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Respect for all life.
It was the most basic fundamental which had been drilled into him as far back as his memory would take him. The golden rule of the temple he had been raised in, instilled and recited by monks, who graciously took in unwanted orphans of war. Of course, the temple had many other rules; each one seemingly harder than the next for a young child to adhere to. Sit still, be silent, dont eat meat, pray three times a day and obey the elders even when you knew damn well they were wrong. Peace was the ultimate nirvana. Peace of mind, body and spirit. But how could anyone achieve such a thing, when outside of the temple walls was anything BUT peace?
He had seen them with his own eyes. Maimed and dying soldiers, leaving a crimson trail of blood along the pristine marble floors as their comrades dragged them before the elders, begging for medical attention or a final prayer to be issued before they took their last breath. Crying women; bellies heavy with child, sobbing through horrific tales of being brutally raped, while the emotionless monks held their hands and tried to explain how it was Gods will. How they preached about forgiveness and gratitude to the starving farmers whose entire crop and been burned to the ground by an opposing nation.
With each passing year and every inch he grew, Hidan grew more and more disenchanted with the whole farce. What kind of God would sit back and watch the followers that he was supposed to love suffer and die in such horrific manners and forbid them against raising a hand to do anything about it? A weak and useless one. A pointless one. A nonexistent one. Real Gods were supposed to be wrathful, formidable and punishing. Their most devout followers were supposed to be earthly embodiments of those very traits.
It was no big surprise when as soon as he was old enough, the little orphan boy with the silvery hair and sunset in his eyes left the temple to follow the path of a Shinobi. The time for passive prayers and indifferent minds was over. He was ready to fight and not a single member of the temple was sad to see him go. As one season sunk into the next, he had become somewhat of a problem child; refusing chores, cursing during prayers and purposely talking through meditation periods.
With passion in his adolescent heart and vengeance on his mind, he trained hard and he grew fast; easily surpassing his peers and impressing his strict and traditional sensei. The boy had been bred for the battlefield; fearless and confident. He ached for combat. He longed for a chance to prove the monks wrong. But before he ever got the chance to step one foot on the battlefield and taste the sweet nectar of victory; a treaty was signed and the war was over. In return for the protection of other larger, greater nations, the village would become a haven of leisure and relaxation. In such an environment, there was little work for an active Shinobi and the boy was left directionless once again.
For the second time in his short life, he watched with growing anger and disgust as his friends and neighbours fed, fussed and entertained the very people who had once slaughtered their sons and raped their daughters. How they would bow and smile and wag their tails like pathetic little lap dogs, so eager for the scraps their new masters would toss at their feet. They were no better than the pacifist monks in the temple on the top of the hill. No pride. No honour. No loyalty.
He soon found himself living on the fringes, unable to accept the new direction the village was taking, deeply intwined within the underworld of petty crime and illegal dealings. Although it seemed that most of the village were perfectly content with a life of servitude in exchange for a few shallow comforts, there were still a few whose personal feelings aligned more closely with his own. They had no room in their hearts for forgiveness. Too much pride to become a slave. They believed that blood could only be sated by more blood. An eye for an eye was the way of the world and nobody was deserving of exoneration. They were the swift arms of divine justice. The enforcers who would make certain that justice was served. To take their enemies out of this world and fling them at the feet of the real God so they could be judged by the only being fit to do so.
Jashin was the true God; everything an all-powerful God should be. Loyal followers were rewarded with more than empty promises of eternal life beyond the world they lived in. True believers were given power. Power to carry out his wishes. Power to act when nobody else would. Power most people could only dream of.
When it was time to take his vows and offer his sacrifice to the one true God of all things; living and dead, the temple was the first place he went to. Their God did not save them. Did not so much as send a gust of wind to ease the flames that burned the whole damn thing to ashes.
Respect for all life. Yeah, fucking right. Nothing and no one was sacred.