The morning sun spilled over the rooftops of Konoha, painting the village in shades of gold and crimson. The warmth of early light made the tiled roofs gleam, and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze carried the familiar scent of pine and smoke from the bakeries that had already opened their doors. The village was alive with its usual rhythm: the clattering of carts carrying goods, the faint clink of blacksmiths shaping kunai, the laughter of children running between alleys. It was the heart of Konoha on a peaceful day, a moment that made it easy to forget the weight of wars that had defined the last decades.
Inside a modest house on the edge of the market district, a boy sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, shoveling rice into his mouth with the kind of speed only nervous energy could give. His messy white hair caught the sunlight coming through the small window, standing out starkly against his tanned skin.
"Slow down, boy," an older voice grumbled.
Jiraiya's grandfather sat nearby, a plane tool in his hand, carefully smoothing a wooden beam. His back was bent with age, his hands rough and scarred from decades of carpentry. Despite the lines on his face, his eyes were sharp, full of humor and stubbornness.
"You'll choke if you keep eating like a starving dog," the old man continued.
Jiraiya scowled, cheeks puffed with rice. "I'm not nervous," he said through a mouthful, swallowing hard. "I just don't wanna be late."
The old man snorted, setting down the beam and dusting off his hands. "First day at the Academy, and you're acting like a fox with its tail on fire. You think they'll make you Hokage after one day of class?"
Jiraiya's eyes brightened instantly. "Maybe not after one day, but you'll see. I'm gonna stand out. Everyone's gonna know the name Jiraiya."
His grandfather raised a brow, half amused, half exasperated. "Big words for a kid who nearly tripped over his sandals this morning."
"Hey, that was just bad luck!" Jiraiya protested, slamming his bowl down after finishing the last grains of rice. He hopped to his feet, adjusting his simple blue shirt and shorts. They were nothing compared to the clean, decorated clothes some clan kids would wear, but he didn't care. He would make his name shine brighter than any crest.
The old man sighed, leaning back on his stool. "Remember, boy. A tree doesn't choose the soil it grows in. But it can choose to stretch taller than the rest. You've got no clan, no name behind you, just me and your parents' memory. If you want to stand out, you better make sure your roots are strong."
Jiraiya grinned, his eyes sparkling with determination. "Don't worry, gramps. I'll grow so tall the whole world will have to look up at me."
Before his grandfather could reply, Jiraiya bolted for the door, sandals slapping against the wooden floor.
"Don't embarrass me, brat!" the old man shouted after him, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"I won't!" Jiraiya's voice echoed back as he dashed into the street, heart pounding with excitement.
The village welcomed him with its usual chaos. Merchants called out their wares, mothers scolded children tugging at their sleeves, and shinobi walked with purposeful strides, weapons clinking softly at their sides. Jiraiya wove through the crowd, his small frame slipping between adults with practiced ease. His white hair caught eyes, whispers following him as they always did.
"That's the carpenter's boy, isn't it?" a woman murmured."White hair… strange. No clan, no heritage. Let's see how long he lasts at the Academy," another replied.
Jiraiya kept walking, fists clenching at his sides. He'd heard those whispers his whole life. Clanless. Rootless. Just another civilian brat. But today was different. Today was the first step to proving them wrong.
The Academy stood tall ahead of him, its tiled roof gleaming in the sun. The open courtyard was already filled with children gathering in groups. Some wore clean uniforms with clan symbols stitched into the fabric. Others stood alone or in pairs, shifting nervously. The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional burst of nervous bravado.
Jiraiya's eyes immediately caught on a girl near the center of the courtyard. Blonde hair tied neatly, golden eyes sharp and confident, arms crossed as if she owned the place. She had the kind of presence that made others instinctively step aside. Everyone knew who she was—Tsunade, granddaughter of the First Hokage. Even at her age, she radiated strength and certainty.
Beside her stood a pale boy with black hair, his expression calm and unreadable. He didn't laugh or fidget like the others. His eyes scanned the crowd with a predator's patience, observing, calculating. That had to be Orochimaru.
Before Jiraiya could step closer, a voice sneered behind him.
"Well, look who it is. The carpenter's grandson."
Jiraiya turned, eyes narrowing. A boy with sharp features and slick black hair stood smirking. He was slightly taller, his clothes neat, his posture confident in a way that screamed arrogance. Hayato Kurobane.
Jiraiya knew the name. A civilian like him, but from a family that had money and connections. Hayato never missed a chance to remind others that he wasn't just "ordinary" like the rest of the clanless.
"You planning to sit with the big names already?" Hayato said, his gaze flicking toward Tsunade. "Careful, Jiraiya. She's Senju royalty. People like us don't belong near her."
Jiraiya smirked. "Funny. You say that like she even knows you exist."
Hayato's smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. "Watch your mouth, white hair. Don't think being loud will make anyone respect you."
"Maybe not," Jiraiya said, leaning closer, "but beating you will."
Before the tension could spark into something more, a commanding voice boomed from the Academy doors.
"All of you! Line up!"
The courtyard fell silent instantly. A tall man stepped forward, scar running down his cheek, eyes sharp as steel. His presence alone made the air heavier. He wore the standard flak jacket, but with insignias marking him as more than just a regular chūnin.
"I am Nishikado," he barked. "Your instructor. Don't think this Academy is a playground. This is where Konoha separates the weak from the strong. Fail to meet the standard, and you will not be shinobi. You will be nothing."
The children straightened nervously. Even the cocky ones lowered their voices. Jiraiya felt his chest tighten—not with fear, but with excitement. This was it.
Inside, the classroom was wide and bright, scrolls neatly stacked at the front. Nishikado began the first lecture on chakra, his voice commanding the room. He explained how physical and spiritual energy blended to create chakra, how it flowed through the body's pathways, and how shinobi molded it for ninjutsu.
Most of the kids struggled to follow, their brushes scratching awkwardly on parchment. Jiraiya's hand moved quickly, his memory recalling each word as if he'd already read it a hundred times. When Nishikado asked about the difference between spiritual energy and physical stamina, Jiraiya's hand shot up.
"Spiritual energy comes from the mind—knowledge, experience, willpower. Physical energy comes from the body—strength, training, food. Chakra is created when both are balanced and molded together."
Nishikado raised a brow. "Correct. Almost word for word from the manual."
The class turned to stare. Some in awe, others in annoyance.
As the lecture went on, Jiraiya felt something shift inside him. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing steady. The world sharpened—the scrape of a brush against paper, the nervous tapping of feet, even the subtle shift of shoulders before someone coughed. Every movement around him became clear.
Then, a voice echoed in his mind, calm and mechanical.
[Ding]Reward gained: Predator's Instinct.Your body reacts before thought. Your senses heighten. You perceive danger, movement, and intent as if you were born for the hunt.
Jiraiya froze. His eyes widened as the sensation deepened. He could see the twitch of a hand before it scratched a nose, hear the faint catch in Tsunade's breathing before she sighed, sense the hostility burning in Hayato's glare without even looking directly at him.
His skin tingled. His muscles felt lighter. Every nerve screamed with awareness.
What the hell… is this?
When the class moved outside for sparring drills, Jiraiya's heart raced. He was paired against Tsunade. Whispers rippled through the students. A nobody against the granddaughter of the First Hokage.
"Try not to cry when you lose," Tsunade said, smirking confidently.
Jiraiya grinned back. "Ladies first."
The match began. Tsunade lunged, her strength explosive even for her age. Jiraiya's body moved on its own, slipping just out of reach, countering with sharp jabs and kicks. His Predator's Instinct guided him—not just reacting, but flowing with her rhythm, predicting where she would strike next.
Gasps rose as Jiraiya sidestepped a punch that would've knocked him flat, sliding in to tap her shoulder. A clean point.
"Lucky shot," Tsunade muttered, though her grin betrayed her amusement.
Hayato scowled from the sidelines, fists clenched. Orochimaru, however, tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Nishikado's sharp eyes narrowed. That wasn't luck. That was instinct—refined, unnatural for a child.
By the end of the day, Jiraiya walked out of the Academy bruised but smiling. He'd faced the granddaughter of the First Hokage and stood his ground. Something had awakened inside him, something powerful.
Hayato watched from the edge of the courtyard, his glare burning with envy.
From the rooftop above, the Third Hokage exhaled smoke from his pipe, his eyes thoughtful.
The wooden posts stood in the training yard like silent judges. Their surfaces were scarred from years of strikes, grooves running across them where generations of Academy students had tested their fists, their kicks, their desperation. Now, a fresh group of children, sweating and red-faced from laps and drills, stood facing them in uneven lines.
"Form up!" Nishikado barked. His voice cracked the air like a whip, cutting through chatter and fatigue alike. "Hands up. Open stance. You strike until I say stop. If your hands blister, you wrap them. If they bleed, you use your other hand. If you both bleed, you kick. Shinobi don't wait for perfect conditions—they make them."
Jiraiya settled into position. His small fists clenched, the knuckles pale, the wooden post in front of him towering like an enemy daring him to falter. He swung. Once. Twice. Again. The sound was sharp, each impact bouncing back into his bones. The sting flared, but his grin widened anyway. Each strike was a promise: I'm here. I won't break.
Tsunade was to his right, hammering the post with a rhythm that carried the weight of her clan's pride. Her strikes were heavy, thundering with a strength that made the wood shiver. She didn't flinch, not once. Her jaw was set, her eyes blazing, and Jiraiya couldn't help but sneak glances between blows. There was no hesitation in her. She didn't just hit the post—she punished it, as if daring it to stay standing.
Orochimaru, on Jiraiya's left, moved differently. His strikes were quieter, economical. There was no wasted energy, no noise. Each hit landed with surgical precision, the kind of motion that seemed designed to find the weak point of an enemy and break it apart with minimal effort. Watching him made Jiraiya's skin crawl a little—not because it was wrong, but because it was too right. Like Orochimaru was dissecting the post with every touch.
And then there was Hayato, two rows down, his fists slamming harder and harder until the wood barked splinters back at him. His lips curled, his eyes kept flicking sideways—toward Tsunade, toward Jiraiya. Each blow was a demand for attention, and when no one gave it, his strikes only grew wilder. His knuckles were raw by the time Nishikado finally called them off.
"Enough!" The Special Jōnin's voice carried like a kunai whistle. "Line up."
Children straightened, breathing hard, sweat dripping. Some wiped blood on their shirts, others cradled sore wrists. Jiraiya stood tall, his own hands reddened but steady. He refused to let them shake.
Nishikado's eyes swept over the line. "You think this was punishment? Wrong. This is a mirror. It shows you what you are. Some of you break yourselves before you break the target. Some of you can't keep pace with your own pride. Some of you," his gaze lingered a fraction too long on Jiraiya, "let instinct carry them further than they should."
Heat crawled up Jiraiya's neck. He didn't drop his eyes. For a second—just a second—he thought he saw something flicker in Nishikado's sharp stare. Not just appraisal. Curiosity. Wariness.
The instructor clapped once. "Lunch. Thirty minutes. Return on time or I'll count every grain of rice you eat as laps."
The courtyard scattered into groups. Kids pulled food from bags, trading bites of dumplings and rice balls. Laughter bubbled, filling the yard with a sense of normalcy. But normalcy had a way of skipping Jiraiya.
He sat on the edge of a low wall, chewing on a rice ball his grandfather had packed. The taste was plain, almost bland compared to the fragrant food from clan kitchens around him, but it filled his stomach and reminded him of home. That was enough.
"Not eating with the rest?" Tsunade's voice startled him. She stood with her hands on her hips, the slug emblem of her clan embroidered faintly on the hem of her shirt. Orochimaru trailed a step behind, carrying his lunch neatly packed into small wooden boxes.
"They didn't invite me," Jiraiya said through a mouthful, then swallowed. "And I don't need them. I eat faster alone."
Tsunade arched a brow. "Or maybe they didn't invite you because you talk with your mouth full."
"Efficient," Jiraiya shot back, grinning. "Talking and eating at the same time. That's talent."
She shook her head but sat down beside him anyway, pulling out her own food—carefully wrapped dumplings that smelled far richer than his rice ball. Orochimaru sat too, not asking, just quietly making the wall theirs for the moment.
The air between them felt strange, heavy but not uncomfortable. Three different worlds sitting side by side: Senju legacy, pale ambition, clanless determination.
Jiraiya broke the silence. "So, Orochimaru. You're quiet. You planning something evil?"
Orochimaru looked at him with that half-smile, one corner of his mouth tugged upward. "Quiet doesn't mean evil. It means I'm listening."
"To what?"
"To everything." His eyes shifted, catching small details: the way one student's shoulders slumped after losing a game of cards, the way another's hand hovered too long near his pocket before pulling out food. "People tell you what they are without speaking. You just have to notice."
"Creepy," Jiraiya said, but not unkindly.
"Practical," Orochimaru corrected.
Tsunade took a bite of her dumpling and watched them both. "You two are strange."
"And you're not?" Jiraiya asked, leaning back on his hands. "Everyone looks at you like you're already Hokage."
"Because I will be," she said simply. No arrogance, just certainty.
Jiraiya grinned. "Then I'll be stronger than the Hokage."
"You can't be stronger than yourself," she shot back, smirking.
The three of them laughed—awkwardly, a little too loud, but it was laughter that made other students glance over and whisper. Hayato, sitting with a cluster of kids nearby, saw it too. His jaw tightened, his chopsticks snapping a dumpling in half harder than necessary. He muttered something to his friends, who chuckled without conviction. His eyes never left Jiraiya.
When the break ended, Nishikado pulled them into another round of exercises, then back into the classroom for more theory. The hours passed in a blur of drills, explanations, and the constant pressure of proving themselves. Jiraiya's body ached, his mind buzzed, but the hum of Predator's Instinct never faded. It whispered at the edge of every motion, warning, guiding, urging him to trust it.
As the day ended and students filed out of the Academy, the village bathed in the soft glow of evening. Jiraiya walked with tired legs but a burning fire in his chest. The whispers of "no clan, no future" still lingered in the streets, but today he had stepped onto the path that would change those words into something else entirely.
Hayato watched from a corner of the courtyard, his glare sharp, his fists clenched at his sides. He said nothing, but the promise of conflict burned in his eyes.
High above, on the rooftop of the Academy, Hiruzen Sarutobi exhaled smoke from his pipe, his gaze following the white-haired boy disappearing into the streets. "This one," he murmured, "is going to shake the world."
The streets of Konoha glowed with the fading light of evening. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their soft orange halos pushing back the dusk as vendors packed their stalls. Children who weren't in the Academy darted past Jiraiya, wooden toys clattering in their hands, their laughter fading into the maze of alleys. The village carried on with its rhythm, but Jiraiya walked slower now, fatigue gnawing at his legs, each bruise from training a medal he was reluctant to show off.
He passed by a fruit stand where a woman glanced at him, her eyes flicking from his messy white hair to the bruises along his forearms. She whispered to her neighbor, too low for anyone else to hear—but Predator's Instinct didn't miss whispers. It traced every vibration, every intention.
"Carpenter's boy," she murmured. "Trying to be shinobi… it won't last. No roots. No backing."
Her neighbor grunted. "Maybe the Hokage will humor him. Until he breaks."
Jiraiya kept walking, face neutral. He'd heard worse, but tonight the words rolled sharper against his ribs. For every bruise on his body, the village seemed determined to add two more on his pride. Still, he clenched his fists and whispered to himself, I'll prove you wrong. I'll prove everyone wrong.
At the next corner, he slowed. A shinobi in a flak jacket leaned against a wall, arms crossed, watching the flow of people. His eyes flicked to Jiraiya, not cruel, not kind—just measuring. Jiraiya met his gaze, refusing to look away. For a moment, the man's brow arched. Then he pushed off the wall and melted into the crowd, his presence vanishing like smoke.
By the time Jiraiya reached the carpenter's shop, the sky had deepened into violet. His grandfather's hammering echoed from inside, steady and patient. The scent of sawdust clung to the air, comforting in its familiarity. Jiraiya slid the door open and stepped inside, dropping his bag with a thud.
"Still alive," his grandfather said without turning from the bench, his mallet tapping a dowel into place. "Good. Saves me the trouble of building a coffin."
Jiraiya rolled his eyes, flopping onto a cushion. "You've got jokes for everything."
"Better than tears for nothing," the old man replied. He set the mallet down and finally looked at him. "Well? Did they throw you out yet?"
"Nope," Jiraiya said proudly. "Fought Tsunade Senju. Beat her, too."
His grandfather's brows lifted. "Beat her? Or she let you?"
"She didn't let me!" Jiraiya shot back, bristling. "I moved before she did. I knew where she'd strike. I just… knew."
The old man studied him for a long moment. His eyes, faded but sharp, searched his grandson's face. "And how did that feel?"
Jiraiya hesitated. He thought of the whisper in his head, the way the world had sharpened, every twitch and breath falling into place like pieces of a puzzle only he could see. It had felt natural. Too natural. Like he was stepping into something meant for him alone.
"It felt right," he said finally. "Like I wasn't fighting. Just… flowing."
His grandfather leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "Flow can carry you far. But rivers drown fools who think they control the current."
"I'm not a fool," Jiraiya said, though the words came out softer than he intended.
The old man smirked. "Every boy says that before he proves himself wrong. Eat. Then sleep. Tomorrow will test you harder."
Dinner was plain rice, pickled vegetables, and a sliver of grilled fish. Jiraiya ate quickly, but his mind wasn't on the food. It was on the way Tsunade's punch had grazed his cheek and how his body had already known how to avoid the next one. It was on Orochimaru's quiet eyes, the way they missed nothing. It was on Hayato's glare, sharp enough to cut. And it was on the voice that had declared Predator's Instinct like a truth carved into his bones.
That night, lying on his futon, Jiraiya couldn't sleep. The hum of the village drifted through the open window: distant laughter, the bark of a dog, the low murmur of adults talking in the street. He closed his eyes, and Predator's Instinct surged again, like a second heartbeat. He felt the subtle vibration of footsteps before they passed his house, the flutter of wings before a crow landed on the roof. Every detail painted itself across his senses whether he wanted it or not.
He sat up, restless. The air was cool against his skin as he padded outside onto the small wooden porch. The stars hung above, clear and sharp. For the first time, he tried to test the new awareness instead of ignoring it. He picked up a pebble, tossed it into the air, and without thinking caught it behind his back. Again. Again. Each time, his body moved before the stone had even reached its peak.
He grinned. "I'm different," he whispered to the night. "And I'll make the world remember me."
From the shadows of the next rooftop, a figure exhaled smoke. The Third Hokage stood, pipe glowing faintly in the dark. He had watched from morning to night, his gaze steady on the white-haired boy who moved like instinct itself. He said nothing. The village didn't need to hear his thoughts. But in his heart, the Hokage knew: this boy would become both Konoha's pride and its storm.
Far below, at the edge of the sleeping streets, another set of eyes lingered. Hayato leaned against a wall, fists clenched, his breath sharp in the quiet. He had seen Tsunade smile at Jiraiya, had seen Orochimaru engage him, had seen even Nishikado's attention sharpen when the boy moved. It burned. Every laugh they'd shared, every moment of recognition—it should have been his.
"I'll crush him," Hayato muttered under his breath, voice low and raw. "I'll show them who deserves the spotlight."
The stars glittered above Konoha, indifferent to vows and rivalries, as the first day of Jiraiya's Academy life ended—not with rest, but with the promise of storms to come.