The Academy yard rang with the sound of wood on wood. Training posts lined the ground, wrapped in straw, each one marked with scratches from years of fists and kunai. The class gathered in rows while Nishikado stalked in front, eyes sharp as blades.
"Today," he said, "we test discipline under pressure. Pairs will run the obstacle drills—one attacks, one defends. Keep control. This isn't about winning. It's about restraint."
His voice dropped colder. "Lose control, and you'll answer to me."
The students swallowed. Nobody mistook Nishikado's warnings for idle threats.
Tsunade stretched her arms, confident as ever. Orochimaru adjusted his sleeves with calm precision. Jiraiya bounced lightly on his toes, eager for whatever the day threw at him. Across the yard, Hayato's glare never left him.
Pairings were called. Tsunade with another girl first. Orochimaru against a clan boy. Jiraiya against a lanky civilian with quick feet. They rotated through, wood smacking, dirt scuffing, breath ragged in the cool morning air.
Jiraiya's match ended quickly—his instincts carried him through, slipping every strike and countering just enough to impress without going overboard. He grinned as his partner scowled, then offered a hand to help him up. The boy hesitated, then took it.
"Next rotation," Nishikado called. "Tsunade. Hayato."
The yard stilled. Everyone felt the crackle in the air.
Tsunade stepped forward, loose and confident. Hayato rolled his shoulders, his smirk sharp, but his eyes burned.
"Remember," Nishikado said. "Control."
They bowed, then moved.
At first, it was even—Hayato's strikes came sharp and technical, Tsunade blocked with clean strength. She pushed him back with raw power, her fists making the posts shudder when she missed. Hayato circled, quick, precise.
But Jiraiya's eyes narrowed. Predator's Instinct whispered something wrong. Hayato wasn't fighting to win the drill. He was angling for something else.
Then it happened. Hayato feinted high, ducked low, and swept—not at Tsunade's legs, but at the weak spot of the post she was braced against. The wood cracked under her stance, sending her off balance.
She staggered, her guard open. Hayato's follow-up strike came fast, not pulled like it should have been, not aimed at her shoulder or arm, but at her temple—sharp, deliberate, meant to hurt.
Time slowed.
Jiraiya's chest ignited.
His breath vanished, replaced by fire crawling under his skin. The hum of Predator's Instinct roared into a scream, Bullseye vanished under a tunnel vision that saw only one thing: Tsunade about to fall, about to bleed, about to break.
Something inside him snapped.
The air warped.
[Ding]
Reward gained: Wrath Trigger.
When she is threatened, rage sharpens into perfect control. Power multiplies. Instinct becomes killing edge.
The weight slammed down harder than even Killing Intent. This was narrower, sharper, not an aura that swept a crowd but a blade pointed at a single soul.
Jiraiya moved before thought. His feet tore the dirt. His hand caught Hayato's wrist inches from Tsunade's head. The impact cracked like wood splitting.
Hayato gasped, his arm locked in Jiraiya's grip. His eyes widened at the face staring back at him—not the grinning loudmouth, not the cocky classmate, but something colder, deadlier.
Jiraiya twisted. Hayato's knees buckled. The boy went down with a choked cry as pressure like iron clamped his joints.
"You tried to hurt her," Jiraiya said, voice low, almost unrecognizable. Each word vibrated with the killing edge of Wrath Trigger. "You don't get to touch her."
Hayato writhed, panic breaking through his rage. "I—It was part of the drill—"
"Lie again," Jiraiya hissed, tightening his grip. Hayato's scream cut the air.
The yard froze. Nobody moved. Even Tsunade stared, shock warring with anger and something she couldn't name.
"Jiraiya!" Nishikado's voice cracked like thunder. "Release him!"
For a heartbeat, Jiraiya didn't hear. Wrath Trigger pulsed, whispering how easy it would be to end this here. One more twist. One more second. No more Hayato.
Then Tsunade's voice broke through. "Jiraiya."
Not a shout. Not a plea. Just his name, firm and steady.
The fire trembled. Jiraiya blinked. The aura shattered, leaving only his pounding heart and the yard's heavy silence.
He released Hayato, shoving him back to the dirt. The boy scrambled away, clutching his arm, eyes wild with humiliation and fear.
Nishikado appeared in front of Jiraiya in a blur, his expression carved from stone. "Inside. Now."
The training yard was silent, except for the ragged sound of Hayato's breathing. Dust hung in the air, stirred by his fall. Jiraiya's chest still heaved, the echo of that crushing pressure clinging to him like a second skin.
"Inside. Now." Nishikado's voice was sharp enough to break stone.
Jiraiya obeyed. His legs moved stiffly, carrying him toward the hall. Every step was weighed down by the whispers that followed him, by the eyes that darted away when he turned his head.
"He froze him…"
"…it felt like I couldn't breathe."
"…what was that?"
The door slid shut behind him, cutting off the noise.
The hall smelled of ink and parchment. Scrolls lined the walls, witnesses to countless lessons. Nishikado turned slowly, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"What did you just do?" His voice was calm, but every syllable carried weight.
Jiraiya's fists clenched. "He aimed for her head. He wasn't pulling the strike. I saw it."
"And so you decided to break him?" Nishikado's tone wasn't mocking. It was cold fact.
Jiraiya's jaw tightened. "If I hadn't stepped in, Tsunade could've—"
"You're right," Nishikado interrupted. His gaze narrowed. "But what came out of you wasn't just instinct. It wasn't a simple defense. The whole class felt it. Some of them couldn't stand."
Jiraiya froze. The words pressed harder than any blow.
"That wasn't training," Nishikado continued. "That was killing intent. Raw, uncontrolled. You let it bleed out of you." He stepped closer, his shadow falling across Jiraiya. "If you can't control it, you'll hurt more than just your enemies. You'll hurt your comrades too."
The words cut deep. Jiraiya wanted to argue, to say he hadn't meant to, but the memory of it was too fresh. The way the world had narrowed. The way his chest had burned. The terrifying clarity of wanting to end Hayato.
The door slid open. Tsunade stepped inside, Orochimaru just behind her. Nishikado's brow twitched, but he didn't send them away. Maybe he wanted witnesses.
Tsunade's eyes locked on Jiraiya. "You shouldn't have gone that far," she said bluntly.
"He would've hurt you," Jiraiya shot back, voice raw.
"I can defend myself," she snapped. Her words carried more pride than anger, but they landed sharp. "I don't need you to lose yourself for me."
Jiraiya lowered his gaze. The sting wasn't from her anger—it was because she was right.
Orochimaru tilted his head, studying Jiraiya with quiet fascination. "Still… what you projected… it wasn't chaos. It was precision born of rage. It focused you."
"That focus," Nishikado cut in, "is more dangerous than any blade. And until you can leash it, you are a danger—to everyone." He fixed his eyes on Jiraiya. "You'll learn to control that ability of yours. If you don't, it will control you."
The weight of the words sank into Jiraiya's chest. He swallowed, nodding once.
The door opened again. A chunin entered, Hayato limping behind him, clutching his arm. His eyes burned, his face twisted with humiliation.
"He'll live," the chunin reported curtly. "Sprain, nothing broken." His gaze lingered on Jiraiya with unease, then he left.
Hayato didn't move at first. His glare pinned Jiraiya in place, raw fury trembling in every line of his body. "You think this is done?" His voice was low, venomous. "It isn't. You'll regret ever standing in my way."
Nishikado's voice dropped, iron-heavy. "Enough. Out."
For a moment Hayato hesitated. His eyes flicked to Tsunade. The memory of her words earlier—that's why you'll never matter to me—twisted his face again. He spat to the side and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.
The silence that followed was thick.
Orochimaru lingered, his pale eyes unreadable. "You'll either master it," he said quietly, "or it will devour you." Then he slipped out.
Tsunade stayed. She looked at Jiraiya for a long moment, her arms crossed, her expression softer than before. "You're reckless," she said finally. "But… thanks."
It was quick, almost too quiet to catch, but it landed. Then she turned and left.
The room was empty again. Jiraiya stood alone, his fists trembling at his sides. The echo of that power still clung to him, terrifying and intoxicating.
That night, lying awake, he couldn't shake the memory. The surge. The rage. The way it had felt right.
High above the village, smoke curled from the Hokage's pipe as he looked down from his tower. Hiruzen's eyes were grave.
"The boy carries something that could change everything," he murmured. "If he learns to wield it, he may protect the village. If not…" He let the smoke drift into the night. "He'll be the storm that destroys it."