Timeskip – First-Person Gaara POV
It had been weeks since I brought Toneri down from the Moon.
Surprisingly, he hadn't tried to vanish, attack, or preach doomsday again. Instead, he wandered the streets of Suna like a ghost with purpose—quiet, observant, always a few steps behind the rhythm of human life, but trying nonetheless.
I watched from the shadows at times. Not out of distrust, but curiosity. The same way you'd observe a wild animal cautiously inching toward a campfire for the first time.
Suna had changed—no, evolved. The war was over. True peace, at last, was not a fragile ideal but something lived. The streets bustled with energy. Merchants smiled freely. Children ran without fear. Even the wind itself felt softer, kinder.
Toneri stood out like a relic in white robes, his eyes always scanning, analyzing.
I saw him offer help to an old potter one afternoon, lifting a heavy kiln without a word. Another time, he sat in silence by the village's irrigation fields, watching how water flowed through the desert—fascinated by how a land so dry could still bloom.
Sometimes peace brings its own kind of restlessness.
After the war, after the resurrections, after the Moon… there was quiet. But my mind never stayed still. I wasn't content just ruling from the shadows or holding meetings behind tall, bureaucratic walls.
The world didn't need just peace.
It needed progress.
And I had ideas—more than a few. My [Inspired Inventor] title in the system wasn't just ornamental. It was a part of me now. Like breathing. Like sand.
Suna had always been a land of survival—barren, hot, relentless. But now?
Now, it was something else entirely.
Click—hum—buzz.
The sound echoed across the rooftops as I stood atop the administration tower, watching thick coils of chakra-insulated wire pulse with faint blue light.
Air conditioning.
Genuine, cooling relief.
And not just any kind—powered entirely by Lightning Chakra, harvested from special seals I'd designed to convert chakra into clean, circulating energy. No more sweltering homes. No more sleepless nights drenched in sweat.
We built the system from scratch, integrating fuinjutsu with engineering. With some help from the Uzumaki survivors—particularly a sharp-minded girl named Kinu—we perfected the conversion process. It was elegant. Sustainable. Efficient.
The people loved it. Even the most hardened elders admitted that life had changed. Children played longer outside. Businesses boomed. And for once, Suna Climate didn't feel like a punishment.
I created centralized chakra condensers on key rooftops. The ambient chakra of willing shinobi volunteers (and a few clones of my own when necessary) kept the systems running. We even worked out a feedback loop that redistributed excess chakra to nearby infrastructure.
Peace changes everything.
Not just the battlefield, but the economy. The structure. The very rhythm of life.
Without constant war, shinobi commissions—once the backbone of every village—became fewer and farther between. Missions that once paid well for espionage or assassination were now either obsolete or forbidden. Even border patrols became more symbolic than necessary.
So I had to evolve—we had to evolve.
That's when the idea struck: if chakra could be used for destruction, it could just as easily be used for construction… and comfort.
I didn't want to rely on the same old system to power progress. I wanted the people to become the power—literally.
With help from several Kumo shinobi—particularly Darui and a few retired Lightning-style experts—we refined a basic Lightning Release technique that even low-ranked shinobi and chakra-sensitive civilians could learn. A steady, controlled spark. That's all we needed to keep the air conditioning systems alive in Suna.
I didn't make it mandatory. That wasn't the point.
I made it a job.
An honest one.
Villagers lined up for chakra conductor roles—some powered cooling systems in public squares, others worked in local businesses, while a handful were trained to regulate flow for chakra-based irrigation systems in outer districts. They were paid well, their hours were flexible, and their contribution tangible.
"Feels good to matter without having to fight," one man told me after his first week. "I used to wonder what peace would leave us with. But this? This feels like a future."
That stuck with me.
I was building something new—an economy of peace. Where chakra wasn't just a weapon, but a livelihood.
I sat down with economists from Konoha, Kiri, and even Iwa. We drafted new plans—jobs that merged chakra aptitude with public welfare:
Chakra Technicians – maintaining infrastructure.
Energy Harvesters – providing chakra to key systems.
Environmental Regulators – using Wind and Water chakra to stabilize climate.
Medical Runners – healing the sick before they ever reached the hospital.
For the first time in history, we had shinobi applying their jutsu for the sole purpose of living better lives.
And I wasn't finished.
This was just one city.
The world would follow. Not out of obligation, but because progress was more contagious than war had ever been.
The hum of chakra-powered fans overhead kept the Suna office pleasantly cool, a far cry from the dry furnace heat outside. I leaned over the table, sleeves rolled up, not as a Kazekage in a formal meeting—but as a man chasing an idea.
A rectangular casing, some etched seals, and a bit of chakra-conductive crystal. That was the working prototype. Beside me sat a short stack of notebooks filled with theory, old blueprints, and communication scroll diagrams. Across from me, Toneri munched silently on a skewer of roasted dango.
"I still don't understand why you'd want to replicate telepathy using... a box," he muttered, eyeing the half-finished casing.
"It's not telepathy," I said. "It's accessibility."
I traced my finger along the engraved seal design—a mixture of Uzumaki fuinjutsu and Suna's own chakra-conduction patterns.
"We have messenger birds. We have long-range communicators for military use. But what if a child could call his father from another city? What if a vendor could order goods from Kumo without relying on a shinobi courier?"
Toneri blinked, frowning. "That sounds... annoyingly convenient."
I smirked. "That's the idea."
My hands moved instinctively now. Insert the chakra stone, loop the seal, anchor it with lightning-natured chakra... snap. A soft, golden glow emerged from the center of the device.
"Try speaking into it," I said, tossing another prototype to an assistant nearby. The young chunin caught it, tapped the rune on its surface, and muttered:
"Hello?"
Clear as a bell, his voice echoed from the crystal in my hand. No summoning ink. No carrier hawk. No chakra signature to trace.
Just... a voice.
Toneri leaned closer, his dango forgotten. "How many people could use this?"
"Eventually? Everyone," I said. "We'll need chakra battery stations. Public access points. Maybe even handheld models with chakra amplifiers."
I had been focusing on Fusing modern tech with Chakra as I felt like it would simply be more useful.
I used to wonder why vehicles weren't invented despite boats existing in this world but I realized that average Genin can move at outrageous speeds without any fuel needed, and the Safety risk of a vehicle.
The same would likely apply to Phones, It would still be useful in this world for communication purposes but charging and connecting it would be a hassle. So I decided to Alter it a bit.
Speaking of Transportation
When I first envisioned a connected Shinobi world, it wasn't through cars.
I remember cars in my old life—engines, highways, traffic. But in this world, even a barely trained Genin could move faster than most vehicles ever could. And for shinobi who trained their bodies daily, the idea of sitting in a slow, smoke-belching box felt... unnecessary.
Still, not everyone was a shinobi.
Civilians, merchants, elderly, and even the newly emerging chakra-tech engineers needed something fast, safe, and scalable. Something not reliant on individual ability. And that's where the Rail System was born.
Across the world, I had chakra-forged rail lines constructed, each one threaded with reinforced Fuinjutsu seals to maintain balance, minimize shock, and redirect natural disasters like landslides or chakra quakes. I called upon engineers from every village—experts from Iwagakure helped design the foundations, while craftsmen from Tetsu no Kuni (the Land of Iron) forged the core rails.
The trains themselves ran on sealed chakra batteries—large, sustainable cores that were charged monthly by dedicated teams of chakra technicians. Kumo shinobi, with their Lightning Release affinity, naturally became key contributors. In return, I offered Suna's desert-travel tech and agricultural innovations.
Each major village now had its own central terminal, interconnected by underground and overground lines. We even built subway tunnels beneath the mountainous terrain of Iwagakure, and suspension rails that glided across the forests near Konoha, designed not to disturb the surrounding nature.
It wasn't just practical.
It was symbolic.
The Shinobi World was no longer isolated villages fighting endless wars—it was a network, a union of lands. A Person in Suna could visit their Relative in Konoha in a single afternoon. A craftsman in Kumogakure could sell his tools directly in Kirigakure by week's end.
The Rail Lines became veins of peace, pumping stability across nations.
And I stood atop the central platform in Suna, watching the first train pull out under a cloudless sky, its steel glinting in the light, its seals humming softly with controlled chakra.
I didn't need to create cars. This was faster. Smarter. Better suited to a world where chakra and steel walked hand-in-hand.
The workshop air smelled faintly of old wood, chakra resin, and fresh desert wind filtering in from the open skylight. I stood quietly near the entrance, arms crossed, watching a sight I never thought I'd witness in my lifetime:
Toneri Otsutsuki, clad in simplified robes and a tool belt dusted with wood shavings, focused intently on the framework of a half-assembled puppet. Across from him, sitting on a low bench like some seasoned master artisan, was Sasori of the Red Sand, long since revived—and surprisingly mellowed by the peace.
"Slow. But precise," Sasori muttered, eyes fixed on Toneri's hands. "You lack muscle memory, but your chakra threads… they're eerily refined. Must be that Dojutsu of yours."
Toneri didn't respond right away. His fingers twitched subtly, weaving threads of pure chakra that glowed with a faint white-blue hue. The puppet—an ornate, graceful dancer model—lifted one arm, then another, each movement smooth as flowing silk.
Sasori let out a short huff of approval. "Most rookies jerk the limbs or snap the joints. You… guide them. Like you're conducting music."
"I've been watching the Earth's art for generations," Toneri replied, eyes still focused on the doll. "It's strange, but… there's something peaceful in this. Something elegant."
Sasori actually smiled—just a little. "You know, I thought you were going to be annoying. One of those self-righteous types." He tapped his fingers on the workbench. "But you get it. Puppetry isn't about control. It's about expression. About giving life."
Toneri paused, then gently dispersed his threads. "For someone once obsessed with turning people into weapons… you speak like an artist."
Sasori shrugged. "Maybe death and resurrection mellowed me out."
I couldn't help but step in now, folding my arms with a faint smile. "I take it the two of you are getting along?"
Sasori looked over. "If he keeps improving like this, he'll surpass half of Suna's specialists by next month. He doesn't need physical strings—he manipulates from the soul."
Toneri nodded humbly. "It's… gratifying, in a way. Creating something that isn't meant to destroy."
My smile widened slightly.
"That's what peace gives us. The chance to build, not just survive."
As I turned to leave, Sasori tossed Toneri a sealed scroll.
"Try building one of your own from scratch next. Show me your idea of beauty."
Toneri looked down at the scroll, then up again.
"I think I will."
I stood at the front of the newly-built Shinobi Technical Academy in Suna, its walls humming faintly with embedded chakra wiring and reinforced sand-steel. This wasn't a place to learn genjutsu or taijutsu—this was a place for something newer. Something that bridged the old world and the one we were forging.
A row of eager students sat before me—young, bright-eyed kids, some fresh out of the academy, others retired genin who never made it as full-time shinobi. Their hands were stained with grease and ink, scrolls and gears laid out across their desks.
At the front, beside me, were the instructors—Sasori, calm and calculating, more alive than ever as he demonstrated puppet mechanics with his revived parents at his side. The man who once turned himself into a machine now passionately taught others how to build life, not destroy it.
Now? They were drafting chakra circuit blueprints and explaining the principles of chakra-flow turbines.
We weren't just teaching puppetry anymore. We were teaching chakra engineering, seal-coding, mobility design, and even basic circuitry using nature release affinities. Our students were crafting automated irrigation puppets, chakra-fueled prosthetics, and even small comms scrolls—the precursor to something I would eventually call the "Nin-Phone."
I raised my hand, and the classroom hushed.
"Some of you were told the shinobi world is in decline," I said, my voice steady. "That without war, we have no purpose. That peace means irrelevance. They are wrong."
I held up a small prototype: a chakra-powered motor gear made in collaboration with Kumo's lightning specialists.
"Peace doesn't mean the end of purpose. It means the chance to build something lasting. To become more than just soldiers. To become creators."
Sasori chuckled softly beside me. "I never thought I'd teach a class like this," he muttered, his puppet hand twisting a bolt with inhuman precision.
*3 Years Later*-Timeskip
The view from my office stretched far beyond the walls of the Kazekage Tower. Below, at the heart of the village, was the great garden—a sprawling, living monument to what Suna had become. A place of life, not survival. Green instead of dust. Laughter instead of silence.
Children who had been born in the last five years would never know the Suna I inherited. To them, cracked sandstone buildings, food rations, and the sound of war drums were myths—stories from a harsher, faraway world. Now, they had parks, railways, clean water, festivals, and yes—even air conditioning.
We had made a paradise here.
The ringing on my desk shattered the peace like glass underfoot.
I knew that sound. And I knew what it meant.
The world narrowed into instinct. Shirt. Sand flicker. Hospital.
The penthouse floor was a flurry of white coats and panicked motion. My eyes found her immediately—Chiyo—surrounded by machines, chakra monitors, and people who looked too helpless to be called medics.
"Chiyo," I breathed, already at her side.
"Kazekage-sama," one of the doctors stammered, as I grabbed his coat. "Her condition is deteriorating rapidly—we're doing everything we can."
But it wasn't enough. I stepped forward, letting my chakra wash gently over her like warm tidewater.
Her eyes fluttered open, fragile but sharp. "I told you no."
"You did," I answered quietly.
"I'm not healing you," I added before she could object. "Just… easing the pain. Lending a bit of vitality. It's temporary."
I didn't want to lie. But this wasn't mercy. This was selfishness. I just needed her awake a little longer.
She studied me—those aged, stormy eyes reading every thought I hadn't voiced.
"It's not your fault," she said.
"I know," I replied. "You're the one refusing treatment."
Her eyes softened. "Everyone I knew is gone, Gaara. My brother. My comrades. I was grateful for the time you gave me—with Sasori, with my children. That was a gift. But now…" she exhaled slowly. "Now I can feel myself slipping. I've become the last page of a book no one reads anymore. And I'm so… so tired."
Her words settled like dust on old stone—undeniable and still somehow unfair.
I clenched my hands at my side, helpless even with all my power. "Everything is finally right, and now you decide it's your time?"
A faint smile touched her lips.
"This village is a dream I never thought I'd live to see," she said. "A dream you built. I watched brown sand turn green under your watch. Watched life return to a land once known only for death. You gave me that."
Her voice trembled, but she still sat proud. Still Chiyo.
"Thank you for being the Kazekage we needed. Thank you for choosing peace. For giving us more than survival. For giving us a future."
She reached out, and I took her hand in mine.
"Thank you," she whispered, her breath thin as paper. "Thank you for being my grandson…"
The weight of her words hit like a blow.
My gaze shot to hers just as her lids drifted shut. I held her hand as her chakra slipped, slow and silent, like the setting sun behind the dunes.
I felt it—the exact moment the light in her went out.
"She's gone, Kazekage-sama," a doctor said, unnecessarily.
As if I hadn't felt the moment time itself bowed and let her go.
She died peacefully. But not quietly—not to me.
She left with a smile, in a world she helped create, held by someone she once thought beyond saving.
And now she was free.
Three weeks after the funeral, I returned to the garden.
Not as the Kazekage. Not as a leader, or a symbol, or a legacy. Just… as a grandson.
The park was quiet this time of day. Sunset cast a soft gold over the imported grass and blooming desert poppies, and the distant laughter of children echoed like wind chimes. I followed the sand path past a new pond—freshwater, self-cleaning, home to lotus and koi—and found the memorial stone beneath the oldest tree in the village.
It had been Chiyo's favorite tree.
Its bark was gnarled, its canopy enormous. It had survived sandstorms, wars, and scorching heat—like her.
Beneath it sat the black memorial stone. Polished obsidian. Her name carved into it by Sasori's hand, alongside the words:
"She chose to heal."
I knelt, brushing away some stray petals that had fallen across the engraving. My fingers lingered there.
A breeze swept through the park, warm and full of life.
"She would've hated all this greenery," came a voice from behind me.
I turned. Sasori stood there, dressed not in his old cloak but in a light robe, a carving tool in one hand. He looked more like a sculptor now than a shinobi.
"She did," I replied, standing.
"But she also said it was beautiful," I added, glancing at the garden.
Sasori nodded once, eyes fixed on the stone. "She said she had nothing left to regret. That's rare."
"She earned that peace," I said.
"I'm still working on mine." Sasori calmly replied.
Kankuro knelt beside the grave. "She gave everything for this place. For us. I think she died happy."
"She didn't want to be healed," I said. "Said she'd already been given more than she ever expected."
Temari folded her arms, her eyes distant. "I think she held on as long as she did to see it with her own eyes. The peace. The prosperity. You."
I glanced at her. "Us."
She gave me a small smile.
Kankuro looked up, a rare solemnity in his voice. "Do you ever wonder if we deserve it? All this?"
I was quiet for a while. Watching the way the wind moved through the leaves. The children's laughter in the background. The smell of flowers Chiyo once called unnecessary.
"No," I said at last. "We earned it. And now we have to protect it."
The wind stirred again, lifting the petals into the air. A dance of color across the bronze sky.
Kankuro stood and dusted off his gloves as he turned to Sasori. "We'll take care of the village. You go get some sleep, old man."
"Speak for yourself," Temari said. "You look older than both of us combined."
We all chuckled at that.
And then I turned to the stone one last time.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."
As we walked back down the path, past the benches and the koi pond and the sound of music playing from the plaza, I knew one thing with complete clarity.
The future had roots now.
And the desert had bloomed.
The train slid smoothly into Konoha's central station, its metal frame gleaming under the golden afternoon light. As it came to a halt, steam hissed from its sides, scattering a few nearby birds into the air. It was my first time visiting since the final phase of the Great Railway Project, and the village had grown — not just in size, but in spirit.
With me were Temari, Kankuro, Toneri, and Sasori, each dressed in formal wear, though Kankuro still refused to part with his face paint, and Sasori had an elegant but oddly stiff way of wearing a kimono. We stepped onto the platform, immediately greeted by the unmistakable scent of blooming cherry blossoms and the sound of laughter drifting through the streets.
Naruto was getting married.
To Hinata Hyuga, no less — a union that felt like the final punctuation on the story of an era.
Konoha was alive today with celebration, but it wasn't just any celebration. Minato Namikaze, Naruto's father — once thought lost to time and tragedy — now stood as Hokage once again after the mass resurrection. Seeing him restored and acting as the guiding hand over the village only made this wedding feel even more surreal.
"Did you remember the gift?" I asked, turning slightly.
Temari sighed, producing a well-wrapped package from her scroll pouch. It was unusually large for a wedding gift, and when Kankuro helped lift it, I could see the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"He's going to cry when he opens it," Kankuro muttered.
Inside was something no other Kage would dare give to a fellow leader — not a relic, not a blade, not a ceremonial scroll of diplomacy.
It was a custom-designed Ichiraku Ramen cart, portable and chakra-insulated, complete with a lifetime supply of Suna-grown ingredients, recipes, and a handwritten message from Teuchi himself. We had even included a miniature fridge stocked with cooling noodles and preserved miso broth — lightning chakra-powered, of course.
"He'll love it," Temari admitted under her breath as we approached the main hall.
"I hope so," I said.
When we finally met Naruto before the ceremony, he was practically vibrating with excitement, his cheeks already aching from smiling too much.
"Gaara!" he shouted, pulling me into a rough, sudden hug. "You came!"
"I wouldn't miss it," I said with a small smile. "Congratulations."
He looked at the wrapped cart and raised an eyebrow. "Uh… What's this?"
"Open it later," I replied. "Just… don't eat it all in one night."
Naruto gave me a grin that said he probably would.
Around us, the wedding was blooming — petals in the air, old friends reconnecting, children laughing, and shinobi across generations standing together in joy, not war. As I looked out into the crowd, I saw Minato standing proudly beside Kushina, and across from them, Jiraiya, Kakashi, Tsunade, and even the reborn Sakumo Hatake, all gathered in peace.
It was a scene I had never imagined. And yet, it felt earned.
I stood beside Temari and Kankuro as the ceremony began. Sasori watched quietly from behind, arms folded. Toneri, dressed with solemn elegance, kept his gaze steady on the couple as they exchanged vows.
And as the crowd erupted into cheers when Naruto kissed his bride, I felt a rare peace settle into my bones.
We had saved this world — and now, we were finally living in it.
(END OF STORY)
Pretty Abrupt Ending but I wasn't interested in going into Boruto Era.