Gen and Pakura set out in the morning and arrived near Sunagakure just before noon.
Though he could have used the Flying Thunder God to cover the distance in moments, Gen chose not to. He wasn't in a rush. With a beauty at his side, traveling slowly, enjoying the desert scenery together that in itself was a pleasure.
Sunagakure sat within a small oasis. Compared to the lush green lands of other nations, its life-giving patch of land was meager.
When the village was first founded, the Wind Daimyō had not chosen this site for its comfort but for its strategic position. From here, one could control the north, south, and east routes of the Land of Wind.
Seen from above, the village resembled a fortress. Layer upon layer of walls ringed the settlement. Its houses were oval or circular, their windows narrow slits.
Today the winds howled across the desert, and the entire village seemed wrapped in a yellow haze. The air stung with grit, the light dull as though veiled by smog.
Gen hadn't come to announce himself through the front gates. He was here for answers. Direct answers. He carried Pakura past the outer defenses, descending quietly behind a building. With Soul Perception guiding him, he avoided patrols and landed unseen.
Pakura looked around her old home. A familiar village—yet after her ordeal, it felt strangely distant. "What now?" she asked softly.
Gen smirked. "Do you know where Rasa lives?"
She nodded. "I do."
"Perfect. Then let's drop by for lunch." He stretched as though they were out for a casual stroll.
Pakura blinked. "Lunch?"
"It's broad daylight. You didn't think we'd sneak in at night, did you?" Gen chuckled, utterly unconcerned, as if he were returning to his own backyard.
Pakura gave him a helpless glance, cheeks faintly red. "You're insufferable…" Still, she turned and began leading the way.
As they walked, Pakura's presence drew attention. Many shinobi and villagers greeted her with respect or friendliness, a reminder of the prestige she once held here. Their eyes lingered curiously on the man at her side, but no one dared to approach. His casual closeness with her made clear that he was no ordinary guest.
At last, they reached a three-story circular building in the village center—Rasa's residence. Just as Pakura reached for the doorbell, three shadows flickered into place around them.
Swish, swish, swish—
Sunagakure Anbu. They moved into a triangular formation, blocking every escape path.
"Lady Pakura," the tallest of them spoke, his voice clipped, "why are you here? And who is this man?"
Though polite in words, his tone was cold. All three were Rasa's trusted men, assigned to watch over Gaara. They knew well enough their master's opinion of Pakura, the so-called hero of the Sand.
Pakura opened her mouth, but Gen raised a hand. Why waste breath on lackeys?
His Sharingan spun to life. With a twist of his body, he cast and unraveled an illusion in the same motion. His voice cracked like a whip:
"Get lost."
"Yes, sir!"
The three bowed at once, then vanished into the rooftops without a trace.
Gen brushed invisible dust from his sleeve. "The strong don't explain themselves to the weak. Unless they feel like it."
Pakura exhaled, part resignation, part awe, as Gen stepped up and pressed the doorbell. She followed close behind.
The door opened to reveal a boy of seven or eight in a black shirt and shorts.
"Who are you looking for?" Kankurō asked, brows furrowed.
"Is Rasa home?" Gen asked bluntly.
"You—how dare you call my father by name!" Kankurō's eyes widened, his young face hardening with indignation. In Sunagakure, few dared address the Kazekage so casually. Even the most venerable elders would say Lord Kazekage or Lord Fengying.
Gen didn't bother arguing with a child. His voice rolled with subtle hypnotic force: "Let us in."
Kankurō's eyes glazed over. "Yes… please, come inside." He stepped aside and closed the door behind them.
"Brother, has Father come back?" a girl's voice asked.
A blonde child, hair tied in a bun, stood nearby—Temari. At her side was a smaller boy with dark red hair and deep shadows under his eyes: Gaara. He clutched a toy in silence.
"No," Kankurō answered, his tone flat. "It's Lady Pakura… and some handsome stranger."
From the kitchen emerged a man in a Sunagakure vest, his short blond hair bound with a white headscarf. His expression was gentle—Yashamaru, Gaara's uncle, Anbu captain, and one of Rasa's closest aides.
"Lady Pakura," Yashamaru greeted softly. Then his eyes landed on Gen, and his face tightened. "You… are you the head of Konoha's Police Force? Clan leader of the Uchiha—Uchiha Gen?"
"That's me."
Without hesitation, Gen dropped onto the sofa in the living room as though he owned the place.
The children exchanged startled looks. Yashamaru's unease deepened.
"Such a sudden visit… what business brings you here?" His careful tone could not hide the tension. This arrogance—it meant trouble.
Gen crossed one leg over the other. "I'm here to settle accounts with Rasa. And to claim justice for my woman."
His voice hardened. "This matter is beyond you. Call him back immediately. If he's late…" Gen's eyes narrowed. "He'll bear the consequences."
He let slip a fraction of his killing intent.
The air thickened. To Yashamaru, Temari, and Kankurō, the room seemed drenched in crimson. Their lungs seized as though an iron hand squeezed their throats. Faces flushed red as they gasped for breath.
Only Gaara remained eerily unaffected, his wide eyes fixed on Gen with quiet intensity.
Pakura quickly reached out and touched Gen's shoulder, her eyes pleading. She held no malice toward the family before her, only toward the man who had betrayed her.
Gen pouted. "This is nothing. I was being restrained already. Rasa tried to kill his own, yet I haven't even drawn blood."
Pakura gently swayed his arm. "Every wrong has its source, every debt its master."
"Tch… you're too kind," Gen muttered. Still, he pulled back his aura.
"Hah… hah…" Yashamaru and the children sucked in greedy gulps of air, relief and terror written across their faces.
Only Gaara reacted differently…