Jiraiya stood on the rusted spine of a ventilation pipe, the rain drumming a frantic rhythm on his wooden geta.
The air here was suffocating. The factory town of Saisei didn't just pollute the sky; it vibrated the bones. The ground below hummed with a low-frequency growl—thrum-thrum-thrum—that rattled his teeth and made the soles of his feet itch. Steam vented from a nearby valve with a high-pitched shriek, instantly condensing on his skin like a layer of warm grease.
He was close. He could feel the cold, slimy resonance of Orochimaru's chakra seeping up from the bedrock like groundwater in a crypt. The scent of it was foul—ammonia and decay—burning the tiny hairs inside his nose.
Crack.
A sound cut through the industrial white noise.
It wasn't machinery. It was the distinct snap of a projectile breaking the sound barrier.
Jiraiya tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the left.
Zip.
A glob of white webbing shot past his ear, sizzling as it hit the hot metal pipe behind him. It smelled acrid, like burnt sugar. A drop of the white goo landed on the pipe, bubbling violently and eating a small pockmark into the rust.
"Spiders," Jiraiya grunted, turning slowly. "I hate spiders."
Three figures stood on the roof of the adjacent warehouse, backlit by the sickly purple glow of the chakra lamps. Moths fluttered around the lights, their wings leaving dusty trails in the stagnant air before incinerating on the bulbs.
One was hunched and grotesque, with buck teeth and a spine curved like a question mark. Kagerō.
One was crouched on all fours, spiders crawling over his shoulders. Jigumo.
One had a massive, mechanical pincer attached to his right arm, the metal gleaming with oil. Kamikiri.
"The Toad Sage," Jigumo hissed, his voice projecting from three different directions at once—left, right, and center. "You are trespassing on Fūma land."
"Fūma land?" Jiraiya scoffed, crossing his arms. "Last I checked, this was the Land of Rice Fields. Looks more like a scrap yard now."
"Die!" Kamikiri roared.
He lunged. The pincer on his arm snapped open—CLACK—and he swung it with enough force to shatter concrete. The hydraulics in the pincer hissed loudly, spraying a fine mist of pressurized oil that smelled of burning rubber.
Jiraiya didn't dodge. He leaped backward, landing light as a feather on a guy-wire stretching toward the eastern forest.
"Too slow!" Jiraiya taunted.
Kamikiri's pincer smashed the ventilation pipe, sending a plume of yellow steam hissing into the night air.
"Follow him!" Kagerō croaked, his voice wet and ragged.
They gave chase.
Jiraiya bounded across the rooftops, leading them away from the town center, away from the innocents, and toward the dark, jagged silhouette of the eastern mountains. His geta clicked rhythmically against the corrugated tin roofs—clack-clack-clack—a jarring beat in the industrial symphony.
They're herding me, Jiraiya realized, his eyes narrowing as he watched Jigumo flank him through the trees. Every time I stop, they attack and push me east. They don't want to kill me. They want me away from the tunnels.
He grinned. Good. That means I was right about the location.
The chase led them deep into the forest, where the smog thinned enough to see the stars.
Jiraiya landed in a clearing, the mud squelching under his sandals.
"End of the line, boys," Jiraiya said, turning to face them.
Jigumo dropped from the canopy, spitting a net of webs. Jiraiya inhaled.
"Fire Style: Flame Bullet!"
The oil in his mouth ignited. A fireball erupted, incinerating the webs instantly. The smell of burning silk filled the clearing. Black flakes of ash drifted down like snow, settling on his shoulders and smelling of scorched hair.
Jigumo screeched, retreating up a tree.
Kamikiri charged through the smoke, his pincer aiming for Jiraiya's neck. Jiraiya caught the metal claw with his bare hand, reinforcing his grip with chakra.
CRUNCH.
He held the pincer fast, the metal groaning under the pressure.
Metal screeched against bone, sending a vibration up his arm that rattled his shoulder socket.
"Is that all you got?" Jiraiya asked.
Then, the ground beneath him vanished.
"Earth Style: Antlion Technique!"
The mud turned into a whirlpool. Jiraiya felt himself being sucked down, the earth swallowing his legs, dragging him toward the center where Kagerō waited underground.
"Gotcha," Kagerō laughed from beneath the soil.
Jiraiya smirked.
"Needle Jizō!"
His white hair hardened into steel spikes, wrapping around his body like a porcupine. He spun, turning himself into a buzzsaw.
WHIRRRRR.
The spinning hair tore through the mud, destroying the integrity of the pit. Mud sprayed outward in a thick curtain, slapping against the trees with wet, heavy thuds.
He exploded out of the ground, landing on solid rock.
"Enough games," Jiraiya growled. He raised his hand, a Rasengan forming in his palm, swirling with blue destructive energy.
Kagerō surfaced. But he wasn't the hunchback anymore.
The disguise ripped apart like wet paper.
A young woman stood there. Her back exploded in a burst of light. Four wings, made of pure, translucent chakra, unfurled from her spine. They pulsed with a terrifying, fleeting beauty.
The air around her shimmered with heat distortion, bending the light until the trees behind her looked like melting wax.
Ephemeral Arts, Jiraiya recognized. A suicide move.
"You won't touch him!" Kagerō screamed.
She didn't throw the energy at Jiraiya. She flared it outward. She was going to vaporize the entire clearing—and herself—to cover her teammates' escape.
"Don't be stupid, kid," Jiraiya growled. He didn't attack. He protected.
"Ninja Art: Toad Mouth Bind!"
The esophagus of a giant toad materialized from thin air. It didn't crush her; it wrapped around her expanding sphere of energy like a bomb blanket.
WHUMPH.
The sound was muffled, wet and heavy. The toad stomach expanded violently, absorbing the thermal shock of the Ephemeral Art, containing the nuclear heat that would have turned the forest to ash. The ground shook violently, a localized earthquake that knocked the remaining leaves from the trees in a sudden, green rain.
Jiraiya slammed his hands together to dispel the summon before the toad took permanent damage.
"Release!"
The flesh vanished in a cloud of white smoke.
The clearing was silent. Scorched, steaming, but intact. Jiraiya stood in the crater.
He looked for a body. There was nothing but a trail of blood leading into the thicket.
The blood was dark and frothy, bubbling slightly on the scorched earth.
Kamikiri and Jigumo had grabbed her the second the blast was contained and dragged her away. Jiraiya let out a long breath, staring at the blood trail.
"They ran," he whispered.
He looked at his own hands.
He could have finished it.
He could have let the toad crush her.
But he saw the desperation in her eyes—the same look orphans always have before they do something tragic.
"Did I save that girl..." Jiraiya muttered, wiping soot from his cheek. "...or did I just damn myself again?" He looked back toward Saisei. "Your sins are heavy, Orochimaru. You make children pull the pin on their own grenades."
The cave hideout beneath the village felt colder now. The dampness seemed to seep into the marrow of the stone.
Water dripped from the ceiling with a relentless plip-plip-plip that sounded like a clock ticking down the seconds of a life.
Kabuto stood by the exit, a scroll strapped to his back.
In the center of the room, Orochimaru sat on the edge of his bed. He was shaking.
The medication had worn off hours ago. His arms, dead and black from the elbow down, were radiating phantom pain that made his vision blur. His breathing was ragged, a wet, rattling sound like air being forced through a fluid-filled lung. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cold and clammy.
"My Lord," Kabuto said softly, holding out a syringe. "I can prepare another dose. It will take ten minutes."
"No," Orochimaru hissed.
He stood up. His knees buckled, but he forced them straight. His golden eyes were dull, the pupils dilated with agony.
"I am done waiting," Orochimaru snarled, his voice a wet rattle. "The vessel is rejecting me. The rot... it spreads."
He looked at the dark tunnel leading to the surface.
"Jiraiya is distracted. The leaf brats are in the town. We leave now."
"To the Northern Hideout?" Kabuto asked.
"To the prison," Orochimaru corrected. "I need a body. Any body. I don't care if it's trash. I need to shed this skin before it becomes my coffin."
He leaned against the wall, leaving a smear of cold sweat on the limestone that glistened in the dim light.
He began to walk, his movements jerky and unnatural.
Kabuto followed, casting one last look at the empty throne.
The Northern Hideout, Kabuto thought. Where Gen'yūmaru is waiting.
He adjusted his glasses, a cruel smile touching his lips.
"It seems we will be having a tournament, my Lord," Kabuto whispered. "To see who has the honor of becoming your next coat."
His glasses reflected the darkness of the tunnel, turning his eyes into twin voids.
They vanished into the shadows, leaving the Land of Sound to its noise and its ghosts.