What's happening to me?
Genjutsu? Unlikely. There's no disruption in my chakra flow, no foreign influence seeping into my mind.
These memories… Whose are they?
They flicker through my mind like dying embers, yet they are unmistakably mine. Strange. I do not recall acquiring them, yet they settle into place as if they have always belonged.
How is this possible?
Transmigration? A peculiar term one I should have no reason to know, and yet, it rises to the surface with an unsettling familiarity.
As the memories become clearer, the truth takes shape.
Riko. A name that holds no meaning to me, yet I remember his life as if it were my own. A world beyond this one, a death that should have been final. And now, those memories his memories belong to me.
Or perhaps they always did.
No. It does not matter.
I am Orochimaru.
The past is nothing but a shadow cast by the present.
I reach for a cup of water. The cool liquid slides down my throat, grounding me in the here and now. A simple action, yet proof enough that this is real.
I waste no time. My mind moves swiftly, aligning the events I know with the memories now embedded within me.
The Third Ninja War has ended. Soon, Konoha will choose its next Hokage.
And even without these memories, the outcome is clear I will not win.
"Sarutobi-sensei has already chosen his successor," I murmur, my voice unreadable even to myself. Resentment? Amusement? A quiet, lingering bitterness, perhaps.
So Minato will die soon.
A waste, really. Such brilliance, such potential snuffed out before it can truly reach its peak. But that is the fate of Konoha's beloved heroes, isn't it? The village raises them, worships them, and when the time comes, watches them burn.
Kakashi's teammate… is still alive.
How interesting. Obito Uchiha, a boy presumed dead, yet he walks the path of shadows, his eyes no longer normal.
His Sharingan… no, his Mangekyō.
A treasure far beyond his understanding. Power shaped by grief, wielded by hands too young to grasp its true purpose.
And Uchiha Madara… still alive? Perhaps. Though if he still breathes, he is merely a specter clinging to borrowed time. No longer the man he once was.
So that child's eyes… were never truly his. They belonged to Madara.
Those Rinnegan remain imprinted in my mind.
Pieces of a grand design, strings pulled from the depths of history, all leading toward a single goal.
And beyond it all, the unseen hand guiding the game a thousand-year-old child, clawing his way through time, desperate to resurrect his mother.
I chuckle a low, quiet sound, more amusement than anything else.
So much information.
So many secrets buried beneath layers of deception, waiting to be unraveled. The world is a puzzle, its pieces scattered, and I—
I have all the time in the world to put them together.
And to find a way to survive the Ōtsutsuki clan.
If only I had a system like those in my memories, it would be useful, I mutter.
[Initializing…]
I freeze.
Oh.
Looks like the future is going to be far more interesting than I had planned.