Chapter 23: The Crippled Sannin
The chamber of the Akatsuki had been filled with proclamations of grandeur only hours before. Nagato, pale and trembling in his wheelchair, had dared to call himself the Kami of the New World. And to Jiraiya's bitter misfortune, the world outside proved his madness believable.
Even Kakuzu, usually so cold and pragmatic, had leapt to his feet.
"Great Chief! Kami of the New World!" Kakuzu's gravelly voice rang with greed disguised as reverence. "When you ascend to divinity, allow me to be the Kami of Wealth—the steward of every coin in this new age!"
His eyes gleamed like gold coins, feverish and desperate. What good was amassing treasure if the world itself was devoured? At least this new "world" might still hold meaning for money.
Even Orochimaru, lurking in the shadows with a serpentine smile, released a slow breath. Survival was survival. To perish alongside that decrepit fool, Shimura Danzo, after all he had pursued? That was an absurd joke. He still had forbidden jutsu to master, immortality to perfect. He would not die here.
Off to the side, Black Zetsu's golden eyes flickered, unreadable. Beside him, Uchiha Obito hid behind his mask, silent but smirking.
"Kami of the New World…" Obito thought, bitter amusement curling his lips beneath the mask. Dream, Nagato. Dream as long as you want. The true Kami will be me—when I create a world with Rin.
Black Zetsu, too, sneered inwardly. Obito, you're nothing more than a pawn. When the time comes, you'll be sacrificed to bring back Madara. None of you fools see it.
The meeting ended in a heavy silence. Orochimaru was the first to slip away, cloak trailing like a shadow. His eyes narrowed toward the distant ruins of Konoha. Nagato's words are convenient… but I want to see it with my own eyes. If this Uchiha Raizen truly exists, if the world is truly ending, then I must know. I refuse to gamble my eternity on another man's description.
One by one, the members dispersed. Each carried their own twisted ambitions and fears.
---
Meanwhile, in the shattered remnants of Konoha's refugee encampment, a different silence weighed down.
"Jiraiya-sama… you're awake at last."
The voice was soft, almost fragile. Nara Shikaku stood near the window of the medical tent, his shadowed eyes filled with fatigue. Around him, several other survivors lingered, their expressions caught between relief and mourning.
Jiraiya's eyelids fluttered open. His vision blurred before settling on the canvas ceiling. He exhaled shakily, as though he had returned from a long, suffocating dream.
"…So it wasn't a dream after all."
His voice rasped with bitterness. Memories flooded in—Hiruzen's death, Konoha's shinobi scattering like frightened dogs, the unnatural darkness that swallowed the village whole. And then the monster… Raizen. That accursed child of the Uchiha, born from Danzo's arrogance and Itachi's blade, growing into something beyond human.
In the dream, he had tried to resist. He had run headlong into the abyss, convinced his Will of Fire would burn away the dark. Instead, he had collapsed, powerless, dragged out by comrades whose names he never even learned.
A dream would have been kinder. But this was reality.
"How… how are the others?" Jiraiya forced the question out, though he already feared the answer.
Shikaku's shoulders sagged. His voice came heavy, each word a stone.
"They're gone, Jiraiya-sama. When we reached you, the others had already… stiffened."
The silence that followed pressed like a weight on the chest.
"Where are the bodies?" Jiraiya croaked. "Did you… bring them back?"
Shikaku shook his head slowly. "We tried. But by the time we returned, the place they fell… it was gone. Consumed."
Jiraiya's throat tightened. His vision blurred—not from sleep this time, but from hot, stinging tears. He turned his face away, unable to let them see his weakness.
If it had only been shinobi lost in battle, he could have endured it. Death was a companion every ninja walked beside. But this was different. Those brave men had died not for Konoha, not for peace—only to drag him, their stubborn sannin, back from the edge. Their deaths were meaningless.
And worse—he hadn't even seen Raizen's face. The monster remained a shadow, an unseen terror, while Jiraiya crawled away like a wounded dog.
"Everyone… please," Jiraiya whispered hoarsely, "leave me. I need… I need time."
One by one, the shinobi obeyed, stepping out into the dim camp light. The tent flap closed, leaving him in silence.
For a long while, Jiraiya simply stared at the ceiling, body heavy, heart heavier. Something gnawed at him, though—an unease he had ignored while drowning in grief.
His legs. He couldn't feel them.
Slowly, dread coiling in his gut, Jiraiya pulled back the covers. His eyes widened. The world spun.
"…Where are my legs?"
Below the knees—nothing. Only bandaged stumps, stark and merciless. His breath caught. He rubbed at his eyes, as if blindness might explain it. But when his hands touched only air where calves should have been, despair slammed into him.
"No, no, no… this isn't real. They're invisible, that's all… genjutsu, maybe. Some kind of illusion…"
His hands trembled as he slapped the sheets, searching desperately. There was nothing. His flesh was gone.
The great Jiraiya of the Sannin, the gallant sage of Mount Myoboku, the stubborn bearer of Konoha's Will of Fire—reduced to a cripple.
The tent flap rustled. A young medic entered cautiously, carrying herbs and bandages. His eyes softened when he saw Jiraiya's panic.
"Jiraiya-sama… please calm yourself. You've only just regained consciousness."
"Tell me!" Jiraiya's voice cracked like a whip. "My legs—what happened to them?"
The medic bowed his head, guilt plain on his face. "We… had no choice. When you were pulled from the Dead Silence, your lower limbs had remained inside too long. The cells lost all energy. Necrosis had already set in. If we hadn't amputated, it would have spread and… taken your life."
The words fell like blades.
So that was it. His men had died dragging him out. He had lived—but only half a man.
Jiraiya slumped back against the pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling. His chest heaved, but no sound came. Inside, he was screaming. You fool. You damned fool. You ignored the warnings. You overestimated yourself. And others paid the price.
He had thought himself strong enough to carry the Will of Fire into that darkness. Instead, his fire had been snuffed out, leaving only cold ashes.
The medic hesitated, then spoke again. "There is… something else you must know, Jiraiya-sama."
But Jiraiya hardly heard him. His hands clawed weakly at the sheets, nails digging into the cloth. His tears fell silently.
"Where are my legs… where is my strength… where is my Will of Fire now?" he whispered to the empty room.
For the first time in decades, the Sannin felt truly broken.
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