Cold rain fell without end. A tall, lean figure stood motionless beneath it.
The roster in Orochimaru's hands was wrapped in waterproof oilcloth, shielding it from the rain. He lowered his gaze and scanned the new registrants' names line by line, one fingertip gliding over the page.
Then his finger stopped.
The name "Yasuo" stood out on the roster. Beneath it were a few brief notes: Land of Hot Water. Orphaned son of a samurai. No registration, no records.
He looked up through the sheets of rain toward the camp below the slope.
The wandering swordsman in a straw rain cape was walking toward his assigned tent, an Iron Sword held close against his chest. He moved at an unhurried pace, stepping steadily through the mud and puddles.
Strangest of all, every stride was exactly the same length, as precise as if he had measured it. Amid that disorderly crowd of desperate men, his restraint was unnerving.
Orochimaru's slit pupils contracted sharply.
A chill shot up from his tailbone without warning, racing past the back of his neck to the crown of his head.
It was a chill carved into his soul.
It was the fear and cold he had felt when someone had slipped silently into the Secret Chamber, surveyed everything, and held him entirely at his mercy.
Now that same presence stood thirty zhang away, hidden beneath a coarse straw cape and quietly taking the rain. Calm and unruffled, yet terrifyingly dangerous.
The Little White Snake tucked in his sleeve grew inexplicably restless, twisting and writhing in alarm.
Orochimaru stood in the rain without moving. Only his Adam's apple shifted as he swallowed.
"How could it be..."
The next day, the rain still had not stopped. It fell steadily across the abandoned mine.
On an open patch