OROCHIMARU JOURNEY from NARUTO MULTIVERSE to OMNIVERSE with GACHA

"No sign of supernatural activity," Orochimaru muttered as the memories of his shadow clones returned to him.

His eyes swept over the city—smoke rising from scorched buildings and overturned vehicles, the blaring of sirens echoing in every direction, and hordes of zombies gathering in the streets. Yet, his expression remained unchanged, devoid of emotion.

"I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up," he mumbled bitterly. He had hoped there might be something—anything—in this world that could prove useful to him.

The technology was decent, sure, but far from sufficient for what he intended to achieve. While he was a genius in his own right, the field was unfamiliar. Integrating advanced tech into his existing work would require building everything from the ground up.

It would take time—a lot of time—especially without a foundational template like Tony Stark or Rick Sanchez to draw from.

"Still… I feel a little safer. Even if it's just temporary," he muttered.

His eyes sharpened. In this world, he didn't sense a single presence that could rival the monsters from his own. But that lack of pressure didn't bring comfort—it only reminded him of what he feared most.

It wasn't the Akatsuki.

Not Madara.

Not even Kaguya or the Ōtsutsuki clan.

What truly unsettled him… was the Sage of Six Paths. Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki.

Just thinking about that name sent a chill down his spine.

From Orochimaru's perspective, the real manipulator of the shinobi world wasn't Black Zetsu—it was Hagoromo himself.

The so-called "Preacher of Peace" had allowed the shinobi world to fall into endless cycles of war. He claimed to desire peace, yet stood by and watched humanity destroy itself. Orochimaru had always found that hypocrisy hard to swallow.

If he was so powerful—strong enough to bestow chakra to Naruto, Sasuke, and even Kakashi during the final battle—then why hadn't he acted sooner?

Why hadn't he sealed Kaguya himself instead of forcing children to clean up a mess their ancestors barely understood?

It wasn't weakness.

It was intent.

And that's what frightened Orochimaru most.

There were too many questions—questions that festered beneath the surface of history. Questions that even he, with all his accumulated knowledge, couldn't ignore anymore.

Why didn't the Sage of Six Paths stop Black Zetsu, when he could see the world's suffering unfold from wherever his soul lingered?

Why didn't he seal Indra, the one who repeatedly reincarnated to plunge the world into conflict, just as he sealed his own mother?

Instead, he let the endless sibling feud continue—letting two children play war using the lives of countless men as disposable pawns, generation after generation.

Was that peace?

No.

It was negligence. Or worse—design.

And then there was the Box of Bliss…

A mystery so deep-rooted that even Orochimaru had found only whispers about its connection to the Sage.

What was it really?

A prison? A tool?

Or perhaps a failed experiment from the Sage's era that had escaped control?

And why… why split the Ten Tails into nine separate beasts?

To make peace? To create companions for humanity?

"Please," Orochimaru muttered to himself with a cold smile. "Don't insult my intelligence."

If anything, that naïve idealism reeked of Jiraiya's influence.

No… Orochimaru didn't buy it.

He didn't believe the Sage was trying to befriend humanity.

He believed the Sage was trying to control it—quietly, subtly, behind the veil of reincarnations and divine blessings.

And Orochimaru hated being controlled.

Yet he could do nothing.

"I'm still far too weak," he muttered coldly, staring at his own pale hand as if disappointed by the very cells that composed it.

Even the likes of Hashirama—once his unattainable benchmark—were now just stepping stones on a much larger scale. And the true players, the Ōtsutsuki, stood so far beyond that peak it was laughable.

He wasn't even on the board.

That bitter truth gnawed at him.

To know… to truly understand that the world itself was a carefully arranged theatre of manipulation—and still be unable to change anything.

To realise he, Orochimaru, had been nothing more than another piece in a much older, far more sinister game.

Even with all his stolen knowledge, all his research, all his forbidden jutsu—he was still dancing to the rhythm of ancient, unseen hands.

He could feel the strings.

That was the worst part.

He could feel them… but not cut them.

"No wonder he'd developed that technique.

A contingency against manipulation. A safeguard against becoming just another pawn.

Letting his soul be placed into different vessels—it wasn't just a path to immortality. It was insurance.

A desperate attempt to stay free.

maybe he suspected too," Orochimaru murmured, his voice quieter now. "There were hidden hands guiding everything. Twisting fates. Deciding legacies."

The idea disturbed him more than he'd like to admit.

His fingers curled into fists.

"Maybe that's why I spread my soul like a virus. Not just to survive—but to escape. If one part of me was compromised… another could find the truth."

The memories weren't all clear—fragmented, buried under layers but Orochimaru could see the pattern that others were too blind or too naive to notice.

This world loved its underdogs.

As long as they played by its rules.

But he? He was cast as the villain the moment he stopped bowing to the hypocrisy of the so-called peace.

They said he betrayed Konoha.

Lies.

He lived to protect it.

When Hiruzen died, they mourned him. Orochimaru…? He simply moved forward. The village needed a clean slate.

When Sunagakure broke the treaty and launched a sneak attack?

I killed their Kazekage before they could make a proper move, Orochimaru thought, lips curling faintly. I handed over their Jinchūriki like a trophy… dragged him and his siblings to Konoha's front door. No thanks given.

And Sasuke?

A ticking bomb. A brat seething with vengeance and power too dangerous to be coddled by foolish elders.

They couldn't control him. I took him in. Shouldn't I be thanked for that?

Itachi's resentment? Mine to carry.

And when Sasuke turned on the village, swore to burn it down?

"I stopped him," Orochimaru muttered under his breath.

"I summoned the Hokage. You think that was his idea?"

He scoffed, voice laced with scorn.

That was my plan.

I made sure he had no choice but to confront them.

He exhaled slowly.

"Still… I'm the villain."

The irony wasn't lost on him.

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After wandering through the ruined city, Orochimaru finally decided it was time to head toward Saeko and the others.

He had been casually strolling through the streets, enjoying the remnants of chaos like a tourist in hell. Just a few minutes ago, he had destroyed a vending machine with a flick of his hand, watching with mild amusement as cans of soda and juice spilled out onto the pavement. He took several, sipping them one by one as if they were some exotic delicacies. It was refreshing, in a strange way—like being handed a new toy after a long war.

Which, in many ways, was true.

He possessed memories of his past life, yes. But those echoes, however vivid, held little weight before the spiritual supremacy of the soul he now inhabited. A soul forged through countless lifetimes of bloodshed, experimentation, and ambition. Compared to that, the impulses of a teenage boy reborn into another world were nothing more than ripples in an ocean.

The childish fantasy of treating reincarnation as a game—collecting girls like Pokémon or chasing every skirt in sight—was drowned under the weight of who he truly was.

That didn't mean he would ignore women altogether. Desires, after all, had a place in every being, no matter how evolved. But his interest would not stem from hormonal urges or teenage lust. It would be methodical.

He was Orochimaru.

There was no debate. No identity crisis. Whatever or whoever he had been before held no meaning anymore.

So he enjoyed the chaos. The unfamiliar streets. The taste of cheap soda. Everything in this world, he experienced like it was his first time—and perhaps, in a way, it truly was.

Eventually, his steps brought him in front of a half-shattered manga store. Books lay scattered on the pavement, pages fluttering in the breeze like fallen leaves. A man's corpse slumped at the entrance, his lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

Orochimaru didn't hesitate.

He stepped right over the body, barely sparing it a glance, and entered the ruined shop. His golden eyes scanned the shelves and floor, sweeping across the colourful covers. None of the titles matched anything from his past-life memories—until one caught his eye.

He reached down and picked up a slightly worn volume. The cover showed a man wreathed in blue flames, fists clenched and eyes burning with power.

"My Hero Academia, huh?" Orochimaru murmured with a faint smirk, flipping through the pages with idle curiosity. "Interesting…"

It was still funny to him—surreal, even. Just two months ago, he'd discovered that the world he lived in was nothing more than fiction in someone else's reality. Even with memories from his past life, the revelation had hit hard. And now? Now he was standing in another world, holding a manga that also existed as fiction.

Weird. And kind of hilarious.

As he kept flipping, he realised the story was still ongoing—unfinished. With a thoughtful hum, he turned his gaze to the rest of the manga scattered around the shop. Without hesitation, he pulled out a sealing scroll and began stuffing volumes into it one after another.

"Who knows," he muttered, sealing the last volume into the scroll. "Might end up in a world like this someday. Better to be prepared."

With that, he stepped over the corpse once more and vanished in a blur—his body flicker carrying him swiftly across the ruined cityscape.

Elsewhere, his shadow clones were working tirelessly. Scouring every store, pharmacy, and warehouse they could find. They'd keep going until their last drop of chakra ran dry, collecting anything even remotely useful before dispelling to report back.

Orochimaru arrived at his destination soon after: a three-storey mansion tucked behind gated walls, surprisingly untouched by the chaos outside.

He paused at the entrance, his sharp eyes scanning the structure. "I've never lived in anything this… luxurious," he murmured, voice low with an unfamiliar emotion. Not awe. Not envy. Something quieter. Resentful nostalgia, maybe.

This was where Veramoth was temporarily stationed—where she had brought Saeko and the child for safety.

Orochimaru stepped inside. Each room he passed was tastefully furnished, calm and pristine despite the apocalyptic backdrop. It didn't feel like a stronghold. It felt like… a home.

He stood in the centre of the hallway, arms folded.

"I've done the hard work," he thought. "Risked everything. Bled for power, clawed my way through shadows… and for what? Dirt floors and underground bunkers?"

His expression didn't change, but a decision was made in that moment—quiet and absolute.

"When I return to my world… I'm done living like a rat. I'll have this. Something better. Something worthy."

He would change his lifestyle.

"You're back."

The familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

Orochimaru turned.

Saeko stood there at the top of the stairs, her blood-stained school uniform replaced by a simple indigo yukata. It clung loosely to her frame, freshly tied at the waist. Her long, violet hair cascaded over one shoulder, still damp from a recent bath. She looked different now—calmer, quieter. The hardened expression she wore during battle was gone.

He took her in silently.

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