Koushin: Konoha’s Dragonborn[Completed]

The morning that preceded Itachi's fateful visit to Koushin, in the heart of the grim cityscape of Amegakure, a seemingly insignificant scene was about to take place. The city, cloaked in its habitual blanket of rain, breathed a desolate air as it always did. Tucked into a nondescript corner, a bar sat in patient solitude, its emptiness hardly surprising considering the gloom that loomed in the early hours of the day.

Tending to the empty bar was an elderly man. His hair, short and as white as fresh snow, stuck out from beneath a weathered hat. A handlebar mustache curled around the corners of his lips, giving his face a distinct gruffness. This was a disguise, of course, for the man was none other than Jiraiya, one of the legendary Sannin of Konoha. Amidst the silence and stillness of the bar, his eyes flickered with a calculated sharpness, ever vigilant for the potential sources of intel he could gather.

The dull creak of the entrance door shattered the silence, causing Jiraiya's eyes to snap up in anticipation. In walked a trio that would have been easily overlooked in a bustling city, yet seemed oddly intriguing against the drab backdrop of Amegakure. The first was a woman, her hair as blue as the waters of a calm sea. Her face was unremarkable, but her eyes carried a spark of tenacity that hinted at a hidden strength. Following her was a man, his hair a vibrant shade of orange, strikingly contrasted against his fair complexion. His face was pretty, a blend of soft lines and gentle features that belied the deadly shinobi he was. But it was the third figure who caught Jiraiya's attention most sharply.

The man had hair as dark as the starless Amegakure night, falling like a silky curtain to frame his strikingly pale face. His eyes, the hue of ebony, were devoid of any distinctive marks, their depths revealing nothing of the formidable power that lurked within. He wore a cloak that concealed much of his body, but the aura of calm authority that emanated from him was impossible to miss.

Sensing an opportunity, Jiraiya busied himself with cleaning a glass, his gaze flickering discreetly towards the trio. "A bit early for a drink, don't you think?" he quipped, trying to initiate a conversation.

The blue-haired woman shot him a disdainful glance, but it was the dark-haired man who responded. His voice was smooth, his words calculated. "We're just seeking shelter from the rain," he said nonchalantly.

"Ah," Jiraiya nodded, continuing his pretense of cleaning. "Well, you've picked the right place. Not many people come in this early. You'll have all the peace you need."

They settled onto bar stools, the dark-haired man in the center, his companions flanking him. The woman rested her elbows on the bar, leaning forward to run a hand through her damp hair, seemingly unconcerned with the presence of a regular bartender. Meanwhile, the orange-haired man glanced around the bar, taking in the dreary surroundings with an unreadable expression.

Conversation flowed naturally between the three, their low voices echoing faintly amidst the silence. They spoke of mundane things, problems at work, and the seemingly ceaseless rain in Amegakure. It all sounded so ordinary, so incredibly normal, that any bystander would be none the wiser of the true significance of their presence.

Observing them from behind the bar, Jiraiya found himself drawn into their conversation. Pouring their drinks with practiced ease, he decided to subtly probe, driven by an innate curiosity. "You folks seem to work around the clock," he said casually, sliding a glass towards the woman. "Sounds tough."

The woman shrugged, her eyes flickering towards him before focusing on her drink. "It's what we do," she replied.

"I've always dreamed of becoming a shinobi," Jiraiya confessed, leaning against the counter and adopting a wistful expression. "The idea of being able to protect your village, to carry such responsibility... it's fascinating."

The orange-haired man chuckled softly, turning to face Jiraiya. "It's not all glory and honor, you know," he commented. "There's a lot of pain involved. A lot of sacrifices."

"And a lot of treachery," the woman added, her voice colder now.

Jiraiya's eyes flickered between the two of them, noting the subtle changes in their demeanor. "Treachery?" he echoed. "Sounds like you've had a run-in with some less than honorable types."

The dark-haired man remained silent throughout, his gaze locked onto the drink in his hand. But at Jiraiya's words, he looked up, meeting the older man's gaze with a calm, unreadable expression. "In this line of work, treachery is almost inevitable," he said, his voice smooth and even. "Sometimes, those we admire and respect are the ones who betray us."

Jiraiya nodded, his face a mask of understanding. He poured himself a drink, his gaze drifting towards the rain outside. "Like Hanzo, huh?"

The air stilled as Jiraiya uttered the name, Hanzo. The tension in the room instantly escalated. Both the orange-haired man and the blue-haired woman stiffened, their body language betraying their surprise. Despite their intense reactions, they remained seated, held in check by the familiarity of their companion. Jiraiya, who had been observing them closely, could not help but grimace. He had indeed stepped over the line, and the atmosphere in the room attested to it.

Quick as a flash, Jiraiya performed a series of hand signs. Almost immediately, the bar started to change. The walls, the door, the windows, everything around them morphed until they were encased in the fleshy, confining stomach of a giant frog. Jiraiya chuckled, his eyes glinting with an odd mixture of amusement and regret.

"Well, sorry to force you into this," he said, his voice echoing ominously in the bizarre enclosure, "but seems like I have blown my cover. Hanzo, what happened to him? The last I heard, he was the Kage."

His words hung heavy in the air, each syllable loaded with the trepidation of unspoken secrets. Then, breaking the silence, the dark-haired man spoke, his voice as calm as a placid lake, "Hanzo is dead."

The words struck Jiraiya like a lightning bolt. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he gasped, "That is impossible. He is known as a Demi-God. Who can beat him? Especially without the world knowing it."

With a haughty scoff, the blue-haired woman retorted, "Just because you lost to him doesn't mean he is unbeatable, Jiraiya."

He chuckled wryly, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. "Seems like my disguise wasn't good enough."

The orange-haired man finally spoke, his voice soft yet brimming with conviction, "Like we said, Jiraiya, the Shinobi world is filled with treachery. People who desert their students, godsons, friends, and masters. You must know, you did them all."

The joviality in Jiraiya's eyes flickered and died, replaced by a grim determination. His smile vanished, his face hardened, and his posture stiffened. His voice, when it came, was laced with anger and disbelief, "The hell are you talking about?"

The dark-haired man spoke then, his words piercing the thick tension in the room. "Where were you when Yondaime Hokage was killed? You knew about the weak seal and how they were cautious. Where were you during Naruto's growth? You deserted your godson. Where were you when Sakumo was driven to suicide? And where were you when the child of prophecy you thought was about to be killed and was forced to watch his friend murdered in front of his eyes? Oh right, chasing your lover, Orochimaru."