Renjiro turned his gaze to the children.
They huddled together in the dim interior of the wagon, their faces pale, their eyes wide with fear. Some were crying—soft, hiccupping sobs that they tried to muffle with their hands. Others sat in stunned silence, too terrified to move. A few of the older ones had positioned themselves protectively in front of the younger, their bodies tense, their gazes fixed on the blood-spattered figure who had just murdered their captors.
He counted them.
Twenty-seven children, the clone thought.
He could not leave them here. He could not release them into the wilderness as they would not survive long on their own.
"This is beyond my expertise," the clone muttered, rubbing his temples.
He formed a single hand sign, and a second shadow clone materialised beside him, its expression blank, awaiting instruction.
"I need to brainstorm," the first clone said. "But talking to myself feels inefficient."
He looked at the second clone.
"Maybe the Main Body would have a better idea."
The second clone nodded.
"Probably."
The clone dispelled himself, and his memories flowed across the network, racing toward the original Renjiro, seated in his office in Konoha, thousands of kilometres away.
The Flying Raijin scroll lay unrolled across Renjiro's desk. He had been studying it for hours, tracing Tobirama's original notes, comparing them to Minato's additions, trying to understand the fundamental principles of space-time ninjutsu.
Still surprised Minato entrusted me with this, he thought, his finger tracing a particularly complex seal array. This is one of Konoha's greatest assets. Not something casually handed out. The Second Hokage's legacy. The Yellow Flash's signature technique.
He wondered what Minato expected from him. The Hokage was not naive; he knew that the scroll would be studied, that its secrets would be analysed, that Renjiro would use the knowledge to enhance the barrier project and, perhaps, for his own purposes. But he had given it freely, without conditions, without oversight.
He must expect something extraordinary from me.
The weight of that trust pressed against him.
The memories hit without warning; a flood of sensations, images, and emotions that cascaded through his consciousness. The caravan. The corpses. The children. The problem of where to take twenty-seven kidnapped children who could not be left, could not be released, and could not be brought to Konoha.
Renjiro closed his eyes, organising the information, processing the implications.
Twenty-seven children, he thought. Bloodline traits. Malnourished. Frightened. No immediate destination.
He sat in silence for a long moment, his mind racing through possibilities. And then something clicked.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor and walked across the office to a secure storage cabinet. The lock was sealed with a simple chakra lock, keyed to his signature. He pressed his palm against the surface, channelled a pulse of chakra, and the lock released with a soft click.
Inside, among other classified materials, was a large scroll; thick, heavy, its surface marked with restriction seals that warned of the consequences of unauthorised access. He retrieved it, carried it to his desk, and unrolled it across the surface, pushing aside the Flying Raijin notes.
Konoha's hidden infrastructure.
The map was massive, covering the entire desk and spilling over the edges. Markers indicated safehouses, supply depots, observation posts, and intelligence relay stations; all of them scattered across the continent, all of them officially nonexistent. Black sites, built in secret, maintained in silence, used only by those with the highest clearance. Most of them were in minor shinobi villages, as it would be a diplomatic nightmare to have them in Major shinobi villages.
As Jonin Commander, Renjiro had access to them all.
There, he thought, his finger tracing a route. Near the border of the Land of Rivers. A secure facility—abandoned, but intact. It was used during the war as a forward operating base. It has barracks, a kitchen, and a medical station. It can hold thirty people easily.
He studied the map, cross-referencing the location with the clone's position.
Conveniently near the clone's route. Conveniently near the next Orochimaru lead. The children can be hidden there temporarily. It can continue the pursuit. Then I handle the logistics.
He formulated the plan quickly, efficiently, the pieces falling into place.
But the children still need long-term protection, he realised. I can't leave them in a black site indefinitely. Eventually, they'll need to be integrated somewhere—returned to their families, if they have them, or placed in new homes.
And Danzo will notice.
He thought of the old war hawk—of his network of informants, his agents embedded throughout the village, his willingness to use any resource, any person, any child, to further his vision of Konoha.
I need to speak with Minato. Ensure that Danzo is kept completely away from them. If the Hokage personally oversees their care, if he designates them as protected assets, Danzo will have to move carefully. And Danzo does not move carefully when he is being watched.
He made a mental note: talk to Minato. Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.
He formed a hand sign, and a shadow clone materialised beside him—poof.
"The plan," Renjiro said. "The children. The black site. The pursuit of Orochimaru."
He explained everything—the location, the route, the logistics, the need for secrecy. The clone listened, memorised, and nodded.
"Understood."
It dispelled itself, and the memories raced across the network, travelling thousands of kilometres in an instant.
The clone received the memories, processed them, and understood the plan immediately. He turned to the children, who were still watching him with fearful eyes.
"We're moving," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm taking you somewhere safe. You will be fed, clothed, and cared for. No one will hurt you there. No one will use you for experiments. Do you understand?"
A few of the older children nodded. The younger ones simply stared.
This will take time, the clone thought. They're traumatised. They don't trust me. I need to earn that trust.
He began organising the children, grouping them by age, assigning the oldest to help the youngest. He gathered supplies from the wagons—food, water, blankets, anything that would help during the journey. The wagons themselves were useless; they were too slow, too conspicuous, too easily tracked. They would travel on foot, through the forest, using cover and concealment to avoid detection.
Everything appears under control, he thought. I just need to summon Tenjin to transport them away.
Then—
Instincts screamed.
Every survival sense Renjiro possessed erupted at once. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His muscles tensed. His Sharingan spun, searching for the threat—but there was nothing. No chakra flare. No visible enemy. No sound, no movement, no indication of danger.
He didn't think. He flickered.
He vanished from his position and reappeared several meters away—fast, precise, a perfect evasive manoeuvre that would have saved him from almost any ambush.
But the enemy had anticipated it.
The moment he reappeared, snakes exploded from the ground.
They erupted from the soil like a fountain of serpents—dozens of them, hundreds, their scales gleaming, their fangs bared, their bodies coiling and striking. They wrapped around his arms, his legs, his torso, his neck, constricting, crushing, pulling him down.
Renjiro struggled immediately. He tried to manifest his Adamantine Chains in a bid to get rid of the snakes.
Nothing happened.
Or rather, almost nothing. A few links materialised—faint, translucent, unstable—before dissolving into chakra mist.
Something is wrong.
He felt his chakra draining away—rapidly, hungrily, as if the snakes were drinking it directly from his coils. His reserves, which had seemed inexhaustible, were plummeting. The clone's form flickered, its edges blurring, its connection to the original growing faint.
These aren't normal snakes, he realised. They're chakra constructs. Sealed. Designed to drain and contain.
Orochimaru emerged from the forest.
He moved with the unhurried grace of someone who had all the time in the world, his pale face illuminated by the fading light, his yellow eyes gleaming with amusement. He wore simple travelling clothes—dark, practical—and his long black hair fell across his shoulders. His smile was thin, cold, knowing.
"Renjiro Uzumaki," Orochimaru said, his voice smooth, almost pleasant. "Or rather, a shadow clone. But what a remarkable shadow clone it is."
He circled the captured clone, studying it with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen.
"The chakra reserves... far too much for an ordinary clone. Most shadow clones dispel after a single hit. You've taken multiple strikes, had your chakra drained, and yet you persist." He tilted his head. "Fascinating."
Renjiro did not respond. He continued to struggle, testing the snakes' grip, searching for a weakness.
"It won't work," Orochimaru said, almost kindly. "These are not ordinary summonings. They are bonded to chakra-draining seals—my own design. The more you struggle, the faster they feed. You will not break free."
He stopped in front of Renjiro, his yellow eyes meeting the clone's Sharingan.
"Call your real body."
The words were calm. No threats, no shouting, no bluster. Just confidence—absolute certainty that Renjiro would comply.
The shadow clone was dispelled moments later.
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