Chapter 4 — Sasori's Gaze
Hidden Sand Village — Land of Wind
Deep inside the warehouse, the dry desert air was thick with the rich fragrance of timber, threaded with the faint, cold tang of metal that refused to fade.
Sunlight spilled through the lattice of a high window, casting long, slanting shafts of gold. Dust motes floated lazily within them, turning the air into a slow-moving sea.
Moze stood at the center of the hall, glancing down at his hands.
Not long ago, this body had been nothing more than the frame of an ordinary shinobi. But now… every single cell seemed to hum with explosive strength and an unending well of vitality.
His physical toughness and life force had been forcibly elevated by several tiers. And with the newfound power came more than just raw might—there was also a strange unfamiliarity, an illusion that he was standing on the very brink of losing control.
He would need to adapt—completely master this sudden gift before it mastered him.
Fortunately, Sasori's massive order had given him the perfect excuse. Early that morning, he had hung a Closed sign on the workshop door. Today, there would be no interruptions.
Sasori's requirements for materials bordered on the obsessive: wood from different years had to be stored separately, metals from different origins sorted into distinct zones, even screws had to be classified by length down to the millimeter.
And that wasn't all. Many of the materials were only half-finished, requiring preliminary treatment before they could meet Sasori's exacting standards.
In the past, a day of such work would have cost Moze half his life.
But now… he casually lifted a bundle of ironwood that looked heavy enough to make a cart groan. In his grip, it felt as light as a bundle of straw.
Weighing it in his hand, he couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth tilt upward.
This feeling… not bad at all.
He began sorting in earnest, his movements far swifter than before.
Heavy crates were hoisted one-handed and set down precisely in their designated spots without even the whisper of a thud.
Through the monotonous labor, his control over his strength gradually became more refined.
Once or twice he pressed too hard, nearly leaving a dent in a block of hardwood with his fingertips. Each time, he immediately steadied his breath and adjusted his grip.
Time passed quietly in the rhythm of lifting, classifying, and stacking.
From dawn until dusk, he forgot even to stop for lunch.
By the time the last batch of rare metal ingots had been stacked according to Sasori's near-maniacal system, the golden-red light of sunset had spilled across more than half the warehouse floor.
Moze straightened up, stretching with easy nonchalance. Faint but powerful cracks ran through his joints, like bones singing in delight.
The fatigue he'd expected never came. Instead, he felt sharp, clear—almost as if he could keep going for another three days and nights without rest.
That warm current of life force within him flowed endlessly, feeding his body and sweeping away all traces of weariness.
"Phew—finally done."
He let out a long breath, eyes sweeping over the scene.
The warehouse floor now looked like a military parade—ranks upon ranks of materials standing in immaculate order.
A solid, satisfying sense of accomplishment spread through his chest.
The last rays of the setting sun clung lazily to the high window's edge, spilling a warm golden glaze over everything in the warehouse.
Even the mingled scent of wood and metal seemed gentler beneath that light.
Moze stood at the center of the room, quietly feeling the power coursing through him, the heightened sharpness in every sense.
He could hear it all—the dwindling footsteps on the street outside, the faint scrape of sand as the wind pushed it across stone—each detail as clear as if the world had slowed to speak only to him.
Then it came—a pulse of chakra, steady and familiar, closing in from a distance.
Sasori.
His footsteps struck the sand outside, unhurried and measured, each interval precise as though placed by ruler. Moze even caught the subtle shift as Sasori's stride bypassed the loose flagstone at the threshold.
Before the man could touch the door, Moze raised his voice—calm, clear, and carrying beyond the wood:
"Lord Sasori, you've come at just the right time. Every last material is ready."
The door swung open without a sound.
Sasori's silhouette filled the frame, the sunset at his back casting a long, dark shadow across the floor.
He swept the space with his habitual glance—efficient, detached—yet when his gaze met the room within, it paused.
What had once been clutter was now precision incarnate: woods and metals sorted by species, grade, and size, each stack aligned to an invisible grid, every edge matching its neighbor as though some unseen hand had measured them to the millimeter.
The air carried no muddled tang of mixed scents—only the layered notes of fine timber and clean metal, distinct and balanced.
For a man like Sasori, who chased perfection in all things, it was the kind of order that went down smooth.
"Lord Sasori, everything's been sorted exactly to your specifications," Moze said, stepping aside to clear the way. His tone held just the right amount of warmth and confidence. "Would you like to verify the count yourself?"
"No need," Sasori replied, voice as flat and uncolored as ever. "I trust your word."
Even as he spoke, he reached into the wide sleeve of his robe, drawing out several scrolls.
A faint ripple of chakra shimmered at his fingertips, and sealing patterns bloomed across the parchment like ink rising in water.
With a flick of his wrist, the scrolls burst open midair.
An unseen pull swept through the warehouse.
Shhh—shhh—
Heavy timber and intricate metal fittings alike shattered into streams of light, each streaking into its assigned scroll.
In a heartbeat, the once-crowded warehouse stood bare, save for the lingering aroma of wood and the faint bite of metal in the air—traces of what had been here moments before.
Then, without a word, Sasori's hand dipped into his robe again—this time producing a thick stack of crisp, new banknotes.
The sight alone made the corner of Moze's eye twitch, ever so slightly.
He didn't count. He didn't need to.
The weight of the bundle spoke plainly enough of Sasori's "sincerity."
He took it with steady hands, feeling the faint heft, the dry texture of fine paper, and the clean perfume of fresh ink.
Warmth stirred in his chest; his fingers brushed along the edges, gauging the amount by thickness. The corner of his mouth almost betrayed him.
Generous as ever, patron.
But his face stayed composed.
The money vanished into his keeping with smooth, practiced ease.
"Much appreciated, Lord Sasori. Should you need anything again, you know where to find me."
Sasori's head dipped a fraction—a gesture just shy of acknowledgment.
Then, without warning, those cool, tea-brown eyes fixed on Moze.
The gaze was different this time—longer, slower—scanning him from head to toe, as though peeling away each layer to reach whatever lay beneath.
Moze's chest tightened.
There was a probing weight in that look, a silent question that made his muscles tense.
Did he notice the change in my body? The thought flickered through his mind. After all, today his body felt nothing like it used to.
But the scrutiny didn't linger.
Either Sasori saw nothing unusual… or he simply didn't care.
His eyes shifted away, and without another word, he turned—brisk and precise, just as he'd arrived.
His footsteps faded quickly in the vast, emptied warehouse, leaving only the image of his retreating back, swallowed by the thickening dusk outside—
as though he had never been there at all.
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