Nobunaga knew Sasori was dead.
His Mangekyo Sharingan could see Chakra. When those two masses of Chakra over there extinguished simultaneously, his hand trembled once.
Only once. It was so brief it was almost imperceptible.
"You're distracted."
But Tsunade noticed.
Her fist smashed down, and Nobunaga almost failed to block it. The wind from the punch grazed his face, leaving a bloody trail on his cheek.
Then, he continued to face the Sannin.
His Susanoo was nearing its limit; the purple Chakra skeleton was crumbling, his Chakra was hitting rock bottom, and the vision in his right eye grew increasingly blurry.
An expanding black spot in his field of vision was devouring everything.
He didn't know how much longer he could hold on.
But he couldn't fall.
Temari was still fighting. Gaara was still fighting.
The thousands of lights of the Hidden Sand Village were still behind him.
But he still remembered three days ago, the night before the battle began.
Sasori had come to see him for the last time.
Sasori stood before him, moonlight illuminating his face and dyeing that red hair silver.
"I'm going to kill the White Fang," Sasori said.
Nobunaga looked at him.
"Can you win?"
Sasori was silent for a moment.
During that time, the moon was obscured by clouds and then emerged again.
Finally, he said, "I don't know. But when Kankuro died, he stood in front of me. I owe him a life."
Nobunaga did not speak.
"This time, I won't lose," Sasori said.
This was his third time challenging the White Fang.
He left.
He had waited twenty years.
Waited until Kankuro died before him.
Waited until he himself would die here.
He had reached his end.
He didn't lose.
He and the White Fang died together.
Nobunaga stood there, looking at the two people kneeling over there.
The setting sun was like blood.
The wind and sand were like a lament.
Nobunaga closed his eyes.
Then he opened them, his eerie Mangekyo staring directly at the three Sannin before him.
"Again," he said.
Susanoo rose once more.
That night, the battle finally ended.
When Sasori's body was carried back, Chiyo was lying in the medical department.
Her injuries hadn't healed, but hearing that Sasori was dead, she sat up, pushed away the medical Ninjas who wanted to support her, and walked to the battlefield herself.
No one dared to stop her.
She knelt before Sasori, looking at that face.
A face that was exactly like her son's, yet different.
The same contours, the same features, but a different expression.
Her son's face always bore a smile, even in death.
Sasori's face rarely smiled; it was always cold.
But now, there was a hint of a smile on his face.
It was very faint, almost invisible, but it was certainly there.
Twenty years ago, when her son died, he was in this same posture.
Kneeling on the sand, facing the enemy.
Now her grandson was dead too.
In the same posture.
Chiyo reached out and covered Sasori's eyes.
Those eyes were closed, and that hint of a smile remained on his face.
Her fingers touched his eyelids; they were ice-cold and hard, like a wax figure. She closed them properly and withdrew her hand.
She suddenly remembered Sasori as a child.
Four years old. His parents had just died. He stood in the courtyard, neither crying nor making a fuss.
She walked over, wanting to hug him, but he dodged.
That tiny body was so thin and light, yet the movement to dodge was so resolute.
"Grandma," he said, "I want to become strong."
She asked, "Why become strong?"
He said, "To kill the White Fang."
She didn't know what to say then. She just looked at him, that tiny child; there was nothing in his eyes but hate.
That kind of hate was too pure, so pure it was frightening.
Later, Nobunaga went to find him. She didn't know what was said, but other things started to appear in his eyes.
There began to be light, warmth, and some indescribable things.
Later still, he taught Kankuro the Puppet Technique. He scolded him harshly, but he taught him very seriously.
Every time Kankuro made a mistake, he would teach him over and over again until Kankuro learned it.
And then, Kankuro died before him. He knelt by the body, his eyes full of emptiness.
She had seen that kind of emptiness; twenty years ago, when her son died, her eyes held that same emptiness.
And now, he was dead too.
Kneeling there, together with the White Fang.
Chiyo knelt there, looking at that face.
For a long time.
Long enough for the moon to rise and move quite a distance.
Then she stood up.
Her knees gave a sharp crack, but she didn't frown.
"Bury him next to my son and daughter-in-law," she said.
She turned around and walked back.
After a few steps, she stopped.
She looked back once.
Sasori lay there, moonlight shining on his face. That hint of a smile was still there, as if he had done something that satisfied him.
The wind and sand in her ears seemed to bring the sound of Sasori's voice from when he was little, once asking her: "Grandma, where do people go when they die?"
She said, "I don't know."
He said, "I want to go to where Papa and Mama are."
She said, "Not yet."
He said, "Why?"
She said, "Because you still have things to do."
He had done them, and he had succeeded.
He killed Konoha's White Fang.
He could go to his parents now.
Chiyo stood there, looking at that face.
The moonlight was bright, illuminating his silhouette very clearly.
Then she turned and walked into the night.
Moonlight shone on the sand.
Sasori lay there, holding the fragment of that little bird in his hand. The fragment was bleached white by the moonlight, looking like real bone.
As if he were asleep.
...
The fourth day.
After Sasori's death, the situation on the battlefield tilted completely.
Konoha's forces had just over ten thousand left, while the Hidden Sand had less than two thousand.
But the truly fatal thing wasn't the numbers; it was the gap in top-tier combat power.
The Sannin were pinning down Nobunaga.
Jiraiya's hair turned into white snake-like strands, coiling toward Nobunaga.
Orochimaru's kusanagi sword thrust in from the side.
Tsunade's fist smashed into the ground, causing the earth to split open.
Others were scattered across the battlefield, harvesting the lives of the Sand Ninjas.
And the Uchiha brothers—
They turned their gaze toward Gaara.
Shisui and Itachi, two geniuses of the Sharingan.
Their eyes were already the most lethal weapons on the battlefield.
Gaara knew they were watching him.
Sand flowed around him, forming layer upon layer of shields.
His eyes stared at the two figures drawing closer; the sand at his feet flowed quietly, making a fine rustling sound.
Temari was in the distance, entangled by three Jonin.
Three ribs of her Giant Folding Fan were already broken, but she was still swinging it, stroke by stroke, like she was chopping wood.
Nobunaga was even further away, fighting a world-shaking battle with the Sannin. The purple light of Susanoo would flare up from time to time, dim, and then flare up again.
No one could help him.
He was alone.
But he couldn't fall.
Because only those who know fear know what they must protect.
He had to protect Temari, protect his teacher.
He couldn't die.
The Uchiha brothers stopped ten zhang in front of him.
That distance was just outside the attack range of the sand, yet within the effective range of Sharingan Genjutsu.
Shisui looked at him, his Three-Tomoe Sharingan slowly spinning.
Those Three-Tomoe swam like living things, forming different patterns.
Itachi stood beside him, the same Three-Tomoe, the same indifference.
But he was younger than Shisui, his face still bearing a hint of youthful innocence.
Shisui said, "Be careful, the Jinchuriki's sand is fast."
Itachi nodded: "I'll pin him down, you look for an opening."