The door clicked shut behind Naruto and what was left of Team Seven, their footsteps fading down the corridor. Jiraiya remained standing before the Hokage's desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, the massive scroll on his back shifting with his slight movement.
Tsunade sat behind mountains of paperwork, her honey-brown eyes tracking him with that familiar mixture of exasperation and fondness she'd worn since their genin days. Time had been impossibly kind to her—or rather, her jutsu had been. That flawless face could have belonged to a woman half her age, smooth skin stretched over high cheekbones, full lips painted that soft pink she favoured. Her blonde hair fell in two loose pigtails over her shoulders, framing features that had launched a thousand fantasies across the shinobi nations.
And below that face—Jiraiya allowed himself a lingering glance—her grey kimono-style blouse gaped sinfully low, barely containing breasts that defied all reasonable physics. The dark obi cinched her waist tight, only serving to emphasize the obscene swell of her chest. Even seated, she radiated a raw, mature sexuality that made younger kunoichi look like children playing dress-up.
"You're staring," Tsunade said flatly.
"Research," Jiraiya replied with a grin that crinkled the red lines running down his weathered face. His white hair, pulled back in its usual wild ponytail, swayed as he shrugged dramatically. "The great Jiraiya never stops gathering material."
"The great Jiraiya is going to get his other arm broken if he doesn't focus."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling from his chest. At fifty-odd years, he'd grown into his frame—tall, broad-shouldered, the mesh armour visible at his wrists hinting at the battle-hardened body beneath his green kimono and red haori. The wart on his nose twitched when he smiled. "You've gotten meaner in your old age, Tsunade."
"And you've gotten grayer." She reached for the sake bottle on her desk—because of course there was one—and poured two cups. "Sit down. You're making my neck hurt looking up at you."
Jiraiya dropped into the chair across from her, accepting the offered cup. The liquid burned pleasantly down his throat. "The kid's gotten stronger. He'll surpass us both someday."
"He nearly did surpass you, from what I heard." Tsunade's eyes flicked to his chest, where beneath the layers of clothing lay the scar from Naruto's four-tailed rampage. "That was reckless, even for you."
"Had to be done." He waved dismissively. "Besides, scars make me more rugged. More appealing to the ladies."
"Name one lady who's been appealed."
"You're drinking with me right now."
"I drink with everyone. It's my coping mechanism.." She drained her cup and poured another. "Speaking of which—how's the last few years treating you? Enjoying your leisurely life of corrupting the brat and peeking at bathhouses?"
The question carried an edge. Jiraiya set down his cup, studying the woman before him. Behind the casual barb, tension coiled in her shoulders. The paperwork surrounding her wasn't routine—he recognized mission reports, casualty lists, diplomatic correspondence with broken seals.
"What's happened?"
Tsunade's expression hardened. She leaned forward, elbows planted on the desk, hands clasped before her. The movement pressed her breasts together, creating a canyon of cleavage that would have distracted a lesser man. Jiraiya kept his eyes on her face. Mostly.
"Rogue ninja," she said. "The numbers have tripled in the past six months. Missing-nin from every major village, some minor ones too. They're not just deserting—they're organizing. Striking at border towns, disrupting trade routes, assassinating diplomats."
"And the great nations are blaming each other."
"Naturally." Bitterness crept into her voice. "Kirgakure thinks we're harboring Cloud defectors. Kumogakure is convinced the rogues are Konoha plants. The Tsuchikage sent me a letter last week that was one passive-aggressive sentence away from a declaration of war." She unclenched her hands long enough to gesture at the mess on her desk. "Relations haven't been this bad since before the Third Shinobi War."
Jiraiya's jaw tightened. "Someone's pulling strings."
"That's what I believe." Tsunade met his gaze squarely. "I can't prove it, but this reeks of coordination. Someone benefits from the villages distrusting each other, from the chaos spreading. And we both know who thrives in chaos."
"Akatsuki."
The name hung between them like a drawn kunai.
"I don't have confirmation," Tsunade admitted. "That's the problem. My intelligence network has gaps—massive ones. Reports are contradictory. Sources have gone silent. I'm operating half-blind, and meanwhile the situation deteriorates daily."
She paused, and Jiraiya felt the weight of her next words before she spoke them.
"I know you've been focused on Naruto's training. And I know that work was important—more important than either of us can say aloud. But the boy is back now. He has Kakashi, his team, his own path to walk." Tsunade's clasped hands tightened. "I need my spy master back, Jiraiya. The real one. Not the semi-retired author who checks in occasionally between research trips."
Jiraiya said nothing for a long moment. Outside, the village sounds drifted through the windows—merchants calling, children laughing, the distant ring of hammer on steel from the weapon shops. Konoha at peace. Konoha unaware of the gathering storm.
Jiraiya huffed out a breath, the air escaping his lungs in a slow, measured release. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he processed the weight of her request. Three years he'd spent focused on Naruto—three years of watching the brat grow from a loudmouthed kid into something approaching a real shinobi. The work wasn't finished, not by a long shot, but Tsunade was right. The boy had others now. And the world wouldn't wait for any of them to be ready.
"Is there a specific village you want me to focus on first?" He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his considerable frame. "Cloud's been twitchy lately. Could start there, shake some trees, see what falls out."
Tsunade shook her head, blonde pigtails swaying with the motion. The gesture drew his attention to the graceful column of her neck, the way her collarbones caught the afternoon light filtering through the windows. Even delivering grim news, the woman was distractingly beautiful—all soft curves and sharp edges wrapped in that grass-green haori.
"No single focus," she said. "The situation's too fluid for that. You'll still be based here in Konoha—I need you close enough to coordinate, to brief me directly when necessary. But you'll need to work across all the major villages. Rebuild connections. Reestablish contacts that have gone cold." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Some of your old network has... deteriorated. People retire. People die. People switch allegiances when the coin purses get heavy enough."
"The spy business," Jiraiya said dryly. "Loyalty's always for sale to the highest bidder."
"Which is why I need someone whose loyalty isn't." Tsunade's gaze held his, unwavering. "Someone I trust absolutely."
The words settled into Jiraiya's chest like warm sake. Trust. From Tsunade, that wasn't a word thrown around lightly. After Dan, after Nawaki, after especially Orochimaru's, trust was the rarest currency she dealt in.
He sighed again, deeper this time, feeling the resistance drain out of his shoulders. "I have been away too long. Got comfortable playing teacher, writing my books, pretending the world's problems were someone else's to solve." His hand rose to scratch at the back of his neck, a self-conscious gesture he'd never quite outgrown. "That's not who I am. Not really."
"No," Tsunade agreed quietly. "It isn't."
Jiraiya pushed himself to his feet, the massive scroll on his back shifting as he moved. He paced toward the window, looking out over the village spread below the Hokage Tower. He saw the Hokage mountian and felt so much older as he looked upon the face of both his teacher and student. Then somewhere down there, Naruto was probably stuffing his face at Ichiraku's that knucklehead.
"I'll make sure the intelligence networks across the nations are better than ever," Jiraiya said, his voice carrying the weight of a promise. "Every contact I have, every favor owed to me, every secret I've collected over forty years of this work—I'll leverage all of it. By the time I'm done, you'll know what the Raikage eats for breakfast and what the Mizukage dreams about at night."
"Spare me the details on that last one." Tsunade's tone was dry, but he caught the flicker of relief that crossed her features. "I know what your 'research' methods involve."
Jiraiya turned from the window, flashing her a grin that showed too many teeth. "My methods are time-tested and highly effective. You'd be amazed what people reveal in intimate settings."
"I'd be horrified, actually."
"Same thing, really."
She gave a harsh snort that transported him back to her younger self, before the weight of loss and duty had changed her. She was a looker back then to just much flatter he thought as he looked down at her glorious mountains. He felt so proud to be able to say he has been looking at these since they were just humble A's.
Tsunade caught him looking. Her expression flattened. "Jiraiya."
"Hmm?"
"My eyes are up here."
"I'm aware." He didn't bother pretending embarrassment. "I'm also aware that you dress like that deliberately. Don't blame a man for appreciating the view when you're offering it so generously."
Her chakra flared—a brief, warning pulse that made the papers on her desk flutter. "I dress for comfort and practicality."
"Comfort." He let the word hang, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "In a shirt cut low enough to see your navel if you leaned forward?"
"I'm the Hokage. I can wear whatever I damn well please."
"And I'm a self-proclaimed super-pervert. I can look wherever I damn well please." He spread his hands in a gesture of philosophical acceptance. "We are who we are, Princess."
For a moment, genuine anger flickered in her honey-brown eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a short, sharp sound that held more exhaustion than humor. "You're impossible. You know that? Forty years and you haven't changed at all."
"I've changed plenty. My hair's white now."
"Your hair was always white."
"See? Consistency. It's one of my many virtues."
Tsunade shook her head, but the tension in her shoulders had eased slightly. She reached for the sake bottle again, refilling both their cups with practiced efficiency.
Jiraiya accepted the refilled cup, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. The afternoon light caught the amber liquid, casting warm shadows across Tsunade's desk. The playful atmosphere shifted as Tsunade straightened in her chair, her enormous breasts straining against the thin fabric of her blouse as she reached for a stack of folders.
"Before you start gallivanting across the continent, I need you focused here first." She slid a folder across the desk toward him. "Counterintelligence. Internal security assessment."
Jiraiya's expression sobered as he flipped open the folder. Personnel lists. Security protocols. Access logs for classified documents. The bureaucratic skeleton of Konoha's information infrastructure laid bare in neat columns and official stamps.
"Three years is a long time," Tsunade continued, her voice dropping to a lower register. "I've done what I can with the resources available, but internal security was never my specialty. I need fresh eyes. Someone who thinks like an infiltrator."
Because something has already leaked, Jiraiya thought grimly. Three years without his network actively monitoring internal threats. Three years of personnel changes, new recruits, shifting loyalties. In the spy game, three months was enough time for a mole to burrow deep. Three years? Whoever had been feeding information to enemies—and there was always someone—would be entrenched by now. Comfortable. Confident.
He didn't voice the concern. Tsunade knew. The tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers pressed white against her sake cup—she understood exactly what she was asking him to uncover. Sometimes the truth was better left unspoken until evidence made it undeniable.
"I'll start immediately," Jiraiya said, closing the folder and tucking it into his haori. "Lucky for you, I know a few establishments in the village that specialize in... information gathering."
Tsunade's eye twitched. "Establishments."
"Brothels," he clarified with absolutely no shame. "The finest in Konoha. You'd be amazed what drunk men tell beautiful women between the sheets. Pillow talk has toppled more regimes than any army." He stroked his chin thoughtfully, a lecherous grin spreading across his weathered face. "I've cultivated relationships with several madams over the years. Professional relationships, of course. They owe me favors. Their girls hear everything—which merchants are spending beyond their means, which shinobi are drowning debts they shouldn't have, which officials visit a little too frequently and talk a little too freely."
"Of course you have contacts in every brothel in the village." Tsunade's tone could have frozen sake mid-pour. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Because you know me." Jiraiya's grin widened. "My pervy ways aren't just personal indulgence, Princess. They're tradecraft. The bedroom is the most dangerous intelligence battlefield in existence. People let their guards down. They brag. They confess. They reveal secrets they'd die before speaking in daylight." He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "I've gathered more actionable intelligence between silk sheets than most jonin collect in a lifetime of missions."
Tsunade pinched the bridge of her nose, her massive chest heaving with a long-suffering sigh. "Jiraiya. I'm asking you—begging you, really—to at least try to do some actual work. Not just spend my intelligence budget fucking every whore in the red light district."
"Tsunade." He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. I am a consummate professional. When I fuck whores, I am working. The two activities are practically indistinguishable in my line of expertise."
"They are very distinguishable."
"Only to the untrained eye." He waved dismissively. "Trust me. By the time I'm done with my... comprehensive review... of Konoha's entertainment establishments, I'll know every leak, every vulnerability, every potential asset and liability in this village's information security." His expression shifted slightly, something harder glinting beneath the jovial mask. "And anyone who's been selling secrets will find themselves having a very unpleasant conversation with me."
Tsunade studied him for a long moment, her honey-brown eyes searching his face. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her, because she gave a curt nod and reached for another folder.
"There's one more thing."
Jiraiya paused halfway to standing. "Oh?"
She took a drink of her sake. "The village needs more operatives trained in intelligence work. Real intelligence work, not just the basic infiltration techniques they teach at the Academy."
Jiraiya settled back into his chair, eyebrows rising toward his hairline. "You want me to train spies."
"Not just spies," Tsunade clarified, setting down her sake cup with a decisive click against the wooden desk. "Intelligence specialists. Analysts. Handlers. The full spectrum of what you do." She leaned back in her chair. "You won't be around forever, Jiraiya. None of us will. And right now, if something happened to you, Konoha's entire intelligence apparatus would collapse within a year."
The words hit harder than he expected. Not because they were wrong—they weren't—but because hearing them spoken aloud made the reality unavoidable. He'd been running networks, cultivating assets, and gathering secrets for four decades. All that knowledge, all those connections, all those carefully constructed webs of information... they existed primarily in his head. On scraps of coded notes that only he could decipher. In relationships built on trust that couldn't be transferred like property.
"You're not wrong," he admitted, the humor draining from his voice. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he considered the implications. "I've been meaning to document more. Create contingencies. But there's never enough time, and honestly..." He trailed off, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Some things can't be written down. Some skills only transfer through experience."
"Which is exactly why you need to start training successors now." Tsunade's tone brooked no argument. "Not in five years. Not when you feel like getting around to it. Now. While you're still active, still sharp, still capable of taking them into the field and showing them how the work actually gets done."
Jiraiya rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of the massive scroll shift on his back. She was asking him to do something he'd avoided for years—not the teaching itself, he'd done plenty of that with Naruto—but the acknowledgment of his own mortality implicit in training replacements. Successors. People who would carry on after he was gone.
"The next generation," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "They're good kids. Strong. Dedicated. But intelligence work isn't about strength or dedication. It's about patience. Deception. The willingness to become someone else entirely for months or years at a time." His dark eyes met Tsunade's. "Most shinobi can't handle that. It one of the skills I never even attempted with Naruto. The ones who can... they're rare."
"Then find the rare ones and train them." Tsunade pulled another folder from the stack on her desk, this one thinner than the others. "I've already given this some thought. There's a candidate I want you to start with."
Jiraiya accepted the folder, flipping it open to find a personnel file. The photograph clipped to the first page showed a young woman with pale blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail, sharp blue eyes staring directly at the camera with an expression that managed to be both confident and somehow knowing. Pretty, in that fresh-faced way that kunoichi in their late teens often were. The kind of face that could be memorable or forgettable depending on how she styled herself.
"Yamanaka Ino," he read aloud, scanning the biographical details. "Chunin. Age seventeen. Inoichi's kid."
"She's one of Sakura's closest friends," Tsunade added. "Competent kunoichi. Good mission record. Nothing exceptional on paper."
Jiraiya's eyes lingered on one particular line in the file. Clan affiliation: Yamanaka. His lips curved into an appreciative smile. "The Yamanaka specialty."
"Exactly." Tsunade nodded, her blonde pigtails swaying with the motion. "Mind transfer. Memory reading. Psychic interrogation. Her clan has been Konoha's primary source of intelligence extraction for generations. Inoichi is one of the best interrogators we have." She paused, something flickering behind her eyes. "But Inoichi is getting older too. But he has always babied her, never really wanted her to train to work in interrogations like him and Ibiki. Never wanted to show her how ugly her clan bloodline technique can be. "
Jiraiya continued reading, absorbing the details of Ino's service record. Missions completed. Skills assessed. Personality evaluations from various commanding officers. Words jumped out at him: observant, socially adept, occasionally vain, strong-willed, competitive.
"She's got the right foundation," he admitted slowly. "The Yamanakas are invaluable for intelligence work—being able to literally pull secrets from someone's mind is an asset most villages would kill for. But..." He tapped the photograph thoughtfully. "Mind jutsu is only one piece of the puzzle. Can she lie convincingly? Can she maintain a cover identity under pressure? Can she seduce a target, manipulate them, make them trust her completely before she destroys them?"
"That's what you're going to find out." Tsunade's voice carried an edge of command. "And if she can't do those things naturally, you're going to teach her."
Jiraiya closed the folder, holding it loosely in one large hand. His mind was already turning over possibilities, approaches, training scenarios. The Yamanaka girl was young, but young meant malleable. Trainable. She hadn't yet developed the rigid thinking patterns that made older shinobi difficult to reshape into intelligence operatives.
"Her father won't like this," he observed. "Inoichi's protective of his daughter. If I start teaching her the dirtier aspects of the trade—"
"Inoichi will accept my decision because I'm the Hokage and he's loyal to this village." Tsunade cut him off flatly. "Besides, he knows better than anyone what his clan's abilities are suited for. He's been an interrogator for thirty years. He understands what's at stake."
"And the girl herself? Does she know she's being volunteered for this?"
Tsunade's expression shifted slightly—something that might have been guilt flickering across her features before disappearing behind the mask of authority. "Not yet. I wanted to discuss it with you first, make sure you were willing to take her on. I'll speak with her tomorrow, explain the opportunity."
"Opportunity." Jiraiya snorted. "That's one way to describe it. Most people would call it a descent into moral ambiguity and chronic paranoia."
"Most people aren't suited for intelligence work." Tsunade met his eyes squarely. "You think she is. I can see it in your face."
He couldn't deny it. Something about the girl's file had sparked his interest—the combination of her clan abilities, her social skills, her competitive nature. Raw material that could be shaped into something formidable.
"I'll need to meet her first," Jiraiya said finally. "Assess her in person. Files only tell part of the story." He tucked Ino's folder into his haori alongside the security documents. "If she's got what it takes, I'll train her. But I won't soften the curriculum just because she's young or female or Inoichi's precious daughter. Intelligence work is ugly. If she can't handle ugly, better to find out now than when she's deep cover in enemy territory with no extraction possible."
"I wouldn't expect anything less." Tsunade reached for the sake bottle again, topping off both their cups in what felt like a ceremonial gesture. "To the next generation, then. May they be smarter than we were."
Jiraiya raised his cup, clinking it against hers. "And more fortunate."
They drank in silence.
The evening mist curled lazily above the hot springs, carrying the sweet scent of minerals and the distant sound of feminine laughter. Jiraiya pressed himself against the wooden fence, one eye positioned at a convenient knothole that offered an unobstructed view of the women's bathing area. His notebook lay open in his left hand, pencil poised and ready. The perfect cover for the perfect vantage point.
Research, he reminded himself. This is purely professional.
Steam drifted across the water's surface, occasionally parting to reveal the shapes moving within. Several women occupied the spring tonight—civilians mostly, their soft bodies untouched by the rigors of shinobi training. Pleasant enough to observe, certainly worthy of mental notes for future Icha Icha material. But his attention kept returning to one particular figure seated at the pool's far edge.
Yamanaka Ino.
She'd arrived twenty minutes ago, slipping into the bathhouse with the casual confidence of someone utterly comfortable in her own skin. Jiraiya had tracked her from the flower shop where she worked, maintaining enough distance that even a trained sensor wouldn't detect his presence. Following her here had been a calculated decision—bathhouses revealed character in ways that mission reports never could. How someone behaved when they believed themselves unobserved told you everything about who they really were. Also naked women.
The girl rose from the water now, reaching for a wooden bucket to rinse her hair. Steam cascaded down her body as she stood, and Jiraiya's breath caught despite himself.
The clinical assessment didn't do her justice. Ino possessed the kind of body that would have made courtesans weep with envy—all long limbs and graceful curves arranged in perfect proportion. Her skin gleamed pale and flawless in the lantern light, water droplets tracing paths down flesh that had clearly never seen significant scarring. Untested. Sheltered, perhaps, despite her chunin rank.
Her breasts drew his eye first—professional observation, naturally. Full and high on her chest, larger than her slender frame suggested they should be, with small pink nipples that had tightened in the cooling air. They swayed gently as she moved, defying gravity with the effortless perfection of youth. Cup size: C, possibly D, he wrote, the coded notation meaningless to anyone who might glimpse his notes. Natural. Responsive to temperature changes—potential vulnerability in cold-weather infiltration scenarios.
His pencil moved lower on the page as his gaze traveled down her body. A narrow waist flared into hips that promised dangerous curves in a few more years of maturity. Her stomach was flat and toned, the subtle definition of abdominal muscles visible when she stretched to pour water over her hair. A kunoichi's body, trained but not yet hardened by years of combat.
Flexibility: high, he noted. Dance training probable—Yamanaka clan emphasizes grace for social infiltration. Physical conditioning adequate but not exceptional. Relies on clan jutsu rather than taijutsu.
Between her thighs, a neat triangle of pale blonde hair—slightly darker than the platinum waterfall cascading down her back—framed her sex, the lips smooth and delicate, glistening faintly with moisture from the bath. She made no effort to hide herself, comfortable with her nudity in the way that only the truly confident or truly naive could manage. Her legs were long and shapely, muscle definition suggesting regular training without the bulk that would compromise her feminine appeal.
Asset potential: extremely high, Jiraiya wrote, the words carrying dual meaning in his personal code. Physical appearance suitable for seduction operations across all target demographics. Maintenance requirements: minimal. Natural beauty requires little enhancement.
Ino tilted her head back, letting water stream through her hair. The motion arched her spine, thrusting her breasts forward, and Jiraiya allowed himself a moment of pure appreciation before returning to his assessment. Her throat was long and elegant, unmarked by the telltale scars that experienced kunoichi often accumulated. Her face, viewed in profile, showed delicate features arranged with almost mathematical precision—high cheekbones, a small nose, lips that curved naturally into something between a smile and a pout.
Facial structure: memorable, he noted with a frown. That could be a problem. The best infiltrators had forgettable faces, the kind that slipped from memory moments after looking away. Ino's face was the opposite—the kind men remembered, dreamed about, became obsessed with. Useful for certain operations. Dangerous for others.
She turned slightly, and he caught a glimpse of her profile as she wrung water from her hair. Her expression was thoughtful, distant—not the vapid preening he'd expected from someone with a reputation for vanity. She seemed to be working through some problem in her mind, her blue eyes focused on nothing visible.
Intelligence: higher than file suggests, Jiraiya added to his notes. Hides depth behind social persona. Deliberate or instinctive?
A group of civilian women splashed nearby, their giggles echoing off the wooden walls. Ino's attention shifted toward them with predatory alertness that vanished so quickly he might have imagined it. She smiled, responded to something one of them said, her body language transforming from guarded contemplation to easy friendliness in the space of a heartbeat.
Social adaptation: excellent. Masks emotional state effectively. Switches personas without visible effort.
Now that was interesting. Most shinobi her age hadn't developed that level of social camouflage. They were too earnest, too honest in their interactions. Ino slipped between roles like changing clothes—the thoughtful girl alone with her thoughts became the charming socialite the moment others demanded her attention.
She laughed at something, the sound carrying across the water. Genuine warmth colored the noise, but Jiraiya caught the way her eyes remained watchful, tracking the other bathers even as she appeared fully engaged in conversation.
Situational awareness: above average, he wrote. Maintains peripheral observation while projecting focused attention. Natural talent or trained behavior?
Her father's influence, probably. Inoichi would have drilled certain habits into her from childhood, even if he'd protected her from the uglier applications of their clan techniques. You didn't raise a Yamanaka without teaching them to read people, to watch for the subtle cues that revealed truth beneath surface performance.
Jiraiya shifted his weight carefully, ensuring no sound betrayed his position. His pencil continued its work, filling pages with observations that would read as smutty character descriptions to anyone who didn't know his personal cipher.
Candidate assessment: promising, he concluded. Requires further evaluation under stress conditions.
The girl sank back into the water, her blonde hair fanning out around her like spilled silk. She closed her eyes, and for a moment her mask slipped entirely—exhaustion flickered across her features, a bone-deep weariness that spoke of burdens she carried invisibly.
Emotional vulnerability: present but controlled, Jiraiya noted, his pencil slowing. Maintains composure through force of will. Potential breaking point under extended pressure?
He'd seen that look before. On operatives who'd been in the field too long, carrying too many secrets. On agents approaching burnout. On himself, in mirrors he avoided looking into too closely.
What weight did a seventeen-year-old flower shop girl carry that put that expression on her face when she thought no one was watching?
Jiraiya closed his notebook silently, tucking the pencil into his haori. He'd gathered enough initial data. Tomorrow he'd arrange a proper meeting, begin the real assessment.
They will have to meet and she will have to be tested… Jiraiya hopes he dose not have to do a session with Inoichi any time soon.