"Haha, what does it matter!" Jiraiya's arm not only didn't loosen but tightened even more, as if he hadn't felt the resistance. "You'll get used to it! Isn't that how friends are?" His tone was relaxed, with an undeniable familiarity.
Arriving in this student era, where the fires of war had not yet subsided but there was a quiet warmth, Jiraiya's heart was filled with an indescribable sense of cherish. As an orphan, the noisy times at the ninja academy, and the moments spent with these two companions—whose personalities were vastly different yet destined to be intertwined for life—were among the few fragments in his memory that shone with pure light. This bond, perhaps, began with the arrangement of fate, but he, Jiraiya (or rather, the current Chen Ziye), was willing to embrace and protect it with the greatest enthusiasm. (Chen Ziye will not appear again later)
Orochimaru's brow was still tightly furrowed, but his previously stiff body relaxed by a millimeter. He ultimately didn't forcefully break free again, merely quickening his pace in silence, as if wanting to quickly escape this irritating physical contact.
Of course, this was limited to Jiraiya. If any other clueless fool dared to be so presumptuous… he would make them deeply experience the majesty of the top student in their grade and the disparity in strength.
On the way home, Jiraiya's mouth was like a wind-up toy, endlessly chattering about trivial school anecdotes, occasionally interspersed with his "grand" visions for the future (such as inventing a ninjutsu that could automatically do homework, or opening a popular shop). Orochimaru, on the other hand, was like a mobile iceberg, occasionally responding with a lukewarm "Oh," or bluntly ending the conversation with "Boring" or "Idiot." The setting sun stretched their shadows long behind them; one bounced and chattered incessantly, while the other was silent and walked with steady steps. The peculiar combination formed a harmonious silhouette, winding its way through the alleys of Konoha.
Soon, Orochimaru's home came into view—a small yet clean and tidy two-story house. At the entrance, a gentle-faced man wearing a Chunin vest was already waiting—it was Orochimaru's father, Toumaru.
"Father." Orochimaru stopped a few steps away from his father, nodding slightly. His shoulder subtly dropped, finally freeing himself from Jiraiya's "grip."
Jiraiya immediately straightened up, a bright, sunny smile on his face, and bowed respectfully: "Hello, Uncle Toumaru!"
"Hello, hello!" Toumaru looked at the scene before him, his smile as bright and warm as the evening glow. His son was aloof and had few friends; being able to play with a lively and cheerful child like Jiraiya was one of the things that brought him the most comfort as a father. "It's little Jiraiya! Is everything well at school?" His gaze lingered on Jiraiya for an extra moment, his tone filled with genuine encouragement, "Little Jiraiya, come over and play with Orochimaru more often when you have time!"
"Definitely, definitely! Don't worry, Uncle Toumaru!" Jiraiya readily agreed, nodding vigorously. "Then I'll head home now! Goodbye, Uncle! Orochimaru, see you tomorrow!" He waved to both of them and turned to run towards his own house, his back full of youthful energy.
Watching Orochimaru follow his father into the warmly lit doorway of their home, a flicker of imperceptible envy crossed Jiraiya's eyes. That was a home… a home where parents waited. Even if it was just a small house, it carried the priceless bond of family affection. In contrast, his home… Ten minutes later, Jiraiya stopped in front of a single-story cottage on the outskirts of the village. A small yard surrounded the house, the fence was a bit dilapidated, and the weeds were slightly overgrown. It was particularly quiet here, far from the bustling center of the village.
Taking out the key to unlock the door, Jiraiya habitually called out to the empty house, "I'm home!" His voice echoed in the somewhat spacious room before finally dissipating.
The simple living room came into view: the only things that could be called furniture were a well-worn old sofa and a low coffee table; otherwise, it was empty. Inside were three doors: bedroom, toilet, kitchen.
Jiraiya walked straight to the bedroom. Pushing open the door, a mix of sweat and dust assaulted his nostrils. The sight before him made him, a transmigrator with a slight 潔癖 , gasp—clothes were scattered across the floor as if a storm had hit, some hanging on chair backs, some piled in the corner, and books were casually discarded in another corner. This was simply… a disaster zone!
"Ugh, the previous owner lived too roughly…" Jiraiya sighed helplessly, rolled up his sleeves, and began to tidy up. He roughly separated the dirty clothes by color, stacked the books neatly on the table, and swept the floor clean. It took him over ten minutes for the bedroom to barely regain a sense of order. Looking at the fruits of his labor, Jiraiya finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Next, he pushed open the kitchen door. A more intense mixture of years of cooking fumes and dust assailed his sense of smell. The stove and utensils were covered in a thick layer of dust and grease, as if they had been abandoned for a long time. He opened the refrigerator with a last sliver of hope—sure enough, it was empty, containing only a few pathetic instant noodles and a few bottles of milk, curled up lonely in a corner. This guy, the previous owner, must have treated the kitchen as mere decoration!
Another heavy sigh. Jiraiya resignedly stood on a small stool and plunged into "battle" again. This battle was even tougher—greasy stovetops, yellowed cabinets, dusty pots, pans, and bowls… Half an hour later, when Jiraiya straightened up, clutching his sore back, and looked at the finally sparkling clean kitchen, a sense of accomplishment welled up. He glanced at the wall clock; it was already six-thirty in the evening.
"Man is iron, food is steel! One meal skipped and you're starving!" Jiraiya muttered, walking towards the bedroom. He pulled open a desk drawer, where a gaudy-covered book and a small stack of crumpled banknotes lay quietly. The book's title made his eyelid twitch—"The Secrets You Can't Tell"! Reading this kind of book at four years old?! Jiraiya's mouth twitched, and the "glorious deeds" of Jiraiya in the original story—peeping into women's bathhouses and writing Icha Icha Paradise—flashed through his mind. He casually flipped through a couple of pages; the content was crude and explicit, the writing shoddy. "Tsk… what kind of garbage is this…" He pouted in disgust, about to throw the book into the trash, when a thought suddenly flashed through his mind: "Wait… writing books? That's right! Since my future self is involved in 'literary creation'… why can't I start early? Copy… ah no, borrowing from classics of my previous life, it would definitely sweep the entire ninja world! Fame and fortune!"