They are naturally at odds with the profession of the Lamp Genie.

“An immortal? You mean the God of Death.”
Once Orochimaru regained control of his body, his serpentine eyes locked onto the tall figure of the God of Death. Immortality was an unfamiliar concept in the shinobi world; the Tailed Beasts were chakra creatures, but never had he heard of a human or a shinobi achieving eternal life. Yet, if what the Djinn said was true, perhaps immortals did exist in the shinobi world, only their forms were not as people imagined.

Excitement stirred within Orochimaru. “You know the origin of the God of Death?”

“I can’t be certain,” the Djinn replied, half his smoky form emerging from Orochimaru’s back. “Move a little closer to the Fourth Hokage. Let me investigate.”

At this, Orochimaru made no further attempt to conceal himself. He leapt directly to the edge of the crimson barrier, joining the onlookers by the Third Hokage.

After tonight’s chain of events, Hiruzen Sarutobi was on edge. He barked, “Orochimaru, what are you doing here?”

Orochimaru ignored his former teacher, gesturing toward the Fourth Hokage in silent explanation, his attention wholly fixed on the Djinn. The smoky humanoid on his back suddenly collapsed and reformed into a cluster of mist. From within, a fine thread extended, slipping through the barrier as if it didn’t exist, and in a blink, it coiled around the God of Death’s neck. At the tip of the line, a tiny, blurred face peered out, yet the God of Death remained completely unaware.

Orochimaru licked his lips in astonishment. “Just what is this Djinn, truly?”

As the sealing of the Nine-Tails was completed, the God of Death vanished from sight. The Djinn’s smoky thread plunged into the void, stretching into unknown dimensions. Orochimaru had expected this investigation to take some time, but after just a few breaths, the thread contracted and reformed the Djinn’s humanoid shape on his back.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the Djinn coughed lightly. “It was quick, but I learned everything I needed.”

Orochimaru’s eyes lit up. “You found the God of Death’s domain?”

“That’s right. The God of Death dwells in the Promised Land of All Souls,” the Djinn said with a raised smoky brow and a smile. “You should know it by another name: the Pure Land.”

“Many great figures you wouldn’t even imagine reside in the Pure Land.”

“If you can master the spirit transformation technique, you too could visit the Pure Land. Its environment greatly benefits chakra-based souls.”

At these words, Orochimaru could not hide his astonishment. He turned to the Djinn on his back, whose tone was casual, but whose revelations were anything but.

The Pure Land—the destination of the dead, the resting place of souls—this was the common belief among shinobi. But the Djinn’s words implied otherwise. In his telling, the Pure Land was not so much a final destination as a space with its own rules, accessible if one knew the way, much like the three great summoning realms.

He made a mental note of the spirit transformation technique and its implications, then pressed again about the God of Death’s origins. Orochimaru’s curiosity about this immortal dwelling in the Pure Land was intense. Even Hashirama Senju, the First Hokage, could not freely enter and exit the Pure Land after death without a vessel through the Impure World Reincarnation. So, from which era had this God of Death emerged?

To Orochimaru’s question, the Djinn finally gave an answer. “The God of Death has a unique bloodline. He is a descendant of the Otsutsuki clan.”

Orochimaru frowned. “The Otsutsuki clan?”

“Yes. Their marked features are unmistakable. They are visitors from beyond the stars. It was one of them, the Sage of Six Paths, who founded the shinobi order—thus the world you know today.”

The Djinn reasoned that if he didn’t explain now, he’d have to sooner or later, so he briefly summarized the story of the extraterrestrial invasion of the shinobi world.

“There are no pure-blooded Otsutsuki left in the shinobi world, but among their descendants, occasionally a ‘throwback’ appears—like the Gold and Silver Brothers, whose powers led to the deaths of the Second Hokage and Second Raikage.”

“This God of Death must have been one such throwback from a past era, with a bloodline and strength surpassing even the Gold and Silver Brothers.”

A bitter smile twisted Orochimaru’s lips. “So, the God of Death is what he is because of his bloodline? Simply because he’s an alien descendant?”

“Exactly. That’s how it’s always been in the shinobi world,” the Djinn replied with a nod. “But don’t sell yourself short. No amount of personal effort can bridge that gap.”

In truth, the Otsutsuki clan was a civilization that overwhelmed the shinobi world on every front: technology, power, bloodline. Even after a thousand years of war and development, the gap remained unclosed. While many powerful shinobi had risen to rival descendants of the Senju and Uchiha—both Otsutsuki progeny—it was less a testament to the world’s progress and more a sign of those descendants’ complacency.

Even the future saviors, Sasuke and Naruto, only swept aside all adversaries after regaining their ancestral power. The shinobi world was left with no equals.

The Djinn disliked this tale—the notion of destiny and noble birth. Such things were an affront to his very nature.

Orochimaru’s expression shifted with thought. “So, what you’re telling me is, instead of creating new jutsu, I’d be better off seeking the Otsutsuki’s legacy in the shinobi world?”

“More accurately, you should seek progress through inheritance—take the essence, discard the dross, innovate, and craft a new generation of jutsu unique to the shinobi world.”

The Djinn gave him a thumbs-up. “I have high hopes for you.”

While the two conversed, the crimson barrier isolating the Nine-Tails shattered with the Fourth Hokage’s death. ANBU, long awaiting their chance, hurried forward to check on the Fourth and his wife, confirming their deaths.

In that instant, the Third Hokage seemed to age a decade.

“Waaah, waaah...”
Little Naruto’s cries echoed on, but none among the ANBU dared approach him, as though the wailing child were an unpredictable weapon of immense power.

The Third Hokage sighed and was about to step forward when someone beat him to it.

Orochimaru flashed ahead, scooping the bawling Naruto into his arms in a gesture almost playful, examining the boy with keen interest.

In the Djinn’s story, the Uzumaki were the embodiment of the Sage of Six Paths’ yang chakra—a clan whose bodies rivaled the Senju’s in resilience. Now, one of the few remaining Uzumaki bore the sealed yang half of the Nine-Tails within him. The combination promised an unpredictable future, one that aroused deep curiosity.

The Third Hokage’s expression hardened. “Orochimaru, what are you doing?”

The surrounding ANBU tensed, cold sweat beading on their foreheads, hands drifting to their weapons.

“Old man, this child’s parents are dead. He’s alone and pitiable.”

Orochimaru’s mouth curled into a grin. “I’d like to raise him. What do you say?”

The words had scarcely left his lips before the Third Hokage sharply refused. “Orochimaru, you know that’s impossible.”

“Oh, very well.” Orochimaru didn’t insist. After soothing the child as one would a pet, he briskly handed Naruto to the Third Hokage.

The Third’s expression softened, and the ANBU finally relaxed.

“Old man, call Jiraiya back. Someone has set their sights on the Leaf—and on our Jinchuriki.”