Convergence: A Sasuke Fanfiction

THE COLISEUM

Constructed from marble and adorned with intricate carvings, the coliseum stood as a declaration of opulence and extravagance, its grand facade rising from the humble earth with a rather arrogant flair; a stark contrast against the natural beauty of the rest of the island's surroundings. Towering arches and imposing pillars supported the massive structure, casting shadows that seemed to stretch infinitely in the waning light.

“Where is En Oyashiro?” we asked Orochimaru, peeling our eyes away from the sight.

“Where I wonder,” the sannin tutted in response before flashing us a placating smile and raising his hands in a calming gesture as he caught our dull stare. “Relax. Sheesh. I am not sure where he is at the moment, but this is about the only place that he’ll show up. Although, he might not come if there’s no shinobi he wants. Still, let’s go in and see what we find.”

We stared at the sannin in silence for a moment longer before tearing our eyes away from him and flickering towards the building, our blood clone in tow.

Inside the coliseum, a vast circular arena awaited, the marble floor carefully cleared of debris and prepared for the impending battle. The stands were a sight to behold, draped in rich fabrics and adorned with silken banners. Luxurious seating allowed the guests to recline comfortably in eager anticipation. Spotlights swivelled like sentries, painting phantom images on the masses as they rotated on their mounts. The atmosphere was electric, with hoots and rabid fangirling rippling through the crowd as a man—the host, we quickly realised—stepped forward.

“Is everyone enjoying themselves so far?” he asked the guests with a fancy flourish, shouting into his mouthpiece. A crescendo rippled over the stands in response. “Ah, yes, of course you are! The last match was absolutely stupendous! Honours to the victor! Despair to the vanquished! Now, let the next match begin!”

“YEAH!!!” came the response of a rabid audience.

“As you know!” the host continued, “the rules are simple! Knockout! Winner takes all, including, of course, the loser!”

We tilted our head, mildly intrigued.

“The wealthy patrons here pit their shinobi against shinobi owned by others,” Orochimaru supplied helpfully from the side. “The losing shinobi becomes theirs.”

Our gaze panned back to regard the host.

“And now!” he declared. “Today’s semi-final match!”

We frowned as the crowd screamed.

We disliked the noise.

“Entering the blue ring, on behalf of President Mifune of the Silverfish Corporation, Watanabe, the Silver Surfer!” The host paused to let the hype build before gesturing wildly to the other entrance. “His opponent! Entering on behalf of Shin Oguri, The Severed… Sota!”

The two opponents jumped into the arena. Watanabe wielded a writhing mass of silver that slithered on the floor between his legs. Opposite him stood Sota, a dark-skinned giant of a man. The two squared off, glaring at each other from across the stage.

“All right!” the host said. “Let us begin! Ready? Fight!”

“Orochimaru,” we drawled, glancing at the sannin from the side of our eye, “you should know by now that I do not have time to waste on dalliances. Where is En Oyashiro?”

The sannin smiled silently in response.

Our gaze panned back to the stage where the giant stood choking his opponent into submission with one hand. The silver mass attempted a counterattack to no avail.

“Tap out! Tap out! Watanabe tapped out! We have a winner!”

Our gaze flickered from the scene as we scanned the stands. “What does he look like?” we asked.

“Beige hair, a moustache, a goatee, and violet eyes,” the sannin replied. “Has a tendency to wear baggy light brown tunics and large diamond-shaped sunglasses … You won’t find him, Sasuke-kun. En Oyashiro is a hard man to reach; if you want to see him the best you can do is parade around something he wants.”

“For our next match, we have two special contenders—”

We turned to face the sannin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Orochimaru chuckled, gesturing to the stage with his chin.

“—In the blue ring, representing the ever-enigmatic En Oyashiro! Miura The Swift!”

We frowned, intuition flaring. “It seems he took the bait,” the sannin said with a smile.

We didn’t like that smile.

“His opponent, representing the dreaded Lord Orochimaru! A rare specimen never before seen in these parts! Sasukeeeee… UCHIHA!”

The crowd froze, falling silent for a moment, confused. Spotlights swivelled on their mounts to focus on us.

The coliseum snapped.

Ignoring the deafening noise, we turned to face sannin. “What did you just do?” we asked.

“I—” he didn’t complete the sentence. Orochimaru looked down in confusion at the blade sticking out of his left lung, inches from his heart; our blood clone stood behind him, the pair shrouded by the contrast inflicted by the spotlights above.

Our gaze flickered down to the slave in the arena before panning across the mad audience bearing witness to this stain on our name. On the Uchiha name. We stood in silence, contemplating the idea of simply leaving.

A few moments passed before we exhaled, the sound coming as a growl.

“The next time you sully my image, doing something as foolish as pitting my noble self against mere slaves like this, I will end you.”

“T-try not to kill him,” the sannin replied, coughing up blood with a mischievous smile on his lips. “Remember, we need every last warm body we can get our hands on for this plan of yours to work.”

We didn’t reply, flickering into the arena below. Our perception scanned the coliseum to no avail. Too much clutter.

There was no avoiding this.

“FIGHT!”