Jiraiya adjusted his robes as he strode through the high-end district of Konoha, his sharp eyes scanning the well-lit streets. This wasn't a part of the village he frequented—too polished, too refined, and entirely too quiet for his tastes. But that only made it more interesting. He had spent years navigating warzones and shadowy meetings with world leaders, but nothing about this felt normal. The whispers surrounding Sayori Arata weren't just about wealth or influence. There was something else. Something deeper.
He reached the entrance of the tea house, a place that reeked of exclusivity. The attendant at the door barely blinked at his presence, merely nodding before leading him inside without question. That was his first clue. No hesitation. No suspicion. It was as if he had been expected. He let out a breath, rolling his shoulders back, mentally preparing for whatever game was about to be played.
The doors slid open, revealing a lounge bathed in warm candlelight. And there she was.
Sayori Arata sat with the grace of someone completely in control, her black hair falling in elegant waves past her shoulders, a few strands dyed a deep red that seemed to shimmer under the light. Her amber eyes, sharp yet calm, flicked up to meet his with a knowing glint. A cup of tea rested between her delicate fingers, her nails immaculately painted a deep crimson, tapping once against the porcelain as if to acknowledge his arrival. The faintest trace of a smile ghosted her lips.
Jiraiya had faced down warlords, rogue shinobi, and even gods, but something about this woman put him on edge. He knew power when he saw it. And Sayori wasn't just powerful—she was dangerous.
"You're late," she said smoothly, voice like silk over steel.
Jiraiya smirked, stepping inside. "Well, well. Forgive me for not rushing. Didn't want to seem too eager."
She gestured to the cushion opposite her. "Please. Sit."
He did, lowering himself with an easy grin, though his muscles remained coiled, waiting. He let his gaze sweep across the room. No guards. No visible weapons. Just a woman sipping tea with an unnerving sense of patience.
"So," he drawled, resting an elbow on the table. "You're the one who adopted Naruto."
Sayori inclined her head, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "Indeed."
Jiraiya exhaled through his nose, leaning forward. "Why?"
Her smile didn't waver. "Why not?"
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "That's not an answer."
She hummed, swirling her tea. "Would you have preferred he remained alone? A child abandoned by his own village, left to fend for himself? That hardly seems like something Minato or Kushina would have wanted."
Jiraiya's fingers twitched at their names. "That's not what I meant."
Her eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Then say what you mean."
Jiraiya narrowed his eyes. He wasn't used to being put on the defensive. He had come here expecting a pompous noblewoman, a political schemer at best. Instead, he was talking to someone who wielded conversation like a weapon. He could respect that—if it wasn't so damn irritating.
"You have connections," he stated. "Real ones. The kind that get the Daimyo involved. That's no small thing. And then there's the matter of your clan."
Sayori took another sip of tea. "Ah, yes. My tragic, scattered people."
"Don't play coy with me," Jiraiya warned, his easygoing expression hardening. "The Uzumaki have been gone a long time. And yet, here you are. Young, rich, and conveniently in Konoha. You don't look like someone who barely survived the destruction of Uzushio."
Sayori tilted her head. "Are you suggesting I'm lying about my heritage?"
Jiraiya didn't answer immediately. He simply studied her. "I'm suggesting that nothing about you adds up."
Her lips curved, a slow, knowing smile. "Perhaps that's intentional."
Jiraiya's gut twisted.
Before he could press further, Sayori shifted, placing her cup down as if they had finally arrived at the true purpose of this meeting. "Tell me, Lord Jiraiya. Do you believe in reincarnation?"
Jiraiya froze. His mouth opened, then closed. It wasn't the question itself that shook him. It was the way she asked it. The way her amber eyes locked onto his like she knew something he didn't.
"That's a dangerous thing to believe in," he muttered.
She exhaled softly. "Yes. It is."
The silence stretched.
Then, suddenly, Sayori's expression shifted. "Tell me, Lord Jiraiya. Are you familiar with The Free Love Revolution?"
Jiraiya blinked. "The what now?"
Her lips twitched. "It's a novel series. Quite popular among women worldwide."
Jiraiya frowned. The name sounded… vaguely familiar. Something about forbidden romance, scandal, and utterly ridiculous levels of emotional turmoil.
Sayori watched him carefully, and when he didn't immediately react, she sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. A man who wrote Icha Icha Paradise likely doesn't keep up with the finer aspects of literature."
Jiraiya's brain screeched to a halt.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
He shot up straight. "You're telling me—you wrote that?!"
Sayori smiled.
Jiraiya's world reeled. The Free Love Revolution series was infamous. Women adored it. Men feared it. It had outsold nearly everything in its genre, sweeping through nations and shaping a new era of romantic literature. It was everything Icha Icha wasn't—deep, emotional, and undeniably poetic.
Jiraiya swallowed thickly, his entire perception of the woman before him shifting in real-time. He pointed a shaky finger. "You—you're my counterpart!"
Sayori laughed, light and amused. "If you mean that we both profit off human desire, then yes, though I'd argue my audience is far more… refined."
Jiraiya gaped, then slammed a fist against the table. "Respect."
Sayori inclined her head. "And here I thought you wouldn't approve."
Jiraiya shook his head, still processing. "No, no. This is incredible. I mean, we're on opposite ends of the spectrum, sure, but… I never thought I'd meet someone else who understands the craft the way I do!"
Sayori chuckled. "I suppose there's merit in different approaches."
For a moment, they simply regarded each other. Then, Sayori slid a small scroll across the table.
Jiraiya frowned, picking it up. It was a contract. He unrolled it—
And nearly choked.
The Slug Summoning Contract. His own signature was already on it. And beneath it…
Sayori Arata.
Jiraiya's eye twitched. "Wait. WAIT. When did you—how did—?"
Sayori sipped her tea, utterly relaxed. "You really should be more careful with what you carry around, Lord Jiraiya."
He gawked at her, then at the contract. Then back at her.
He groaned, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe I just got scammed by a romance author."
Sayori's lips quirked. "A very wealthy romance author."
Jiraiya wanted to scream.
Before he could, Sayori folded her hands. "Now, about Naruto's training."
Jiraiya straightened, refocusing. "Right. I want to train him. Make him stronger."
Sayori hummed. "Fine. On one condition."
Jiraiya braced himself.
"If I catch you corrupting my son with your perverted tendencies," Sayori said smoothly, "you'll be sentenced to dishwashing duty."
Silence.
Jiraiya paled. "You wouldn't."
Sayori smiled. "Try me."
Jiraiya straightened, swallowing hard. "Understood. No corrupting influences."
He turned on his heel, leaving before she could rob him of anything else. As he stepped onto the street, he muttered under his breath.
"How the hell did I just get wrecked so thoroughly?"
Somewhere inside, Sayori smirked.
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