"I thought we might've caught a real spy," Jiraiya muttered with clear irritation, "but it's just trash."
If the black-clad man had been an enemy shinobi—a defector, a scout from another village—capturing him would have meant recognition and credit back in Konoha. Instead, the truth was disappointing. Just a bandit who had stumbled across a dead Kirigakure ninja's notes and scraped together a handful of stolen techniques.
Jiraiya pocketed the weathered notebook and then turned, his eyes falling on Lock.
"Lock. Come here."
Lock blinked, confused, but stepped forward. "What is it, Lord Jiraiya?"
For once, Jiraiya's usual grin was gone. His voice carried a heavy weight. "You've got talent, boy. Plenty of it. But do you know what separates a talented child from a true shinobi?"
Lock hesitated, then answered carefully, "Strength?"
Jiraiya shook his head slowly. "No. Strength alone isn't enough. To be a ninja… you have to be able to kill."
The words fell like stones. Lock stiffened. Kushina gasped, eyes wide, while Minato remained composed, though a faint shadow crossed his features.
Jiraiya's voice grew grim. "You kids imagine shinobi as heroes, protecting villages with shining jutsu. But the truth? For most of history, shinobi lived in blood and darkness—thieves, killers, blades hired to do the dirty work of lords. Even now, that hasn't changed. A ninja must carry the will to kill when it's needed, or you won't survive the path ahead."
Lock said nothing, but his expression hardened. Jiraiya wasn't wrong. In this world, survival came at the cost of blood.
"Your talent, your wit, your potential—it all means nothing if you can't end an enemy," Jiraiya continued. He pointed at the bound man in black. "This one has robbed, murdered, butchered innocents for years. There's no burden in ending him. Do it, Lock. Learn what every shinobi must."
"Wait—Jiraiya-sensei!" Kushina blurted, voice tight with unease. "He's only six years old. Isn't this too much, too soon?"
Jiraiya's head snapped toward her, his voice like a whip. "Age has nothing to do with it! Out there, enemies won't care how old you are. If you can't kill when the moment demands it, you'll be the one lying dead. That's the reality."
Kushina flinched, lips pressed tight, until Mina and To laid a hand on her arm and shook their head gently. She swallowed her protest.
Lock's small fingers tightened around his kunai. Without another word, he stepped toward the bound man.
The black-clad bandit thrashed desperately. "No, no, wait! Please! I'll talk—I'll do anything, just don't kill me—" His voice cracked, eyes rolling in panic.
Steel flashed.
A spray of crimson arced into the dirt. The man's pleading cut short as his body slumped, eyes glassy, throat opened clean.
Silence followed.
Blood dripped down Lock's hand. His stomach knotted—there was a sour sickness rising in his chest—but he kept his face blank. He stared at the corpse only a moment before turning away, his expression calm, too calm for a child who had just taken a life for the first time.
It wasn't cold-bloodedness, he thought to himself. Just clarity. In a world where strength ruled, hesitation meant death. These men had killed and stolen freely; letting them live would only leave more corpses in their wake.
If he couldn't bear blood on his hands, then what right did he have to dream of strength?
Jiraiya's laughter broke the stillness. "Hah! Kid, your guts are something else." The Sannin's grin returned, but his eyes were sharp, weighing the boy. "Didn't expect you to handle it so cleanly. Even Orochimaru had more hesitation than that."
Kushina stared at Lock, unsettled, while Minato watched silently, the faintest crease at his brow.
Lock wiped his kunai on the grass and then, after a pause, looked toward the captured samurai leader. His voice was steady. "Jiraiya-sensei… this one's just as guilty. Should I finish him, too?"
Jiraiya's grin faltered. His eyes narrowed. "What did you say, brat? Don't tell me killing's already gone to your head."
Lock met his gaze evenly. "He's taken lives. He's led these raids. If he walks away, people will keep dying. Isn't it better to end it here?"
For a long moment, Jiraiya just stared, the wind tugging at his white mane. Finally, he spoke with a low edge. "Listen, kid. You're right that he's guilty. But shinobi aren't executioners on a whim. He'll be handed over to the town. They'll strip his stolen wealth, force him to repay losses. That's justice, too. And more importantly, it's Konoha's reputation on the line. We don't butcher captives. Don't forget that."
Lock inclined his head. "…Understood."
Still, the flicker in his eyes lingered—sharp, hungry, unsettling. It left even Jiraiya wondering what kind of shinobi this boy would one day become.
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