"I said I'm not here for you. I didn't say I'd let a Sannin walk through my territory." A pause. "Professional considerations."
"Shit. Those are my favorite kind."
Kenta and Sora. Two hundred meters, still moving. Need more time.
His hands blurred through seals. Older work than jutsu. Ink and intent. A barrier array bloomed across the ground between them, reactive seals designed to absorb and redirect chakra-based attacks.
Gashira's next beam hit the barrier.
The seal array ate it. For almost a full second, the Storm Release energy churned against the containment matrix, looking for a way through—
Then the barrier shattered. The energy had been too much, too fast, the seals burning out in sequence like fuses on a bomb. But it had bought time. A few precious seconds.
"Fuinjutsu." Gashira actually paused, reassessing. "You're full of surprises."
"I'm a man of many talents."
Jiraiya was already moving, slapping explosive tags onto the ground in a pattern that looked random but wasn't. Three. Five. Eight. A constellation of potential violence.
Toad Oil Bullet. He spat a stream of flammable oil across the tagged area, then triggered the array.
The explosion was massive. Fire and force and shrapnel, all directed inward toward Gashira's position. A trap that would kill most jonin outright.
Gashira came through it.
Damaged, though.
His left arm hung at a bad angle, dislocated, maybe broken. Burns scored his flak jacket where the fire had found gaps in his guard. Blood ran from a cut above his eye where shrapnel had gotten through.
Finally. Something that hurts.
"Impressive." Gashira rolled his shoulder, and something popped back into place with a wet sound. His expression didn't change. "That would have killed most."
"Guess I should've tried harder."
Kenta and Sora. Four hundred meters. Into the trees.
Needle Jizo. His hair hardened into defensive spikes, wrapping around his body like armor. The next beam hit, dissipated against the hardened strands. The hair burned away where it touched, but the technique held.
"Hair-based defense. The conductivity interferes with the tracking." Gashira flexed his injured arm, testing it. "Interesting."
"Trade secret." Jiraiya was already moving, using the momentary respite to close distance. If he could get inside the beam range, force a taijutsu exchange— "Your uncle never figured it out."
"My uncle talked too much."
"Runs in the family, apparently."
Gashira's next beam came faster, more focused. It punched through the hair armor like it wasn't there, the tracking adjustment taking less than a second.
Shit. He adapts fast.
The beam caught Jiraiya's flak jacket at the side. The material melted on contact, and the flesh beneath—
He kept moving. Pain was data. The wound was manageable. Still operational.
Shadow Clone Jutsu. Three copies burst into existence, all moving in different directions, all bleeding from the same wound. Gashira's eyes tracked between them and picked him inside half a breath.
Two clones dispelled from deflected shots. The third beam curved around them to hit Jiraiya in the thigh.
Not the technique. The man reading it.
He dropped to one knee. Leg wound. Bad, but not crippling.
Another seal array. This one a binding matrix, slapped directly onto the ground at Gashira's feet. Chains of chakra erupted upward, wrapping around the Kumo commander's ankles, his knees, his waist—
Storm Release pulsed outward. The chains shattered.
But for one moment, half a second maybe, Gashira had been still.
Jiraiya's kick caught him in the ribs.
The Yotsuki flew backward, actually moved by the impact, and Jiraiya saw something shift in those calm eyes. An acknowledgment. Whatever came next wouldn't be free.
Good. Make him earn it.
Gashira landed in a crouch, one hand pressed against his ribs. When he straightened, his breathing was slightly off. Hairline fracture, maybe. Or just bruising deep enough to matter.
"You're good at this." The words came out measured, controlled. "The stalling. Most people panic when they realize they can't win."
"Had practice." Jiraiya pushed himself up, favoring the wounded leg. "Lot of fights I shouldn't have survived."
"How many of those were against me?"
Zero. That's the problem.
Six hundred meters. They're almost clear.
Swamp of the Underworld. The ground beneath Gashira turned to sucking mud, trying to drag him down, restrict his movement—
He jumped. Of course he jumped. The technique was visible, predictable, and Gashira had seen it coming from the first hand seal. He landed on solid ground outside the swamp's range, already raising his palm for another beam.
Running out of tricks.
Jiraiya met his eyes. Calculated. Eight hundred meters. They're clear. Or close enough that Gashira would have to break off to finish them.
"You've been buying time." Gashira said it like an observation, not an accusation. "Your teammates."
"That's the job."
"Yes." Something that might have been respect flickered across the Kumo commander's face. Blood still dripped from the cut above his eye. "It is."
The next exchange was brutal.
Jiraiya summoned a toad. Small, fast, meant for distraction rather than combat. The creature spat oil at Gashira's eyes while Jiraiya circled left, pressing toward the injured ribs, looking for the angle where that arm wouldn't respond fast enough—
Storm Release flash-boiled the oil and caught the toad in the same motion. The summon dispelled with a croak of surprise.
Sorry, Gamashiro.
But the distraction worked. Jiraiya was inside the beam range now, too close for the homing to track effectively, and his fist connected with Gashira's jaw hard enough to snap the man's head sideways.
The counter came instantly. An elbow to Jiraiya's burned side, precisely targeted, and the pain whited out his vision for half a second.
When he could see again, Gashira had created distance. Ten meters. Beam range.
"Enough."
The Kumo commander wiped blood from his lip. His injured arm hung slightly lower than before. His breathing was labored. Bleeding now. Slower than he'd been a minute ago.
Still standing.
"Your form is degrading." Gashira's voice was clinical despite his own wounds. "Blood loss. Cumulative damage. Two more exchanges, maybe three, before your reactions slow enough for a kill shot."
"That an offer to stop?"
"An observation."
Jiraiya laughed. It came out ragged, wet. Blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten his tongue.
"Wasn't trying to win. Just needed to not lose long enough."
Gashira's eyes flickered toward the tree line. Toward the retreating signatures that were now beyond easy pursuit range.
"Then you've succeeded." Understanding. "Small victories."
"The best kind."
For a moment, they stood there. Both bleeding. Both still standing. Two professionals who understood the stakes of sacrifice and survival.
Then Gashira raised his palm again, and Jiraiya saw where he was aiming.
Past him.
The beam was tracking toward Sora's signature. She'd paused at the tree line, looking back, hadn't quite made it to cover.
No.
Jiraiya moved without thinking. Without calculating. His body put itself between the beam and his subordinate. Reflex. He'd made this choice a thousand times and his body remembered the shape of it.
The world went white.
Center mass.
Storm Release didn't just burn. It disrupted. He could feel his chakra coils screaming, the network destabilizing under the assault, something fundamental being torn apart inside him.
When the white faded, he was on the ground. Couldn't remember falling. Burns across his chest, circular patterns that looked almost like art. The sky above was very blue.
Gashira's footsteps approached. Calm. Unhurried. Moving in to finish what he'd started.
Reverse summon. Now.
His hand found the tattoo on his forearm, the toad contract seal, emergency protocol. He shoved chakra into it, felt the familiar pull of Mount Myoboku reaching back.
The pull stuttered. His chakra network was too damaged, pathways too disrupted. The summoning matrix couldn't get a clean grip.
Come on. Come ON—
Gashira raised his palm. Point-blank range. "You fought well."
The toads pulled harder.
Not enough for Myoboku. But maybe—
Jiraiya shoved everything he had left into the seal. The transit failed. The matrix couldn't hold that much. But the displacement caught. A short-range spatial skip.
Anywhere but here.
The world twisted sideways just as Storm Release lit up the space where his head had been.
When reality reassembled, he was somewhere else. Forest floor. Different trees. Maybe half a kilometer from where he'd fallen. Close enough that his shattered network could manage the transit, far enough that tracking him wasn't worth Gashira's time. Not with Kumo's mobilization demanding attention.
Good enough.
The sky was still very blue. His chest was still very burned. His chakra network felt like someone had taken a hammer to a spiderweb.
The intel. Have to get the intel back. That's what matters.
Minato's going to be upset, he does that when I almost die.
Should probably stop doing that.
The darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, warm and insistent. Distantly, he heard footsteps. Familiar signatures tracking toward his new position. Kenta and Sora, following whatever trail he'd left. Good kids. Stubborn kids.
That's the job.
---
The search patterns thinned after six hours.
Tatsuya felt it through his sensing range. Pursuit signatures pulling back, consolidating, eventually withdrawing entirely. Whatever had accelerated the staging area's mobilization was apparently more important than hunting three escaped infiltrators.
"Clear." He kept his voice low despite the apparent safety. "Surface signatures are minimal. We can move."
They emerged cautiously, blinking against the daylight after hours in total darkness. The sun had moved past noon, casting long shadows across the rocky terrain. The world looked the same as before. Gray stone, gray sky, sparse vegetation. Something had shifted while they were underground.
Minato felt it too. "Something's wrong."
"Jiraiya-sama." Tatsuya had been tracking the math since they'd split. Six hours underground. Rally point eighteen hours from separation. They were cutting it close.
They moved toward the rally point, staying low, using terrain for cover. Tatsuya's sensing range swept continuously, but the landscape seemed almost empty, like the pursuit had been called off for reasons that had nothing to do with them.
That worried him more than continued hunting would have.
Two kilometers from the rally point, Tatsuya felt them.
"Four signatures." He kept his voice low, hand moving to his chokuto. "Closing from the northwest. Picked up our trail from the caves."
Minato's hand was already on his kunai pouch. "Distance?"
"One-fifty. Closing fast." Tatsuya drew the blade, the familiar weight settling into his grip. "They're faster than us. We won't outrun them."
"Ambush?" Takeshi's head was cocked, listening to something beyond normal hearing. "Use the terrain?"
The rocky outcroppings offered decent cover. A narrow defile ahead would funnel movement. Not ideal, but better than being run down in the open.
"There." Tatsuya pointed to a cluster of boulders that created a natural choke point. "Takeshi, you're high. Use your hearing to track them before they see us. Minato, you're our speed advantage. I'll anchor center and cut off retreat once they're committed."
Thirty seconds to set up. It would have to be enough.
The Kumo squad came through the rocks at pursuit pace. Four of them, standard hunter-nin configuration. Squad leader in front with a blade crackling lightning along its edge, two flankers spread wide, one hanging back with hands already positioned for seals. They moved like a unit that had hunted together before.