The forest beyond the Academy was quieter than the village, a stillness broken only by the call of birds and the whisper of leaves. The air carried the earthy smell of moss and wet bark, and sunlight leaked through the canopy in fractured beams. It was the perfect place for training—private, hidden, far from Nishikado's constant barked orders.
Jiraiya swung his fist into the trunk of a thick oak, the thud ringing through his knuckles. He shook out the sting, grinning at the faint indent his punch left. His shirt clung to his skin with sweat, but he didn't care. He thrived in exhaustion, the kind that left his muscles trembling, the kind that promised growth.
Across from him, Orochimaru stood calm, deliberate. His pale hands weaved through seals with surgical precision. A small serpent shimmered into existence from smoke, curling around his wrist before dissipating. Another seal, another serpent—this one lasting longer, fangs gleaming, its hiss sharp in the quiet. Orochimaru's amber eyes tracked every movement, not with pride, but with clinical hunger.
"You hit things until your fists bleed," Orochimaru said evenly, his voice as smooth as the stream that wound nearby. "I refine techniques until they obey perfectly. You burn yourself out. I conserve until I need only one strike."
Jiraiya smirked, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "Yeah, yeah, you like your snakes and your creepy chakra tricks. But when the fight comes, it's fists that finish it. Not scribbles with your fingers."
"Fists break against armor," Orochimaru replied, summoning another serpent. This one slithered forward, wrapping around a branch and snapping it clean. "Technique pierces through it."
Jiraiya stomped forward, planting his stance before a stone twice his size. His knuckles brushed the ground, his breath deep. Predator's Instinct whispered the right angle. He exhaled, drove his fist forward—
Crack.
The stone split, fragments scattering into the grass. Jiraiya grinned wide, chest heaving. "Armor, stone, doesn't matter. You just need to hit harder."
For a long moment, Orochimaru only stared. His face betrayed no shock, but his eyes gleamed sharper, cataloging, dissecting. "Raw force. Impressive. Wasteful."
Jiraiya threw his head back and laughed. "Call it wasteful, but it works, doesn't it?"
They trained until sweat ran down their arms and their lungs ached. Jiraiya practiced combinations—punch, kick, elbow, pivot—until his balance wavered. Orochimaru shifted from serpents to elemental control, weaving water from a nearby puddle into a thin blade that shimmered before vanishing.
When at last they sank onto fallen logs, breathless and bruised, silence stretched between them.
The forest felt alive with their exhaustion, cicadas humming in the heat, the distant murmur of the stream filling the gaps.
Jiraiya leaned back, staring at the canopy. "You ever wonder why we're busting ourselves like this? I mean, I get training, but what's the endgame? What are we chasing?"
Orochimaru folded his hands in his lap, expression unreadable. "Strength."
"Sure," Jiraiya said. "But for what?"
"Power is its own purpose," Orochimaru said softly, as if explaining something to a child. "The strong control the weak. That is the natural order. To master strength is to master the world. Knowledge, techniques, everything… they are all pieces of power. Without it, you are nothing."
Jiraiya frowned, sitting forward. "That's crap. Strength isn't about stepping on people. It's about protecting them. About making sure the ones you care about don't get crushed."
"Protecting?" Orochimaru's lips curled faintly, almost in amusement. "You believe you can protect everyone? Even those too weak to protect themselves? Even those who refuse to fight?"
"If I'm strong enough, yeah," Jiraiya shot back.
"Naïve." Orochimaru's eyes gleamed in the fading light. "You'll spread yourself thin, waste your gifts trying to shield the helpless. And when you fail—and you will fail—the world will devour them anyway."
Jiraiya's hands curled into fists. "Better to try and fail than sit back and let it happen."
Silence again, but this one sharp, filled with unspoken weight.
Orochimaru studied him like a specimen. "You chase strength to be a shield. I chase it to become untouchable. That difference will break us one day."
Jiraiya met his gaze, fire in his eyes. "Or maybe it's what'll keep us balanced."
For a heartbeat, their wills clashed—Jiraiya's reckless defiance against Orochimaru's cold hunger.
Then, from deeper in the forest, a twig snapped.
Both turned.
Tsunade emerged from the trees, arms crossed, expression caught between irritation and amusement. Her blonde hair stuck slightly from the humidity, her training clothes dirt-stained. She looked at them like they were children fighting over scraps.
"Are you two done arguing about whose idea of strength is prettier?" she asked flatly.
Jiraiya blinked. "You were listening?"
"Hard not to, with your yelling."
Orochimaru gave a small shrug, unconcerned at being overheard. "Then tell us, Tsunade. What is strength, in your eyes?"
She paused, then smirked faintly. "Strength is making sure people remember your name. Not because you crushed them or coddled them, but because you stood tall enough that nobody could ignore you."
Jiraiya blinked. "That's… actually kinda good."
Orochimaru tilted his head. "Legacy. Interesting."
Tsunade sighed, stepping closer. "Honestly, you're both idiots. One wants to save everyone, the other wants to control everything. Me? I'll just become so strong that nobody can tell me what I can or can't do."
Jiraiya grinned at her fire. "That's the Tsunade I know."
Orochimaru's smile was thin. "Perhaps. But in the end, only one of us will be right."
The three of them sat in uneasy silence for a while, the forest breathing around them.
Jiraiya looked between his friends—one chasing power, the other chasing freedom. He clenched his fists, feeling the secret of Heavenly Step humming inside him, the white star waiting under his skin.
He didn't know what the future held, but he knew this: whatever path they chose, his would be his own.
The three of them walked the narrow trail back toward the village, the ground soft beneath their sandals from the rain earlier that week. The forest, usually alive with birds and insects, felt subdued—as though it too was listening to the echoes of their argument.
Jiraiya trailed behind at first, his thoughts heavy. Orochimaru's words gnawed at him like teeth: Power is its own purpose. The strong control the weak. It clashed against his chest, against the fire that told him strength was meant for something more. He flexed his fingers absently, half-expecting the white ✧ flash of Heavenly Step to spark between them.
Orochimaru walked ahead, his back straight, his presence sharp even in silence. He hadn't looked at Jiraiya once since the argument ended. But his mind was no less restless. In his eyes, Jiraiya was a contradiction: raw power without refinement, instinct wrapped in recklessness. Useful, yes. But dangerous.
Tsunade strode between them, her pace steady, her expression unreadable. To anyone watching, she seemed the calmest of the three. But her mind churned. She had heard enough of their words to know that both boys were carving paths that would shape their futures—and hers, whether she wanted it or not.
"You two really don't get it," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Jiraiya blinked. "What don't we get?"
"Strength isn't about protecting, and it isn't about controlling. It's about standing tall enough that you don't have to ask permission," she said firmly. Her golden eyes narrowed. "If I want to fight, I'll fight. If I want to heal, I'll heal. Nobody will tell me otherwise."
Jiraiya tilted his head, watching her with a faint smile. "That's freedom, right?"
"It's strength," Tsunade corrected. "Freedom without strength is just an illusion. And strength without freedom is a cage."
Orochimaru chuckled quietly, the sound low and unsettling. "So you would make strength your servant, rather than becoming its master. Curious."
Tsunade glanced at him. "Say what you want, Orochimaru. I don't care about mastering strength. I care about making sure it never masters me."
The words landed harder than she probably intended. Orochimaru's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
They reached a small bridge crossing the stream near the village outskirts. The water gurgled beneath, carrying leaves and fragments of bark. Jiraiya leaned on the railing, staring at his reflection in the ripples. His white hair, damp with sweat, looked almost like the starburst that had carried him across the clearing earlier.
If they knew about Heavenly Step… would they understand? Or would they see me as a freak?
The thought twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He imagined Orochimaru dissecting the technique like one of his serpents, breaking it down into parts. He imagined Tsunade pushing him harder, demanding he use it to prove himself. He imagined Hayato sneering, calling it a trick.
No. Not yet. It was better kept secret, a card hidden close.
"Lost in thought again?" Tsunade asked, watching him from the other side of the bridge.
"Just… thinking about the future," Jiraiya said vaguely.
"Future's a long way off," she replied, brushing past him. "Try worrying about tomorrow first. You've still got class drills."
He laughed, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
Orochimaru lingered a step behind, his gaze fixed not on the stream but on Jiraiya himself. He had noticed the way Jiraiya's body moved earlier during training—the half-step that carried him farther than it should, the uncanny speed. He hadn't said anything. Not yet. But the seed of suspicion had been planted.
As the three finally entered the village, the sun dipped low, painting the Hokage Monument in gold. Shadows stretched long across the rooftops.
Jiraiya slowed again, staring at the carved stone faces of the First and Second Hokage. Pillars of strength. Legends. Men who had left their mark on the world.
Someday, he thought fiercely. I'll stand tall enough to protect everyone I care about. Even if Orochimaru thinks it's impossible. Even if Tsunade thinks I'm reckless. Someday, I'll prove it.
That night, lying on his futon, the words of both friends returned to him. Orochimaru's cold ambition. Tsunade's fiery independence. He turned them over in his mind like stones, feeling their edges, their weight.
Which of them was right? Maybe neither. Maybe both.
All he knew was that his path had to be different.
He flexed his toes, remembering the ache in his ankles, the fire of the ✧ flashes under his skin. Heavenly Step pulsed in his memory, bright and sharp. That was his strength. Not yet ready for the world, but waiting.
He closed his eyes, promising himself: When the time comes, I won't hesitate.
The village outside drifted into sleep, unaware that in its midst three children had already begun to shape the ideals that would one day shake the shinobi world.