Naruto: End of the Shinobi World

The moment that thought surfaced, even he was startled.

A thousand years of obsession. A thousand years of waiting. Wasn’t it all for the sake of rescuing Mother, who had been sealed within the moon?

But now…

”...”

Should he continue carrying out the plan and summon Mother?

Setting aside the fact that Madara and Obito—those two ”chess pieces”—were proving far less reliable than he had hoped… Even if he did manage to revive her, could Mother handle these unheard-of enemies and their completely unfamiliar power systems?

What if, the moment she emerged, that girl Karin captured her for research?

But if he abandoned the plan and kept waiting… how much longer would that be?

Another thousand years?

And who could say that these newly emerged ”old monsters” wouldn’t one day decide to dismantle the moon itself just to see what was inside?

After living for a millennium, Black Zetsu felt for the first time that he might have been the most naïve and ignorant being of all.

The Land of Rain

Jiraiya strode boldly through the streets of Amegakure, his long white hair and tall frame drawing more than a few glances.

”Haha, still as rainy as ever. Nothing’s changed,” he said, wiping droplets from his face.

His gaze swept over the street. Most of the buildings were still low and worn, and the civilians dressed plainly, but—

”Still, Nagato and the others have done a decent job.”

Jiraiya walked at an unhurried pace, like a true tourist.

It really was different.

More than ten years ago, the Land of Rain had truly been a ”nation of tears.”

War had raged endlessly; this place was merely a pawn sacrificed in the power struggles of the great nations. Hunger, fear, and numbness had filled the streets. Children rummaged through ruins in search of scraps of food. The air had reeked not only of damp rain but also of despair and blood.

Now, though the streets remained slick and muddy, they were much cleaner. A few small shops had even appeared along the sides, with crude signboards selling food, cloth, or repair tools.

The pedestrians still hurried past, but the near-death numbness in their eyes had faded. In its place was a wary resilience—a difficult but determined will to survive.

At least on the surface, a fragile, civilian order had been restored.

It left Jiraiya with mixed feelings.

”Leaf shinobi—halt!”

A sharp shout, thick with a local accent, broke his thoughts.

At the intersection ahead, a squad of Amegakure shinobi blocked his path.

Their weapons remained sheathed, but their hands rested firmly on their sword hilts and ninja pouches.

The leader, a middle-aged man with a scar across his face, stared at Jiraiya with hawk-like intensity.

”What business do you have in the Land of Rain?” the scarred shinobi asked in a low, guarded voice.

One of the legendary Sannin of Konohagakure—Jiraiya. Of course he recognized him.

Jiraiya stopped and spread his hands, showing he meant no harm.

”Now, now, no need to be so tense, my friends of Amegakure.” He glanced at the Ame-nin subtly forming a perimeter around him, then at the civilians watching nervously from beneath the eaves in the distance. ”I’m just a wandering novelist. Thought I’d drop by to see some old acquaintances.”

”How arrogant.”

The voice came from a young shinobi. It wasn’t loud, but the suppressed anger in it made it ring clearly.

”Lord Nagato was right. The arrogance of the great nations toward smaller ones will never disappear.”

”Kurowa, that’s enough!” the scarred captain barked.

But he kept his wary gaze fixed on Jiraiya, clearly not dismissing the young man’s words entirely.

Jiraiya fell silent.

He looked at Kurowa’s youthful face, twisted with pent-up fury. When he spoke, he tried to respond with the ideals he once held dear, but his voice came out drier than expected.

”In the end, Nagato will still believe that people can come to understand one another. Young man, you have to have faith.”

”That’s bullshit!”

Kurowa stepped forward abruptly, unafraid of Jiraiya’s darkening expression. Youthful recklessness and the accumulated hatred of a war-torn homeland made him speak without restraint.

”I’ve never believed that! The great nations preach peace and understanding, but behind the scenes all they do is suck smaller countries dry!”

Jiraiya’s face hardened completely. The pressure of a top-tier shinobi radiated from him naturally, and even the falling rain seemed to stagnate for an instant.

He was about to speak—

But Kurowa’s next words struck like a precisely aimed club, shaking him to his core and scattering the momentum he had gathered.

”For example—you, Jiraiya!”

Kurowa jutted his chin forward, pointing directly at him.

”You’re a shinobi of Konohagakure. You didn’t send word. You didn’t ask permission. You just strolled straight into our village. Tell me—doesn’t that count as an invasion?!”

Invasion?

The word pierced Jiraiya’s ears like an icicle.

There was no way he could admit that.

Almost instinctively, he retorted, ”How could that be? I don’t have hostile intentions!”

He had come to investigate the truth behind Akatsuki, to confirm his former student’s situation, to try—

—to salvage something.

How could that possibly be called an invasion?

”No hostile intentions?” Kurowa let out a mocking laugh, his eyes filled with scorn. ”Then tell me—would you walk straight into Kumogakure like this? Into Iwagakure? Would you?!”

Would you?

Three simple words exploded in Jiraiya’s mind like thunder.

The anger on his face froze instantly.

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