Originally, Danzō's right arm had been embedded with ten Sharingan.

Now, under Orochimaru's meticulous hand, the process began anew.

One by one, the red tomoe glistened under the flickering lab lights as new Sharingan were carefully implanted into his flesh—each eye sinking into his shoulder blades, spine, and even the hollows near his collarbones, like cursed seeds being sown into corrupted earth.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

By the time Orochimaru reached twenty, the very air seemed to thicken with malevolence.

Each new transplant sent pulses of Chakra surging through Danzō's body, and the cellular reactions from the Hashirama cells in his arm became increasingly violent. What had once resembled a twisted tree root had now evolved into something far worse—more monster than man. Veins bulged like living vines, feeding into the web of Sharingan like parasites drawing from a forbidden source.

Yet strangely, amid the chaos of Chakra and mutation, a perverse harmony was achieved.

The ocular powers of the Sharingan began to meld with the potent Wood Release cells—an unnatural synergy neither science nor fate should have allowed. It wasn't just balance. It was evolution, forged in cruelty and ambition.

And somewhere deep in that hybridization, Shisui's Mangekyō trembled—not with grief, but with cold detachment. Its warmth, once tied to ideals and loyalty, had long since been polluted, drowned in the miasma of Danzō's will.

Danzō stood silently in the corner of the lab, half-consumed by shadows, his face unbandaged—half gaunt, half grim, and wholly unreadable. A faint, predatory killing intent coiled off him like smoke, brushing against the edges of the room.

"The last one," he murmured. "Is it Fugaku's?"

Orochimaru nodded, his expression unreadable in the gloom. "Yes. A pity. His eyes never awakened the Mangekyō... Still, the pedigree is strong."

He withdrew a container from a silver tray, its surface fogged from the cold. Within floated a single crimson eye—Uchiha Fugaku's left Sharingan.

Unlike the others, this one was placed not in Danzō's back, but in the palm of his right hand—as though to symbolize dominion over the Uchiha legacy itself.

The eye trembled slightly as it was embedded, as if clinging to some lingering shred of its former master's will. But it was quickly silenced by the invasive Chakra engulfing it.

"Fugaku's left eye," Orochimaru said softly. "The right is in Hiruzen's vault. As a memento."

Danzō's palm slowly closed around it.

"How poetic," he said coldly. "The treasure of the two founding clans of Konoha… one in each hand of the Leaf."

Orochimaru looked on, unblinking. His surgical precision gave way to something else now—something closer to fascination. As the new eye fused into the hand, Shisui's Mangekyō in Danzō's right socket suddenly pulsed, responding to Fugaku's Sharingan with a low hum of resonance.

For the first time, the vast reservoir of stolen ocular power within Danzō began to stir as one.

It was no longer a patchwork of eyes, no longer an experiment—it was a system.

A weapon.

Danzō rotated his arm slowly. Twenty-one Sharingan blinked in sequence—each glowing, each alive.

He moved, and the veins beneath his skin pulsated like the roots of a cursed tree. The Chakra in the room thickened, as though the walls themselves recoiled.

Even Orochimaru, master of serpents and death, took a cautious step back.

"I must warn you," Danzō said, his voice colder than ever, "do not attempt to revive Lord Tobirama."

The warning hung in the air like a blade.

Orochimaru's smile twisted slightly, lips curling in mock contrition. "Naturally, I wouldn't dream of it… Lord Danzō."

A lie.

They both knew it.

Danzō's narrowed eyes said as much.

"Don't think I believe you."

He raised his arm again.

Twenty-one eyes opened, each one bearing silent witness to the sins that birthed them. Crimson tomoe spun with silent menace, glowing like lanterns lit by vengeful spirits.

Orochimaru did not answer.

He simply watched, expression unreadable—caught between fear, excitement, and a scientist's morbid curiosity.

Before him stood Danzō—no longer just the shadow of Konoha's council, but something darker.

Something forged from stolen power and old grudges.

Something that might one day eclipse even the Hokage.

"The Uchiha," Danzō said quietly, "in this way… are finally unified."

Land of Fire — Tanzaku Town, Noon.

43 Days Until the Annihilation of the Shinobi World...

The sun hung high over Tanzaku Town, casting golden rays over cobblestone paths and tiled rooftops. Laughter, haggling, and footsteps blended into a lively urban rhythm. From the surface, it was a world untouched by despair — a world still intoxicated by the illusion of peace.

But Kakashi Hatake, cloaked in the dark mantle of the Anbu, moved like a shadow through it.

His visible eye was calm yet alert, scanning the streets until it landed on a secluded corner of the market. A faded noren curtain swayed over the entrance of an old pub, its colors bleached by time. Few people noticed it. Fewer entered.

Kakashi stepped forward and pushed the wooden door open.

The musty scent of aged sake and burnt charcoal greeted him — a nostalgic, heavy aroma that clung to the air like memory itself.

Under dim yellow lanterns, Jiraiya sat in the farthest corner, hunched slightly over a wooden table, a half-empty flask by his side. There was no drunken slouch, no flirtatious grin. Only a quiet stillness.

"You came," Jiraiya said without turning.

His voice was low, not in greeting, but as a statement of fact — as if he'd seen this meeting in a dream.

Kakashi gave a small nod and stepped forward. The floorboards creaked beneath his sandals as he took the seat across from the Sannin.

"Lord Jiraiya."

The older man finally looked up.

His eyes — once so full of mischief and mischief's wisdom — were now lined with age and something deeper: gravity. He raised his cup slowly, sipping without taste, and cast his gaze toward the window.

"The Great Sage of Mount Myōboku contacted me," Jiraiya said after a long pause.His voice was composed, but within it, a tension ran like a fault line.

"The Shinobi World... is ending."

Kakashi's heart stirred, but he showed no outward reaction. He had anticipated this. The elders in Konoha were not the only ones sensing the change — Mount Myōboku's toads, ancient and attuned to fate itself, had surely felt the tremors in the threads of destiny.

"A celestial body," Kakashi said slowly. "A planet... is falling."

Jiraiya nodded. "Not falling — sent."His words fell like stones.

He picked up the flask, tilted it back, and drank deep. But the movement was mechanical. The warmth in the sake no longer reached his chest.

"I lived through three Great Ninja Wars. Fought in the blood-soaked fields of ideology, vengeance, and fear. I thought... maybe the next generation would escape it."

His voice trailed into silence. Then, he exhaled.

"But peace was always just a pause. Never a cure."

Kakashi stared at him, his single eye unreadable beneath the silver fringe.

There was nothing to say. He, too, had watched peace become prelude — again and again.

Jiraiya's fingers tightened around the sake cup.

"In my dreams, I still hear the Great Sage's voice," he murmured. "The Cursed Eye began on the night of the Blood Moon... and will curse the world until its death."

He closed his eyes, and the voice seemed to echo again, deep in his mind — a prophecy that didn't predict doom, but declared it.

"We were warned," he said quietly. "But it's not over yet."

Kakashi finally broke the silence. "There's still time."

Jiraiya looked at him — really looked at him. The copy ninja's face was calm, but behind it burned that same unshakable resolve Minato once carried.

"There is," Jiraiya agreed, voice soft but firm. "But not for everyone."

He placed the cup down.

"I need to bring someone back. Before the end."

Kakashi didn't ask who. He already knew.

Jiraiya stood, sliding a few coins onto the table. As he moved toward the door, the shadow of the falling star — the otherworldly planet drawing closer with each rotation — seemed to pass silently over them both.

And though the streets outside still buzzed with the comfort of daily life, the air had already changed.

The countdown had begun.