The blond-haired boy stepped out from the curtain of rain, forcing his face to remain calm as he slowly approached Jiraiya.
His heart was pounding. If he had a choice, he truly did not want to come out. These three shinobi placed immense pressure on him, and it was the war brought about by shinobi that had left him an orphan.
But he had no choice but to come out. He and Nagato had already reached their limit. Without food, they would only become cold corpses beneath the rain. Rather than that, he might as well come out and gamble on his luck. Besides, the worst outcome could not possibly be worse than their current situation.
And for some reason, his instincts told him that these three shinobi might not kill them. Especially that white-haired shinobi—he gave off a different kind of presence.
"Could you spare us some food?" Yahiko asked firmly, extending his hand. His tone was not particularly polite, and he was ready to turn and flee at any moment, though he knew that if they attacked, it would be useless.
"Where are your parents?" Jiraiya asked. He glanced at Orochimaru, signaling that the child posed no threat and telling him not to make any rash moves.
"They were killed by shinobi in this war," Yahiko said in a low voice.
Jiraiya fell silent for a moment, then unhesitatingly took out the food he carried and handed it over. "Here. Dried bread."
The shinobi world was cruel. Perhaps when they had just graduated, they could still hold on to their original hearts. But as time passed and they came to understand the cruelty of this world—especially after witnessing life and death so often—there were very few shinobi who could retain that same mindset.
Jiraiya was one of those