Chapter 1 – The Boy from Sunagakure
The morning sun pierced through Sunagakure's signature ochre-colored buildings, sprinkling a faint warmth over the otherwise quiet streets.
A gust of wind stirred fine grains of sand, which rattled softly against window frames with a dry shhh sound.
At the Murata Confectionery, a hand gently lifted the shop's warm-colored curtain, setting off a crisp chime from the hanging bells.
"Yo, Moze! Right on time again today?"
Behind the counter, Madam Murata—apron tied over her ample frame—looked up. Her face was creased with wrinkles, but her smile was as bright as ever, and her voice boomed with friendly energy.
The boy she addressed as Moze looked to be around thirteen or fourteen. His black hair was messy and full, and his eyes shone with a clear brightness. He wore dark, close-fitting clothes suited for movement, the hems of his sleeves and pants lightly dusted with sand.
Moze stepped up to the counter with an easy smile and ordered as if it were routine:
"Two wagashi and two red bean cakes, please, Madam Murata."
With practiced efficiency, she retrieved two neatly wrapped paper bags from beneath the counter—one pink, one ivory-white—each perfectly square.
"Here, I had them ready for you. Fresh out of the oven, still warm."
The bags bulged with a comforting weight. A sweet aroma drifted out, teasing his empty morning stomach.
As she passed the sweets over, Madam Murata chuckled, teasing him:
"You're as steady as clockwork. If you're ever not the first customer through my door, I might have to check if the sun's rising from behind the western dunes."
"What can I say? Your craftsmanship's too good, Madam Murata," Moze replied, feeling the gentle heat through the paper, "There's not a soul in Sunagakure who can beat your sweets."
"Hah, you know how to talk." Her laughter deepened the smile lines on her face. "Not like my own boy—he spends all day running missions and can't string together half a sentence."
Bags in hand, Moze turned and stepped out into the morning air.
The wind carried Sunagakure's dry desert scent, kicking up specks of sand that brushed against his cheeks with a faint itch.
In high spirits, he headed toward his own small shop on the village's outskirts. The plan was simple: boil water, steep a pot of hot tea, and enjoy these treats for breakfast—arguably the most relaxing part of his day.
But as he approached his adobe-colored home, with its small fenced yard, his steps slowed.
Someone was standing outside the gate.
In Sunagakure's palette of ochre, black, and gray, the figure's short red hair was impossible to miss.
The person stood with their back to him—still, silent, like a finely crafted puppet devoid of warmth.
Moze's heart gave a small jolt, but he quickly plastered on his usual smile and strode forward.
"Lord Sasori, you're here early today. Is there something you need?"
The visitor was none other than Sunagakure's most gifted young puppeteer—Sasori of the Red Sand.
Sasori turned to face him, saying nothing at first.
His large, tea-brown eyes should have held the clarity of youth, yet they were unnervingly calm, carrying a cold, inanimate stillness.
His gaze swept over Moze—from the sand-speckled cuffs of his pants, up to his slightly disheveled hair, and finally to the paper bags in his hands. The look was clinical, almost mechanical—like inspecting the components of a puppet for flaws.
Moze resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Here we go again.
Every time Sasori came for a pickup or inspection, he insisted on looking him over from head to toe, as if Moze were just another piece of material to be graded for quality.
But Moze was used to it. After all, Sasori's eccentricities were infamous—he liked to preserve powerful shinobi as "eternal art."
Keyword: powerful.
His collection targets were always bloodline elites or famous warriors—like the still-living Third Kazekage.
And Moze?
Well, six years since he'd crossed into this world, he was still stuck at the "theoretical" stage of chakra nature transformation, his practical skills a disaster. A bottom-rung genin like him wasn't exactly prime puppet material.
Besides, Sasori was his most valuable customer—the reason he could afford such luxuries as a "dessert budget."
For reasons Moze couldn't quite explain—maybe talent, maybe just a knack for handling materials—his processed goods always met Sasori's exacting standards. Whether it was durable chakra-conductive wood or rare toxic ores, Moze's work seemed to harmonize perfectly with Sasori's craft.
Thanks to the puppeteer's reputation and constant high-value orders, Moze—a powerless, connectionless orphan—had, in just six years, carved out a comfortable living in resource-starved, high-cost Sunagakure.
Enough for people to envy him. Enough for him to afford these pricey treats that could feed a normal family for days.
After a long silence, Sasori finally spoke—his voice as devoid of warmth as the rest of him:
"I'm here for materials."
Moze nodded. "Of course, Lord Sasori. Same as usual? Should I take you to the storeroom?" He stepped aside, gesturing politely.
"No need." Sasori cut him off, his tone flat, without a hint of emotion. "I'm busy. Prepare everything on this list. I'll collect it by sundown."
A neatly folded slip of paper was handed over with precise, almost puppet-like motion. Without another glance, Sasori turned and walked away.
Even the wind seemed to pick up a colder edge as he left.
Moze unfolded the paper. The high-grade sheet had a faint toughness to it.
His brows rose.
The list was densely filled—rare chakra-conductive woods, specific metal alloys, and several specialized oils you could only get on the black market. The quantities were staggering.
"...You've gotta be kidding me." He muttered, reading it again to be sure. "Even if I emptied out my stock from the past few years, I'd barely scrape enough together. And all at once?"
This wasn't a normal order. Sasori wasn't just building a few puppets—this was enough to arm an entire puppet corps.
Moze's mind raced. Sasori's unusual urgency… combined with what he knew as someone who'd read this story before…
A dangerous possibility struck him like lightning.
"What's with all the fuss, and in such a rush…" Moze's eyes flickered, and the corner of his lips curved upward almost against his will.
"Don't tell me… you're planning to defect?"
The thought made his heart skip a beat — but instead of tension, a strange sense of relief washed over him, as if a weight had finally been lifted.
Sasori of the Red Sand defecting — now that was a landmark event in the "plot."
"The Third Great Ninja War… is about to begin, huh."
"Well then, my biggest client's about to skip town, war's about to break out… no way am I sticking around Sunagakure." Moze weighed the slip of paper in his hand as though it weren't a shopping list, but a ticket to freedom. "Perfect timing. One last big score, and I'm packing my bags."
When he'd first crossed over to this world, he'd been fired up.
Stepping on Susanoo, tearing apart Tailed Beast Bombs, punching Madara in the face, dropkicking Kaguya… dreams had everything. Reality had nothing.
Six years later, the cold, unyielding truth was this — he was just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill genin.
Sure, his sensory abilities were above average, and his chakra control was decent. But the real kicker? His chakra reserves were pitifully small.
Moze had estimated before: all told, he had maybe 0.1 measly "Chakra Calories."
Absolutely ridiculous.
Chakra was born from the balanced fusion of physical and spiritual energy.
Physical energy?
He looked down at the body he'd honed over years of training — the muscles were defined enough to feel through his clothes. Rain or shine, he'd stuck to his regimen without fail, building a sturdy, enduring frame. Six-pack abs, stamina on par with (or better than) his peers, and vitality to spare.
That wasn't the issue.
Spiritual energy?
Even more infuriating — doctors had confirmed his mind was perfectly fine.
Yet when the two combined, his chakra output was barely a trickle.
An insult to both his well-built body and the powerful soul he believed himself to have.
Who was he supposed to complain to about that?
In the end, he could only chalk it up to some damnable, senseless "side effect" of transmigration. Maybe his body and soul were simply incompatible — a mismatch of "software and hardware," so to speak.
Hell, maybe his chakra conversion "driver" was outdated and couldn't run his high-spec soul.
Six years was plenty of time to grind down those wild, unrealistic dreams.
Punching Madara? Kicking Kaguya? Yeah, right.
These days, he'd be lucky to take on an average jōnin, let alone one of those monsters.
He'd long since given up on climbing the ninja ranks.
He hadn't spent years scraping together his savings just to rot away in this sandy wasteland, playing "protect the village" with a bunch of fight-happy ninja.
He was sick of the endless brown landscape, the sand that got everywhere, and most of all, the powerless feeling of being a nobody who could get swept up and killed at any moment.
And dessert with sand in it?
Blasphemy. Unforgivable.
Run. He had to run.
If not now, then when?
Sasori's defection would throw the village into chaos, the leadership too busy scrambling to care about him, and the war's flames hadn't yet reached ordinary civilians. It was the perfect moment to grab his things and disappear.
A gift from the heavens.
He stroked his chin, eyes glinting as his mind raced.
With his years of savings, plus this final "sponsorship" from Sasori, he could buy a massive estate in some neutral, peaceful little country far from the frontlines.
There, he'd sip hot tea in one hand and nibble fresh pastries in the other, attended by a crew of capable, pleasant-looking maids… or manservants, as long as they worked hard and didn't slack off.
No more missions. No more battles. Just sunbathing in a courtyard recliner, listening to music.
A life a hundred times better than choking on sand and living in fear in Sunagakure.
Ninja honor? Village bonds? The Will of Fire?
They could all go to hell.
He hadn't gone through all the trouble of reincarnating into this world just to die young.
No — the true path was living in peace, free to indulge in desserts and the art of doing absolutely nothing.
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