The air in the subterranean laboratory tasted of stale ozone, ancient parchment, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Orochimaru stood before the grand, unstable seal he had spent decades theorizing—a forbidden matrix designed to bend the very fabric of time. With a swift motion of his hands, he bit his thumb, dragged it across the center of the scroll, and channeled every drop of his colossal chakra into the activation glyphs. A blinding, violet flash swallowed the room. The deafening roar of tearing space filled his ears, and the ground vanished beneath his sandals. Then, absolute silence. Orochimaru stumbled forward, his knees buckling as he hit wet, unforgiving pavement. He coughed, wiping a smear of dark blood from his chin, his golden, slit-pupil eyes narrowing against an assault on his senses unlike anything he had ever experienced. The sky above was not the dark, familiar canopy of the Land of Fire, nor the gloomy stone ceiling of a hideout. It was an artificial, smoggy twilight, glowing with a brilliant, unnatural amethyst and amber haze. He was in a narrow alleyway, but it bore no resemblance to the rustic stone pathways of Konohagakure or any hidden village he knew. Towering monoliths of sheer glass and steel scraped the heavens, their facades flashing with giant, moving images—faces and symbols shifting at impossible speeds without a single jutsu sign or summoning scroll in sight. A high-pitched, mechanical whine pierced the air, followed by a rush of wind. Orochimaru instinctively flung himself backward into the deepest shadows of a recessed doorway, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rare, primal jolt of pure terror. A sleek, metallic carriage moved down the adjacent street—entirely devoid of horses, oxen, or pulled carts, gliding smoothly on black wheels with glowing red eyes of its own. It vanished in a blur, leaving behind a sharp, chemical scent. Trembling slightly, Orochimaru pressed his pale back against the cold wall. The sheer volume of light was blinding, painting the damp alley in neon pinks and electric blues. There were no torches, no paper lanterns, no flickering chakra flames. The entire world was ablaze with an ambient, blinding energy. Desperation outweighed his usual fastidiousness. Muttering a low curse, he stripped away the smoking remnants of his ruined robes and hastily pulled on the crude, unfamiliar garments. The coarse fabric felt abrasive against his skin, and the loose fit felt entirely foreign, but it successfully masked his silhouette and hidden weapons pouch from the glowing, high-tech world outside.