The path Jiraiya took back through the forest was a familiar, grim pilgrimage. The adrenaline from the one-sided slaughter had faded, leaving behind the cold, metallic taste of duty and the heavy weariness that came with it.
The night seemed to absorb sound, the only noise the crunch of his sandals on leaf litter and the distant, ever-present roar of the Valley's waterfall, a natural requiem for the dead he'd just created. The darkness was no longer a tactical advantage but a shroud, matching the somber mood settling over him.
He moved without needing light, his senses so honed that he could feel the subtle shifts in chakra long before he saw the camp. It was nestled in a small, defensible clearing, shielded on three sides by thick rock faces that had been subtly reshaped by Earth Release techniques into crude, but effective, parapets.
The entrance was a narrow gap between two towering earthen walls, barely wide enough for two men to pass abreast. Glowing seals, weaker versions of the barrier he'd just used, were etched into the stone, humming with a soft, protective energy.
As he stepped through the gap, the scene that greeted him was one of quiet, desperate industry. The camp was home to at most thirty people, a fraction of the unit's original strength. Though it was the dead of night, there was no rest.
The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, blood, and the smoky fragrance of medicinal herbs simmering over a low fire. Makeshift stretchers were laid out in rows, and the moans of the wounded provided a low, constant harmony to the frantic, hushed movements of the medics. Shinobi with bandaged limbs and weary eyes sorted through supply crates or stood watch on the earthen walls, their postures slumped with exhaustion. A palpable cloud of despair hung over the clearing, the kind that settled when hope was a dwindling resource.
Jiraiya's broad shoulders slumped slightly as he took it in. He released a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire war. Before he could take another step, a voice, young but firm with respect, cut through the murmur.
"Jiraiya-sama."
He turned to find Arata Kamizuru standing at attention. The young man's face was smudged with dirt and what might have been dried tears. His flak jacket was torn at the shoulder, and he held a clipboard filled with hastily scribbled reports. He was one of the few uninjured chunin who had shouldered the logistical burden after their captain fell.
"The perimeter is secure, Arata," Jiraiya said, his voice a low rumble. "The… disturbance… has been taken care of. You can stand the watch down for now."
Arata's face, which had held a sliver of hopeful tension, dropped. The news was good, but the implication was a bitter pill. His shoulders, which he'd been holding so rigidly, deflated.
'He handled it alone. Again.'
The thought was a sharp sting to his pride.
'Fifty Kumo shinobi, and he didn't even need to raise an alarm. Are we so useless?'
He looked around the camp, at his comrades—his family—broken and bleeding. Renjiro, someone he had come to admire, was incapacitated. The weight of their helplessness pressed down on him. He loved these people, had trained and bled with them.
To stand by, relegated to inventory and bandage-duty while a legend fought their battles for them, felt like a betrayal of that love. It made a mockery of their sacrifices. They were shinobi of Konoha, not children to be coddled.
"Jiraiya-sama," Arata began, his voice tighter now, laced with a frustration he could no longer contain. "We… we can still help. The last time you went out alone, you returned with three of our people on your back, barely breathing. We are not helpless. Let us fight alongside you. It… it kills us to just sit here, watching the people we love get injured and die while we can't do anything to stop it."
Jiraiya regarded the young man, seeing not insolence, but the raw, burning need to matter, to contribute. He placed a heavy hand on Arata's shoulder. "You are helping, Arata. Every bandage you secure, every supply log you complete, every watch shift you stand—it all matters. What you're feeling isn't helplessness; it's the burden of command. You're holding this camp together." He sighed again, the sound weary.
"The last time you 'helped' in a direct engagement, we lost two good shinobi and three more were critically injured. Your captain is still paying the price for that decision. I need this unit functional, not heroic. Right now, that means giving you all the time to heal and regroup. Let me handle the threats beyond the wall. That is how you help me most."
Arata took the words on the chin, his jaw clenching. He couldn't argue with the cold truth of the body count. He nodded, swallowing his pride like a lump of hardtack. "Understood, sir."
"Has there been any communication from the village while I was away?" Jiraiya asked, changing the subject to something concrete.
Arata shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing, sir. The silence is… concerning. The last burst from the Relay Centre was fragmented. It seems a majority of our divisions are still under heavy attack. Communications are sporadic at best."
Jiraiya muttered a low curse under his breath, a vulgarity that spoke volumes of his worry for his students, for the village, for the entire crumbling front.
"Damn this war. Alright. What's our status here? Logistics. Resources."
Arata straightened up, falling back into the familiar rhythm of his duty. "We're stable, but stretched. Medical supplies are at forty per cent. Food and water are adequate for two weeks at current consumption. Chakra replenishment pills are critically low. We've managed to fortify the eastern wall further, but our offensive capabilities are, as you know, severely limited."
Jiraiya listened, his mind already cataloguing the information, cross-referencing it with the hidden caches he knew of in the area. "Good work, Arata. Truly. Keep it up. I'll see about scouting for some of those supplies soon." He gave the young man's shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze and began to walk away, heading towards the command tent.
He'd only taken a few steps when he stopped. He didn't turn around, his gaze fixed on the dark entrance of the tent, but his voice carried back to Arata, low and deliberate.
"Arata."
"Yes, sir?"
"Where is he?"
The question hung in the air. Arata's breath hitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his earlier confidence evaporating. He looked down at his clipboard, then towards the back of the camp, beyond the rows of wounded, where the clearing met the dark tree line. He swallowed hard.
"He's… in the back..." Arata finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.
Jiraiya nodded, a slow, heavy motion. Without another word, he changed course, bypassing the command tent and moving towards the rear of the camp. The activity here dwindled. The sounds of the medics and the wounded faded, replaced by the chorus of nocturnal insects and the rustle of leaves in a gentle night breeze.
There, at the very edge of the clearing where the grass was long and silvered by the moonlight, he found him.
A boy—no, a young man of about fifteen—with a shock of brilliant, fiery red hair that seemed to capture what little light there was. He was lying on his back in the cool grass, one arm tucked behind his head, his eyes open and fixed on the star-dusted canvas of the night sky.
But he wasn't truly seeing them.
His face was pale, and a heavy blanket was draped over his lower body, but his chest rose and fell with a steady, strong rhythm that hadn't been there a few days prior.
Jiraiya stood over him for a long moment, his own vast shadow falling across the boy's form. The worries of the camp, the weight of the war, seemed to recede slightly, replaced by a more personal, complex emotion—a mixture of relief, guilt, and fierce, paternal pride.
He finally broke the silence, his voice softer than it had been all night, stripped of its Sannin authority and filled with something akin to tenderness.
"Renjiro," he said. "You're finally up."