Just as the atmosphere in the office grew heavy, Jiraiya suddenly spoke up, his tone unusually serious.
"Old man. Tsunade. I've got an idea."
Both of them turned to look at him.
Jiraiya's gaze grew distant, thoughtful.
"I want to… take that kid, Naruto, as my disciple."
Both Sarutobi Hiruzen and Tsunade froze for a moment.
Jiraiya continued, his expression solemn.
"Whether the Heavenly Screen is real or not, the Nine-Tails sealed inside Naruto is very real. He's Minato and Kushina's child—emotionally and morally, I can't just leave him alone."
He paused, his voice lowering.
"And more importantly… if there's even the slightest chance that the future shown on the screen could come true, then guiding Naruto—making sure he walks the right path instead of falling into darkness—is absolutely critical."
"No one is more suited to that than me."
"I can teach him chakra control, help him understand what it truly means to be a shinobi, and at the same time…"
Jiraiya's eyes sharpened.
"…observe him up close. Find out what could possibly cause such a drastic change in his future."
He looked directly at Hiruzen.
"Old man. Leave Naruto to me. I'll take responsibility."
Tsunade folded her arms, neither agreeing nor objecting.
She didn't have much against Naruto himself—her unease was directed at that future.
If Jiraiya was willing to shoulder this troublesome burden, she certainly wasn't going to stop him.
Hiruzen fell silent, pondering.
Handing Naruto over to Jiraiya was undoubtedly better than simply keeping him under "protective custody" in the Hokage residence.
Jiraiya had the strength to protect Naruto, the experience to guide him, and a teaching style that might actually help the boy grow.
More importantly—as Jiraiya himself said—his identity made him the most suitable guide.
"…Very well," Hiruzen finally nodded, making his decision.
"Jiraiya. Naruto is in your care. You must… guide him toward the light."
"Leave it to me, old man."
Jiraiya thumped his chest, his trademark grin returning—slightly lecherous, yet strangely reassuring.
"Training the Child of Prophecy? That's my specialty."
The moment the words "Child of Prophecy" left his mouth, Tsunade reacted as if she'd heard something utterly ridiculous.
Her face filled openly with disdain and mockery.
"Child of Prophecy?" she scoffed, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"If something like prophecy really exists, then doesn't that mean every single one of us—our entire lives, from birth to death—has already been written out in advance?"
Her voice rose, carrying suppressed anger.
"Then should I go look up a prophecy book right now? Check what time I wake up tomorrow? When I eat? And exactly how and when I die?"
"What kind of life is that? How is it any different from being a puppet on strings?"
"Tsunade! You're taking this too far!" Jiraiya's expression changed as he hurriedly argued back.
"Prophecy is only a vague guide—it's meant to help us prepare—"
"I don't care what it's meant to be!"
Tsunade cut him off coldly, her eyes unwavering.
"I don't believe in prophecy. And I definitely don't believe that a person's life is some straight line, drawn from start to finish, that can never be changed."
"Right now, that Heavenly Screen is 'predicting' someone will destroy the world. So what—are we supposed to kill him now?"
She stepped forward, staring directly into Jiraiya's slightly flustered eyes, her tone grave.
"And Jiraiya—you place far too much faith in Mount Myōboku. In those toads."
"You treat every word they say like some absolute truth, as if the shinobi world can't function, as if Konoha would collapse, without their guidance."
Her words were merciless—striking directly at Jiraiya's near-blind reverence for the prophecies of Mount Myōboku.
Jiraiya opened his mouth, then closed it again. His face shifted between pale and flushed.
Deep down, he did believe in—and respect—the Great Toad Sage's prophecy. It had shaped much of his life, dictated his wanderings, and driven his lifelong search for the prophesied savior.
At the same time, he understood Tsunade's pain all too well.
The deaths of her brother and her lover had left her deeply hostile toward concepts like "fate" and "destiny."
He neither wanted to—nor could—engage in a philosophical battle with her now.
In the end, it all turned into a helpless sigh and an awkward silence.
At that moment, Hiruzen, who had been quietly listening, slowly nodded.
"Tsunade has a point."
He drew from his pipe, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. His eyes carried the depth of both a ruler and an elder.
"The human heart is the most complex, most unpredictable thing in this world."
"A single passing thought. A chance encounter. Even one careless sentence—any of these can lead someone to make a completely different choice, sending the future down a path no one could foresee."
He looked at Jiraiya, his tone calm yet firm.
"With a life so full of variables—woven together by coincidence and choice—how could it possibly be perfectly defined by some vague 'prophecy'?"
In truth, Hiruzen himself harbored long-standing resentment toward Mount Myōboku.
Because of one prophecy from an old toad, his most powerful and capable disciple had spent years wandering the world instead of serving Konoha—pouring enormous effort into searching for an unknown "Child of Prophecy."
That dissatisfaction had long festered in his heart.
He even thought, with faint irritation:
What if… what if Jiraiya really did find this so-called Child of Prophecy in another great nation? Just because of a toad's words, would Konoha be expected to pour resources into training a foreign shinobi—creating our own future enemy? Absurd.
Jiraiya's faith was challenged.
Tsunade rejected destiny outright.
Hiruzen believed in human agency and choice.
In the end, Jiraiya could only fall silent.
But shinobi of their caliber—who among them didn't possess an unshakable will?
Each of them had walked their chosen path through mountains of corpses and seas of blood, forging their convictions through countless trials.
Hiruzen's philosophy of governance.
Tsunade's defiance of fate.
Jiraiya's faith in prophecy.
These weren't casual opinions.
They were the very pillars of their lives—engraved into their souls.
And no argument in a Hokage's office, no matter how sharp the words, could ever truly overturn them.
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