Chapter 9: Sacrifice to the Three-Tails – Mist Village Shaken

Orochimaru hovered steadily in the air.

No tricks. No jutsu.

Just… standing there, like the sky itself belonged to him. His gaze swept over the gathered shinobi of the Mist Village as if they were nothing.

A chill ran down Terumi Mei’s spine.

An instinctual dread gripped her.

“Fall back! Something’s wrong with him!” she shouted.

But the warning came too late.

The other Mist shinobi, driven by discipline and pride, ignored her.

They launched into coordinated attacks—kunai, shuriken, fire, wind, water jutsu—all aimed skyward.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Every projectile struck a shimmering, invisible barrier surrounding Orochimaru, each blow ringing out like steel on glass.

The ninjutsu fizzled against an unseen wall of power.

“The Eternal God loves this world,” Orochimaru’s voice rang out, soft but merciless.

“But those who insult the Divine—must die.”

Without warning, Sasuke Uchiha appeared in front of Ao.

His arm slowly retracted from Ao’s chest.

A heartbeat later—

Thud.

Ao collapsed to his knees, eyes wide with disbelief.

“How… did I die?”

He hadn’t even seen Sasuke move.

Panic rippled through the ranks of Mist shinobi.

This wasn’t war—it was a massacre.

How could a teenager kill a seasoned jōnin in a single instant?

“Remember,” Orochimaru called out calmly, “we do not kill without reason… but those who defy the Eternal One—they have forfeited mercy.”

“Understood, High Priest,” Sasuke said, eyes glowing as thousands of shadow-class believers began to move.

Terumi Mei prepared to counterattack, but everything warped.

Without realizing it, she was already under Sasuke’s genjutsu.

“Ants,” his voice echoed in her mind, “should learn to stay on the ground.”

Within half an hour, the great Hidden Mist—one of the Five Great Shinobi Villages—had fallen.

No resistance remained.

No miracle comeback.

Just silence.

And kneeling figures in every direction.

But the followers of the Eternal God didn’t see this as conquest.

This was enlightenment.

Mortals couldn’t defy divinity.

Orochimaru sat midair, cross-legged above the village square, surrounded by mist-shrouded towers and the shattered pride of a nation.

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Beneath him, thousands knelt in silence.

His voice was almost kind:

“You may see me as a monster now. But once you’ve tasted His grace, you’ll understand just how small your world truly is.”

No one dared reply.

Even Master Yagura had dropped to his knees, face blank with fear.

Sasuke rose into the sky and approached quietly.

“High Priest. The Three-Tails has been subdued. It waits outside the village.”

“Shall we begin the sacrifice?”

Orochimaru nodded.

“Prepare the altar.”

“Yes.”

He had considered his options carefully.

The immortals of the Three Great Summoning Realms would’ve been ideal—rich in divine energy—but far too elusive.

For now, Tailed Beasts were the next best offering.

As for the Child of Destiny… that was still a mystery.

Someone with immense fate—but fate only revealed itself in time.

He had suspicions about the one with the Rinnegan, but something about him felt… off. As if he didn’t truly belong.

Meanwhile, the people of the Mist remained kneeling.

Frozen in disbelief.

Forced to watch as Orochimaru’s Eternal Cult began construction of a vast altar just beyond the village.

Even jade, normally considered rare, was being laid down like common brick.

The air shimmered with sacred energy.

And the ritual had only just begun.

This time, Orochimaru chose a blood-red crystal to construct the altar.

It was tough to shape—resistant and dense—but after two hours of precise carving and construction, the altar stood completed at the edge of the Mist Village. Crimson and radiant, it pulsed faintly with ominous power.

Once the ritual site was cleared of any impurities, the Eternal Cult members assembled in strict formation.

Only Uchiha Sasuke remained near the altar, his arms wrapped casually around the enormous body of the Three-Tails, as if it weighed nothing more than a child's toy.

The Tailed Beast, a towering mass of chakra and terror to most shinobi, was now helpless.

“High Priest,” Sasuke said calmly, placing the beast on the altar, “everything is ready. Please begin the ceremony.”

“Very well,” Orochimaru replied, descending gracefully from the sky.

“Let these faithless ones witness true power.”

He knelt before the altar, reverent and still, voice booming with divine force.

“O Eternal God, sovereign of all realms… your humble servant Orochimaru calls to you once more.”

“To honor your grace, I offer you the Three-Tails as sacrifice.”

“Lend us your presence, that all may know your glory…”

Among the crowd, the villagers of Mist scoffed.

They whispered to each other in disbelief.

Their eyes rolled. Their mouths twisted in ridicule.

“He’s completely lost it…”

“There’s no god in the sky. It’s broad daylight. Is he drunk?”

But then—

The entire Eternal Cult dropped to their knees.

Hundreds of elite shinobi began to chant in unison, ancient words echoing across the sea and into the clouds.

Their voices wove into a powerful spiritual rhythm, reverberating across the heavens.

Meanwhile – In the Divine Realm

Lucian was flipping through a scroll, absorbing divine theories and higher-order godhood mechanics when something pulled at his awareness.

“A connection…”

He paused.

Through the Chaos Sea, a ripple moved. A trail of faith. A signal.

He followed it—and saw.

“Oh?” he murmured.

“Orochimaru again… and this time, the offering is the Three-Tails?”

He had expected Terumi Mei, but the Tailed Beast was a fine choice. More primal. More power-dense.

Better still—the Mist had already fallen.

The next phases would come even easier now.

With a pulse of will, Lucian reached through the spiritual tether—this time using only a fraction of divine power. No strain. No tearing.

Just presence.

In the blink of an eye, his projection appeared above the Mist Village.

The villagers who had been mocking just moments before froze in horror.

Their smiles vanished.

Their knees buckled.

Above them, the sky had split open.

Only the devout remained composed—those who had practiced Eternal Meditation. They fell to their knees, faces lit with awe. They could now perceive His outline—not just light, but form.

The others?

They could barely remain conscious.

This time, Lucian held back. He controlled the flow of divine pressure. There would be no accidental deaths.

The villagers could see his silhouette—an immense, radiant figure cloaked in heavenly fire. His outline shimmered with a thousand swirling runes. His eyes blazed like miniature suns.

Then the voice came.

It wasn't spoken.

It was imposed.

“My faithful… I have heard you.”

“I see your deeds. I witness your offerings.”

“But do not grow arrogant.”

“This village… is but the beginning.”

The words weren’t loud.

But they shook the world.

Not a soul dared to speak. Even the skeptics—those who mocked moments ago—trembled on the ground.

The Mist Village had seen a god.

And now… they believed.