The Third Hokage vs. Orochimaru

Inside the Four Violet Flames Formation, the Hokage of two eras stood facing each other.

The Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, was sixty-nine. He had removed his Hokage robes, revealing a black combat uniform. He held no weapon, only his hands. But those hands had fought for forty years, formed ten thousand hand seals, killed countless enemies, and saved countless comrades.

Orochimaru stood across from him. The Kazekage hat had been tossed to the ground and burned to ash by the purple flames. Under the light of the Four Violet Flames Formation, his face looked purple. His snake-like pupils were vertical, and his tongue slid over his lips, then his teeth—sharp teeth, not human ones.

"Teacher Sarutobi, you've grown old," Orochimaru said.

"You haven't changed." The Third's voice was calm, so calm it did not sound as though he were speaking to someone who wanted to kill him. "Still so afraid of death."

Orochimaru laughed. The sound leaked from his throat—not his mouth, but his throat, like a snake flicking its tongue. His hands formed seals, not for a ninjutsu—but a forbidden technique.

Impure World Reincarnation.

The ground split open, and two coffins rose from beneath it. Their lids opened, and two people stepped out. The first had long black hair, red armor, and a Konoha forehead protector. The First Hokage, Hashirama Senju. The second had white hair, blue armor, and three red markings on his face. The Second Hokage, Tobirama Senju.

The Third closed his eyes. Not out of fear—but because he could not bear it. He could not bear to see his teachers used as tools.

"Orochimaru, you would even use the dead."

"The dead are the most useful. They don't resist, don't betray, and don't grow old."

The First and Second stood where they were, their eyes empty. Not blind—their souls had been imprisoned. Their bodies moved, but their gazes were absent, like two moving statues. The First raised a hand. Wood Style. Tree trunks burst from the ground—not one, but ten, twenty. The entire arena became a forest. The Second vanished from sight with a Water Body Flicker, appearing behind the Third the next second as his kunai stabbed downward.

The Third turned, spinning a shuriken around his fingertip and blocking the kunai. The clash of metal echoed through the barrier before being swallowed by the purple flames; no one outside could hear it. The First's Wood Style pressed in from every direction. Tree trunks coiled around the Third's feet, waist, and neck. The Third bit his finger and used the Summoning Technique. Enma, the Monkey King, leaped out of the smoke, smashed the trunks apart with one punch, then transformed into a golden cudgel and flew into the Third's hand.

"Sarutobi, you're fighting two men alone?"

"Not two. Three."

The Third gripped the golden cudgel. It extended, and he struck Orochimaru's Shadow Clone Technique with a single blow. The clone exploded into white smoke. Orochimaru rushed out of it, the Kusanagi Sword in his hand thrusting toward the Third's chest. The Third twisted aside, holding the golden cudgel across his chest. The sword tip struck the staff, sparks spraying across the Third's face and burning away half an eyebrow. The Third did not blink.

"Orochimaru, your path was always wrong. Not because you pursued power—but because you gave up the joy of watching others grow."

Orochimaru's sword drove forward, while the Third's golden cudgel pushed back. The two remained locked in place, with less than a centimeter between the sword tip and the staff. Whoever let go would die.

"Watching others grow?" Orochimaru's tongue slipped from his mouth and ran along the blade. "Teacher Sarutobi, when you watched me, were you truly watching me? Or were you watching a future Hokage? What I wanted was not the title of Hokage—I wanted forbidden techniques, every technique. You gave me the Scroll of Seals but would not let me read it. You wanted me to become Hokage, but would not let me touch forbidden techniques. You said you were watching me grow—you were only waiting for me to give up on my own."

The Third's hand trembled. Not from age—but pain. Every word Orochimaru said stabbed at the softest place in his heart. He had given up on training Orochimaru. He had said nothing, only locked away the Scroll of Seals and crossed Orochimaru off the list of successors. He thought Orochimaru did not know—but Orochimaru knew everything.

"Yes, I gave up on you." For the first time, a crack appeared in the Third's voice. "I did not give up on you because you wanted to learn forbidden techniques—I gave up on you because, to learn them, you killed Konoha's people. You used the bodies of shinobi from your own village as experiments. You treated them as materials. I did not abandon you—you abandoned your humanity."

The golden cudgel pushed forward, and Orochimaru's sword slid back. The Third's strength bore down, while Orochimaru's hands strained upward. Their eyes met at less than a meter apart: snake eyes facing human eyes. The light in those human eyes dimmed—not in surrender, but in resolve.

The Third drew back the golden cudgel and retreated three steps. He planted it against the ground, raised his head, and looked at the sky beyond the Four Violet Flames Formation. The sky was purple, dyed by the barrier. But he knew that beyond the purple was blue—Konoha's sky would always be blue.

"Orochimaru, I am not doing this to kill you—I am doing this to take away the hands you use to steal other people's bodies."

The Third formed hand seals. Not a ninjutsu—but a forbidden technique. Reaper Death Seal. A massive phantom rose behind him: the Reaper. White hair, a white face, and a short blade clenched in its mouth. The Reaper's hand reached out from behind the Third, passed through his body, and emerged from his chest. Not an injury—but a sacrifice. His own soul in exchange for Orochimaru's.

Orochimaru's pupils shrank into slits. He recognized this technique. It was on the final page of the Scroll of Seals, the page the Third had never allowed anyone to see.

"You're insane! You'll die—"

"I know." The Third's voice was calm, calm as though he were saying the weather was nice today. "But your hands will die too. Without them, you won't be able to use any techniques. You won't be able to take other people's bodies, kill Konoha's shinobi, or conduct your experiments. You will live. Live and remember—the lesson your teacher gives you before his death is not ninjutsu. It is the price."

The Reaper's hand passed through the Third's chest and reached for Orochimaru. Orochimaru tried to retreat, but the First and Second stood before him—yet the Reaper's hand passed through Hashirama, through Tobirama. Bodies created by Impure World Reincarnation could not block a soul. The Reaper's hand seized Orochimaru's arms. No, it did not seize them—it passed through them. Through skin, through muscle, through bone, and grasped his soul. Orochimaru's hands began to turn black, starting at his fingertips and spreading upward like paper scorched by fire.

"No, no—" Orochimaru's voice became a scream, not a human scream—but the hiss of a snake. His hands were turning black. Everything below his wrists had gone black, and the darkness crawled upward to his forearms before stopping. The Third's body could no longer endure it. The Reaper's blade stabbed into him from behind, and the Third fell to his knees.

"This is as far as I can go—" The Third forced the words from his throat, each one soaked in blood. "Your hands, I'll take them. Your ninjutsu, your forbidden techniques, your ambition—everything ends here."

Orochimaru's hands hung at his sides, black like two charred branches. He staggered backward and struck the purple flames of the Four Violet Flames Formation. The flames burned his back, but he did not feel the pain—the agony in his hands was too great, great enough to overwhelm the pain of the fire. The Sound Four dispelled the barrier and carried Orochimaru away. As Orochimaru was dragged off, his eyes remained fixed on the Third—not with hatred, but confusion. He could not understand why someone would trade his own life for another person's hands.

The Third collapsed to the ground. The golden cudgel rolled from his hand, rolling to the edge of the arena and stopping beside the lingering purple flames of the Four Violet Flames Formation. The Third looked at the sky. It was blue—not purple. The barrier was gone, and the blue had returned.

"Konoha is my home. You new generation of shinobi are my most precious legacy."

Ringo stopped in the forest.

It was not because he heard anything—the card slot was vibrating. Not its usual vibration, but a violent one. A line of text appeared on the card slot interface. It was not red, nor gold—it was multicolored. It was the first time he had ever seen the system display multicolored text.

"Detected: chakra dissipation above orange grade. Source: Third Hokage Hiruzen Sarutobi. Vital signs: gone."

Ringo's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, and the steam around his hands dispersed. He had not dismissed it himself—his chakra had cut off. His body no longer responded. His mind no longer responded. Only the card slot continued to ring.

"Will of Fire Fragment, multicolored, automatically collected. From: Third Hokage Hiruzen Sarutobi. Final blessing. No synthesis required, automatically equipped. Effect: all synthesis paths A, conservative 80% success rate, success rate increased to 85%."

Not five percent—it was the five percent the Third had traded his life for.

Ringo knelt on the ground with his head lowered, his hand clawing at the dirt. The earth was wet, not with water, but sweat—the steam from his palm had condensed into water, mixing with dirt and the blood from where his nails dug in. He opened his mouth but made no sound. Something blocked his throat—not tears, but rage. Rage at why he had not been there, why he was not strong enough, why he could not even see the Third one last time before he died.

"Third Hokage, you said I was Konoha's future. I will prove that you were not wrong. Because what I owe you is not just this five percent—it is the entire future."

He rose to his feet, his legs covered in mud and his knees trembling—not from exhaustion, but pain. Not pain in his body, but pain in his chest. Steam rose from his right hand again. It was not golden—it was golden-orange. The Will of Fire Fragment glowed in the card slot, not with the scorching heat of flames, but with the warmth of the sun.

The Third had died. Konoha's warmest fire had gone out.

But before he left, he had shared the spark with three people. Naruto, Sasuke, and Ringo. Not an inheritance—not ninjutsu—not forbidden techniques—but fire.