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Chapter Text

The air was heavy with the scent of burnt wood and scorched earth as Jiraiya approached the gates of Konoha. His figure loomed tall and steadfast, a warrior steeped in legend, yet there was no mistaking the weariness in his step. His once lustrous, spiky white hair now seemed dulled, its sheen muted beneath the ash-filled skies. He was a shadow of the man who had once laughed too loudly and lived too freely. The crimson haori draped across his shoulders hung heavier than ever, its vibrant hue almost mocking the surrounding desolation. As the famed “Toad Sage,” the world revered him as one of the Three Legendary Sannin, a man who had shaped the tides of countless battles. Yet, for all his renown and for all the strength he had gleaned from his bond with the toads of Mount Myōboku, Jiraiya now felt like a man walking toward judgement, the weight of failure pressing against every breath.

Crossing the threshold into the village, Jiraiya was met by an expanse of ruin that turned his stomach to ice. The village he had called home was now a husk of itself, cloaked in the lingering haze of smoke and ash. Wooden beams, once part of proud homes, jutted out like broken ribs from the earth. The wind whistled mournfully through hollowed-out buildings, carrying with it the acrid stench of destruction. There were tales of the Nine-Tailed Fox – a creature of myth and terror, said to wield tails that could carve mountains and summon tsunamis. But no tale could have prepared anyone for this. The sheer violence of the beast’s attack had ripped the heart out of Konoha, leaving behind a village too wounded to even weep.

Jiraiya’s eyes roamed over the devastation, his heart splintering further with each step. Civilians huddled in clusters beneath hastily constructed tents, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear. Children wailed inconsolably, their cries cutting through the stillness like shards of glass. Some clung to parents who wore the hollowed-out expressions of those grappling with unimaginable loss. Others, orphaned, clung to nothing but blankets and the faint hope of someone’s embrace. Shinobi, battered, but determined, toiled ceaselessly – clearing debris, handing out rations, offering solace where they could. Medical-nin worked with quiet urgency, tending to the wounded and the dying, while others sifted through the rubble, searching for signs of life – or death. It was a grim symphony of survival, and the sight of it left Jiraiya’s throat dry and his chest hollow.

A deep, gnawing guilt settled in Jiraiya’s gut, growing heavier with each passing moment. He had been away – wandering, writing, indulging in pursuits that now felt meaningless. While he penned chapters of frivolity and intrigue, his village had suffered its darkest hour. The news had reached him too late, a letter from his former Sensei, Hiruzen Sarutobi, bearing words that still burned in his memory. Now, faced with the evidence of his absence, he could not escape the crushing weight of his failure. What was the use of being a Legendary Sannin if he could not protect the home he loved? Each face he passed seemed to ask the same silent question, and Jiraiya had no answer.

The letter had arrived a while ago, but its words still felt fresh, as though each line had been etched into Jiraiya’s heart with a burning blade. The Nine-Tails had attacked Konoha. Minato and Kushina were gone. The sentences blurred together, cruel and unrelenting, reducing a lifetime of love, ambition, and brilliance to mere ink on paper. He could still see Hiruzen’s careful handwriting, the shaky strokes betraying the pain of the man who had penned it. Jiraiya had read the letter over and over, hoping, absurdly, that the words would change. But they never did.

His mind drifted back to the first time he met Minato, a bright-eyed boy with golden hair that seemed to capture the sunlight itself and eyes as blue as the cloudless summer sky. There had been a quiet wisdom about him even as a child, a humility and thoughtfulness rare in someone so young. Jiraiya had watched with pride as Minato transformed from a promising Genin into an accomplished Shinobi of unmatched skill, earning renown as “Konoha’s Yellow Flash.” His speed was legendary, his mighty Rasengan striking fear into the hearts of enemies across the world. Yet, for all his power, Minato remained grounded – collected, perceptive, and unfailingly kind.

Jiraiya could still picture the laughter in Minato’s eyes when he spoke of Kushina, the red-haired whirlwind who had captured his heart. He remembered how the two had met as children when Kushina had first arrived from Uzushiogakure, her fiery temper and bright red hair making her an instant target for ridicule. “Red Hot-Blooded Habanero,” they called her, a nickname she wore with defiant pride. She had grown into a woman of warmth and resilience, her sharp wit and fierce loyalty tempered by the wisdom that came with time. Together, they were unstoppable – Minato’s calm brilliance balancing Kushina’s passionate strength.

It felt like yesterday when Minato had confided in him, a rare nervous energy in his voice as he admitted he was going to propose. Jiraiya had laughed, clapping him on the shoulder and teasing him about how Kushina would most likely say yes before he could even finish the question. He had stood proudly at their wedding, watching as they exchanged vows under a sky painted in soft hues of orange and pink. Later, when they told him they were expecting a child – a boy that they planned to name Naruto, after the protagonist of one of Jiraiya’s novels – he had been rendered speechless, a rare occurrence. “We want you to be his Godfather,” Minato had said, and Jiraiya laughed until he cried, pretending it was the sake.

And now they were gone.

Hiruzen’s letter had explained it all, the words stark and clinical in their tragedy. The Nine-Tails had escaped from Kushina during labour, its fury unleashed upon the village. Minato and Kushina had fought valiantly, sacrificing themselves to protect Konoha and their son. Biwako, Hiruzen’s wife, who had been helping Kushina deliver Naruto, had also died during the attack. Jiraiya could scarcely fathom the courage it must have taken, the agony they must have endured. Minato, sealing the beast within his own child, entrusting the future of the village – and the legacy of their love – to a baby who would never know them.

Jiraiya’s chest ached as he thought of Naruto, an infant who would grow up burdened by the weight of a legacy he hadn’t chosen, surrounded by whispers of tragedy he couldn’t yet understand. He thought of Minato’s quiet determination, Kushina’s fierce love, and the life they should have had – the family dinners, the laughter, and the milestones they would never share. He wanted to mourn, to weep openly for his lost student and the woman who had been like a daughter to him, but the mask of a Shinobi held firm. Emotions were a luxury he could not afford.

Still, as Jiraiya walked through the ruins of Konoha, his heart was heavy with grief, a private storm he would carry alone. The boy who bore Minato and Kushina’s blood would one day need him, and he vowed silently to honour their memory by standing beside Naruto. But, for now, he let the pain linger, an unspoken testament to the lives they had lived and the love they had left behind.

Chapter Text

The makeshift hospital tent was awash with the muffled sounds of suffering – groans of pain, quiet sobs, and the urgent murmurs of Medical Shinobi tending to the wounded. As Jiraiya approached, the tent flap fluttered open, and Saruko Sarutobi stepped out, her face bathed in the pale light of the waning afternoon. She moved with a calm precision that belied the surrounding chaos, though the exhaustion in her eyes was unmistakable. Petite and lithe, she was a striking mix of her parents: her skin bore the warm complexion of Hiruzen in his youth, but the light freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks were pure Biwako. Her deep brown hair, tied high in a ponytail, swayed slightly as she adjusted the medical pouch slung over her shoulder. Her almond-shaped eyes, sharp and observant, glimmered with a weariness far too heavy for her young age. Saruko radiated an unspoken strength, tempered by the compassion she had inherited from her mother and the strategic brilliance of her father.

Jiraiya froze for a moment, caught between the impulse to approach and the urge to turn away. It had been so long since he had last seen Saruko – not since before the attack – and guilt knotted his stomach. What could he say to her, the youngest child of his old Sensei, a girl who had spent days healing the wounds he could not be there to prevent? As if sensing his presence, she turned, her dark eyes locking onto him. “Ah, Saruko,” he said awkwardly, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s been… Too long.” He scratched the back of his head, his usual bravado faltering under the weight of the moment. She stood still, studying him with an unreadable expression. Jiraiya braced himself, half-expecting anger, but before he could say another word, her face softened, and she crossed the distance between them in two quick strides.

“Uncle Jiraiya!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug that caught him off guard. The warmth of her embrace melted the ice of his apprehension, and he let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. “You’re alive,” she murmured against his shoulder, her voice trembling just slightly, and Jiraiya felt his throat tighten. They were not related by blood, but her use of the title struck a chord deep within him. It carried with it years of shared history, a bond forged through time and trust. He swallowed hard and returned the embrace, his large hands resting gently on her shoulders. For the first time since his return to Konoha, the suffocating guilt eased, if only for a moment.

Jiraiya released Saruko from the embrace, but his hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment longer, as if anchoring her to the present amid the ruins of their shared grief. Her eyes met his briefly before flickering away, her gaze settling somewhere over his shoulder. He noticed the faint redness around the edges, a telltale sign of sleepless nights or tears shed in solitude. Still, her expression was composed, her mouth set in a resolute line. It struck him how much she resembled Hiruzen at that moment – steady as a mountain, even when the earth trembled beneath her feet.

“How are you holding up, kiddo?” Jiraiya asked, his voice low and warm, tinged with the unspoken worry he did not know how to voice.

“I’m fine,” Saruko replied briskly, her tone practiced, almost rehearsed. She crossed her arms over her chest, more out of habit than defiance, and looked past him toward the tents where the injured were being treated. “I’ve been helping heal the survivors – there’s a lot of them. Asuma’s been working with the other Shinobi to clear debris, find supplies, and…” Her voice faltered slightly, but she caught herself. “And my father’s back to doing what he does best. Talking politics with the Elders, strategising, trying to keep everyone from losing their heads.”

Jiraiya chuckled softly; the sound was rough around the edges but genuine. “Politics, eh? I thought the old man was supposed to be enjoying his retirement. He’s earned the right to kick back with his pipe and scrolls, hasn’t he?”

A faint smile ghosted across Saruko’s lips, though it did not reach her eyes. “You know him. He would never sit still while the village is in chaos. He says it keeps him sharp.”

Jiraiya nodded, but his gaze lingered on her a moment too long. The way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way she clasped her hands together to steady the tremor in her fingers – it all painted a picture she was not willing to share aloud. She was tired, worn thin by the weight of the past days, her spirit dimmed but not extinguished. It pained him to see her like this, her usual spark dulled, her mischievous energy replaced by something quieter and heavier. But he did not press. Saruko had always been fiercely proud, and the last thing he wanted was to make her feel exposed.

Instead, he softened his voice. “You’re doing a lot, Saruko. More than most could manage.”

She shrugged, her fingers tightening briefly around the strap of her medical pouch. “Someone has to,” she said simply, the words carrying a strength that made his chest ache.

“Well, don’t forget to take care of yourself, too,” Jiraiya said, his tone light but laced with sincerity. “Even heroes need a break.”

Saruko smiled again, this time a little brighter, though the tiredness in her eyes remained. “I’ll try, Uncle Jiraiya. But we both know that’s easier said than done.”

He didn’t argue, couldn’t argue. Instead, he reached out, ruffling her hair in the same way he had when she was a child, and she swatted his hand away with an exasperated laugh that felt like a balm to his weary soul. For a moment, amid the ashes and ruin, there was something resembling normalcy – a fleeting but precious reminder of the bonds that held them together, even in the darkest of times.

“It’s noble, what you’re doing, you know?” he said, his voice warm with pride. “Healing the injured, keeping people on their feet. You’ve grown into a fine Shinobi, Saruko. You should be proud of yourself. I know I am.”

Saruko’s lips curled into a small, almost shy smile, a flicker of light breaking through the shadow on her face. “I just want to help,” she said softly, her voice steady but humble. “Like my mother does.” She paused for half a heartbeat, and Jiraiya watched as her expression faltered, her smile slipping away like sunlight through a crack in a storm cloud. Her dark eyes clouded with something heavy and painful as she corrected herself, her voice quieter now, raw. “Did. Like my mother did, I mean.”

The weight of that single word hung between them, a ghost that neither could ignore. Jiraiya felt the ache in his chest deepen, but he kept his expression gentle, offering her a quiet moment to collect herself. He shifted his weight slightly, his tone laced with careful reverence. “I’m so sorry, Saruko,” he said, his voice dipping into a register reserved for truths too heavy to carry alone. “Your mother was an incredible woman. Strong, kind, fierce – she cared about this village and the people in it more than anyone I have ever met. It’s a loss we’ll all feel for a long time.”

Saruko didn’t meet his eyes right away, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder. For a moment, it seemed like she might retreat into silence, but then she let out a quiet sigh, the sound carrying a weight beyond her fifteen years. “I’m fine,” she replied, though the words came out too quickly, too rehearsed. She pressed her lips together, as though trying to convince herself of the truth in them before continuing. “I’m just… Getting through it. There’s too much to do, too many people who need help, to dwell on it for too long.”

Jiraiya nodded slowly, giving her the space to say as much or as little as she wanted. He could see the strain in the way she held herself, a young girl forced to carry the burdens of adulthood far too soon. Yet, in her resolve, he also saw a glimmer of the strength that had defined her mother and the wisdom that ran deep in her father. He wanted to say something more, to tell her it was okay to grieve, to break, to be human – but he also knew that the timing had to be hers.

“You have a heart like your mother’s,” he said instead, his tone filled with quiet admiration. “And I know that heart is going to get you through this, no matter how hard it feels right now.”

Saruko glanced up at him, her lips parting as if to respond, but then she simply nodded, her expression softening just slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Jiraiya to know that his words had landed, a small comfort amidst the turmoil. For now, it was all he could offer.

After a moment of silence, Saruko shifted her weight, her arms folding loosely in front of her as she met Jiraiya’s gaze with quiet sympathy. “I’m sorry, too… About Minato and Kushina,” she said, her voice gentle but steady. “They were… They were incredible people. It’s hard to believe they’re gone.”

Jiraiya felt the ache in his chest deepen, the familiar sting of grief rising like a tide. The mention of their names brought a bittersweet image to mind: Minato’s bright, unyielding determination paired with Kushina’s fiery spirit, two halves of a whole that the world could never truly replace. He swallowed hard but managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Saruko. That means a lot. They were… They were like family to me.” His voice caught slightly, but he steadied himself, unwilling to let the moment linger in sorrow.

Saruko gave him a faint smile, then glanced over her shoulder toward the tents. “I should get back to work. My break is about over, and some people need help.”

“I get it,” Jiraiya replied, stepping back to give her room. He gestured vaguely toward the village with one hand. “Before you go, where’s your old man? I should probably track him down.”

She pointed to a cluster of tents near the centre of the makeshift camp. “He should be in there with the Elders. Talking strategy or chewing them out – it’s hard to tell these days.”

Jiraiya chuckled, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “And what about Asuma? Any idea where he is?”

Saruko tilted her head, a mischievous glint briefly lighting her tired eyes. “He should be somewhere clearing the debris. Or…” she smirked and wiggled her eyebrows slightly, “He might be sneaking around with his secret girlfriend.”

Jiraiya raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a grin. “Secret girlfriend, huh? Who’s the lucky lady?”

Saruko giggled, a sound that was almost musical in its lightness. “Another Shinobi. They think they’re being subtle, but honestly, everyone knows. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

“Well, I’ll have to keep that in mind,” Jiraiya said with a laugh. “Thanks for the heads-up, Saruko. And thanks for… You know. Talking.” He gave her a small nod of appreciation, the warmth in his gaze unmistakable.

She nodded back, her smile a touch more genuine now. “Anytime, Uncle Jiraiya. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too, kiddo,” he replied, stepping aside as she made her way back toward the tent. He watched as she disappeared inside, her ponytail swaying behind her, before turning toward the cluster of tents Saruko had pointed out.

The path ahead was marked by ash and ruin, but as Jiraiya walked, he felt a faint glimmer of something like hope — fragile, but present. Saruko’s strength and resilience reminded him of the indomitable will that bound the people of Konoha together. For now, that was enough to keep him moving forward.

Chapter Text

Jiraiya’s sandals crunched against the ash-strewn ground as he made his way toward the tent Saruko had pointed out, the faded canvas fluttering in the breeze like the ragged edge of an old memory. Each step felt heavier than the last, his nerves twisting in his gut like restless serpents. The air smelled of soot and damp earth, but the acrid bite of guilt lingered beneath that, a weight pressing down on his chest. He could already see Hiruzen’s weathered face in his mind, stern yet patient, a gaze that had once seemed invincible but now carried the grief of a lifetime. How could he stand before his old Sensei – this man who had been more of a father to him than his own – and offer nothing but his absence when the village had burned? The thought made his throat tighten. He had been the wayward student, chasing dreams and distractions while Hiruzen had borne the weight of Konoha’s tragedy. What right did he have to face the man who had taught him everything and shaped him into the Shinobi he was supposed to be? Each step closer felt like a trial, his apprehension an invisible chain pulling him back, but Jiraiya forced himself onward, driven by the faint hope that maybe – just maybe – he could still make amends.

Jiraiya stood outside the entrance to the tent, the flaps swaying in the breeze, revealing fleeting glimpses of the dimly lit interior. His heart thudded heavily in his chest; each beat was a reminder of the confrontation he dreaded. He ran a hand through his spiky white hair, his palm brushing against the forehead projector etched with the kanji for “oil.” It felt out of place here, an artefact from a time when his burdens were lighter and his purpose clearer. He shifted his weight, his sandals grinding against the dirt, and tried to summon the courage to push aside the canvas and step inside. But the memories of Hiruzen’s patient teachings and the laughter they had shared felt like a thousand lifetimes ago, and his guilt loomed like a spectre, whispering that he did not deserve to stand before the man he had failed to support in Konoha’s darkest hour.

Finally, after a breath that seemed to stretch on forever, Jiraiya pushed the flaps aside and stepped into the tent. His eyes immediately swept across the four figures seated around a small, makeshift table, the dim light casting deep shadows across their faces. Hiruzen was unmistakable, his once-proud stature now diminished by the weight of years, yet still emanating an air of wisdom and authority. His Hokage robes, stark red against the muted interior, were a surprise – Jiraiya’s mind flicked to Saruko’s words, piecing together the likelihood that Hiruzen had taken up the mantle again. The realisation struck him with a pang of sorrow; even in retirement, the burdens of the village had refused to leave the old man in peace.

Beside him sat Homura, his ever-present frown etched into his lined face, the harsh set of his jaw a testament to his unyielding nature. The glint of his glasses caught the lantern’s flickering light as he nodded curtly in acknowledgement of Jiraiya’s presence. Koharu, meanwhile, sat rigid, her posture as stern as her squinting gaze, twin buns held in place with a hairpin that seemed older than the war-torn village itself. Her kimono was immaculate as if to defy the chaos outside, but the deep creases of age were evident in her brow and hands. And then there was Danzō – frail, hunched, and cold as ever, his face partially obscured by the bandages over his right eye. Jiraiya’s stomach tightened. He had never trusted Danzō; something about the man’s quiet, calculating demeanour felt less like wisdom and more like manipulation, as though he were always concealing a darker intent beneath his calm façade.

“Ah, sorry to bother you all,” Jiraiya said, his voice softer than usual, a rare uncertainty threading through his tone. He scratched the back of his head, his usual carefree gesture now laced with unease. “If this is a bad time, I can always come back later.”

Hiruzen’s gaze lifted to meet his, and though the years had worn deep groves into the old man’s face, the warmth in his eyes had not faded. He smiled gently, his voice steady but tinged with fatigue. “Nonsense, Jiraiya. You’re not disturbing us. Our discussion was just wrapping up.”

Jiraiya hesitated, glancing once more at the other Elders, their expressions a mixture of reserved acknowledgement and muted curiosity. He stepped further into the tent, bowing his head slightly in respect before addressing Hiruzen directly, his eyes flickering briefly to the Hokage robes. “You’re looking as busy as ever, Sensei,” he murmured, his tone caught between admiration and regret. “I see retirement didn’t quite stick.”

The faintest glimmer of amusement crossed Hiruzen’s features, but he said nothing, gesturing for Jiraiya to sit if he wished. As Jiraiya lowered himself onto a spare cushion, his gaze lingered on the worn faces before him, feeling as though he had stepped into a room of ghosts – not of people, but of the burdens they had carried for decades.

Homura rose first, the sharp rustle of his robes breaking the momentary silence that had settled after Hiruzen’s words. He adjusted his glasses with a deliberate motion, his frown deepening as he gave Hiruzen a brief nod. “We’ll continue this discussion later,” he said, his voice clipped, each syllable weighted with an urgency that refused to bend even in the face of tragedy. Without sparing Jiraiya a second glance, he stepped toward the tent’s exit, his stiff posture a testament to the iron discipline that had shaped his life.

Koharu followed, her movements deliberate and composed as if each step was part of a calculated ritual. Her eyes, barely open as always, swept over Jiraiya with a flicker of distant recognition before turning to Hiruzen. “Don’t linger too long, Hiruzen,” she murmured, her tone softer than usual but still laced with the sharp authority of a woman who had weathered decades of village strife. She paused at the entrance, pulling her shawl tighter around her, as if warding off the creeping chill of loss, and disappeared into the fading daylight.

Danzō lingered, his cane tapping softly against the ground as he rose. His expression was unreadable, but his single exposed eye bore into Hiruzen with a pointed intensity that hung in the air like an unspoken challenge. The corners of his lips twitched, perhaps at the words he chose not to say, before he turned his gaze to Jiraiya. For a moment, their eyes locked, Jiraiya’s filled with thinly veiled scepticism and Danzō’s with an inscrutable calm that only deepened Jiraiya’s mistrust. The air between them felt taut, as though laden with an invisible weight neither could place. Then, without a word, Danzō turned and shuffled out of the tent, his figure dissolving into the dusk.

Hiruzen watched them leave, his expression unchanged until the tent flaps finally stilled. With a heavy sigh, he turned to Jiraiya, gesturing toward a simple teapot resting on a low table near the centre of the tent. “Tea?” he offered, his voice warm but lacking the effortless cheer that once accompanied his hospitality. He began pouring a cup before Jiraiya could answer, his hands steady but unhurried, a reflection of the patience he had always carried like a second skin.

Jiraiya nodded, murmuring his thanks as he accepted the tea. The warmth of the cup seeped into his palms, grounding him momentarily, but his eyes lingered on Hiruzen. There was something achingly familiar in the man’s demeanour – his gentle tone, his thoughtful movements – but it was undercut by a quiet sorrow that even Hiruzen could not fully mask. Jiraiya recognised it immediately; it mirrored the weariness he had seen in Saruko’s bloodshot eyes. Hiruzen’s grief, though carefully contained, hung around him like a shadow, slipping into the pauses in his words and the faint downward tilt of his mouth.

“You’re still the same, Sensei,” Jiraiya said softly, a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood. “Tea first, no matter what storm is raging outside.” But the humour in his voice was fleeting, unable to withstand the reality of the losses Hiruzen bore – his wife, his village, his fleeting reprieve from duty.

Hiruzen met his gaze with a faint, tired smile. “Some rituals are worth preserving,” he replied, his tone measured though it lacked the warmth it once carried. He took a sip of his tea, his eyes distant for a moment, before setting the cup down and focussing on Jiraiya. “Now, tell me,” he said, his voice regaining a hint of its familiar steadiness. “What brings you back to the village, my wayward student?”

Jiraiya cradled the warm tea in his hands, staring into its swirling amber depths as though they might hold the words he struggled to summon. The silence in the tent stretched taut, filled only by the soft rustle of fabric as the wind nudged at its edges. Finally, he lifted his eyes to Hiruzen, and his voice emerged low and unsteady, weighed down by the grief that churned within him.

“I should have been here,” Jiraiya began, the words spilling out like a confession too long withheld. “I should’ve been here when the Nine-Tails attacked, Sensei. I should have stood alongside Minato, Kushina – alongside everyone. I was... Out there chasing my whims, drafting those damn novels, while they...” He trailed off, his voice cracking under the weight of the unspoken. He clenched the teacup tighter, his knuckles whitening as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “I let you down. I let them down. And for that, I’m so sorry.”

He looked up at Hiruzen, his throat tightening as he ventured further. “And Biwako... I heard about what happened. I’m so sorry, Sensei. She was an incredible woman. Strong. Wise. She... She didn’t deserve – none of them did.” His words faltered, and his eyes threatened to betray him, shimmering with the emotions a Shinobi was trained to suppress. He lowered his gaze, ashamed not only of his absence but of the visible cracks in his façade.

Hiruzen regarded Jiraiya in silence for a long moment, the lines of his face deepening as he absorbed the apology. His hands, steady despite their age, rested on the table beside his untouched tea. Finally, he exhaled, a sound heavy with weariness but not reproach. “Jiraiya,” he began, his voice carrying the tempered calm of a man who had seen more loss than most could fathom. “You were not here, that is true. But the guilt you carry... It serves no one, least of all yourself." His words were deliberate, chosen with the precision of an expert teacher, but tinged with a sadness that belied his outward composure.

“Biwako...” He paused, his lips pressing together for a moment before he continued. “Biwako was a light in this village and in my life. Her loss is immeasurable, as is the loss of Minato and Kushina. But, Jiraiya, grief does not demand that we carry blame. You are no more at fault for this tragedy than the wind is for fanning a wildfire. We do what we can, with the time and the strength we are given.”
Hiruzen leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes meeting Jiraiya’s with a steadiness that seemed to anchor the very air between them. “You have always followed your own path, Jiraiya. It is what makes you who you are. And while your absence was felt, your return matters now. What you do from this moment forward matters. So do not linger in the past, my student. The future is where your strength is needed.”

His words, though calm, carried the weight of conviction, the kind of wisdom forged in the crucible of loss and tempered by a lifetime of leadership.

The tea steamed quietly between them, a fragile warmth against the pervasive chill of the grief-laden air. Jiraiya sipped absently, his eyes drifting once again to Hiruzen’s Hokage uniform, the red and white of the haori stark against the weathered lines of his former sensei’s face. The sight filled Jiraiya with an unspoken unease, like seeing a sword unsheathed too soon after battle.

Hiruzen followed his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips – a shadow of his former self. “You’ve noticed,” he said, voice quiet but steady. He set down his cup with deliberate care and met Jiraiya’s questioning look. “The Elders have asked me to resume my role as Hokage.”

The words struck Jiraiya like a physical blow, an invisible weight settling on his shoulders. He leaned back slightly, his brow furrowing as he processed what he had just heard. “You’re kidding,” he muttered, though he knew Hiruzen did not jest about matters like this. “They can’t expect you to... I mean, after everything—” His words stumbled, his emotions tangling in his throat. He gestured vaguely toward the haori. “It’s not fair, Sensei. You deserve time to mourn, to be with Saruko and Asuma, not... Not this.”

Hiruzen’s face softened, but the resolve in his eyes remained unyielding. “The village is vulnerable, Jiraiya. Leadership must be decisive in times like these. There is no room for uncertainty.”

Jiraiya leaned forward, setting his tea down with a sharp clink. “And what about you? You’re human, damn it, not some kind of immortal pillar they can prop up every time things go south. You’ve given them decades of your life already, and now they want more?” His voice rose slightly, the frustration he had been holding back spilling into his tone. “What about Fugaku Uchiha? Hiashi Hyūga? They’re strong, capable leaders. Why not one of them, huh?”

Hiruzen sighed, the sound carrying the weight of countless tough decisions. “Hiashi has made it clear that his priority is the Hyūga clan. He has no interest in the Hokage seat.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the entrance of the tent before returning to Jiraiya. “As for Fugaku... Danzō advised Homura and Koharu against it. He argued that appointing an Uchiha could sow division at a time when the village needs unity.”

Jiraiya’s jaw tightened. “Danzō,” he muttered, the name a curse under his breath. “Of course he did.”

Hiruzen offered a faint nod, his expression unreadable. “That left me,” he said simply, as if the choice were as inevitable as the turning of the seasons. “The village needs stability, Jiraiya. And for now, that means me.”

Jiraiya shook his head, his hands curling into fists. “It’s not right, Sensei. You shouldn’t have to carry this burden again. Not after all you’ve already sacrificed.”

Hiruzen reached out, placing a steadying hand on Jiraiya’s forearm. “Sacrifice is the price of leadership,” he said softly, his voice as resolute as the mountains surrounding the village. “And if it means protecting the next generation, including Saruko and Asuma, then it is a price I am willing to pay.”

Jiraiya looked at his teacher, his mentor, his father figure, and for a moment, he saw not the venerable Hokage but a man – an old man, tired and grieving yet unyielding in his commitment to the village he loved.

Jiraiya’s gaze dropped to his hands, the calloused fingers curling slightly against his knees. He had spent his life navigating battles, crafting Jutsu, and walking paths far from the people who mattered most to him, but now – now he felt unmoored. Hiruzen’s steady voice pulled him back to the present, grounding him in the weight of their shared grief.

“Naruto,” Jiraiya murmured, the name carrying an ache that settled in his chest. “What about Naruto? Where is he now?”

Hiruzen sighed, his expression a complicated mixture of sorrow and determination. “In one of the medical tents. He is being looked after by the best medics we have. He survived the ordeal, Jiraiya – he’s strong, just like his parents.”

Jiraiya swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the tea. “Minato and Kushina... They gave everything for him, didn’t they?”

Hiruzen nodded, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “Minato’s last words to me were a request – a plea. He asked that the village see Naruto as a hero. Not as the container of the Nine-Tails, but as the child who saved us all from complete annihilation.”

Jiraiya’s chest tightened, anger and sorrow warring within him. “Minato... That idiot. He always carried the weight of the world like it was his alone to bear.” He shook his head, his voice quieter now. “And he trusted this village to understand. But you and I both know how people think, Sensei. The village sees what it wants to see, not what it should.”

Hiruzen’s face darkened, his eyes clouding with regret. “I promised him I would do my best to protect Naruto. But now... With the Elders pressing me to return as Hokage, I fear I won’t be able to fulfil that promise.”

Jiraiya blinked, surprise flashing in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

The older man exhaled, the sound carrying the weight of countless years of responsibility. “Being Hokage is all-consuming, Jiraiya. Every decision, every moment, belongs to the village. I will not have time to be the kind of figure Naruto needs – a guardian who can love him, guide him, and make him feel wanted. And having servants tend to him... It is not the same. A child needs more than duty to thrive.”

Jiraiya’s hands gripped his knees, his knuckles whitening as Hiruzen’s words settled over him like a storm cloud. The boy – their boy – was at risk of growing up without the warmth and love that had been stolen from him in one devastating night. “Naruto deserves better,” Jiraiya said, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. “Minato and Kushina didn’t sacrifice themselves for him to grow up feeling like a burden.”

Hiruzen looked at him then, his gaze steady but sorrowful, as though searching Jiraiya’s face for something unsaid. “I know,” he said quietly, the words heavy with meaning. “That’s something I wanted to speak with you about.”