The week rolled on with a rhythm that was quickly becoming familiar: lectures in the morning, drills until the sun ached, and bruises shared like a second uniform. Jiraiya had started to notice patterns in the way the Academy moved, little loops in the days that told him where to push and where to rest.
It didn't make things easier—just clearer. Clarity was enough.
That morning, Nishikado barked them into the yard with no scrolls, no brushes, just bodies and bare ground. The air still smelled faintly of rain from the night before, and the dirt carried a slickness that promised falls if you weren't careful.
"Today is taijutsu," Nishikado said, standing before them like a wall with scars. "Your weapons are useless if your body can't carry them. Your chakra is wasted if your hands don't know where to be. We'll see who can stand without breaking."
Pairs formed. The usual whispering tide carried through the line of students—who would face whom, who hoped to avoid Tsunade, who dreaded Orochimaru's silence.
Jiraiya didn't look nervous. Predator's Instinct sat beneath his skin like a second heart, steady and waiting. Bullseye hadn't left his fingers since it arrived; every twitch felt more certain than before.
But his eyes still found Tsunade. She stood with her shoulders squared, chin lifted, as if daring the yard to come at her all at once. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight, tied back neat and sharp. She hadn't looked at him yet, but she didn't have to. Just being near her carried that same invisible weight as yesterday—the reminder that people like her had names carved into Konoha's foundation, while he was just a boy trying to chisel his own scratch into the stone.
"Line up," Nishikado ordered. "Two by two."
The line shifted, kids nudging shoulders, trading quick agreements. Jiraiya stepped forward, ready to face anyone. And then the pairing landed.
"Jiraiya," Nishikado called. "Hayato."
The yard went loud. Not with cheers, not quite, but with the restless murmur of children sensing blood. Everyone had seen the tension simmering. Everyone wanted to know which would crack first.
Hayato smirked as he walked forward. His uniform was neat despite the mud, his hair slicked back, his every movement deliberate. He carried himself like someone who believed he was already winning just by stepping onto the field.
"Guess we finally settle it," Hayato said, voice low enough for Jiraiya to hear, loud enough for the closest row to catch. "Though we both know this ends one way."
Jiraiya tilted his head, grin sharp. "Yeah. With you flat on your back."
The smirk faltered, then returned sharper. "We'll see."
From the side, Tsunade's voice cut through. "Try not to cry, either of you. I don't feel like babysitting today."
Laughter sparked. Jiraiya chuckled. Hayato didn't.
Nishikado's hand lifted. "Begin."
Hayato moved first, fast and sharp. His fist cut the air toward Jiraiya's jaw. Predator's Instinct whispered, and Jiraiya slipped aside, countering with a short jab to Hayato's ribs. The hit landed but didn't bite deep; Hayato's body had trained enough to take worse.
They circled, feet sliding against the wet dirt. Hayato struck with precision—basic forms drilled clean, no wasted motion. Jiraiya flowed around them, instincts turning every dodge into a counter. A kick swept low; Jiraiya hopped it, heel snapping toward Hayato's shoulder, but the boy twisted and blocked with a raised arm.
The yard's murmurs grew louder.
"Hayato's technique is solid.""Jiraiya's faster, though.""They're even."
Even. That word grated at Hayato more than any bruise.
He lunged harder, pushing with a flurry of strikes meant to overwhelm. Jiraiya ducked, blocked, slid back. Predator's Instinct kept him just far enough, never letting the blows land clean. He wasn't winning yet, but he wasn't losing either.
"Is this all, white hair?" Hayato spat, voice tight between strikes. "You dodge, you grin, you hope someone thinks you're special because you don't fall in the first minute?"
Jiraiya's grin widened. "Better than swinging like a drunk carpenter."
The yard laughed. Hayato's eyes darkened.
Then his words turned. "You think standing near Tsunade makes you her equal? You think she'll ever see a nobody like you as anything but a shadow in her way?"
Something in Jiraiya's chest tightened. He caught the next punch on his forearm, slid into Hayato's guard, and shoved him back two steps. "Leave her out of it."
Hayato sneered, loud enough for everyone. "Why not? Everyone can see it. You follow her with your eyes like a stray begging scraps. She's Senju. You're dirt. That gap doesn't close, no matter how many targets you hit."
The yard went still. The words cut sharper than fists.
And then Tsunade's voice came, cool and sharp as glass. "Shut up, Hayato."
He froze.
She stepped forward, eyes narrowing, tone loud enough for the whole yard. "You want to know why I never paid attention to you? Because instead of training, you waste your breath trying to drag others down. That's weakness. That's why you'll never matter to me."
The words landed harder than any blow Jiraiya had thrown. The yard hissed with whispers. Hayato's face went pale, then flushed deep red, rage twisting every line.
"Say that again," he snarled, voice cracking.
"I don't need to," Tsunade said flatly. "You heard me the first time."
Jiraiya saw it before it came—the way Hayato's shoulders coiled, the way his fist clenched like it wanted to break more than bones. Predator's Instinct hummed…but this time, something else stirred beneath it.
It wasn't instinct. It wasn't precision.
It was pressure.
It leaked out of him like smoke from a crack, heavy and sharp. The yard went quiet. Children shifted uncomfortably, breaths catching. Even Tsunade's eyes widened as the air thickened, as if gravity had decided to remember them personally.
Hayato froze mid-step. His eyes locked on Jiraiya, pupils shrinking, sweat breaking out cold. His body refused to move, every muscle screaming against an invisible weight.
Jiraiya didn't lunge. He didn't strike. He just looked at him, eyes sharp, body still. And the look alone carried the promise of violence so absolute it made the dirt underfoot tremble.
The system's voice whispered inside him.
[Ding]Reward gained: Killing Intent.Your presence alone declares death. Weak wills falter. The strong recognize a predator.
The aura deepened. The closest students stumbled back, some clutching their stomachs as if they'd been struck. A few fell to their knees, gasping. The only sound was Hayato's ragged breathing, trapped in the cage Jiraiya had unknowingly built around him.
The world shrank.
Hayato's fists hung useless at his sides, trembling. His lips parted like he meant to speak, but no sound came. Jiraiya's gaze pinned him in place, heavy as chains. Around them, the other students shifted, restless, unable to breathe properly under the weight pressing down.
Tsunade's jaw tightened. She had sparred against adults before, had felt the crushing presence of seasoned shinobi when they demonstrated the difference between a child and a warrior. But this wasn't an adult. This wasn't a trained jonin. This was Jiraiya.
And the killing aura he radiated was raw, primal, without polish—and somehow more terrifying for it.
"Enough," Nishikado barked. His voice cut like steel on steel. Yet even he took a half-step forward before catching himself, the weight nudging at his own composure. His eyes narrowed, sharp as ever, but beneath them was something else—concern. Maybe even unease.
Jiraiya blinked. The fog in his chest cleared just enough for him to notice.
The yard. The whispers turned into silence. Tsunade watching, eyes wide but steady. Orochimaru leaning forward, pale face unreadable yet intent. Hayato's knees nearly buckling.
"What…" Jiraiya whispered, his throat dry. His fists trembled. He hadn't moved, hadn't struck, but it felt like he had already done something irreversible.
The aura ebbed, withdrawing back into him like a tide pulling from shore. Students gasped as the invisible weight lifted. A few slumped with relief. Hayato staggered back, sweat dripping, his eyes wide with disbelief and something darker.
"You…" Hayato rasped, pointing with a shaking hand. "What the hell are you?"
Jiraiya didn't answer. He didn't have one.
Tsunade stepped in, not toward Jiraiya, but toward Hayato. Her gaze was sharp enough to pierce him. "He's what you'll never be," she said, her tone firm and cold. "Stronger. Braver. And not obsessed with tearing others down just to feel taller."
The words sliced Hayato worse than the aura had. His face twisted, red with humiliation, fury, shame—all tangled into one ugly knot. For a heartbeat he looked ready to throw himself back into the fight despite everything. Then his eyes darted to Tsunade, to the way she hadn't flinched under Jiraiya's pressure, and he froze.
Nishikado stepped between them at last. "Class dismissed. Now."
No one argued. The students scattered like startled birds, their voices hushed, their eyes cutting sideways at Jiraiya as they fled.
Hayato lingered for a heartbeat longer, glare fixed on Jiraiya with an intensity that promised something far beyond a simple rivalry. Then he spun on his heel and stormed off, shoulders stiff, his shame trailing after him like smoke.
The yard emptied. Only three students remained.
Tsunade. Orochimaru. Jiraiya.
And the silence between them.
Jiraiya's chest felt hollow. The memory of that pressure clung to him, not in his skin, but deeper—in his marrow, in his breath. He hadn't chosen it. It had chosen him. And for the first time since the Academy began, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
Tsunade broke the quiet. "That look…" she said softly, almost to herself. Her golden eyes fixed on him. "It wasn't human."
The words landed heavy, but her gaze didn't carry fear. It carried recognition. Acknowledgment. Maybe even the faintest trace of respect.
Orochimaru tilted his head, his lips curling into a small, almost approving smile. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Raw killing intent. To project that at your age… remarkable."
Nishikado exhaled through his nose, sharp and deliberate. "Remarkable, dangerous, and untrained. Jiraiya."
Jiraiya straightened instinctively.
"You will learn to control this," Nishikado said. His voice was flat, iron pressed cold. "If you cannot, you will be a danger not only to your enemies but to your comrades. Understood?"
Jiraiya swallowed, throat tight. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Nishikado's eyes lingered a fraction longer, then he turned away, leaving the three of them under the wide sky.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Tsunade stepped closer, standing just near enough that Jiraiya felt the warmth of her presence even without looking. "Don't think this means you're untouchable," she said, voice softer than usual but still sharp. "You still have a lot to prove."
Jiraiya managed a crooked grin. "Guess I'll just have to keep showing off then."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't move away.
Orochimaru watched them both, silent, thoughtful. His gaze flicked to the spot where Hayato had stood, then back to Jiraiya. The faint smile lingered.
High above, hidden from sight, the Third Hokage lowered his pipe, smoke curling into the breeze. His eyes were grave.
"A boy with killing intent strong enough to freeze a yard…" Hiruzen murmured. "At this age… if guided, he will be a pillar. If not…" He let the thought fade, the smoke carrying it away.
Below, Jiraiya clenched his fists, still feeling the echo of that crushing aura. It wasn't just power. It was a promise. A threat. And it belonged to him now, whether he wanted it or not.