Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 98

The morning after the lab’s destruction, the air outside Orochimaru’s base was different. Where once the forest had carried the stench of poison and blood, now smoke drifted skyward from the blackened ruins. The lab was gone — consumed by the flames of Harry’s seals.

But the true work had only just begun.

Children — dozens of them, huddled in blankets conjured by Harry’s clones — sat near the clearing. Some clung to one another, others stared blankly at the forest as though waiting for parents who would never come.

Harry stood tall at the center, his eyes scanning them. Jugo, Karin, and Suigetsu stood nearby, restless.

“You three,” Harry said, his voice firm but even. “I need you to run errands for me.”

“Errands?” Suigetsu raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “We’re not delivery boys.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to him, calm but sharp enough to cut stone. “You wanted to help? Then this is how.”

Suigetsu clicked his tongue but looked away, grumbling under his breath. Karin nudged him hard in the ribs to shut him up.

Harry continued. “Some of these children were not experimented on. Their bodies are whole. They deserve to be with their families again. I need you to escort them back to their villages.”

Karin frowned. “But… many of them are so small they don’t even remember their home. How are we supposed to know where they belong?”

Harry’s expression softened, but his voice stayed resolute. “Then you go village to village. Ask. Search. Even if it takes months. These children cannot wander alone.”

Jugo shifted uneasily, looking at the huddled children. His fists tightened. “We’ll do it. I’ll carry them if I have to.”

Harry placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Good. But be warned—” His voice grew colder. “The world knows your faces. Many know you as Orochimaru’s subordinates. Suspicion will follow you. But you must endure it. These children’s lives depend on it.”


The trio set out that afternoon, carrying small groups of children wrapped in blankets, their little hands clinging to Karin’s sleeves or Suigetsu’s belt. Jugo walked ahead, carrying two toddlers in his massive arms as if they weighed nothing.

The first village they entered froze at the sight of them. Farmers dropped their baskets, mothers pulled children back into houses, and shinobi guards reached for weapons.

“Those three…” someone whispered. “They’re Orochimaru’s men!”

The guards surrounded them instantly, kunai raised. “Why are you here? Where’s Orochimaru?”

Karin raised her hands quickly, pushing her glasses up nervously. “Wait—we’re not here to fight! We’ve brought children.”

From behind her, a little girl peeked out, her big eyes shimmering with recognition. “Papa…?”

A gasp ran through the crowd. One of the villagers dropped his hoe and rushed forward, tears streaming. “Mina! My daughter!” He scooped the girl up, sobbing into her hair.

Murmurs spread. But suspicion lingered.

Suigetsu sneered, annoyed. “You think we’d drag kids here just to pick a fight? Use your heads.”

“Shut up, Suigetsu,” Karin hissed.

One of the shinobi guards narrowed his eyes. “If Orochimaru is truly defeated, prove it.”

Jugo spoke then, his voice heavy but calm. “He’s gone. His base has been destroyed. The man himself… fled. I saw it with my own eyes.”

The guards looked at each other uncertainly. The farmers muttered, doubt etched deep.

Finally, Karin took a step forward. “Listen carefully. We’re not lying. Orochimaru was defeated by someone far stronger than any of us. The man who made him run… is already gone from here. Do you really think we’d dare betray Orochimaru if he was still alive?”

Her words struck true. The crowd fell silent, unease written across their faces.


But not every village was so easily swayed.

In the second settlement they visited, things turned violent.

“You think we’ll believe you?” a scarred shinobi spat, stepping forward. “I’ve seen Orochimaru’s lackeys before — snatching children in the night! You expect us to believe you’re returning them?”

Suigetsu grinned, cracking his knuckles. “We don’t expect you to believe. We expect you to get out of the way.”

The shinobi lunged. In an instant, blades clashed. Suigetsu’s sword rang against kunai, sparks flying. Karin yanked the children back, shouting, “Jugo!”

Jugo’s body trembled as rage threatened to surface. But instead of losing control, he slammed his fist into the ground, creating a crater between Suigetsu and the villagers. His voice bellowed like thunder.

“Stop! We’re not your enemies!”

The force of his cry stunned the crowd into silence. His body shook, but he steadied himself, clenching his fists until the tremor passed.

“We’re here because… because someone stronger than Orochimaru told us to help. And I won’t let you hurt these kids.”

The villagers hesitated, fear warring with uncertainty. Finally, an old woman stepped forward. Her wrinkled hands trembled as she looked at the children. “This one… this one is mine.” She pulled a boy into her arms, tears dripping into his hair.

The crowd shifted. Accusations softened. Weapons lowered.


As the trio continued their journey, word spread.

In every village, whispers followed them.

“Those three… they were Orochimaru’s men.”
“But they’re returning children, aren’t they?”
“I heard Orochimaru was defeated.”
“No—more than defeated. He ran. From a single man.”
“They say this man has the eyes of the Uchiha… and the power of the First Hokage.”

The rumors grew, changing shape with each telling. But one truth echoed everywhere: Orochimaru’s terror had been broken.

Some of Orochimaru’s wandering subordinates heard the whispers too. A few confronted the trio, blades drawn, demanding answers.

“You betrayed him!” one snarled. “How dare you turn against Lord Orochimaru!”

Karin adjusted her glasses, glaring. “We didn’t betray him. He betrayed us. He left us to rot. And if you have any sense, you’ll leave too. Because if Orochimaru himself couldn’t stand against that man, what chance do you think you have?”

The subordinates faltered, exchanging uneasy looks. The thought of fighting the one who had made Orochimaru flee was enough to drain the fire from their eyes.

One by one, they lowered their weapons. “Forget this,” one muttered. “I’m not dying for him.”

Soon, many of Orochimaru’s remnants scattered, unwilling to fight a ghost stronger than their master.


As days turned into weeks, Jugo, Karin, and Suigetsu escorted child after child to the places they once called home. Some reunions ended in tears of joy. Others ended in silence, with no family left alive to claim them. In those cases, the trio left the children in the care of sympathetic villages, their hearts heavy.

Each journey hardened them, reshaped them. No longer tools of a serpent, they became carriers of hope, however reluctant.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Jugo watched the children sleep around the campfire. He whispered to Karin, “Do you think… this is what it feels like to atone?”

Karin adjusted her glasses, her eyes softer than usual. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the start.”

Suigetsu tossed a stick into the fire and smirked. “Either way, we’re not Orochimaru’s dogs anymore. And that’s enough for me.”

They sat in silence after that, the crackle of flames their only companion. Above them, the stars glittered — and for the first time in a long while, none of them felt like prisoners of someone else’s ambition.


Kimimaro leaned against the stone wall of the ruined laboratory, arms crossed, his pale face unreadable. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. Every inhale scraped like fire through his lungs, every exhale left him weaker than before. He had long accepted that his body was a prison, a slow-moving coffin of rotting flesh.

Yet what he saw before him unsettled him far more than the pain gnawing at his chest.

The man—Harry Pottaru—moved among the rows of wounded children with effortless authority. His hands glowed with that strange golden-green light. He whispered words that were not jutsu but something older, different. Where Orochimaru’s medicines had failed, where even Kimimaro’s own judgment deemed life unsalvageable, this man restored breath, closed wounds, and reignited fading pulses.

Children who had been gasping on their last breaths hours ago now slept peacefully, color returning to their faces. The dead had been cremated with dignity. The living thrived.

Kimimaro’s crimson eyes narrowed. Impossible. Orochimaru said there were limits…

He stepped forward, his voice low but steady. “You… are not like him.”

Harry didn’t look up from the child he was treating, his hand hovering above the boy’s chest as the cursed veins retreated. “Not like who?”

Kimimaro’s jaw tightened. “…Orochimaru.”

Harry’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though his eyes remained fixed on his patient. “A serpent consumes. I heal. We are nothing alike.”

Kimimaro fell silent. For years, he had lived only for Orochimaru, willing to die at his command. Yet here was a man who surpassed his master in both strength and knowledge, who didn’t demand loyalty but gave life freely.

Finally, Kimimaro spoke again. “I want your help.”

Harry glanced at him now, meeting his eyes with calm clarity. “Help?”

“My body,” Kimimaro said. His voice did not waver, but there was an edge of desperation beneath the calm. “My lungs. I can feel them collapsing. I will die soon. Orochimaru promised me strength, but he could not cure this. Can you?”


Harry sat back, exhaling slowly. He studied Kimimaro with the same piercing gaze he once gave Itachi during long nights of illness. “Yes. I know your condition.”

Kimimaro stiffened. “You… do?”

“My son suffered the same,” Harry said quietly. His tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “Itachi’s lungs were failing. For months, I researched day and night. Jutsu could not solve it. Medicine failed. But magic…” He reached into his cloak, tapping a small enchanted locket. “Magic gave me the key. I created a potion. It cured him.”

Kimimaro blinked. “Potion…? What is that?”

Harry chuckled softly. “A medicine crafted with both magic and science. Not something you would find in Orochimaru’s arsenal.”

Kimimaro’s throat tightened. He lowered his gaze, swallowing hard. “…Then can you make it again for me. If you please.”


Without another word, Harry walked to a large, battered trunk resting in the corner. To Kimimaro’s shock, the man flipped the latch, muttered something under his breath, and climbed inside.

Kimimaro’s eyes widened. What trick is this?

Karin, watching from the side, muttered, “Don’t bother trying to understand. That trunk… it’s bigger on the inside. Just accept it.”

Moments later, Harry emerged, holding a small glass vial filled with deep crimson liquid. The bottle shimmered faintly as if alive.

Harry approached, holding it out. “Drink this.”

Kimimaro hesitated. “If this is poison…”

Harry’s voice was calm, certain. “If I wanted you dead, you would already be ash.”

That silenced the doubt. Kimimaro accepted the vial and tipped it back. The liquid burned down his throat like molten fire.


He staggered, coughing violently. His knees hit the ground. Fire spread through his chest, his lungs seared as though torn apart from the inside.

“Arghhh!” Kimimaro’s scream echoed through the cavern.

Suigetsu grimaced. “He’s killing him!”

“No,” Harry said firmly, watching with hawk-like focus. “He’s healing.”

Karin, her chakra sensing active, gasped. “His lungs… the chakra pathways are stabilizing. The cells—they’re regenerating. It’s working!”

Kimimaro’s body convulsed. Fever wracked him through the night. Sweat poured down his face. He clawed at the floor, teeth grinding against the torment raging within.

Yet through it all, Harry stayed nearby, monitoring, channeling subtle waves of magic to steady the process.


The next day, Kimimaro collapsed into sleep. His fever broke.

When he finally woke, the cavern was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of Harry’s seals. He drew in a breath—deep, full, clean. For the first time in years, there was no pain, no burning.

He sat up, trembling, pressing a hand against his chest. His lungs expanded easily. No rasp, no fire.

“…Impossible,” he whispered.

Harry approached, his expression calm. “Possible. Your condition was not beyond saving. You only needed someone who valued saving more than using.”

Kimimaro looked at him for a long moment, the words sinking in. Then, slowly, he bowed his head. “You cured what Orochimaru called incurable. You… are ten times the man he is.”

Harry said nothing. He only pressed a small satchel into Kimimaro’s hands. Inside were salves and simple potions.

“Help me with the children,” Harry said. “Your body is strong now. Use it to give strength to others.”

Kimimaro stood, his body steady, his breath clean. For the first time in his life, he felt more than a weapon.

He nodded once. “I will.”

From that day forward, Kimimaro worked alongside Harry’s clones. He carried the weak, administered potions, and applied salves to fevered foreheads. The man who once would have killed without hesitation now carefully wiped sweat from a child’s brow.

And though his loyalty to Orochimaru had not vanished overnight, a seed had been planted. A question whispered in his heart.

Why die for a man who uses you… when you could live for one who saves?