The cold silence of the lab was deafening as the final glass tube was drained of its green liquid. The children, now pale and trembling, were released one by one from their confines, their bodies weak but somehow still alive. The stench of burnt flesh, sweat, and chemicals hung heavily in the air. Some of them couldn't even stand on their own, their legs buckling beneath them as the staff dragged them away for further observation.
Ten children lay motionless, their bodies lifeless in the tubes. Their faces frozen in agony. Orochimaru stood at the center of the room, his eyes scanning the surviving children, those who had somehow managed to cling to life.
A young scientist—one who had been recording data throughout the entire ordeal—flipped through his clipboard, his voice trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and awe. "Out of the fifty, only ten… only ten died from the serum's effects. The rest, they… they've survived."
Orochimaru's gaze remained cold, unmoved. "They were never meant to all survive. Ten is a good number. The rest…" His eyes swept over the remaining children. "They're the future."
A second scientist, more seasoned than the first, pushed his glasses up his nose and stepped forward, looking over the data. "The chakra reserves have increased—substantially. It's… it's remarkable. On average, they now possess the chakra reserves of an elite Chūnin, even a few of them surpassing that threshold."
Orochimaru cocked an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. "Impressive… but for children, it's not enough."
"But you have to consider their age, Orochimaru-sama," the second scientist continued, eager to justify the results. "They're still only six to ten years old. They haven't even reached their full potential. If we allow them to develop naturally, even without further enhancement, the gains in chakra reserves could easily push them into the realm of Jōnin-level combat ability by the time they reach adolescence."
Orochimaru smiled darkly, his fingers stroking the edge of his cloak. "Yes, and that's where the real power lies. Potential. We've just unlocked it."
One of the children, a girl with dark, trembling eyes, staggered to her feet, her hands clutching the cold metal of the lab's walls as she tried to regain her balance. The scientist closest to her noted her vitals. "Stable. Chakra reserves—much higher than expected." He noted it down with a frown.
"These children were taken from clans," the first scientist said hesitantly, "but they weren't from powerful clans. If they had come from elite families or highly skilled bloodlines, the results would be... astounding."
Orochimaru nodded slowly, his gaze hardening. "Even so, their raw power will be enough to serve our needs. This isn't about bloodlines anymore. This is about creating soldiers—tools—whose power can surpass that of the most gifted shinobi in the world."
Orochimaru's eyes scanned them all. "Now, we wait. They will recover. And when they do, we will begin the next phase of their training. Their skills, their abilities—none of it matters unless they're willing to do whatever it takes to win. They will be molded into something... far beyond what any of their clans could ever imagine."
The children's faces remained vacant, their minds distant, as if the pain had stripped away everything but a hollow obedience to the forces that had shaped them. Some were already trying to move their hands, experimenting with their newfound chakra. The intensity of the changes they felt was clear even in the quiet of the lab.
"This is only the beginning," Orochimaru said with a smile that wasn't quite a smile. "And soon, we'll be able to manipulate them on a level no one else has ever dreamed of. They'll be perfect weapons."
The scientists nodded, scribbling furiously. They had witnessed something extraordinary, and yet, there was a coldness in the air, a sense of unease that would linger long after the experiment had ended.
In the future Orochimaru would give these same drugs to Sasuke to increase his power from a chunin to that of a low-level Kage in a matter of 3 years.
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The Moment of Truth
The sterile silence of the lab had barely faded when the children were escorted out, their bodies still aching from the grueling experiment. Their faces were pale, hollowed by exhaustion, and their hands shook ever so slightly as they were ushered toward the cafeteria. For the first time in what felt like weeks, they were allowed to eat—though the food, simple and bland, did little to soothe the rawness of their bodies.
In the midst of their disorientation, one of the instructors barked orders. "Eat quickly. You're to report to the training field in fifteen minutes."
The children—exhausted, aching, but still obedient—did as they were told. They didn't question, didn't complain. It was simply what they were trained for: always prepared, always ready. Their eyes, dulled by the unrelenting suffering, scanned the room as they ate, but the presence of the other instructors and their cold stares didn't go unnoticed.
The sounds of chewing and the clink of utensils filled the air, but no one dared speak. Soon, the bell chimed, signaling that it was time. They wiped their mouths clean, and without hesitation, stood from the table, leaving their empty plates behind as they filed out in neat rows. Every child carried their gear—shuriken, kunai, and the simple tools of a shinobi. Their instructors had made sure they were always prepared for a mission, no matter the situation.
Outside, the air was thick with anticipation. The training field loomed ahead, an imposing stretch of sand and dirt with nothing but cold steel scattered across it. The children felt a shift in the air, a weight bearing down on them as they approached the field. Something was different today. It wasn't just the sight of all the instructors in one place. No, it was more.
They entered the field to find something far beyond what they had imagined.
All of Root was there.
Standing in neat rows along the perimeter of the field were more members than any of the children had ever seen. Some were familiar—their own instructors, those they'd been molded by for years. But there were others as well, members they'd never even heard of, faces they'd never seen, but all dressed in the same cold, black uniform of Root. There were at least fifty of them—per clan, per child.
And then, seated at the far end of the field, on a makeshift throne of metal and stone, was Lord Danzo himself. His single visible eye scanned the children with a calculating, almost predatory gaze, while the other, hidden behind the bandage, betrayed nothing. His presence was oppressive, suffocating even. The children couldn't help but flinch under the weight of his attention.
The children were lined up in perfect rows, fifty to a clan, though they all knew deep down that these clan affiliations meant little here. They were no longer Yuki, Inuzuka, or Akimichi. They were simply tools.
The main instructor, standing at the head of the line, cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "Today is a day of reckoning," he began, his tone cold and firm. "You've been chosen. Chosen to prove your worth—not just to us, but to yourself."
The children's hearts raced, but they said nothing.
"This is why we gave you a roommate," the instructor continued, his voice ringing out across the field. "A partner who would help you grow. A companion who would stand by your side, or so you believed."
The words echoed in the air like a premonition, and the children exchanged confused, uncertain glances.
The instructor paused, his gaze sweeping over them all, as if measuring their souls. "But you see, there is no place for weakness in Root. And there is certainly no place for sentimentality."
A cold silence followed his words, thickening the air until it was nearly suffocating. Then, he looked to the side, and with a signal from his hand, two children—best friends, roommates, and seemingly random—were called forward.
Thorfinn Inuzuka and Taro Yamanaka stood frozen as their names rang out. They exchanged confused, anxious glances, but neither spoke. Their legs, heavy and uncooperative, carried them down to the center of the training field without hesitation.
But as they arrived in the center of the field, the true meaning of the words hit them like a thunderclap. The instructor's voice came again, cold and commanding, cutting through their confusion like a blade.
"You two," he said, "will fight to the death. The winner will become a part of Root. The loser will die. This is the way of the world. This is the way of Root."
For a brief moment, everything seemed to stop. The children—their friends—watched in stunned silence as the truth settled over them like a heavy, impenetrable fog.
Thorfinn's heart pounded in his chest. His mind raced, the haze of pain still lingering, but he couldn't make sense of it. Taro, standing beside him, his face pale, his expression a mixture of fear and confusion, looked like he wanted to say something. But there were no words.
The instructor's gaze never wavered, nor did Lord Danzo's. He watched, unmoving, from his makeshift throne as the two children—once friends—were forced to face each other in the most brutal of tests.
Taro clenched his fists, but he didn't say a word. Thorfinn's hands trembled as he felt the weight of the decision pressing in on him.
This was the moment that would define them. This was the moment that would prove whether they would be worthy of life in Root.
The question now wasn't who would survive. It was how they would survive, and what they would become once it was over.
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The air was thick with the weight of unspoken dread as Thorfinn Inuzuka and Taro Thorfinn stood facing each other. Their bodies, still raw from the earlier pain, shook with uncertainty, but there was no time for hesitation. The order had been given.
"You will fight to the death," the instructor's voice rang out, the cruel finality of the command hanging in the air like an executioner's axe.
Taro looked at his best friend, his expression twisted with disbelief. "Thorfinn, we—" But before he could finish, both of them felt it: an invisible force that locked their muscles in place.
A sharp, unrelenting pain exploded in Thorfinn's chest as his tongue seized, and his limbs were forced into paralysis. His body refused to obey, trembling, but unable to move. He couldn't even speak.
Taro's eyes widened in panic. "W-what's happening?!" But before he could react, the pressure on his skull intensified—a crushing, searing heat that threatened to melt his brain.
The curse mark on their tongues flared to life. It paralyzed their bodies. The second curse mark—the one on their heads—sent waves of molten agony through their skulls, forcing them to scream in agony.
"You will obey," the instructor barked, his voice cold and merciless. "This is the seal of Root. Resistance is futile."
Their screams cut through the air, raw and agonized, but neither boy could break free. Their legs quivered as if they were about to give way beneath them.
"Enough," the instructor snapped, and with a swift, commanding gesture, he silenced them. "Fight."
Thorfinn's vision blurred, but something inside him snapped. The bond he shared with Taro, the memories of their time together, burned in his chest. This wasn't right—none of this was right. And yet, there was nothing they could do.
Taro, his face pale with rage and confusion, blinked hard and struggled to stand. His heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed for his kunai pouch. Thorfinn, equally pained and unwilling to hurt his friend, did the same.
The moment the kunai left their pouches, the fight began.
The Fight
Thorfinn moved first, a blur of motion, though he could feel his limbs heavy and slow. He hurled a handful of shuriken toward Taro, his movement swift, but there was a hesitation in his eyes—just a flicker of uncertainty. The blades spun through the air, cutting through the wind like a storm.
Taro's reaction was instinctive. With a flick of his wrist, he drew his own kunai, narrowly deflecting the shuriken aimed for his throat. The metallic sound of them clashing echoed across the field. He didn't hesitate. Without giving Thorfinn a moment to recover, Taro lunged forward, his kunai aimed directly at his chest.
Thorfinn sidestepped, the movement fluid despite the lingering pain, his breath shaky. He ducked low, narrowly avoiding the slash. Taro's kunai grazed the fabric of his vest, slicing through the material but leaving only a shallow cut across his ribs. Blood stained his jacket.
Taro's eyes narrowed. "You're holding back." His voice was tight with anger and confusion. "What's going on, Thorfinn?"
But there was no answer. Thorfinn's gaze never wavered from Taro's, but his stance was defensive. It was clear to Taro—Thorfinn was holding back.
With a grunt, Thorfinn raised his kunai and slashed horizontally at Taro's midsection. Taro barely managed to deflect it, the edge of Thorfinn's blade grazing his arm, drawing blood. The sting of the wound sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body, but the pain only fueled his resolve.
"Fight me!" Taro roared, his eyes burning with frustration. "This isn't like you! Fight me, Thorfinn!"
Thorfinn's eyes flashed, and for a brief moment, Taro saw something deep in his friend's eyes—a mixture of sorrow and anger. Thorfinn stepped back, shifting his weight onto his back foot. He knew he couldn't hold back anymore.
With a guttural shout, Thorfinn launched himself at Taro, kunai aimed at his throat. The movement was sudden, fluid, and fast, but Taro was ready. He pivoted to the side, his kunai meeting Thorfinn's in a loud clash. Sparks flew as the blades collided, each boy struggling for control.
They grappled for a brief, chaotic moment, their faces inches apart, eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Thorfinn's heart hammered in his chest, and his breath was shallow, but his hands were steady.
Taro's voice was tight, strained. "What happened to us, Thorfinn?" He threw an elbow into Thorfinn's chest, knocking the wind out of him. The force sent him stumbling back, but Thorfinn recovered quickly, rolling to the side.
Taro didn't wait. He charged again, this time bringing his kunai down with deadly precision. Thorfinn barely managed to block, the force of the blow rattling his arms. The impact sent a shockwave through his body.
Taro's kunai flashed with every swing, each strike coming closer and closer to landing. Thorfinn's arms shook as he blocked, each movement more desperate than the last. His shoulder, already injured, screamed in pain with every block. But he couldn't stop. He wouldn't.
"Fight me, Thorfinn!" Taro shouted again, fury lacing his words. "Don't you care?!"
Thorfinn's eyes burned with regret. I care too much, he thought, but he couldn't say it. He couldn't let Taro know that every swing, every cut, tore him apart.
With a wild swing, Thorfinn caught Taro across the face, the kunai cutting into his cheek, drawing a line of crimson blood. Taro stumbled back, his hand instinctively flying to his face, but the anger in his eyes only grew.
The two boys circled each other, their breaths ragged and uneven. Blood pooled beneath them, staining the dirt beneath their feet. Thorfinn's heart pounded with every strike, every movement. But through it all, he could still see his friend—still see the boy he'd once called his brother.
And in the quiet moments between strikes, Taro's voice cut through the chaos again, raw and filled with pain. "I don't want to kill you, Thorfinn. I don't want this."
Thorfinn's grip tightened on his kunai, and with a single, forceful movement, he slashed upward. The blade cut across Taro's abdomen, blood splashing across the dirt.
Taro gasped, his eyes wide with shock and pain, but there was no time for words now. No time for regret. The seal, the curse, the bond—they were all shattered.
Taro's breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. With every movement, his body screamed in protest, but he stood tall. He faced his friend, his enemy, knowing that only one of them would leave this fight alive.
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The stifling air around them crackled with tension, thick with the weight of unspoken emotions. Thorfinn's heart hammered in his chest as he stood across from Taro, the weight of the dagger—a gift, a symbol of their bond—heavy in his hand.
The dagger gleamed under the harsh, unforgiving light, its ornate handle reflecting the last vestiges of hope he had for the future. It was a constant reminder of everything they had shared, everything they still could've shared. But now, it felt like the instrument of death. The blade felt foreign in his grip as if he weren't holding it, but something more ominous—a harbinger of the inevitable.
Taro stood, panting, his kunai slick with blood, his eyes burning with defiance. He knew, deep down, that this wasn't the end. But as much as he hated to admit it, his body ached, his movements sluggish. The poison he had used was working—slowly, but surely. The smoke bombs he'd used to cover his retreat, the poison hidden in his weapons—everything had been designed for one thing: to survive. But now, it felt useless.
Taro smiled through the pain, through the blood that stained his lips. "I never thought I'd be the one to die here…" His voice cracked, but there was a steely determination in his eyes.
Thorfinn swallowed hard, his chest tight. "Don't say that."
Taro's smile faltered slightly, but he pressed on. "I don't have time to regret. This isn't about me. It's about you, Thorfinn. You have something to fight for, don't you? I... I want to leave this place. I want to see the world beyond the walls. I want to live."
Taro staggered slightly, his legs buckling beneath him, but he regained his footing, stepping toward Thorfinn. His kunai was still raised, though his movements were slower now.
"You—you have a dream, right?" Taro's voice was desperate, his eyes burning with the need for answers. "Something more than just killing. What is it? Do you even have a goal to fight for?"
For the briefest of moments, Thorfinn hesitated. His heart pounded as his mind raced, the sounds of their battle still ringing in his ears. But those words... they shattered the fragile wall Thorfinn had been holding up.
Dream?
What dream?
He had no dream. No goal. Just survival. Just pain. But now, standing in front of Taro, Thorfinn thought of the bond they shared, the fleeting moments of laughter and camaraderie. Could he throw all that away for the sake of a mission, for the sake of the village that had created this twisted nightmare?
A flicker of something—hope, maybe?—rose within him, but just as quickly, it was snuffed out. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to lose Taro. But his mission... Root. Danzo...
Suddenly, the curse marks flared again, sending searing pain through Thorfinn's body, but this time, it didn't stop him. His breath quickened, and his vision blurred with the pulse of his heartbeat. He could feel the edge of the dagger growing heavier in his hand.
Taro coughed, blood staining his lips. "Don't hold back. You have to kill me, don't you?" His words were punctuated with a grim smile. "So do it."
Thorfinn's mind raced. The curse... the mission... everything... It all collided in a storm of confusion and grief. His vision clouded, but he knew this was the moment of truth. If he did this—if he ended Taro's life—what would be left?
"No," Thorfinn whispered, his voice trembling. "I won't... I can't."
Taro staggered forward, his body barely holding itself together. The poison was taking its toll, and Thorfinn could see the life fading from his friend's eyes. "Don't stop," Taro gasped, struggling to stay upright. "Finish it."
But Thorfinn's hand trembled, the dagger slipping as he nearly dropped it. His throat tightened as a rush of emotion flooded him. He wasn't just fighting for survival. He was fighting for something bigger. Something that Taro had given him: a reason to hope, a reason to live.
"I... I can't kill you, Taro," Thorfinn said, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes. "I can't kill my best friend."
With a final, painful breath, Taro smiled. "Then... just hold on to this. Hold on to your dream. Please."
The words broke Thorfinn. The tears, once held back, began to fall freely down his face as he rushed forward, catching Taro's collapsing body in his arms. The dagger fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground with a hollow sound.
"No, no, no!" Thorfinn cried out, his hands trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding from Taro's wounds. The blood flowed faster than he could stem it, pooling around them. He pressed his hands against the wounds, desperately trying to stop the flow of life draining from his friend.
"Please... don't go..." Thorfinn's voice was raw, choked with sobs.
But Taro's breathing slowed, his eyes clouding with the fading light. "I... I'll always be with you, Thorfinn... Even if I'm gone... I'm always here." He reached out, his fingers brushing Thorfinn's cheek one last time. "Don't forget me."
And then, with a final, ragged breath, Taro was gone.
Thorfinn sat there, holding his friend's lifeless body in his arms, the world around him silent except for the sound of his own broken sobs. His heart, shattered into a thousand pieces, ached with the weight of his failure.
He had lost his best friend. He had lost the only person who had ever truly understood him.
But Taro's words echoed in his mind, sharp as the dagger he had given him. "Hold on to your dream."
Thorfinn could barely breathe, but the promise Taro had made—to live, to fight—burned brightly in his chest, more powerful than the pain.
He had lost Taro. But maybe, just maybe, he could still fight—for both of them.