A long silence hung over the ruined street, the rain pattering softly against broken stone.

Finally, Jiraiya spoke.

"Whether you call yourself Nagato… or Yahiko," his voice was low, steady, "this isn't the time for the Ninja World to tear itself apart from within."

The air seemed to loosen a fraction, his words cutting through the hostility like a wedge.

He turned to face Nagato, then pivoted toward Danzo.

"And you, Danzo…"

His tone shifted, dropping the warmth entirely, replacing it with the cold weight of command.

"If you don't want to die here, take your Root operatives and leave. Now."

Danzo's brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation and suspicion in his single visible eye.

"Jiraiya… are you ordering me?" His voice was gravelly, edged with restrained menace.

"Not an order," Jiraiya replied, every word clipped and resolute. "Honest advice."

The intent in his voice was clear—advice that, if ignored, would quickly turn into action.

Kakashi seemed to understand. Subtly, he shifted his stance, his Sharingan narrowing as the point of his blade angled ever so slightly toward Danzo.

Danzo caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his annoyance. He cursed the young man inwardly for being so quick to exploit the situation.

But beneath his irritation, a deeper frustration stirred.

He swept his gaze across the field—the Sannin, the Copy Ninja, Pain's silent figures, Konan's watchful eyes.

Root's commander… Konoha's shadow hand… and they expect me to slink away like a beaten dog?

The humiliation burned, but even Danzo could not deny reality. His new power was still unrefined. The trump card he carried was not yet ready to be played—not here, not now.

"Kakashi."

Jiraiya's voice cut through his thoughts, calm once more.

"Escort Lord Danzo out."

"Yes," Kakashi replied, stepping forward. His expression was unreadable as he extended an arm in a polite, but firm, gesture.

"Lord Danzo… this way."

Their eyes met. Kakashi's gaze was like still water—calm, but deep enough to hide currents.

Danzo's nostrils flared. He gave a sharp, dismissive snort, flicked his sleeve, and turned away.

The Root operatives fell in silently behind him, their masked faces betraying nothing.

The sound of their retreat faded into the rain until only the Sannin and the Akatsuki leaders remained.

Jiraiya turned back, his voice carrying a faint release of tension—but not enough to hide the burden behind it.

"Well… now I'm the only Konoha ninja here."

His words were lighter, but his eyes were serious.

"Can we talk properly now?"

He looked at Nagato, his voice steady but leaving no room for dismissal.

Nagato said nothing, simply holding his gaze.

Konan stepped forward slightly. "What is it you want to discuss?"

"Stopping the disaster that's coming," Jiraiya answered without hesitation. "We don't have much time left."

He let the weight of the pause settle before continuing.

"From what I've learned… that planet hurtling toward us—might only be the beginning."

Black Zetsu froze mid-step, his yellow eye narrowing.

"…What did you say?"

Jiraiya's reply was calm, but his words cut like a blade.

"According to the prophecy from Mount Myōboku, the Sharingan has triggered a curse. The falling planet is just the first stone in an avalanche."

His gaze moved between Nagato and Konan, his voice gaining quiet force.

"This curse… begins with Uchiha Gen. And right now, the Ninja World doesn't have the luxury of being divided. Nagato, Konan—lead the Akatsuki. Help us stop what's coming."

He didn't plead—he offered terms as an equal.

"As for Danzo…" Jiraiya let the words hang deliberately, the silence almost more telling than speech.

Nagato and Konan exchanged a glance. The pause said enough—Jiraiya wouldn't shield Danzo if the time came.

When he spoke again, the decision was laid bare.

"If you choose to move against him… Konoha won't stand in your way."

Konan tilted her head, the faintest smile curving her lips. "You've changed, sensei."

"Oh?" Jiraiya glanced sideways at her.

"Didn't you just say you were a Konoha ninja?" Her voice carried a teasing edge, but her eyes were sharp.

For a moment, Jiraiya blinked, then coughed into his hand with feigned awkwardness.

"Cough… Well, I'm also a Great Sage, you know." He forced a grin, trying to lift the heaviness with humor.

Konan's smile deepened faintly, though she said nothing more.

Nagato, however, did not smile. His eyes softened—fractionally.

"You're right," he said at last. "The Ninja World doesn't have time for internal strife. I'll… leave persuading the Five Great Nations to you, sensei."

Jiraiya inclined his head. The words could mean many things—but there was agreement in them.

He was about to take his leave when Black Zetsu's voice interrupted.

"Jiraiya," the shadow whispered, "don't return to the village alongside Danzo. Go separately."

Jiraiya arched a brow. "Afraid he'll try something?"

Zetsu's gaze was unreadable. "Killing you, then blaming Akatsuki… is exactly the kind of move Danzo would make."

The rain seemed to fall a little colder at those words.

Just as Danzo, Jiraiya, Kakashi, and the others were making their moves in the Hidden Rain Village…

Far away, in Konoha, the Root base lay buried beneath layers of earth and secrecy. Its halls were silent—too silent. Even the faint hum of ventilation seemed to have been swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

In that silence, a slender shadow detached itself from the darkness.

Orochimaru.

The pale Sannin glided forward, his serpent-like grace matching the stillness of the place. His black cloak shifted with each measured step, blending seamlessly into the dimness. The faint glint of his golden eyes was the only hint of life in the void-like corridor.

He passed through the cold, lifeless hallways until he reached the deepest chamber—a ritual space that was entirely sealed off. No windows. No natural light. Only a few weak oil lamps sputtered in their holders, their flames twitching as if sensing an intruder.

Danzo was not here. That, Orochimaru had already confirmed.A rare stroke of fortune.

He stepped into the center of the chamber and, without hesitation, unfurled a long, ancient sealing scroll across the cold stone floor. His long, pale fingers traced the etched runes, his touch almost reverent—yet there was nothing reverent about the cold glimmer in his eyes.

A low, serpentine whisper escaped his lips as his hands blurred into precise seals. Chakra spilled from his body in thin, rippling waves, bleeding into the scroll.

"Edo Tensei no Jutsu…"

The incantation seemed to sink into the air, resonating with something far beneath the ground. The stone floor gave a subtle tremor, and the runes under the scroll ignited with a dull, ominous glow.

A moment later, the sound came—deep and hollow—a coffin rising from the very earth.

It surfaced with a scraping shudder, its wooden sides groaning as if protesting the disturbance. The temperature in the chamber plunged, and Orochimaru could feel the air itself growing heavy, thick, almost tangible.

The coffin lid creaked. Slowly. Almost reluctantly.

Grayish-white smoke hissed from the opening like breath from a sleeping beast. Then—fingers, pale and precise, gripped the edge.

A figure stepped out.

Silver-white hair caught the dim lamplight. Eyes sharp as blades swept the room with cold calculation. His presence alone was suffocating—an aura of authority and power that even death could not erode.

Senju Tobirama. The Second Hokage.

He said nothing, but Orochimaru could feel it—he was being measured, weighed, and filed into whatever judgment the man's tactical mind had already reached.

Orochimaru's lips curled into the faintest smile, his voice low and deliberately respectful.

"Welcome back… Lord Tobirama."

There was no bow, but there was a calculated reverence in his tone.

Beneath it, however, lay something else.

Ambition.

And the quiet thrill of knowing that, this time, the Second Hokage had returned on his terms.