The moonlight was hazy, and the sand wind howled like a rasp dragged across the dunes.
In the boundless desert, a Sunagakure squad moved in a low, steady line toward a dilapidated village half-swallowed by dunes. Shattered walls hunched against the night, and the wind threaded the ruins with a thin, mournful whistle.
"Seriously, this cursed place is truly desolate." one shinobi muttered, voice kept low despite the complaint. He scanned the dunes anyway, as if the night itself might take offense.
"Stop talking nonsense. Focus on the mission." the captain said sharply without breaking stride.
He lifted a hand and the patrol fanned out a touch wider, steps measured. "We're searching for Pakura-sama. You all know how much she's contributed to the village."
"Alright, Captain, I know, it's just…" The complainer's words faded. He didn't dare push back, so his eyes slid instead to the boy near the rear.
The boy looked eleven or twelve at most—round glasses, slight frame, posture neat and almost apologetic. He didn't look like a desert operative; he looked like a clerk who had taken a wrong turn and stepped into a war story. The sight quietly annoyed the shinobi who'd spoken.
"It's just—why are we listening to this kid and hiking out to this remote dump? Seriously…" he whispered, still watching the boy.
"I—I apologize," the boy said at once, scratching the back of his head, head ducking with shame. "It's just that I thought this place might be a possibility, so I… offered my opinion. And if we really find traces of Pakura-sama here, then our… our records will—"
"Enough. Everyone, shut up."
The captain's tone brooked no argument. He flicked a brief glance toward the boy, then returned his attention forward. "Remote means hidden. Hidden means there could be a trail. We just need clues. If we find any, Anbu will take it from there. Understood?"
"Yes!" the squad answered in near unison, their voices vanishing into the wind.
The response had barely fallen flat when the sand under their boots shifted.
*Fshhhhh…*
The ground seemed to breathe and then to melt. In an instant the dune buckled into hungry quicksand, catching shins and calves with sucking force. Several Sunagakure shinobi were swallowed to the knee before they could even curse.
"Enemy attack!" the captain barked, already yanking his sword free. A chill skittered down his spine—pure instinct, honed by a hundred skirmishes. The air itself felt colder, thinner.
He began to form seals—too late. A silver line of motion cut the moonlight.
Something kissed his throat. Cool. Precise.
'So fast…'
The thought rang inside his skull like a bell struck once.
*Thud*
He crumpled to the sand, eyes already glazing. Around him, sharpened spikes of earth jackknifed up from the ground with a vicious crack, impaling his trapped teammates before their lungs found time to scream. Blood sprayed in thin fans that caught the moonlight and fell like dark rain.
One figure was spared. The boy with glasses stood untouched, breath tight, hands limp at his sides, eyes wide behind the lenses.
Footsteps sounded—unhurried, almost bored. A figure stepped from a pocket of shadow as if he'd been part of it.
"Hideyoshi, huh?" the newcomer said, gaze skating over the bodies with clinical disinterest before settling on the boy. "Or is it something else now, Kabuto? If I kill you, can we call it an accident?"
Yakushi Kabuto adjusted his glasses with two fingers and exhaled thinly. "Don't joke, Hidezawa…"
His lips twisted into an expression somewhere between a helpless smile and a grimace. Childhood did strange things to people, but Hidezawa, infuriatingly, hadn't changed in the ways that mattered. Back in the training grounds, this guy had punched him often and with enthusiasm. There were days Kabuto had sincerely wondered whether he would die on packed dirt to the applause of no one.
He hadn't, of course. He'd learned to parry. To adapt. But Hidezawa's growth had been… alarming. Faster reflexes, colder decisions. And tonight, the speed with which he'd erased a squad was more than a little terrifying.
Kabuto forced the alarm down and slipped back into his mask of mildness. Survival, for him, had always begun at the face.
"You're in Sunagakure too?" he asked softly. "No—you have your own mission. I won't pry. What do you need from me?"
"As it happens, I do need something."
Hidezawa's tone turned breezy, almost playful, as the edge of killing intent bled away from his posture. He rolled his shoulders as if ditching a weight and let whatever enhancement had slicked his muscles fade from his skin. Years in Root had conditioned him to do things the fastest way possible. The clean way. The way with no witnesses.
"I don't think you'll refuse." he added, half-smiling.
Kabuto fell silent. The corpses were still warm. The wind tugged at cloaks and hair in small, thoughtless gestures. He adjusted his glasses.
"…Tell me what you need." he said at last. "I can only promise to try."
"I want information," Hidezawa answered. No dramatics now, just focus. "Internal policies in Sunagakure—especially anything touching Pakura."
Kabuto's composure cracked. "Pakura… Did you—"
"Captured." Hidezawa said, palms up. "Not dead. Yet. We plan to interrogate her. But I also suspect Sunagakure might sell her out. I want to confirm whether my analysis holds."
He outlined his earlier deductions: the strategic strain on the Land of Wind, coffers thinning, a Kazekage forced to prioritize, the possibility of bartering a hated Kekkei Genkai user to make an enemy withdraw. Kabuto listened without interrupting, the small muscles in his jaw tightening.
When Hidezawa finished, silence stretched between them, thin and taut.
If true, the implications were volcanic. This wasn't gossip or a stolen report. It was logic sharpened to a blade—and wielded by Hidezawa of all people.
Kabuto's thoughts flickered. 'How far did he leap while I was busy pretending to be small?'
"I need to think." he said finally. "If I pull this off, the reward could be… significant." His voice thinned at the end. The image rose before him unbidden: a doorway, sunlight cutting across worn floorboards, the Dean's profile as she turned at the sound of his steps.
But reality snapped back like a trap. He touched his chest lightly; beneath the cloth and lies beat a false rank, a forged insignia, a constructed identity.
"Damn it." he breathed. "I'm only disguised as a genin. The difficulty is too high."
"Genin, huh?" Hidezawa tilted his head, considering. "What if I cause a big enough commotion? Would that pry open a window?"
Kabuto answered reflexively, the strategic part of his mind outracing caution. "Unless the Kazekage leaves his office… But that's very difficult." He shook his head at himself a second later. "Forget it. I'll think properly. Don't act rashly, and don't expose yourself. Sunagakure's Anbu are moving. If they get a scent, your night ends fast."
He drew a breath, and the line of his shoulders changed. The timid boy blurred, and something truer surfaced—ambition, fear, and a stubborn spark. "Also, I want to be in on this. Truly in. Not just passing your messages. This might be my chance to return to Konoha and see the Dean for myself."
His voice wavered, then steadied with effort. "Please, Hidezawa. Give me this chance."
He bowed deeply. Wind tugged at his hair. The ruined village watched with its dead windows.
It was reckless. Root would have called it weak. Hidezawa watched him in silence for a heartbeat and then felt a dry amusement uncurl.
'This could work. If I crack his illusions now, maybe he bleeds less later.'
He stepped forward and set a hand on Kabuto's shoulder. His voice, when it came, was gentle in a way his blades never were. "There's something you should know. The Dean left Konoha a long time ago."
Kabuto froze. His head snapped up, eyes wide behind glass. "What… did you say?"
"You probably don't know. I'm in Anbu now, not Root." Hidezawa said. "Still leashed, still restricted, still not allowed near the orphanage. But looser. Loose enough to pull at threads."
He looked past Kabuto at the dunes, as if the sand held the orphanage walls, the spring sunlight, the smell of medicine on clean gauze. "I dug. I found the orphanage wasn't as it should be. The Dean isn't there. And the updates I've been passing to you?" He met Kabuto's gaze. "Likely false."
Kabuto's breath hitched. The night tilted. "That's impossible… It… it can't be."
"Think back." Hidezawa said softly. "Why did Danzo come to the orphanage that day?"
Kabuto's pupils tightened. Old footsteps echoed down an old hall. A man's shadow blocked a doorway.
"You mean… the Dean… she…"
"It's likely." Hidezawa said, and the words were dull as a bruise. "She's too kind. Too willing to trade herself for us. I think she tried. But Danzo isn't a man who keeps the spirit of bargains."
He let the sentence fall and did not pick it up again.
Kabuto swayed as if something had left him. His hands trembled at his sides. For a moment, he was not a spy, not a medic, not a genius. He was a boy for whom a home had been built out of borrowed books and warm tea and a tired woman's stubborn smile.
Hidezawa squeezed his shoulder, once. "It's my speculation. I won't dress it up as more than that. But I have no reason to lie to you. We're both from the same place; you deserve to know what I know. And if this operation succeeds, you'll have leverage and access. You can go back. You can look yourself."
*****
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