Chapter 7

Konoha's Onsen
Jiraiya sat perched on a tree branch just outside the onsen, his notepad balanced on his knee and a mischievous grin plastered across his face. His pen scratched furiously as he jotted down observations, giggling under his breath. The steam rising from the hot springs, combined with the muted laughter and conversations, provided the perfect ambiance for his "research."

"Ah, the things I do for literature," Jiraiya muttered to himself, his grin widening. "The fans demand authenticity, and who am I to deny them the artistry they deserve?"

Beneath him, the steam parted momentarily to reveal Kurenai Yuhi, her body gracefully outlined by the shimmering waters of the hot spring. The water enveloped her, highlighting the seductive arch of her back and the enticing curve of her ass. Droplets meandered down her spine, catching the soft light and shimmering against her porcelain skin. Her breasts, full and inviting, swayed gently with her laughter, nipples pointed and pronounced, a stark contrast to the tranquil surroundings. Kurenai's face, often stern in the throes of leadership, was alight with genuine amusement, her eyes twinkling as she exchanged playful repartees with Hana. The delicate folds of her pussy were just visible beneath the water, framed by a soft, natural growth of hair that hinted at a disarming rawness beneath her composed exterior.

Next to her, Hana Inuzuka's robust form commanded the space with an innate strength. Her muscular arms and shoulders glistened, the contours of her biceps highlighted by the reflective sheen of water. Her strong, athletic thighs, powerful and sculpted, spoke of her agility and prowess as a kunoichi. Water cascaded over her breasts, smaller and firmer than Kurenai's, yet equally mesmerizing as they stood defiant against the chill of the air. Hana's toned abdomen flexed as she moved, a testament to her vigorous training regime. Her ass, muscular and prominent, seemed to challenge the very steam that sought to obscure it. Below, her pussy was similarly adorned with a natural, unkempt covering, suggesting a primal fierceness in tune with her rugged exterior.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with the comfortable banter only close friends could share. "Kurenai, if you smiled more on missions, we might actually scare the enemy into submission with confusion," Hana teased, her voice rich with laughter.

"Oh, coming from you? Miss 'I intimidate with a glance'? I think your scowls are plenty disarming," Kurenai retorted playfully, splashing water back at Hana. Her laughter echoed through the steam, warm and melodious, drawing a shared smile from Hana.

Suddenly, the calm was broken by a violent strike against Jiraiya's tree. The impact sent a sharp shockwave through the branches. Unprepared, Jiraiya lost his balance and tumbled from his perch with a surprised shout, his notebook flailing wildly as he descended. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, the air knocked out of him.

Scrambling to his feet, Jiraiya's cheeks burned with embarrassment and anger. "Who dares attack the gallant Jiraiya?"he bellowed into the steaming evening, ready to confront whatever foe had dared disrupt his artistic venture.

The sharp, unmistakable voice of Jiraiya echoed across the onsen's perimeter, cutting through the tranquil night. Kurenai Yuhi and Hana Inuzuka froze for a moment, exchanging a look that carried equal parts irritation and resignation. They moved as one, their years of experience evident in the seamless efficiency with which they scrambled for their clothes. Wet skin stuck to fabric as they dressed quickly, muttering wordlessly at the familiar absurdity of the situation.

It wasn't that they were unprepared for this; far from it. What struck them as strange, even unsettling, was how the dynamic shifted depending on context. In the village, this was practically tradition. Jiraiya would peep, someone would catch him, and those involved would deliver swift punishment. Jiraiya never fought back. He accepted every kick, punch, or slap as though it were owed to him, as though he needed it to balance some unspoken ledger. On the battlefield, however, he was unrecognizable—serious, commanding, someone they would follow into certain death if he so ordered. There was no hint of his antics, no trace of his perverse side when lives were on the line. On the battlefield, he was one of the greatest commander, and one of the best comrade they could have along them. They would follow his commands without hesitation, even if it meant risking their lives.

Rounding the barrier, they prepared to enact the routine once more—find Jiraiya, catch him in the act, and mete out the punishment he perversely seemed to expect. But as they stepped into the clearing, they stopped short. What they found was far from routine.

In the middle of the clearing, bathed in the silvery glow of lantern light, Hiruzen Sarutobi was delivering what could only be described as a masterclass in righteous fury. His staff moved with precision, striking Jiraiya with the grace of a conductor orchestrating a symphony of pain. Each blow landed with a crack that echoed through the humid night, and each was accompanied by a verbal strike that cut far deeper.

"Look at you, Jiraiya," Hiruzen said, his voice dripping with disdain as his staff connected with the Sannin's shin, sending him staggering. "A man who commands toads the size of mountains, reduced to groveling in the dirt over his inability to act like a functioning adult. How inspiring."

Jiraiya raised his hands, trying to ward off the next strike, though it did nothing to stop the verbal barrage. "S-Sensei, I didn't—"

"Oh, don't you 'Sensei' me," Hiruzen cut him off, delivering a sharp tap to Jiraiya's ribs that made the larger man yelp. "The only thing I've taught you tonight is that you're every bit as spineless as I always suspected. And let's not even get started on what your so-called 'research' says about your priorities. Do you honestly think anyone in this village is impressed by your latest trashy novel? Hmm? What's it called—Icha Icha: The Chronicles of Creeping Like a Coward?"

From the edge of the clearing, Kurenai and Hana arrived just in time to see Jiraiya stumble and nearly trip over his own feet, his hands now clutching his sides as Hiruzen continued to advance. They exchanged a look, their earlier anger forgotten, replaced by an odd mix of awe and second-hand embarrassment.

"You know what truly amazes me, Jiraiya?" Hiruzen's staff connected with Jiraiya's shoulder, forcing him to his knees. "The fact that, somehow, you've managed to live this long with all that empty space rattling around in your skull. It's a miracle your head doesn't cave in from sheer structural instability."

Jiraiya looked up with a pathetic grimace, his face a mix of pain and rapidly crumbling pride. "I... I didn't mean for—"

Hiruzen raised his staff sharply, silencing him with a gesture. "Oh, I'm sure you didn't mean for the Hokage himself to find you flailing around in the dirt like a drunken raccoon! But here we are. Your intentions don't matter, Jiraiya, because, at the end of the day, your actions scream louder than anything you could possibly say. And you know what they're screaming? 'I have no shame!' You're a laughingstock! If Orochimaru weren't already a criminal, he'd defect just to avoid the embarrassment of being your teammate!"

Ouch. This one had to hurt. Jiraya almost looked like he was going to cry. Hana leaned toward Kurenai, muttering under her breath, "I almost feel bad for him. Almost."

Kurenai's expression was one of barely concealed amusement. "I don't. This is long overdue."

Hiruzen turned his attention back to the quivering Sannin, his voice softening, but not kindly. "What's truly tragic, Jiraiya, is that I know you're better than this. Somewhere deep inside that swamp of mediocrity and self-indulgence, there is a capable shinobi. Too bad he's buried under a mountain of sheer idiocy."

Jiraiya, now on all fours and looking like a chastised child, whispered, "I... I'm sorry, Sensei."

"Sorry?!" Hiruzen's eyes narrowed as he leaned down, his staff resting on Jiraiya's back. "The only thing you're sorry about is getting caught. And let me tell you, if there were an award for being the most shameless idiot in Konoha, you wouldn't just win—you'd have it renamed in your honor."

He straightened, his tone casual now, as though discussing the weather. "In fact, I think we should commemorate this moment. From now on, every time someone in the village stumbles into a new low of stupidity, we'll call it 'pulling a Jiraiya.' Congratulations, you're officially a verb."

Kurenai and Hana could no longer suppress their laughter, their chuckles breaking the tension as Hiruzen delivered a final tap with his staff to Jiraiya's bruised shoulder. "Get up, Jiraiya. Or don't. Stay there and write your next book—The Art of Being Publicly Humiliated by Your Sensei. I'm sure it'll be a bestseller."

With that, Hiruzen turned and strode off, his posture regal, his robes fluttering in the breeze. Jiraiya remained where he was, slumped on the ground, his face buried in his hands.

Hana nudged Jiraiya's side with her toe. "You alive, perv?"

Jiraiya groaned. "Barely."

Kurenai's lips twitched into a reluctant smirk. "Good. Because we're not done with you either."

"Please, Gaï-sensei, I'm begging you! Have mercy!"

The plea came from a boy sprawled face-first in the dirt, his arms trembling so violently they looked like they might detach. Around him, his classmates lay scattered like fallen leaves, their faces etched with pure despair. The Shadow Clone - not that the students knew what it was - of Maito Gaï stood among them, the embodiment of radiant enthusiasm, his green jumpsuit practically glowing under the sun.

"Mercy?!" Gaï shouted, his voice a booming wave of joy and judgment. "Mercy is for the weak! And you, my youthful warriors, are destined for greatness!" He struck a heroic pose, pointing to the heavens. "Now, fifty more push-ups, and then we'll begin Dynamic Kicks!"

A collective groan rose from the students, one louder than the rest. "Sensei, you said that forty minutes ago," the boy whimpered, his voice muffled by dirt.

"Excellent!" Gaï roared, crouching beside him. "Then you're already twice as strong as you were forty minutes ago! And if you've made it this far, another fifty will be as easy as breathing!" He clapped the boy on the back, sending him face-first into the dirt again. "Ah, such youthful spirit!"

Not far away, Sakura and Ino were flat on their backs, wheezing like broken accordions. Gaï appeared above them in a flash, holding a bottle of water triumphantly. "You've fought well, but youth never rests!" He poured the water directly onto their faces, eliciting twin shrieks.

"Gaï-sensei!" Ino sputtered, flailing as she tried to sit up. "I'm dying!"

"Nonsense!" Gaï declared, his grin wide enough to split the sky. "You're just getting started! Now, rise and give me your best effort!" He turned, spotting Choji collapsed on the ground, his hand limply reaching for a bag of chips. Gaï snatched it up, holding one chip high. "Choji! For every sit-up, one chip. No sit ups - no chips! Your training is now a test of willpower!"

Choji groaned, his eyes locked on the chip as he forced himself up an inch. "Sensei... this is cruel…"

"No, this is motivation!" Gaï said, dropping the chip into Choji's mouth with precision. "Another! Let the taste of effort drive you onward!"

Naruto, the only one not sprawled in despair, hammered at a training log with unrelenting zeal. "This is awesome!" he shouted, grinning as sweat flew, his energy boundless thanks to the Nine-Tails regenerating his stamina and endurance. Not that he knew it.

Gaï's thumbs-up practically sparkled. "Naruto, you are a beacon of youthful fire! Your spirit burns brighter with every punch!"

Sasuke, collapsed nearby, glared in disbelief. How was Naruto—of all people—thriving? His pride stung worse than his aching arms. With a growl, he pushed himself up, trembling but determined, and dove back into his push-ups. He wouldn't let Naruto surpass him, no matter what.

Oblivious, Naruto kept punching, his grin widening. Sasuke redoubled his effort, grinding his teeth through each rep.

Jiraiya sat slouched in the Hokage's office, his body aching from bruises and bumps that were more from shame than physical pain. His hair, usually wild and commanding, now felt limp as it hung around his battered face. His sense of pride, too, seemed bruised and huddling somewhere deep within him. Across the desk, Hiruzen Sarutobi was motionless, his hands folded in front of his face, elbows propped on the desk.

The silence stretched.

Seconds ticked by. Then more. Jiraiya shifted in his seat, fidgeting under the weight of that unreadable stare. It wasn't anger—Hiruzen didn't need anger to make you feel small. It was the calm intensity of a man who knew every inch of your soul and was weighing it carefully against the scales of disappointment.

Finally, Jiraiya cleared his throat, his voice cracking just slightly. "Uh... Sensei?"

"How are you, Jiraiya?" Hiruzen asked, his tone utterly neutral.

Jiraiya blinked, his bruised pride momentarily forgotten. "What?"

"I asked," Hiruzen repeated, his voice carrying just a thread of something softer, "how you are."

The question hit like a well-thrown shuriken. Jiraiya opened his mouth, then shut it, his throat tightening. What kind of question was that? How was he supposed to answer?

"I'm—" he began, fumbling for words as if they were slippery fish. "I'm fine." It sounded wrong even as it left his mouth. He looked down at his hands, scuffed and marked from years of missions, suddenly feeling uncomfortably like a boy dragged before the principal.

Hiruzen rose slowly, his gaze shifting to the window that overlooked Konoha. He clasped his hands behind his back as he stood, the faintest sound of his movement filling the quiet. Outside, the village bustled with life—the streets alive with shinobi and civilians going about their day.

"I love this village," Hiruzen said, his voice measured but carrying a weight that reached every corner of the room. "Its streets, its people, its traditions. It is my life's work, the culmination of all my years. If necessary, I would give my life for it without hesitation."

Jiraiya nodded instinctively, as though that was exactly what he expected to hear. But then Hiruzen continued.

"But the village itself," he said, his voice growing quieter, "is just stones and wood. It is not what matters most."

Jiraiya frowned, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

Hiruzen didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the streets below. "It's the people who matter. The souls who breathe life into these streets, who turn a place into a home. They are the essence of this village." His hands tightened slightly behind his back. "They are what we protect. What we serve."

There was a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. "And you, Jiraiya," Hiruzen said at last, his tone shifting, "are one of my most precious people."

Jiraiya froze, the words hitting him harder than any punch or scolding. He stared at Hiruzen's back, his heart caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more painful. Precious? Him? He shifted in his chair, unsure what to do with his hands or his thoughts.

The Hokage didn't turn, as if knowing that meeting Jiraiya's eyes might push him too far. "But I have failed you. You and your teammates. I taught you to fight, to strategize, to kill if necessary. But I failed to teach you how to grow as men and women. How to thrive beyond the battlefield."

Jiraiya felt a lump in his throat as Hiruzen's voice faltered, his usual commanding presence replaced by something quieter, rawer.

"I should have been more than a teacher to you three," Hiruzen admitted, his words dragging like stones. "You were orphans, all of you. And I... I should have been a better guide, a better presence. I should have loved you better. I was a Hokage when you needed something more. I failed you in that."

Jiraiya, unsure how to respond, cleared his throat and fell back on the only thing he could think of.

"Ninjas are supposed to be tools, Sensei. We're not supposed to—"

"Don't feed me that nonsense," Hiruzen cut him off, his tone sharper now, though not unkind. "You don't believe it any more than I do. But thank you for trying to make me feel better."

Jiraiya's lips twitched upward in a faint, guilty smile. Hiruzen sighed, his shoulders shifting slightly as he gazed out at the horizon. Then, after a moment of stillness, he turned back to face Jiraiya. His expression had softened, his sharp eyes now tempered by an unfamiliar gentleness. For a long time, he simply looked at Jiraiya, as though gathering the courage to speak words that had been resting heavy on his soul.

"I've asked you to come back for a reason," Hiruzen began, his voice steady but carrying a weight that made Jiraiya sit up a little straighter. "The village faces a grave crisis, one that demands the strength and resolve of those who love it most." He paused, the words deliberate but tinged with something unspoken. "But... that's not why I called you here today."

Jiraiya tilted his head slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "Then why—"

Hiruzen raised a hand, silencing him with a calm gesture. "I have something to ask of you," he said, stepping out from behind his desk and walking closer. The movement was unhurried, his presence filling the room in a way that made Jiraiya feel impossibly small. "I know I haven't been the best sensei. A passable Hokage at best, a terrible father at worst. But to you, Jiraiya... you've always been like family."

Jiraiya's fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair, the words landing heavier than any lecture or reprimand. He kept his gaze locked on Hiruzen, sensing that the next words would matter more than anything he'd heard in years.

"So, Jiraiya," Hiruzen said, his voice quieter now, almost a murmur as he looked directly into his former student's eyes. "Do you…"

Jiraiya's breath caught, his body suddenly stiff, as he heard his Sensei finish the sentence. The room seemed to hold its breath as he processed what his sensei had just asked of him.

For the first time since he'd taken his first life as a genin, Jiraiya felt something unfamiliar welling up. A single tear slid down his cheek, tracing a line through the dirt and blood smudged on his face.

And as he sat there, silent but trembling, another tear followed, and then another. Jiraiya cried—not out of pain, not out of fear, but from a place deep within, one that had long been hidden beneath bravado and wit.