"Haha, what does it matter!" Jiraiya's arm didn't loosen; instead, he hugged him even tighter, as if he didn't feel the resistance. "You'll get used to it! Isn't that how friends are?" His tone was relaxed, with an undeniable intimacy.
Arriving in this student era, where the fires of war had not yet died down but was peaceful and warm, Jiraiya's heart was filled with an unspeakable sense of cherish. As an orphan, the noisy times at the Ninja Academy, and every moment 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 Jiraiya (or rather, Jiraiya, as he was now) was willing to embrace and protect it with the greatest enthusiasm. (Jiraiya will not appear again later)
Orochimaru's brows were still tightly furrowed, but his previously stiff body relaxed by a millimeter. He didn't forcefully break free again, merely quickening his pace in silence, as if wanting to quickly escape this physical contact that annoyed him.
Of course, this was limited to Jiraiya. If any other clueless fellow dared to be so presumptuous… he would make them deeply experience the majesty of the top student in their year and the gap 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 moving iceberg, occasionally responding with a cold "Oh," or abruptly ending the topic with "Boring" or "Idiot." The setting sun cast long shadows of the two behind them; one bounced and chattered incessantly, while the other was silent and walked with steady steps. This peculiar combination formed a harmonious silhouette, winding its way through the alleys of Konoha.
Soon, Orochimaru's house appeared, a small but clean and tidy two-story civilian house. At the door, a gentle-faced man wearing a Chunin vest was already waiting—it was Orochimaru's father, Hajime Morita.
"Father." Orochimaru stopped a few steps from his father, nodded slightly, and his shoulders subtly dropped, finally free from Jiraiya's "grip."
Jiraiya immediately straightened up, a bright, sunny smile on his face, and bowed respectfully: "Hello, Uncle Hajime Morita!"
"Hello, hello!" Hajime Morita looked at the scene before him, his smile as bright and warm as the evening glow. His son had an aloof and solitary personality and very few friends, so seeing him play with a lively and cheerful child like Jiraiya was one of the most gratifying things for him as a father. "It's little Jiraiya! Is everything well at school?" His gaze lingered on Jiraiya for a moment, his tone carrying sincere encouragement, "Little Jiraiya, come over and play with Orochimaru more often when you have time!"
"Definitely, definitely! Uncle Hajime Morita, don't worry!" Jiraiya readily agreed, nodding vigorously. "Then I'll head home now! Goodbye, Uncle! Orochimaru, see you tomorrow!" He waved to the two of them, then turned and ran towards his own home, his back filled with youthful vitality.
Watching Orochimaru follow his father into the warm, lit doorway of their home, a hint of undetectable envy flickered in the depths of Jiraiya's eyes. That was a home… a home where parents waited. Even if it was just a small civilian house, it carried priceless family bonds. In contrast, his home… About ten minutes later, Jiraiya stopped in front of a single-story cottage on the outskirts of the Village. A small courtyard surrounded the house; the fence was a bit dilapidated, and the weeds were slightly overgrown. It was far from the bustling center of the Village, making it exceptionally quiet.
Taking out the key and unlocking the door, Jiraiya habitually called out to the empty house, "I'm home!" His voice echoed in the somewhat spacious room, eventually 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; besides that, it was empty. Inside were three doors: bedroom, toilet, kitchen.
Jiraiya walked straight to the bedroom. Pushing open the door, a mixed smell of sweat and dust assaulted him. The sight before him made this somewhat Obsessive-compulsive disorder (cleanliness-obsessed) transmigrator gasp—clothes were scattered everywhere as if a storm had hit, some hanging on chair backs, some piled in corners, and books were casually discarded in a corner. This was simply… a disaster scene!
"Sigh, my previous self lived too roughly…" Jiraiya sighed helplessly, rolled up his sleeves, and began to tidy up. He roughly separated the dirty clothes by color, neatly stacked the books 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 results of his labor, Jiraiya finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Next, he pushed open the kitchen door. A more intense smell of years of cooking fumes and dust mixed together assailed his sense of smell. The stove and cooking utensils were covered in thick dust and grease, as if they had been abandoned for a long time. He opened the refrigerator with a last shred of hope—sure enough, it was empty, with only a few pathetic instant noodles and a few bottles of milk, huddled alone in a corner. His previous self, it seemed, had 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 waist, and looked at the finally sparkling clean kitchen, a sense of accomplishment welled up. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was already half past six in the evening.
"Man is iron, food is steel! One meal missed makes you hungry!" 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 eyelids twitch—"Secrets That Must Be Told"! Reading this kind of book at four years old?! Jiraiya's mouth twitched, and his mind instantly flashed with the "glorious deeds" of the original Jiraiya peeking into women's bathhouses and writing Icha Icha Paradise. He casually flipped through a couple of pages; the content was crude and explicit, the writing skill abysmal. "Tsk… what kind of rubbish is this…" He pouted disdainfully, just about to throw the book into the trash can, 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, draw inspiration from classic works of my previous life, it would definitely sweep across the entire Ninja World! Fame and fortune!"