Chapter 370: The Truth of the Rain
Jiraiya muttered under his breath, the syllables barely a whisper against the wind.
But Uchiha Akira was not an ordinary man. Elevated by Six Paths-level senses, his hearing could pick out the scuffle of insects warring in the dirt miles away. A mere whisper stood no chance of escaping him.
The atmosphere grew heavy, thick with sudden tension. Akira tilted his head, a dark, mocking amusement dancing in his crimson eyes.
"What is it?" Akira asked, his tone deceptively light. "Tsunade is with me, and it makes you uncomfortable?"
The color drained from Jiraiya's weathered face. He threw his hands up, shaking his head so fast his white hair whipped back and forth.
"No, no, no! Absolutely not!" he stammered, a bead of cold sweat tracing down his temple. "My relationship with Tsunade... that is purely battlefield camaraderie! Really!"
He swallowed hard. Admitting any lingering jealousy to a ruthless maniac like Akira was a death wish.
Akira waved a hand, dismissing the pathetic display. "There is no need to explain. Actually, you have never been Tsunade's type."
The words struck like a kunai buried straight into the Toad Sage's chest. Jiraiya opened his mouth, a retort dying on his tongue before it could even form. He stood there, jaw slack, entirely devoid of a comeback.
Akira stepped forward, his presence suffocating. "I understand that woman far better than you ever did. Tsunade has endured too much loss. She built a shell of pure iron to protect herself from the world."
Akira raised his right hand, slowly closing his fingers into a crushing fist.
"Gentleness? Flattery? Standing by quietly in the shadows? That is the behavior of a pathetic sycophant." His voice dropped, cold and absolute. "If you want to conquer a woman like her, you must be stronger, more ruthless, and far more domineering than she is. You must crush her pride underfoot, tear apart her fragile facade, and forcefully invade her world until she has no choice but to rely on you."
Akira cast a sideways glance at the stunned Sannin, a cruel smirk curving his lips.
"It is obvious. You could never do it. You are far too soft, Jiraiya."
Jiraiya stared blankly at the Uchiha patriarch. The words were harsh, grating against his pride, yet they rang with a brutal honesty. He could not deny it. He lacked Akira's overwhelming dominance, his sheer, terrifying audacity.
A long, heavy sigh escaped Jiraiya's lips, carrying with it decades of unspoken regret. The lines on his face seemed to deepen, aging him several years in a matter of seconds.
"Forget it," he muttered, forcing a bitter, self-deprecating smile. He waved his hand dismissively. "Let us drop the subject. Losing to you... I suppose it is not entirely unfair."
'At least,'Jiraiya thought bitterly,'Tsunade does not seem to hate her current situation.'
In truth, the fiery blonde possessed far more vitality now than she ever did during her long, miserable years of drowning her sorrows in cheap alcohol and endless gambling debts.
Slapping the dust from his knees, Jiraiya pushed himself up. The fog of melancholy slowly cleared from his dark eyes, replaced by the sharp instincts of a veteran shinobi.
"Tell me," he demanded, his tone shifting. "You did not travel all this way just to crush the spirit of a lonely old man. What do you need me for?"
Akira's lips curled into a faint, approving smirk. "At least you still have some sense left in that thick skull." He turned on his heel, his dark robes billowing as he strode toward the exit. "Come with me."
Jiraiya hurried to keep pace, his brow furrowing in suspicion. "Where exactly are we going?"
"The Land of Rain," Akira replied, his voice drifting back over his shoulder. "I am taking you to see an old friend."
Jiraiya choked on the words, his boots skidding to a halt.
An old friend? In the perpetually weeping borders of the Land of Rain, the list of people Jiraiya could call an acquaintance, let alone a friend, was painfully short. Aside from the man hailed as the Demigod, he could not think of a single living soul.
It was Hanzou of the Salamander who had bestowed the legendary title of the Sannin upon him, Tsunade, and Orochimaru during the Second Shinobi World War. They were bitter enemies, yes, but they shared a history forged in blood and steel.
"Hanzou?" Jiraiya frowned, a scoff escaping his throat. "That paranoid old bastard is not dead yet? After all these years, he must be holed up in some damp tower in Amegakure, desperately clinging to whatever miserable life he has left. You think far too highly of him if you are going out of your way to catch up."
Akira paused. He slowly turned his head, his crimson eyes locking onto the older shinobi.
"That useless old relic is already dead."
The irreverent smirk vanished from Jiraiya's face, replaced by absolute shock. Hanzou the Demigod? The monstrous shinobi who had single-handedly suppressed the entire Ninja World and brought the Konoha Sannin to their knees... was dead?
"Who did it?" Jiraiya asked, his voice dropping an octave. Age might have dulled the Demigod's fangs, but the number of shinobi capable of assassinating Hanzou could still be counted on one hand.
"He was slaughtered by the Akatsuki," Akira stated flatly. "And the leader of that organization... according to my intelligence, is your former disciple."
The words detonated in Jiraiya's mind like a massive explosion of paper tags.
"Disciple?" he gasped, his eyes widening. "What kind of sick joke are you playing!" He glared fiercely at the Uchiha, searching for any sign of deception.
"In the Land of Rain... Nagato, Yahiko, Konan..." Jiraiya stammered, his usually steady hands balling into fists. "I received intelligence years ago that they went missing during the Third Shinobi World War. How could three orphans possibly survive in that meat grinder of an era?"
His voice trembled, betraying the deep, festering wound in his soul.
Those three children represented an eternal, bleeding ache in his heart. He had spent three years in the miserable downpour of that country, teaching them ninjutsu, watching them grow, and placing the entire burden of world peace upon Nagato's shoulders. The boy possessed the legendary Rinnegan. He was supposed to be the Child of Prophecy.
But the grim reports that followed their parting had convinced Jiraiya that his hope was dead and buried.
"They did not die," Akira corrected, his tone devoid of pity. He paused, letting the silence stretch for a fraction of a second. "Or, to be precise, not all of them died."
"Nagato, the wielder of the Rinnegan, and the girl named Konan, are both very much alive. They butchered Hanzou and his entire bloodline. They now rule Amegakure from the shadows."
Jiraiya staggered backward, his heel catching on the uneven floorboards.
Alive. They were actually alive. A chaotic storm of surprise, crushing guilt, and overwhelming relief surged through his chest, threatening to suffocate him.
But Akira's next words shattered that fleeting relief, plunging the Toad Sage into an icy abyss.
"However, the boy named Yahiko is dead."
Jiraiya's head snapped up. Images of the fiery, determined boy flashed behind his eyes—the boy who always charged to the front lines, screaming to the heavens about his dream to change the war-torn world.
"How did he die?" Jiraiya asked, his voice cracking into a terrible, raspy whisper.
A dark, contemptuous sneer twisted Akira's features. "You will have to ask the leader of Root about that."
"Hanzou grew terrified of the Akatsuki's expanding influence. He set a trap to ambush them under the guise of a peace treaty. But the man who orchestrated that plot, the one who provided the intelligence, the Anbu military support, and the strategy to take Konan hostage to force Yahiko into suicide..."
Akira's crimson eyes gleamed with cold malice.
"Was Danzo Shimura."
Jiraiya's fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned stark white. A terrifying, suffocating wave of killing intent erupted from his massive frame, cracking the floor beneath his boots.
"Danzo!" Jiraiya roared, his eyes instantly webbing with bloodshot fury.
He always knew Konoha harbored deep darkness. He knew Danzo operated in the blood-soaked shadows, committing atrocities for the sake of the village. But he never once imagined that the old hawk's venomous reach had extended all the way into the Land of Rain. He never suspected Danzo had targeted his own innocent disciples.
It was Danzo. It was Konoha. His own village had personally strangled those children's dreams of peace and drowned them in blood.
No wonder. No wonder Nagato and Konan had evolved into ruthless dictators.
Akira stood perfectly still, quietly observing the furious, trembling Sannin.
"The dead cannot be brought back to life," Akira stated, his voice cutting through the heavy killing intent like a blade of ice. "What good is throwing a tantrum now? Are you going to go dig up Danzo's grave and scatter his ashes?"
Jiraiya's chest heaved violently, his breaths coming in ragged, furious gasps. He stood there, paralyzed by rage and grief, taking a long, agonizing time to forcefully shove the churning storm of emotions back down into the depths of his soul.
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