The rain had stopped, but the air remained wet, heavy with a mist that tasted of iron filings and diesel.
Jiraiya crouched atop a rusting water tower, his white hair plastered flat against his skull. From this vantage point, he could see the guts of the Hidden Sound.
It wasn't hidden by Genjutsu. It was hidden by noise.
The roar of the blast furnaces and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of pile drivers created a sonic camouflage that scrambled his sensory perception. The vibration rattled the fillings in his teeth, a subsonic frequency that made the inside of his skull itch. He had to rely on his eyes.
Below him, a massive construction site sprawled like an open wound in the earth. Fūma laborers were scurrying around like ants, moving crates, welding pipes, their faces gaunt under the purple chakra lamps. Sparks from a welding torch cascaded down like lethal confetti, hissing as they hit the damp soil.
But in the center of the chaos, something else was moving.
"No cranes," Jiraiya muttered, squinting. "Just muscle."
A large, bulky figure stood amidst the debris. He wore a tunneled orange shirt and had distinct, jagged markings on his head. He was holding a stone slab the size of a city bus. Dust puffed from the rock's surface as he gripped it, his fingers sinking into the solid stone like it was wet clay.
He held it with one hand.
Jirōbō.
The sound ninja didn't strain. He didn't grunt. He simply held the multi-ton slab over his head while he casually reached into a pouch with his free hand, pulled out a handful of dried nuts, and tossed them into his mouth.
The casual pop of the snack bag opening was swallowed by the factory noise, a tiny sound of leisure in a landscape of labor.
Crunch. Crunch.
He swallowed, then lowered the slab onto a foundation with a delicate, precise thud that shook the ground for a hundred meters.
"Shinobi as heavy machinery," Jiraiya whispered, disgusted and impressed. "Orochimaru isn't just building an army. He's building infrastructure. He's using monsters to lay the bricks."
Jiraiya shifted his weight. A loose rivet on the water tower squeaked.
Down below, Jirōbō stopped chewing. His head tilted slightly. He looked up at the water tower, his small eyes narrowing.
Jiraiya froze, blending into the rust.
He held his breath, forcing his heartbeat to slow until it matched the rhythmic pounding of the pile driver below.
He sensed the vibration, Jiraiya realized. Over the pile drivers. This isn't just brute strength.
The cave hideout was silent, save for the hum of the air recyclers and the occasional drip of condensation hitting the limestone floor.
Kabuto stood by the stone throne, a fresh vial of painkiller in his hand. He glanced at the floor. The stain from the spilled soup was still there, a drying puddle of grey slurry. Next to it leaned a mop, still wet, a testament to his earlier humiliation. The smell of cold vegetable broth lingered faintly in the air, sour and unappetizing against the backdrop of limestone dampness.
"Company," Kabuto said softly.
He sensed the chakra signature before the footsteps arrived. It was distinct—sticky, sharp, like a spider testing its web.
Orochimaru shifted on his throne. His skin was pale, slick with a sheen of cold sweat. The medication was wearing off. The necrosis in his arms was pulsing again, sending waves of phantom fire up his shoulders. His fingers twitched involuntarily, the bandages rustling dryly against the stone armrest like shedding skin. He felt sluggish. Damp.
For what a life it must be, Orochimaru thought, staring at the ceiling, to live as a snake and simply wait for prey to come to you on a heated rock.
A drop of sweat traced a cold path down his spine, shivering despite the humidity of the cave.
He sighed, a rattle deep in his chest.
What a life it is to be a shinobi, constantly on the hunt.
Kidōmaru entered the cave. He moved with an unsettling fluidity, his six arms adjusting his tunic as he dropped into a full bow.
"Lord Orochimaru."
Orochimaru ran his tongue over his lips. He started to stand, planting his feet, but a wave of vertigo hit him. The room tilted. He sat back down, masking the weakness with a bored expression.
"I take it the storm itself has arrived," Orochimaru rasped.
Kidōmaru nodded, his third eye opening on his forehead. The lid parted with a wet, sticky sound, revealing a pupil that swiveled independently of the others, focusing on something unseen.
"Yes. The perimeter web vibrated. Heavy footsteps. High-level chakra signature. The Toad Sage."
Orochimaru smirked. It was a painful expression, tight around the eyes.
"Kabuto."
He turned his head slowly, like a rusted turret. His vertebrae popped audibly—crack-crack-crack—a sound like dry twigs snapping underfoot.
"The thunder is here," Orochimaru whispered. "Send three rods for its lightning to chase. Keep him away from the core."
Kabuto bowed. "At once, my Lord."
The warehouse smelled of ozone and despair. The halogen lights hummed aggressively overhead, a high-pitched whine that drilled into the ears and induced a headache within minutes.
It was a cavernous space, filled with rows of workbenches where Fūma clan members toiled under the harsh glare of halogen lights. They were assembling chakra receivers, their fingers moving in a blur, their eyes dead.
Kabuto walked down the center aisle, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. The "Roadies"—members of the Shiin clan—stopped smoking and straightened up as he passed.
He stopped in front of a group of three Fūma jonin. Kagerō. Jigumo. Kamikiri.
They looked up from their work. Kagerō, heavily deformed with a hunched back, wiped grease from his face. Jigumo, with spiders crawling over his shoulders, glared. Kamikiri adjusted the giant pincer on his arm.
"Status," Kabuto said pleasantly, adjusting his glasses.
"We are behind quota on the receivers," Kamikiri grunted. "The raw materials are... fragile."
"Forget the receivers," Kabuto ordered. "We have an intruder. A Sannin."
The three Fūma stiffened. Fear flickered in their eyes, quickly replaced by resignation.
"Jiraiya of the Leaf," Kabuto clarified. "He is sniffing around the perimeter. I need you to lead him away. Draw him north, into the canyons."
"Lead a Sannin away?" Jigumo scoffed. "That is suicide."
Kabuto leaned in. His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and terrifying.
"If he comes back here," Kabuto said, gesturing to the rows of Fūma workers, to the women and children assembling weapons in the back, The clatter of metal components sounded frantic and uneven, the rhythm of hands shaking from exhaustion and fear. "-you won't have a clan anymore. He will burn this place down. And Orochimaru... well, Orochimaru doesn't keep pets that can't protect the house."
It wasn't a direct threat of violence. It was worse. It was an implied genocide.
The air in the warehouse seemed to thicken, pressing in on them until it felt like breathing underwater.
Kagerō's face hardened. He looked at his clanmates. He nodded.
"We will lead him away," Kagerō rasped. "For the clan."
"Excellent," Kabuto smiled, a cold, clinical expression.
The light reflected off his glasses, turning his eyes into opaque white discs, completely unreadable.
He turned to the other side of the aisle, where Hanzaki and the kunoichi Kotohime were standing with Sasame.
"You three," Kabuto pointed. "Team Anko and Team Asuma have breached the southern sector. Split them up. Confuse them. Make them regret coming to the Land of Industry."
He looked at Sasame specifically. The young girl flinched.
"You know what to do, Sasame," Kabuto said softly. "Find the loud one. Find the girl with the glasses. Be... convincing."
Sasame swallowed hard, clutching her tunic. "Yes, Kabuto-sama."
"Good," Kabuto clapped his hands together. "Back to work, everyone. The shift isn't over yet."
Outside, the blast furnace roared to life again, a deep, mechanical bellow that sounded like a beast demanding to be fed.