This opportunity was born out of Sunagakure's shifting desperation on the battlefield. Unlike Konoha, whose wealth and strength allowed it to barely endure the strain of fighting on multiple fronts, the same could not be said for the Hidden Sand. Caught between Konoha, Iwagakure, and even Kirigakure, Sunagakure's already meager resources were stretched thin — dangerously so.
As the skirmishes with Iwagakure escalated into a brutal tug-of-war, the leaders of Sunagakure were forced to make a difficult decision. They resolved to end the war with Konoha as quickly as possible, even as they quietly opened negotiations with Kirigakure for peace. If they could shift their military strength to focus entirely on Iwagakure, they might still have a chance at survival.
But ending the war required strength — strength they could no longer spare. Desperate for a solution, the Sunagakure council turned to two of their village's living legends: Chiyo and Ebizo. Though the siblings were long past their prime and had semi-retired from the frontlines, the council gambled on their formidable experience and cunning to tip the scales.
And so, the battlefield began to change. On a grey morning, one of Konoha's scouting squads clashed with a Sand shinobi unit. The battle played out as expected at first — a whirlwind of shuriken, chakra, and desperate taijutsu. Both sides traded injuries, but something felt different. The Sunagakure shinobi retreated far too quickly, lacking the suicidal tenacity they were known for.
The Konoha team, bloodied but alive, limped back to their camp, puzzled by the enemy's odd behavior. Their injuries seemed mild, nothing life-threatening. As always when fighting the Sand, the medical-nin were ready with their antidote kits. Sunagakure was infamous for lacing weapons with poison, but Konoha had long developed efficient countermeasures. The medics worked quickly, extracting any traces of toxin from the wounds. Satisfied, the injured shinobi returned to their tents to rest, confident that the worst had passed.
But as night fell, an eerie stillness crept over the camp — and then the symptoms began. One by one, the returning shinobi collapsed, their bodies wracked with unfamiliar signs of poisoning. Cold sweats. Violent tremors. Fading pulses. Panic rippled through the medical unit. How could this happen? The toxins had been neutralized... or so they believed.
After hours of frantic examination, the answer slowly emerged. There was another poison — one that hid deep within the body, undetectable by standard means. A slow-acting, insidious agent, dormant until the superficial toxins were removed. By the time the symptoms flared, it was already too late.
The camp's healers fought to stabilize the victims, but their efforts only delayed the inevitable. The poison was too complex, its structure too alien, and their arsenal of antidotes proved useless. As the days passed, more cases appeared, and whispers spread from camp to camp.
Then came the confirmation: Chiyo, the Puppet Master and Sunagakure's most feared poison expert, had returned to the frontlines. It all made sense. This was no ordinary toxin. It was her signature — a masterpiece of biological cruelty.
The situation quickly escalated, and word traveled to Konoha's central command. Requests were sent for additional medical-nin, especially those with any skill in toxicology. Among those summoned was Akira.
The moment Akira heard about the mysterious poison, his heart leaped. Not out of fear, but opportunity. The frontlines offered more than the chance to study an exotic toxin. They offered escape — from Orochimaru.
For months, Akira had been trapped under Orochimaru's gaze, dancing the delicate game of student and teacher. The Snake Sannin's interest in him was both a shield and a curse, and Akira had long been searching for a way to slip beyond his reach. This crisis was his perfect opening.
Wasting no time, Akira approached Orochimaru, carefully masking his eagerness beneath a layer of concern and childlike sincerity.
"Sensei," he began softly, eyes wide with feigned worry, "I heard about the poison afflicting the soldiers on the front. I've studied many toxins, and I believe I might be able to help. Please... let me go with the support unit. I want to save them."
Orochimaru studied the boy for a moment, his serpentine eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. He saw in Akira what he believed to be a perfect mold — eager, loyal, and slowly but surely bending to his influence. A child hungry for knowledge, and utterly dependent on him.
"You truly have a kind heart, Akira," Orochimaru murmured, voice laced with cold affection. "Separation is only temporary. A shinobi must learn to face hardship alone. I believe you'll make me proud."
Akira bowed his head, hiding the flicker of triumph behind a carefully crafted mask of gratitude.
"Thank you, Sensei. I promise, I'll work hard to find the antidote and return to your side as soon as I can."
But in his heart, Akira was already gone. Once he reached the front lines, he would find a way to stay — away from Orochimaru, away from the Sannin's schemes. This was his chance for freedom, and he would not waste it.
When the day came, Akira joined the convoy of medical-nin headed for the poisoned camps. Neither Might Guy nor Hayate nor Anko came with him this time. The frontlines were too dangerous for freshly graduated genin, and Orochimaru likely intended to keep his more "impressionable" students close, at least for now.
As the caravan approached the forward base, Akira felt the oppressive change in the air. This place was unlike the rear headquarters, where the tension of war was always tempered by strategy meetings and controlled logistics. Here, the smell of blood hung heavy, mixed with sweat, iron, and the faintest trace of decay.
The wounded lay in orderly rows, silent except for the occasional low groan or sharp, desperate breath. Soldiers moved with grim determination, and every face bore the weight of exhaustion and fear.
Akira's freedom had come at last, but standing amid the stark reality of the battlefield, he realized that this would be no easy path. His escape had only just begun.
Recently, a grim tension had taken hold of the entire camp—a heavy atmosphere that lingered like a storm cloud, pressing down on the shoulders of every ninja present. The source of this suffocating dread was a new, insidious poison crafted by the Sand. It wasn't merely a battlefield threat—it was psychological warfare, striking fear into even the most seasoned shinobi.
The poison was unlike anything Konoha had encountered before. The frontline combatants no longer dared to engage in close-quarters combat, fearful of even a scratch. One cut, one needle, and the venom would spread like wildfire through the veins. As a result, most relied on long-range tactics—ninjutsu and throwing weapons—which drained chakra rapidly and expended valuable resources. Despite the effort, the results were often less effective than desired.
Back at the medical posts, the pressure was even more immense. The rear medical personnel were drowning in wounded, and the worst part was not being able to offer a definitive cure. They hadn't yet found a way to neutralize the toxin, and the wounded kept coming in waves—each more desperate than the last.
Traps laced with poison senbon, airborne toxins, tainted kunai—every attack from the Sand ninjas seemed to carry some form of venom. Even when close combat was avoided, the enemy adapted with ruthless ingenuity. Requests flooded the command for reinforcements—more medical-nin, more minds to crack the code of the poison, and more hands to treat the ever-growing number of patients.
When Akira arrived with the reinforcements, he was greeted not with camaraderie, but by the exhausted eyes of a camp pushed to the edge. These medical-nin had long since burned through their chakra reserves. Their movements were sluggish, their voices hoarse. Many were operating on sheer willpower alone.
Still, there was no time for sympathy. The new arrivals were immediately assigned patients—the worst cases among the newly poisoned. Akira was no exception.
Though wearied from the journey, he was in far better condition than those who had been in the trenches. Without hesitation, he made his way toward a cot where a man lay trembling, skin pallid, veins bulging with dark threads that pulsed beneath the surface.
Just as he knelt to begin his diagnosis, two figures stepped into his path—battle-worn, eyes filled with suspicion. The injured ninja's teammates.
"Step back," one growled. "This isn't some toy for practice. He needs a real medic."
Akira didn't blame them. His youthful appearance had been a hurdle since the day he stepped onto the battlefield. At a glance, he looked no older than six. No one would ever believe he was one of Konoha's most competent medical-nin.
Most medical-nin only began their training after graduating the academy—by the time they were sixteen or older. But Akira was an exception, a prodigy reborn into this world with the knowledge and discipline of a thirty-year-old doctor from another life.
The clock was ticking. The poisoned ninja's pulse was fluttering wildly beneath his skin. There was no time to argue.
Akira's eyes shifted, and the scarlet glow of the Sharingan flared to life.
Before the two chunin could react, their bodies froze in place. Caught in the genjutsu, they stiffened like statues, their minds silenced by the illusion.
Akira didn't hesitate. He moved to the patient's side, kneeling and beginning his assessment.
He didn't cast the Mystical Palm Technique immediately. That would have been useless. Healing techniques stimulated the body's regenerative ability, yes—but against poison, it was merely buying time, not saving lives.
His crimson eyes danced over the ninja's condition, the Sharingan dissecting every twitch, every irregularity in chakra flow. Akira's medical knowledge went beyond what the ninja world had to offer—he could identify the signs of systemic failure, of cellular degradation, of bacteriological infection.
This wasn't a simple venom. It was a composite toxin—likely engineered by the Sand's infamous puppet master, Chiyo. A Kage-level ninja whose poison had once threatened to paralyze entire battalions during the Second Great Ninja War.
In those days, Konoha had survived only because Tsunade—one of the legendary Sannin—was there to counter it.
But now Tsunade was gone. And no one remained who could decipher such a complex toxin.
No one except Akira.
He couldn't neutralize the poison outright, not yet. But he could reduce its concentration. Extract it.
The Extraction Technique.
It wasn't something many could use. Not effectively. It required not only precise chakra control, but the ability to manage pain levels, to isolate toxins, and to coordinate with a team of assistants.
Akira needed no team.
With Sharingan-enhanced precision, he cast another genjutsu—not to restrain the patient, but to dull the pain, to pacify the mind and prevent unconscious resistance.
He then formed a Water Release seal, drawing moisture directly from the air and forming a clean water sphere. No need for prepared instruments. No need for assistants. Just him.
As his hands glowed faintly with blue-green chakra, he reached into the patient's chakra system and began the extraction.
It was delicate, excruciating work. Toxins hissed and sizzled as they were drawn out, swirling into the water orb like ink spreading in clear fluid. He continued, sweat forming on his brow, until the orb turned a sickly, dense purple.
He discarded it.
The patient's color had improved slightly, but there was more to do. Akira then activated the Mystical Palm Technique, his hands glowing brighter, stabilizing the body, aiding recovery. Slowly, under his eyes, the patient's chakra flow began to realign. The corrupted aura faded. The darkness ebbed.
When he finally released the genjutsu, the ninja had passed out—not from the poison, but from the trauma of the treatment and the exhaustion of the ordeal.
He would live.
It would take a week of rest before he was fit to stand, but the damage had been mitigated. No lasting sequelae. A full recovery.
As Akira stood, tired but composed, he glanced down at his hands—still faintly glowing with the residual warmth of healing chakra.
Around him, murmurs had begun to rise. A few of the veteran medical-nin, having watched the entire process in stunned silence, now exchanged glances of disbelief and awe.
He was a child in appearance—but that boy had just done what no one else in the camp could. He had cracked Chiyo's poison.
The legend of Akira, the reborn doctor of Konoha, was only beginning.