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The following weeks in Sunagakure were defined by a rigorous, almost clinical dedication to growth. Sayo's Chūnin-level reserves had given him wings; his affinity training in Wind and Earth had deepened from mere mimicry into an intuitive understanding of molecular friction and tectonic density. His initial probes into Jiton (Magnet Release) continued to reveal a horizon of infinite mechanical possibilities, while the nightly baptism of the Body Tempering Furnace acted as a metaphysical forge, tempering his foundation into something unbreakable.
But the shinobi world is not a vacuum. While Sayo focused on his evolution, a geopolitical tremor radiated from the Land of Fire, crossing the borders of the Land of Wind like a biting, frost-laden gale.
Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang of Konoha, had committed suicide.
The news didn't arrive through a formal missive. Instead, it bled through the dark veins of the underground—carried by black-market brokers and rogue shinobi, encrusted with layers of speculation, disbelief, and grim irony.
Initially, Sayo processed the news with the detachment of an engineer. To him, the White Fang was a data point of terror—a name that made his father's hands shake and turned the veteran craftsmen of the Maintenance Squad pale. He was the "Reaper" who had claimed Sasori's parents. To the common Suna ninja, Sakumo's death was a cause for celebration—divine justice for the brothers and sisters who had fallen to his flickering white blade.
It wasn't until Sayo visited the Chiyo estate for his scheduled puppetry refinement that the weight of the event truly hit home.
The estate was eerily quiet. Elder Chiyo was absent, likely summoned to an emergency session of the Council, so Sayo navigated the familiar halls toward Sasori's workshop. Usually, the air there was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the rhythmic snick-snick of a carving chisel. Today, there was only a vacuum of sound.
Sayo knocked. No answer. He hesitated, then pushed the door ajar.
Sasori wasn't at his bench. He was standing by the window, his silhouette framed by the churning ochre clouds of a developing sandstorm. His posture was rigid, a monolith of cold stone, radiating an aura far more predatory and volatile than Sayo had ever encountered.
"Sasori-senpai?" Sayo's voice was barely a whisper.
Sasori turned with agonizing slowness. His face remained a porcelain mask of indifference, but his eyes—those deep, obsidian-purple pools—were a maelstrom of discordant emotions. It wasn't the satisfaction of a debt settled. It was a harrowing mixture of nihilistic emptiness and white-hot fury.
"You've heard," Sasori said. His voice was a dry rasp, the sound of tectonic plates grinding together. "That man... is gone."
Sayo nodded solemnly. "The news of the White Fang is everywhere."
"Dead... Hah." Sasori let out a short, jagged bark of laughter that lacked even a hint of mirth. "To end like that... suicide? Over the pathetic whispers of the masses and the 'sanctity' of the rules? It is an absurdity beyond measure."
His composure fractured. His voice rose, vibrating with a distorted sense of betrayal.
"How could he simply choose to die?! He was mine! He was meant to fall beneath the masterpiece I meticulously engineered for his demise! His screams were supposed to be the final note in my symphony of vengeance... and he cheated me! He escaped! This isn't justice—it is a desecration of my parents' memory!"
Sasori's chakra flared, invisible but heavy, causing the puppet joints and scalpels on his workbench to rattle in a sympathetic tremor. Sayo watched in silence. He understood the psychological collapse occurring before him. For Sasori, hatred for the White Fang had been a load-bearing pillar of his psyche. With Sakumo's suicide, that pillar had been snatched away, leaving a structural void that the boy's fractured mind couldn't sustain.
Then, the atmospheric pressure in the room shifted. Sasori's hatred didn't vanish; it sought a new conductor. His gaze became predatory, his voice dropping to a hiss that chilled Sayo to the bone.
"It all traces back to that incompetent old man. If it hadn't been for his strategic failures... if he hadn't discarded my parents on a suicide mission for a drop of political leverage... they would never have crossed paths with the Fang. It was his hand that truly held the blade. And now, he has even robbed me of my closure. Unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable."
Sayo's pulse quickened. He didn't need a translation to know who Sasori was referring to. The "incompetent man" was the sovereign of their village: The Third Kazekage.
Sasori had performed a total transference of his animosity. The architect of his grief was no longer a foreign enemy, but the very heart of Sunagakure.
Sayo didn't offer platitudes or defense. He knew that trying to argue with Sasori now would be like trying to stop a landslide with a paper fan. He simply stood as a witness to the birth of a monster, watching the greatest puppet prodigy of their era descend into a darkness that would eventually consume entire nations.
Finally, Sasori's energy spent itself. He reverted to a hollowed-out silence, waving a dismissive hand without looking back. Sayo retreated, closing the heavy door with a soft click that felt like the sealing of a tomb.
As he walked home through the wailing desert wind, Sayo looked up at the monolithic Kazekage Rock looming over the village. The death of a hero in Konoha had set a domino effect in motion here in the Sand, one that would inevitably lead to blood and iron.
"The wind is changing," Sayo thought, his hand tightening on the strap of his tool bag. "And the storm won't leave anything standing."
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