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The day after his graduation, Sayo followed his father toward the sprawling stone complex west of the Kazekage Building—the Puppet Workshop.
The atmosphere here was a stark contrast to the frantic, blood-stained urgency of the Maintenance Squad. Here, there was a methodical rigor, a silence punctuated only by the rhythmic strike of hammers and the high-pitched whine of chakra-drills. The air was a cocktail of premium cedar, the ozone-scent of chakra metal, and the chemical bite of industrial solvents.
A stern-faced Chunin squad leader received Sayo, checked his deployment scrolls, and led him into the depths of Puppet-Limb Workshop Three.
"Tota!" the Chunin barked. "New Genin—Sayo. He's yours. Show him the layout and the safety protocols."
A youth of about seventeen looked up from a lathe. His cheeks were smudged with grease, but his eyes were bright and inquisitive. Seeing Sayo—so small and pale compared to the rugged apprentices usually sent there—he blinked in surprise before offering a quick, friendly smile. "Yes, sir. I've got him."
Tota wiped his hands on a stained leather apron and stepped forward. "Welcome to the grind. I'm Tota, been here two years. You're the one Elder Chiyo personally recommended, right?"
Sayo met his gaze with a steady, unblinking calm. "Yes, Tota-senpai. I am in your care." His lack of childish nerves made Tota pause; the boy carried himself like a veteran artisan, not a fresh graduate.
Tota began the tour, guiding Sayo through the specialized zones. "We handle the mass-produced limbs—standard arms and ball-joints. That rack holds the blueprints for every model currently in service... there's the material vault... and back there is the fine-machining area where the seal engraving happens. That's for the pros; it requires absolute precision."
Sayo's eyes swept across the workshop like a scanner, indexing the tool locations, the workflow bottlenecks, and the division of labor. To him, this wasn't just a shop; it was an industrial ecosystem. It reminded him vividly of the automated factories of his past life.
"First day, we start with the basics." Tota dumped a pile of rough-cut wooden forearm segments onto a bench. "Smooth these joints. Don't touch the specs or change the tolerances. Use the sandpaper in order—coarse to fine."
It was the most mind-numbing, repetitive task in the shop, but Sayo didn't hesitate. He picked up a part, felt the grain of the wood, and began.
His movements were a study in efficiency. His shoulder and elbow remained locked; only his wrist and fingers guided the paper with a precise, oscillating motion. Every stroke was identical in pressure. Within minutes, a flawlessly smooth component—perfect to the millimeter—was placed in the "Finished" tray. He took the next, and the next, his speed increasing as his muscle memory calibrated to the material.
Tota, who had intended to check on him in an hour, gaped as he saw Sayo moving through the pile at an impossible rate. The boy's technique wasn't just good; it was mechanical.
By noon, Sayo had finished a workload that usually took a new apprentice three days.
"Where did you learn to sand like that?" Tota asked during lunch, clearly baffled.
"Watching the masters in Maintenance," Sayo replied simply between bites of his rations. "And practicing the ergonomics of hand movement."
"Genius," Tota muttered. "Elder Chiyo knew what she was doing. This afternoon, we move to Seal-Etching Drills. It's basically carving energy-circuits. Most kids mess up because their hands shake."
Sayo adapted instantly. Though his chakra reserves were paper-thin, his Chakra Control was surgical. The lines he carved into the practice boards were so clean and deep they appeared to be laser-etched. Even the senior Chunin stopped to watch the "pale brat" work, clicking their tongues in approval.
At home that evening, the atmosphere shifted. Sharyu sat across from Sayo, his dinner untouched.
"Sayo... I applied for a transfer today. Back to the frontline Puppeteer Corps."
Sayo's chopsticks paused. He looked at his father and saw a flame in his eyes that had been dampened for five years. The logistical duty had been a cage; Sharyu was a warrior of the Sand, and the village's precarious state had reignited his sense of duty.
"I know you're worried," Sharyu said, his voice firm. "But the Village is bleeding, and I have the skills to help. I can't hide behind a desk while children are being sent to the border. I need to be where I matter."
Sayo saw the pride of a shinobi in his father's gaze. He realized he couldn't—and shouldn't—stop him. "I understand, Father. Please... prioritize your survival."
Days later, the orders arrived. Sharyu donned his battle-worn flak jacket and handed the keys of their home to Sayo. He clapped his son's thin shoulder one last time, turned, and disappeared into the howling desert wind.
The house became a tomb of silence. Sayo's world narrowed to two points: the workshop and his scrolls. Without his father's protection, he was truly alone, a small ghost in a city of sand. But in that solitude, his research accelerated. He no longer had to hide his late-night experiments.
He was alone with his machines, and for Sayo, that was exactly where the revolution would begin.
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