The centrifuge hummed, a steady mechanical drone vibrating through the polished stone of the bench as Kabuto adjusted the dial, his dark eyes tracking the rapid spin of the glass vials.
With precise, practiced movements, he halted the machine and extracted the tubes.
Inside, the mechanism had successfully separated the test samples by weight. A thick, dark fraction rested at the bottom—heavily concentrated cells from his most resilient test subjects.
Kabuto picked up a glass pipette.
He carefully siphoned the cellular fluid, transferring the viscous slurry of concentrated stem cells into a wide, shallow dish filled with a base of fine, ash-like soil. The goal remained complex: creating a matrix for tissue regeneration capable of housing and sustaining rapid, autonomous growth.
The soil drank the cells, darkening into a rich, morbid loam.
A sharp pull wrenched at his chakra tether—the jarring tug broke his focus
Kabuto paused, the pipette hovering inches above the dish.
The sensation mirrored a plucked string, a distinct, localized disruption in the ambient chakra network radiating from a specific link he maintained.
Setting the glass instrument down on the sterile tray, he turned away from the workstation and crossed the stone floor to a temperature-controlled wooden shelf mounted against the far wall.
Five distinct glass jars lined the shelf in a neat, methodical row.
The first held a jagged, impossibly dense shard of white bone. The second contained a sealed, yellowish ounce of preserved body fat. The third housed a tangled knot of coarse, dark pink hair. The fourth displayed a collection of jagged, purple-painted fingernail clippings.
His gaze fixed on the fifth container.
Inside the small, ventilated glass terrarium, a golden-threaded spiderling thrashed wildly. The jar rattled against the wood as the arachnid threw its tiny body against the curved glass. Kabuto reached out, resting two steady fingers against the lid to hold the container in place.
On the spiderling's thorax, a microscopic, intricate black seal suddenly flared with volatile heat. The ink blistered, searing into the arachnid's carapace before oozing a thick, necrotic black fluid. The spider's legs curled inward in a violent, rapid spasm. It flipped onto its back, twitched once, and stilled entirely.
Dead.
Kabuto pushed a breath out through his nose.
The connection had snapped—his primary host's heart no longer beat.
He pulled his hand back, leaving the dead specimen on the shelf.
Abandoning the enriched soil, Kabuto snapped off his gloves with a quick motion, feeling the weight of the tension in his body as his shoulders eased.
He mentally locked away the meticulous, quiet control of the scientist, bracing his posture for the volatile, emotional theater of his master's court.
Stepping out into the dark, echoing corridors of the hideout, the purified air gave way to a heavy, oppressive dampness that immediately seeped into the fabric of his clothes.
A distant, echoing drip of condensation measured the silence in the subterranean maze. The torchlight cast long, distorted shadows across the stalactites, its faint, uneven heat prickling uncomfortably against his pale skin.
The main chamber of the underground complex felt cavernous and hostile. The cold stone floor bit through the thin soles of his sandals, and the stifling air carried the faint, acrid tang of stale sweat and tension.
The torchlight wavered unevenly in a way that made the jagged walls appear to breathe.
The silence magnified the subtle shifts of fabric and leather as the Sound Three stiffened in place.
Orochimaru wore Genyamaru's stolen face, lounging upon an elevated, carved stone throne. He projected an outward comfort, though a chilling, alien predatory grace bled through the young host's posture. Somewhere deeper in the compound, behind sealed stone doors, Sasuke Uchiha rested, his body recovering from the extreme strain of his recent battles and Orochimaru's specialized training regime.
The surviving remnants of the Sound Five flanked the throne, projecting varying degrees of battered tension.
Tayuya leaned heavily against a stone pillar. A thick layer of fresh, bloody bandages wrapped tightly around her left shoulder, documenting the brutal puncture wound Sasuke had inflicted using her own wooden flute.
Jirōbō stood near the steps of the throne, his massive arms crossed tightly over his beige tunic. He carried an imposing demeanor, his narrowed orange eyes scanning the shadows with silent severity.
Sakon lingered closely by Orochimaru's side, a confident, spiteful smirk playing across his dark-marked features. From the back of Sakon's neck, Ukon's head hung limply, the older twin's face entirely obscured by a curtain of dark blue hair as he slept within his brother's body.
Kabuto's footsteps echoed against the stone floor, as he approached the dais. He stopped and bowed deeply, burying any trace of his internal calculations behind a mask of absolute subservience.
"Lord Orochimaru."
Orochimaru's golden, slitted eyes slid lazily toward him. "Ah, Kabuto. You have news, I expect?"
"Yes." Kabuto straightened, folding his hands politely behind his back. He took a measured breath, cataloging the subtle shifts in the room's dynamic. "Kidōmaru has fallen. The chakra tether just collapsed. He likely encountered and engaged one of Konoha's pursuit teams within the Land of Forests."
The corner of Orochimaru's lips sagged. Genyamaru's youthful face drooped, taking on an expression of theatrical, weary disappointment. The Sannin raised a pale, elongated finger, tapping the side of his head. "What a waste."
Tayuya scoffed loudly, the sound bouncing harshly against the cavern walls. She leaned her head back, spitting a thick glob of saliva onto the stone floor in blatant disgust. "He died weak trash. Cocky. Arrogant. Probably stopped to play with his food and got swatted by Konoha garbage."
She wiped her mouth, eyeing Kabuto warily, her hand tightening into a fist at her side.
A flash of deep-seated suspicion tightened her jaw, betraying her raw, instinctive unease with the medic's untouchable status. She despised him, recognizing on some feral level that she existed merely as a breakable tool, while he operated as the craftsman holding the hammer.
Jirōbō's rigid posture bristled. He cast a heavy, disapproving glare toward the kunoichi. He ground his molars together, the muscles in his thick neck straining with a simmering, envious resentment of Kabuto's effortless proximity to their Lord. He viewed the medic's intellectual value as a direct insult to their own physical sacrifices. "Mind your foul language, Tayuya. Show some dignity for the fallen."
"Shut up, fatso," Tayuya sneered, her hand twitching at the bandaged wound on her shoulder.
Kabuto allowed the silence to hang for a moment, feeling a fleeting surge of cold superiority as he observed the bickering brutes.
"Quiet," Kabuto ordered. His voice carried no volume, but the icy edge of his tone sliced instantly through their bickering, reminding the living weapons exactly who held their leashes. Sakon merely chuckled, a low, grating sound from his spot by the throne, entirely unbothered by the loss of his teammate.
Orochimaru smirked, thoroughly amused by the friction among his subordinates. "The girl speaks the truth, however," Orochimaru murmured, idly scratching his temple.
Kabuto reached up, his middle finger pushing his wire-rimmed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. The torchlight caught the circular lenses, flashing brilliant white and completely obscuring his dark, calculating eyes.
His thoughts flickered back to the lab, to the dark soil hungrily absorbing the concentrated cells.
The teenagers bickered like children over scraps of approval, entirely blind to the true scale of Orochimaru's ambition—and Kabuto's own. The foundational matrix required a test subject—a corpse perfectly steeped in Curse Mark chakra to see if the soil could truly force autonomous regeneration. Kidōmaru's body, fresh and highly resilient, represented a rare, invaluable specimen.
Securing it wasn't just about reclaiming a lost pawn; it was the next critical step in mastering the boundary between life and death.
"Of course..." Kabuto said smoothly, taking a deliberate half-step forward, the corner of his mouth ticking upward in a cold, clinical smile. "...he doesn't have to remain a waste."
Orochimaru's smile widened, stretching slightly too far for Genyamaru's jaw, revealing a glimpse of the monstrous entity hiding beneath the skin.
"Take the flute with you."