Jiraiya wandered down the streets of Konoha, his face thoughtful. He wasn't hunting for material this time; his mind was elsewhere.
He, Tsunade, and Naruto had reached an agreement: once the Third Hokage stepped down, they'd push Konoha's reorganization forward together. There might be surprises, but the overall plan was decided.
Jiraiya wasn't aiming for Hokage. Tsunade had already said she wouldn't run. Counting things up, Naruto looked like the most qualified candidate — even if, by tradition, he was far too young.
"Could the boy of the prophecy really be Naruto?" Jiraiya wondered. For years he'd chased that rumor — the Toad Sage's prophecy — and had been burned before when he thought Nagato might be the one. Seeing Naruto now, Jiraiya felt again the chill of possibility.
A vendor in a shop nearby had the TV on and suddenly stopped Jiraiya in his tracks. A program had a masked ninja being interviewed, and the guest's measured, hesitant answers showed a man conflicted about his life as a shinobi. At one point he admitted he sometimes envied ordinary people's peace.
The vendor sighed. If even high-ranking shinobi felt that pull toward an ordinary life, it was a striking reminder of how heavy the ninja's burden could be.
"Do you regret being a ninja?" the interviewer asked.
"No," one jōnin replied on the screen. "If I wasn't a ninja with strength, I couldn't protect my village and family. There's no safety without strength."
Another jōnin hedged: "I don't regret it exactly. Being a ninja has advantages and disadvantages. I wish for the advantages but hate the costs."
The broadcast stitched together lots of different answers: regret, pride, hesitation, conflicted emotions. Jiraiya watched intently. It made him think: are ninjas born to this life — or are they made to accept it? Can you choose differently?
The show's red-headed interviewer introduced the final segment: a street interview in Konoha. She pointed the camera at the three young ninjas walking together — a red-haired boy with a gourd on his back, a blond girl, and a dark-clad boy.
"Why did you become a ninja? Why not live a normal life?" she asked.
"We were born to it," the blond girl replied quickly. Her voice sounded natural but her eyes carried a shadow.
"Born to it?" the interviewer pressed. "No one has to be born to be a ninja. You can choose. Farmer, merchant, wanderer — or ninja. If it isn't a choice, then it's a tragedy."
Her words stilled the people watching the broadcast. The shopkeeper nodded: a life forced upon someone was a sad thing indeed.
"Little brother," she asked the red-haired boy, "after becoming a genin, what did you gain? What did you lose?"
The question stirred the red-haired boy. He straightened, a wild light flashing in his eyes. The blond and the dark-clad boy tried to steady him.
"I want to answer," he said, and faced the camera with a broken smile.
The vendor watched, breath caught.
"What I gained… was strength. Great strength." He laughed loudly. Then, behind him, the gourd burst open and sand poured out, forming monstrous claws and a terrifying presence that even the screen conveyed.
The vendor felt uneasy — the boy seemed dangerous. But as the camera zoomed into the boy's eyes, the vendor's reaction shifted. In those blank eyes there was no triumph, no joy. There was only pain, madness, and deep despair.
"What did I lose?" the boy asked the camera, voice hollow.
"I lost everything."
He spread his arms as if to embrace the world, but he held nothing. The emptiness in him was chilling. The screen froze on his expression, and the vendor, unexpectedly moved, started to cry. He'd first thought the boy deluded, but now he felt pity — a fierce urge to comfort a child who'd been denied love.
"This boy must be starved for love," the vendor murmured. "How did he end up a ninja by destiny? Why wasn't he given a choice? Why didn't anyone give him a little love?"
The vendor whispered the name: "That's Gaara from Sunagakure. I never expected the feared Gaara — the one people call the Shura slaughterer — to be so love-starved. If he lacked love, that's how he turned into someone who could kill without blinking."
Across the ninja world, viewers watching that segment were deeply shaken. Many of them were moved to tears. The program had done what it intended: to show the complex, wounded humanity behind the masks and armor. Ninjas, it turned out, were tragic figures — fierce on the outside, fragile inside. The final face on the screen — empty, lost, desperate — stayed with countless viewers long after the broadcast ended.
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