The air on the border of the Land of Rain wasn't just humid; it was heavy.
It was a wet, suffocating blanket that pressed against the skin, smelling of mildew, wet bark, and the copper tang of a war that refused to end. The sun was a hazy white disc behind a layer of high-altitude mist, bleaching the color out of the forest until the world looked like an overexposed photograph.
Water dripped from the canopy—plip, plip—relentless and rhythm-less, echoing in the unnatural silence where birdsong should have been.
Jiraiya stopped walking.
Three small figures stood in the path. They were mud-stained, their ribs visible through the rags of their shirts. They smelled of hunger—a sharp, sour scent that cut through the humidity.
Flies buzzed around them, drawn to the open sores on their shins, the only things well-fed in this entire country.
"Please," the boy in the middle said. Yahiko. His orange hair was matted, but his eyes burned with a desperate, frantic energy. "Teach us ninjutsu."
Behind him, a girl with a paper flower in her hair (Konan) and a frail boy with hair redder than blood (Nagato) huddled together, trembling.
"You're Konoha ninja," Yahiko insisted, stepping forward, his small fists clenched. "You're strong. If we were strong... we could end this. We could stop the fighting."
Beside Jiraiya, Orochimaru sighed.
The Snake Sannin looked pristine despite the muck. His pale skin seemed to repel the dirt. He looked down at the orphans with eyes that held no pity, only a cold, reptile calculation.
He smelled faintly of sterile lab alcohol and dried herbs, a jarringly clean scent amidst the rot.
"They are war orphans," Orochimaru hissed softly. "They have no home. No food. Their future is starvation or banditry."
Orochimaru reached into his pouch. He didn't pull out a ration bar. He pulled out a kunai.
"I could kill them," Orochimaru offered, his tone light, as if suggesting a dinner venue. "It would end their suffering. It would be a mercy."
The kunai gleamed dull and grey in the low light, the reflection distorted by a droplet of rain running down the blade.
The girl whimpered. Yahiko froze, his bravado shattering under the killing intent radiating from the pale man.
Jiraiya felt a heavy stone settle in his gut. The same stone he had carried since the start of this damn war.
"Since when," Jiraiya grunted, rolling his eyes to mask the sudden spike of adrenaline, "did you become so wasteful?"
He stepped between Orochimaru and the children. He made himself big—a wall of red and grey mesh armor.
Orochimaru paused. He looked at the kunai, then at Jiraiya's broad back. He scoffed, sliding the weapon back into his pouch with a sharp snick.
"It was merely a suggestion," Orochimaru said, examining his fingernails. "You play father to the children if you wish. I have better things to do."
He didn't wait. He flickered away, vanishing into the damp foliage without a sound, leaving Jiraiya alone with three terrifyingly small responsibilities.
The air pressure seemed to lighten instantly as he left, the lingering menace evaporating like mist, leaving only the smell of wet dog and fear.
Jiraiya looked at them. He looked at the hope sparking in Yahiko's eyes.
I can't save everyone, Jiraiya told himself. But I can't leave them to him.
"Listen up," Jiraiya said, his voice gruff. "I'm not teaching you ninjutsu. Ninjutsu brings pain. It brings war."
He dropped his pack, the heavy thud vibrating in the mud.
"But I will teach you how to fish. I'll teach you how to survive. You want to change the world? Start by not dying of hunger."
He tossed a ration bar to Yahiko; the wrapper crinkled loudly—crackle—a foreign, synthetic sound in the primitive gloom.
Months later.
The haze had turned to rain. It was a light, miserable drizzle that soaked into the bones and turned the forest floor into a slick trap.
Thunder rolled overhead—BOOOOM—shaking the water loose from the trees in heavy, freezing sheets that stung his skin.
Jiraiya ran.
He heard the scream before he saw them. It wasn't a battle cry; it was a shriek of pure, unadulterated terror.
The metallic stench of fresh arterial spray hit him before he even cleared the brush, hot and copper-sharp against the cold rain.
He burst through the treeline into the clearing.
"Get away!"
Jiraiya skidded to a halt.
An Iwagakure Chūnin lay on the ground. His chest was caved in. His eyes were wide, staring at the grey sky, unseeing.
Steam rose from the open cavity in his chest, the warmth of life fleeing into the cold air in visible, ghostly wisps.
Standing over him was Nagato.
The frail, quiet boy was shaking. His red hair hung over his face, dripping water mixed with blood that wasn't his. He was hyperventilating, his hands clawed in front of him as if he had just shoved something massive away.
The air around the boy crackled with static, making the hair on Jiraiya's arms stand up—a density of chakra that tasted like ozone and ancient dust.
Yahiko and Konan were on the ground behind him, bruised but alive.
"I..." Nagato gasped, turning to look at Jiraiya. "I didn't... I just wanted to protect them... I..."
He lifted his head.
Jiraiya froze. The rain seemed to stop mid-air.
He didn't look at the dead soldier. He looked at Nagato's eyes.
They weren't human. They were purple. Concentric circles rippled out from the pupil, a pattern of absolute, divine geometry.
They didn't reflect the light; they seemed to absorb it, a swirling vortex of purple that felt like looking into a deep, oceanic trench.
The Rinnegan.
The Sage of Six Paths, Jiraiya thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. The legend. It's real.
Nagato collapsed to his knees, sobbing. "I killed him! I'm a monster!"
Jiraiya moved. He knelt in the mud, pulling the trembling boy into his arms. Nagato flinched, expecting punishment, but Jiraiya held him tight.
"It's okay," Jiraiya whispered into the wet red hair. "You protected your friends. Sometimes... sometimes violence is necessary. Sometimes you have to accept the pain to stop the suffering of others."
Jiraiya looked at the purple eyes, now filled with tears. He looked at the power swirling there—power enough to save the world, or burn it to ash.
The rain hissed as it hit the boy's chakra-charged skin, turning to steam instantly.
I was wrong, Jiraiya realized. Survival isn't enough. Not for this.
"I've changed my mind," Jiraiya said, looking at the three of them. "I will teach you ninjutsu. I will teach you how to use this."
Because if I don't, he thought, a cold premonition settling over him, someone else will.
Tip-tap. Tip-tap.
The sound of rain hitting the canvas roof of the carriage brought him back.
The squeak of the carriage springs—eee-errr—replaced the screams of the past.
Jiraiya sat on the roof, the wood vibrating beneath him as the horses pulled them toward the Land of Rivers.
It was raining harder now. The sky was a bruised charcoal, weeping onto the desert border.
This rain smelled different—dustier, mixed with the sweat of the horses and the damp canvas of the roof.
He put a hand on the wet timber. Below him, he could hear Naruto laughing at something stupid. He could hear Sylvie arguing softly with Ino.
He thought of the day he let Sylvie join the mission to find Tsunade. He thought of how he had looked at her—a civilian-born girl with too much trauma and not enough chakra—and seen a stray.
He rubbed the rough scar tissue under his mesh shirt, an old ache flaring up in the damp weather.
Did I do it again? Jiraiya wondered, the rain running down his face like old tears. Did I pick up another stray because I couldn't save the first ones?
He looked north, toward the rain that never stopped falling in Amegakure.
Am I making the same mistake?
The carriage hit a rut. The laughter below stopped for a second, then resumed, louder than before.
"Maybe," Jiraiya whispered to the storm. "But I have to try."
The rain continued to fall.