[Konoha Year 40 – Sunagakure Interior]
The change in Sayo was slow, a gradual recalibration of a biological machine. He remained thin and small for a four-year-old, but the leaden weakness of his early years had finally lifted. He could now walk the wind-scoured streets of Sunagakure on his own, his legs steady enough to carry his thirty-year-old curiosity toward the horizons he had previously only seen from a cradle.
Sharyu still brought him to the workshop daily. Sayo had the route memorized with the precision of a GPS map: out from their low, stone-cave dwelling, down the potholed main thoroughfare, and through a narrow branch canyon where the rock walls towered like the ribs of some ancient, fossilized beast.
But a child's nature—or perhaps the restless soul of an engineer—cannot be indefinitely contained by routine.
That afternoon, Sharyu was pulled away by an urgent mobilization order at Headquarters. He left Sayo at the workshop gate under the supervision of a veteran craftsman. The moment the old man's back was turned to greet a supply caravan, Sayo's quiet, small shadow slipped away.
He hadn't intended to wander. A rare flash of color—a stubborn, purple blossom on a hardy Seabuckthorn bush—had caught his eye. He followed the dancing flower as the desert wind whipped it along a remote, downward-sloping path he had never explored.
By the time he gave up on the flower, the world had changed. The noise of the maintenance bay was gone, replaced by an eerie, heavy silence. The cliffs on either side rose so high they choked out the afternoon sun, casting the path into deep, cool shadows.
At the end of the trail stood a modest, ancient temple. It was built of rough-hewn stone, looking more like a natural outcropping of the cliff than a man-made structure. There were no ornate carvings, only the deep, abrasive scars left by decades of sandstorms. A tattered cloth curtain hung over the entrance, fluttering like a tired wing.
An inexplicable aura drew Sayo forward. It wasn't the chemical scent of oil or the dry bite of dust; it was something tranquil, ancient, and heavy with a quiet sorrow.
He lifted the worn curtain.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old parchment. A single, bean-sized flame from a stone oil lamp flickered on an altar, illuminating a weathered statue whose features had long since been smoothed away by time.
Beside the lamp, a figure sat motionless on a rush cushion. It was an extremely gaunt old monk, his robes washed to a pale, bone-white and covered in meticulous patches. He didn't move; he seemed to be part of the stone itself.
Hearing the rustle of the curtain, the monk stirred. He turned slowly, his face a map of deep wrinkles—like a riverbed that had been dry for a century. Yet his eyes were startlingly clear, shining with a gentle, penetrating insight.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed the monk's face. Visitors were rare; a four-year-old with the eyes of an old man was unprecedented.
"Amitābha," the monk's voice was a hoarse whisper, gentle as a spring breeze. "Little benefactor, how did you find your way to this forgotten corner?"
Sayo sensed no malice, only a profound, vibrating stillness. He tilted his head. "I... I got lost."
"Lost, are you..." The monk smiled, the creases on his face softening. "This place is indeed hidden from the world. It seems you have a karmic connection with the Buddha." He beckoned with a thin hand. "The sand outside is fierce; come, sit for a while."
Sayo hesitated, then stepped onto the clean floor. As he sat on a spare cushion, his engineer's eyes caught a detail that chilled him. Beneath the monk's tattered sleeves and the hem of his robe, barely visible metal shackles gripped his wrists and ankles. They were connected to heavy iron chains that disappeared directly into the bedrock.
Sayo's mind whirred. A monk... imprisoned in a remote temple in the Sand... He looked at the elder's serene smile and realized he was in the presence of someone extraordinary.
"A peculiar place, isn't it?" the monk asked, his voice devoid of resentment for his chains.
Sayo nodded. "Have you always been alone here?"
"For a long time," the monk, Bunpuku, replied. "My only companions are the lamp, the Buddha, and... a rather restless 'old friend' who lives within."
"Old friend?" Sayo blinked.
Bunpuku merely smiled, bypassing the question. "And what of you, little Sayo? What brings a child of the gears to my door?"
"My father works in the Puppet Repair Class," Sayo answered.
"Ah, the Puppet Brigade," Bunpuku's eyes sparked with recognition. "So you are a child of the 'Grains of Sand.' No wonder you speak with such gravity."
For the next hour, the old monk and the reincarnated engineer talked. Sayo found it strangely liberating. He didn't have to feign the ignorance of a child; Bunpuku seemed to listen to his technical ramblings about gears and chakra-conductivity as if they were sutras.
"Sayo! Sayo!"
Sharyu's frantic voice echoed down the canyon, breaking the spell. Sayo scrambled to his feet. "Grandpa Bunpuku, my father is here. I have to go."
Bunpuku nodded kindly. "Go. Do not let him worry."
Sayo ran to the curtain, then paused and looked back at the thin, shackled man sitting by the flickering lamp. "Grandpa Bunpuku... can I come back?"
The monk seemed genuinely startled. Then, a warm, radiant smile broke across his face—a smile of true companionship. "Of course, little Sayo. As long as you do not find this old monk dull, you are always welcome."
Sayo nodded vigorously and vanished into the sunlight.
Bunpuku closed his eyes, his palms pressed together in prayer. Deep within the silence of the temple, a low, guttural snort of disdain echoed from the shadows—a wild, primal sound that seemed to vibrate in the very air—before fading into the stillness.