skin. His breath was faint, but he was alive.
Orochimaru poured water over his face.
The spy gasped awake, eyes snapping open. Pain flickered across his face, but he didn't cry out.
His gaze swept over the bodies around them, then landed on Orochimaru.
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Plot suggestions
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