Nobunaga said, "Konoha is here. Twenty thousand people. The Sannin, the White Fang, and the Uchiha Duo."
No one spoke.
"How many do we have?"
Temari said, "Less than five thousand."
Nobunaga nodded.
"That's enough."
He stood up and walked to the window.
Outside the window, on the streets of the Hidden Sand Village, people had already begun heading toward the shelters.
The elderly led children by the hand, women held infants, and men ran toward the assembly points with weapons.
No one cried, no one shouted.
They just walked silently, doing what needed to be done.
He thought of Kankuro.
He remembered the words Kankuro said before leaving.
"Teacher, I'll be back."
He didn't come back.
But he stood at the front for everyone.
Now, it was his turn.
Nobunaga turned around.
"Let's go."
Outside the Hidden Sand Village, in the desert.
The Konoha army pressed in. Black figures densely covered the sand like a moving shadow.
On the Sunagakure side, Nobunaga stood at the very front.
Wearing black Kazekage robes. His left eye was bandaged, and the Mangekyo Sharingan in his right eye was already active.
The six-pointed star pattern rotated slowly in his pupil.
Temari stood to his left.
Gaara stood to his right.
Sasori stood behind them, with a hundred puppets by his side.
Nobunaga looked at the Konoha army opposite them.
He turned his head and looked at the three of them.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
Temari shook her head.
Gaara didn't speak. But his sand flowed quietly.
Sasori was silent.
Nobunaga looked at them.
Temari, Gaara, Sasori.
"Then let's go."
Nobunaga took a step forward.
Behind him, Temari, Gaara, and Sasori followed.
Four people, walking toward a battlefield of twenty thousand.
The sunlight shone on them, casting long, long shadows on the sand.
Wind and sand blew past.
They didn't dodge.
On the day the setting sun dyed the desert blood-red, the battle ended.
Three days, seventy-two hours.
The desert outside the Hidden Sand Village had been overturned again and again until every grain of sand was soaked with the scent of Chakra and blood.
On the first day, the desert turned crimson, like a giant, congealing wound.
On the second day, corpses filled the depressions between the sand dunes.
On the third day, not many people were left alive.
The battle between Sasori and the White Fang began with the morning light of the first day and lasted until the twilight of the third day.
A hundred puppets were scattered across the desert for hundreds of feet.
Some were shattered, some were crippled, and some still held an attacking posture but would never move again.
Those were all Sasori's hard work over the years.
Each one was a work of art, made with the most ingenious mechanisms, the most poisonous coatings, and the toughest materials.
Now they were just scrap, like toys broken by a child, scattered under the setting sun.
But the White Fang was also at his limit.
His white clothes were stained deep brown with blood—his own, and the poison from the puppet mechanisms.
The short blade famous in the Ninja World was already chipped, its edge covered in countless nicks like a saw.
His breathing was heavy, each breath carrying fine blood mist, forming a tiny red haze in the dry air.
But he was still standing.
Sasori was also standing.
"You are very powerful."
The White Fang's voice was very hoarse, as if squeezed from the bottom of a dry well:
"More powerful than anyone I've ever seen."
Sasori didn't speak.
"Were your parents this powerful when they died?" the White Fang asked.
Sasori's eyes flickered. For just a moment, something flashed in those eyes that were already numbed by exhaustion.
"You remember them?"
"I remember," the White Fang said.
"In that battle, I almost died at their hands. Their Puppet Technique was cruder than yours, but more ruthless. More... desperate."
Sasori was silent for a long time. The wind blew, swirling fine sand and hitting the two of them with a soft rustling sound.
"They stayed behind to cover my escape."
He finally spoke, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself:
"I was only four years old then. They told me to run first, then they turned around and blocked you."
The White Fang nodded.
"I remember that child. Hiding behind a rock, watching us."
Sasori looked at him.
"You knew it was me?"
"I knew."
The White Fang said, "But I didn't pursue. There's no point in killing a four-year-old child."
Sasori smiled. A very faint smile, like a fleeting shadow in the desert.
"Then do you regret it now?"
The White Fang thought for a moment. This process of thinking was long, as if another day had passed, yet also like just a moment.
"I don't regret it."
He said, "You've grown up. You've grown... well."
Sasori didn't speak.
The wind and sand grew stronger, hitting the two of them with a fine sound.
They stood under the setting sun, amidst the fragments of puppets everywhere, facing each other.
Twenty years of hatred, a battle of three days and three nights, only this final moment remained.
The White Fang moved first.
His speed was still fast, fast as a flash of lightning.
But it was slower than three days ago, slower than a year ago, and much, much slower than twenty years ago when he killed Sasori's parents.
His left arm was gone, his blood was almost drained, and the poison had begun to corrode his internal organs.
But he was still fast.
So fast that Sasori could barely see him.
The short blade stabbed toward Sasori's chest.
Sasori didn't dodge.
He didn't have the strength to dodge anymore.
He just used his last bit of Chakra to control the Akasuna no Sasori puppet, stabbing it toward the White Fang's back.
The moment the blade pierced his chest, Sasori fell to his knees.
He looked down at the blade—the chipped blade, the blood-stained blade, the blade that had pierced through his chest.
The tip of the blade emerged from his back, and blood flowed down the blade, drop by drop, falling onto the sand and being quickly absorbed.
He suddenly thought of Kankuro.
When Kankuro died, he was also kneeling like this.
That day, Kankuro knelt on the sand, looking down at the blade in his chest. Then he looked up at Sasori and said:
"Teacher... I am standing by your side..."
Those were Kankuro's last words.
Sasori knelt there, looking at the blade in his chest. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. His chest was too full, so full that it blocked all words.
Then he looked up at the White Fang.
The White Fang stood there, looking down at him.
The Akasuna no Sasori puppet had pierced the White Fang's chest from behind, the tip of the blade emerging from his front, dripping with blood.
The White Fang looked down at the blade, then looked up at Sasori.
"Are you Chiyo's grandson?" he asked.
Sasori nodded.
The White Fang was silent for a while. During that time, the setting sun sank a little further, stretching their shadows even longer.
"I killed your parents," he said.
He said, "You are strong. Stronger than them."
Sasori smiled.
A very faint smile. It was exactly like the smile on his face when Kankuro died and he knelt by Kankuro's side.
"Then go to hell," he said.
With his last breath, he controlled the puppet and twisted the blade.
A bloody hole was gouged into the White Fang's chest.
Blood surged out, staining his already tattered white clothes red.
He fell to his knees, kneeling in front of Sasori.
The two of them knelt face to face.
Blood flowed from both of them, into the sand, seeping down until it could no longer be seen.
The White Fang looked at him.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Sasori," Sasori said, "Sasori of the Red Sand."
The White Fang nodded.
"A good name," he said.
Then he closed his eyes.
Sasori looked at him.
Looking at that face—the man who killed his parents, the man who killed Kankuro, the man who fought him for three days and three nights.
He wanted to find hatred in that face, find satisfaction, find something.
But there was nothing.
Only the face of an old man, eyes closed peacefully.
He felt his pocket.
He had been carrying those fragments of the small bird.
After Kankuro died, he had put the bird away, and the fragments as well.
He had originally wanted to fix it, but he never had the time.
Now he had time.
He held those fragments and closed his eyes.
Wind and sand blew past, hitting the two of them.
They knelt there, face to face, motionless.
Like two statues.