Hinata: Byakurenden
To the Land of Wind
The Village of the Sand had fallen.
What exactly that entailed wasn't clear, not even to Sasuke, who delivered the message with urgency. The only one with answers was his older brother, Uchiha Itachi, the Fifth Hokage. Hinata and Naruto followed Sasuke in silence, their date all but forgotten as the gravity of the situation sank in.
To think that one of the five great nations, with its formidable military power, could be toppled—it was almost beyond comprehension. Yet, that was the reality they were facing. It was a stark reminder of the stakes Hinata had trained so hard to prepare for. Now, she would have to prove herself worthy of the White Lotus mantle.
When they arrived in the Hokage's office, the air was thick with tension. The office itself was spartan but dignified, befitting its current occupant. Shelves lined the walls, holding scrolls and records of Konoha's past and present, a testament to the village's rich history. The desk, a sturdy, dark wood piece, was cluttered with maps, intelligence reports, and the unmistakable weight of leadership. Behind Itachi hung the red banner bearing the symbol of Konoha, fluttering lightly from an open window.
Itachi stood at his desk, his hands resting on its surface. Dressed in the Hokage's white robes, his demeanor was as calm and calculating as ever. His Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan glowed faintly, analyzing every detail of the room and its occupants.
Opposite him stood Kankuro, the puppeteer of the Sand and older brother of Gaara. He was disheveled and exhausted, his black robes torn and dusty, with streaks of dried blood staining his sleeves. The purple markings on his face, always striking, now looked smeared and faded, as though they had been hastily reapplied. The faint scent of ash clung to him, a grim reminder of the chaos he had left behind. His breathing was uneven, and his hands twitched at his sides, as though itching to grab the nearest weapon.
The moment Hinata entered the room, Kankuro's eyes locked onto her. His expression hardened into a glare, his lips curling back in a snarl as he took an aggressive step forward.
"You!" he spat, his voice brimming with barely contained anger.
Naruto and Sasuke immediately moved to shield Hinata. Naruto's fists clenched at his sides, his blue eyes blazing with defiance, while Sasuke's hand lifted in a half-formed seal, ready for a fight if necessary. For a moment, Kankuro's glare faltered as he registered the two protectively blocking Hinata from his advance. His fists tightened, and he took a step back, but the fury in his expression didn't waver.
Hinata felt her stomach twist under the weight of his gaze. She could feel the anger radiating from him, sharp and unrelenting, and she didn't need to guess where it was coming from. Her thoughts flickered back to the Chūnin Exams, over two years ago—the day the Sand and Sound launched their invasion of Konoha.
She had been a key player in dismantling the barrier that had trapped the Hokage, using her Byakugan to identify and disrupt the barrier's tenketsu points. That move had crippled the invaders' strategy, forcing them to retreat.
More importantly, there was Gaara. Hinata had fought him in the arena, severing his connection to Shukaku to end his rampage. She remembered how Kankuro and Temari had attempted to drag their unconscious brother away as the Sand forces fell into disarray, only to be caught and subdued by Shikamaru and Shino.
Kankuro's glare burned with resentment, and Hinata felt her breath hitch. She couldn't ignore the possibility that his anger wasn't just about what had happened in the past. The fall of the Sand, the loss of Gaara's power—it all traced back to that pivotal moment. Was this her fault?
"Is there a problem?" Itachi asked, his voice calm yet cutting, as though the very question stripped away the pretenses in the room. His Sharingan swirled lazily, not overtly hostile but quietly assessing Kankuro with unnerving precision. Hinata shivered under the oppressive stillness that followed. Itachi hadn't been Hokage during the Chūnin Exams; he couldn't possibly know every detail of what had transpired between Konoha and Suna. Yet, somehow, his gaze seemed to peel back every layer of tension and resentment hanging in the air.
Kankuro grit his teeth, his jaw working as though grinding down the words he wanted to say. His eyes flickered toward Hinata, then to Naruto and Sasuke, before finally landing on Itachi. His reluctance was palpable, every movement revealing the struggle to balance his anger and his need for Konoha's help. "…I heard the White Lotus wasn't in the village," he mumbled, almost as though speaking to himself. His voice was low, bitter, and edged with sarcasm, but the intent behind his words was clear.
Hinata's stomach twisted. For Kankuro to know anything about her movements was troubling. Her status as the White Lotus was no secret, but the specific details of her whereabouts should not have been so easily accessible to a foreign shinobi—especially one from a village in turmoil. The room tensed further, each word Kankuro uttered sending ripples of unease through Hinata.
Itachi, however, remained perfectly composed. "Is that so?" he replied, his tone polite yet distant. The faint curl of his lips wasn't quite a smile, but it conveyed something close to amusement—a predator's satisfaction at watching its prey stumble. To most, Itachi's expression would seem neutral, but Hinata had seen enough of his quiet cunning to recognize the calculation behind his stillness.
She could feel the Hokage's mind working, dissecting Kankuro's every word, every hesitation. What had Kankuro expected when he walked into this room? Hinata wondered. If the Sunanin had anticipated Hinata's absence, what did that say about the Sand's intelligence network—and the desperation that had driven Kankuro to seek Konoha's aid in the first place?
"How fortunate for you that she just returned," Itachi continued, his words measured and deliberate. There was no malice in his tone, but something in his phrasing made Kankuro flinch ever so slightly. "This team was just put together exactly for the purpose of dealing with a mission like this."
Kankuro's face twisted into a scowl. "Fortunate is one word for it," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. His tone was bitter, his sarcasm razor-sharp. Every word carried the weight of his resentment, not just for Hinata but for the entire situation—the destruction of his village and the indignity of asking Konoha for help.
The exact meaning of his words was unclear, but the undertones were unmistakable. He didn't trust her. Maybe he didn't trust any of them. Yet even in his bitterness, there was a quiet acknowledgment of reality. Suna had no other choice.
Itachi's eyes remained fixed on Kankuro, and though his face betrayed no emotion, Hinata could tell he was absorbing everything—the way Kankuro's hands twitched with barely restrained anger, the way his eyes darted between her and Naruto, the way his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of unspoken grief.
"Well," Kankuro said finally, his voice rising with a false bravado that couldn't mask the tremor beneath it. He straightened slightly, his fists clenched at his sides. "As they say, beggars can't be choosers. I'll accept your help." His eyes flickered to Hinata again, this time narrowing in open disdain. "Consider it your chance to undo all the damage you've done."
The bitterness in his voice hit her like a physical blow. Hinata's mind raced with memories of the Chūnin Exams, of her role in severing Gaara's connection to Shukaku, of the panic that had followed when the Suna's invasion crumbled. And then there was Baki—the Suna Jōnin she and Naruto had killed in the chaos. She hadn't realized it then, but that single action had left Kankuro and Temari leaderless, leaving them without a mentor to guide them through the fallout of their failed invasion.
"The hell did you say?" Naruto growled, his voice rising as he took another step forward. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with barely restrained anger. "You guys are the ones who tried to invade us! If your village is having problems, don't you dare blame Hinata for it."
Kankuro's eyes narrowed, his face twisting in fury. "Problems? Problems?!" His voice cracked as he shouted, the sheer weight of his emotions spilling over. "Our village has been completely taken over!" He gestured wildly, his tone a mix of outrage and desperation. "Do you have any idea what that even means? Sasori of the Red Sand arrived with an army of puppets and wiped us out. Only a handful of us managed to escape!"
Naruto opened his mouth to retort, but Sasuke's right hand clamped firmly on his shoulder, stopping him. The action didn't temper the fire in Naruto's eyes, but it forced him to grit his teeth and step back, though his glare never left Kankuro.
Hinata felt a chill run through her as Kankuro's words sunk in. An entire village taken over… by one man? It was almost too much to comprehend. The mere thought of Konoha falling in such a way sent a sharp pang of fear through her. She didn't want to imagine it.
"Sasori of the Red Sand?" Naruto asked, his voice laced with disbelief. It was clear the name meant nothing to him, but the way Kankuro spat it out, like a curse, carried its own kind of weight.
Hinata's stomach tightened. She didn't know much about Sasori, but she'd heard whispers—rumors of a puppeteer so skilled he had once brought an entire nation to its knees with his creations. To think he had now turned his power on one of the Five Great Nations… It wasn't just terrifying. It was unthinkable.
"Sasori is the one that Kankuro-dono is hiring you to assassinate," Itachi said, his words settled heavily in the room, each syllable laced with quiet authority. He paused for a beat, allowing the weight of the revelation to sink in before continuing. "It's also because it's him that I've called on the three of you. Sasori was once my ally."
Naruto stiffened, his anger momentarily replaced by confusion. "What?!"
Itachi's gaze remained steady, his Sharingan seeming to pierce straight through the room. "In other words, a member of the Akatsuki."
The room fell deathly silent.
Hinata's breath caught in her throat, her hands trembling at her sides. A member of the Akatsuki… The gravity of the mission before her was staggering. This wasn't just about helping the Suna. It wasn't even about assassinating a rogue ninja. If Sasori's assault on Suna was part of Amaterasu's plans, then this mission was about undoing the damage caused by her mistake. Allowing Amaterasu into this world had brought nothing but chaos, and this mission was her first chance to begin making things right. It was her responsibility. She couldn't fail.
"Understood." Hinata stepped forward, her voice calm but steady, though her heart raced beneath her composed exterior. Naruto and Sasuke were still standing protectively in front of her, their postures tense and unyielding. She hesitated for only a moment before gently but firmly pushing past them, her hands briefly brushing their arms as she stepped into the open.
Naruto gave her a sidelong glance, his eyes filled with concern, but he didn't try to stop her. Sasuke, however, barely moved aside, his sharp gaze flicking between Hinata and Kankuro, as if daring the Sunanin to make another hostile move. Even so, he allowed her to pass, his silence a grudging acknowledgment of her decision.
Hinata continued forward, closing the distance to Kankuro. The tension in his frame was palpable, his body taut as if bracing for another confrontation. She stopped a respectful distance from him, her movements deliberate and measured, and bowed low.
"I'll do everything within my power to help you reclaim your village," she said, her voice unwavering despite the storm of emotions roiling within her. "It's the least I can do."
The words felt heavier than she had anticipated. Hinata's duty compelled her to act, but beneath the surface, a quiet resentment stirred. If Suna hadn't allied with Orochimaru during their invasion of Konoha, Kurenai wouldn't have been stabbed. The memory was like a shadow over her resolve.
But then she thought of Gaara. She remembered the fear she had seen in his eyes during their battle—the loneliness and desperation that mirrored her own struggles from years ago. She couldn't forget that pain. Whatever bitterness she harbored, it paled in comparison to the weight of her responsibility. This wasn't just about duty; she wanted to set things right.
Kankuro scoffed, cutting into her thoughts. "Good," he muttered, his tone dismissive. He didn't meet her gaze, instead glaring over at Naruto with a self-satisfied smirk. "At least the White Lotus knows her place. Listen and listen well. I'm the one that hired you. That makes me your boss for this mission." The grin on his face widened, his air of superiority growing with each word.
Naruto immediately bristled, his fists clenching at his sides, but before he could respond, Sasuke stepped in.
"You seem to be misunderstanding something," Sasuke said, his voice smooth and deliberate. There was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he spoke. "Naruto has never once treated a client with respect from the start—especially when they come in with an attitude like yours." He let out a quiet laugh, glancing briefly at Naruto before adding, "From a noble bridge builder to the princess of another country, every single one of them had to earn it. You're no exception."
Naruto relaxed slightly at Sasuke's words, his shoulders dropping as the tension bled from his frame. The two exchanged a glance—a shared smirk of mutual understanding—before turning their attention back to Kankuro.
The puppeteer's self-assured expression faltered. His smirk cracked, giving way to a look of disbelief as he stared at the two. "There's something seriously screwed up in the head of you Leaf ninja," he said, his voice tinged with incredulity.
Hinata couldn't blame him. Naruto and Sasuke's brash confidence, their unorthodox way of handling even serious matters—it was unlike anything she had ever seen from others. It was so uniquely them.
She found herself watching them in quiet admiration. Where she had always been hesitant, burdened by doubts and propriety, they acted without fear, without hesitation. They had no interest in playing by the rules of decorum. Instead, they followed their own path, making others adapt to their rhythm rather than the other way around.
It wasn't just baffling. It was inspiring.
As the tension in the room shifted, Kankuro crossed his arms, grumbling something under his breath, but he didn't push the point further. He clearly wasn't used to dealing with people like Naruto and Sasuke—and he had no idea how to handle them.
Hinata straightened, her resolve burning brighter than ever. Whatever doubts Kankuro had about her, about the team, she would prove him wrong. If this was the first step toward setting things right, she wouldn't hesitate. This was her mission.
"That's enough of that," Itachi interjected, his calm voice cutting through the tension like a blade. His Sharingan swept across the room, silencing further argument before it could begin. "It's a long journey to Suna, and you'll need to move under cover to avoid detection. Remember, this is an assassination mission."
Even as the words left his mouth, Itachi knew the reality of what he was asking. A quiet assassination of someone as formidable as Sasori was a near impossibility. His mind flickered briefly to Hinata, Sasuke, and Naruto. Each of them had grown immensely, but would it be enough?
"We'll take our leave, then," Kankuro said, bowing deeply. "Thank you, Hokage-sama. I'm in your debt."
Itachi's gaze remained steady as he observed Kankuro's form. The puppeteer's tone was polite, deferential even, but the weight of desperation in his words was unmistakable. As Kankuro straightened, his movements betrayed his exhaustion. Itachi noted the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle tremor in his hands, and the faint tremble in his voice. This was a man who had witnessed the collapse of everything he held dear.
Itachi allowed his Sharingan to linger a moment longer. Kankuro was consumed by grief and fury, both of which could be dangerous if left unchecked. But despite his emotions, the puppeteer's resolve seemed unshakable. He would do whatever it took to see Sasori fall.
Across the room, Hinata's gaze flicked to Itachi, her Nichiren Byakugan catching the faintest shift in his expression. A glance toward Sasuke confirmed that he, too, had noticed it. Their eyes met briefly, and Sasuke gave a barely perceptible nod.
Itachi's mind churned as he dismissed the group with a quiet, "I wish you luck."
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Itachi alone in the now-silent office. He sat back in his chair, his sharp gaze fixed on the closed door as though willing it to reveal the answers he sought. The faint scent of ink and paper filled the room, mingling with the weight of his thoughts.
Sasori was not a target to take lightly. The man's reputation preceded him, not only as a master puppeteer but as a strategist capable of bringing entire nations to their knees. Itachi's own experience with the Akatsuki had taught him that no detail of Sasori's plans would be left to chance. This mission would test not only his team's strength but also their ability to adapt to unforeseen challenges.
After several long moments, Itachi stood, his decision made. Performing a series of hand seals, he summoned a single crow in a puff of smoke. The bird landed gracefully on his desk, its glossy black feathers gleaming faintly in the office's dim light. It turned its head to meet Itachi's gaze, its beady eye reflecting the crimson glow of his Sharingan.
With a faint glimmer, Itachi planted a genjutsu into the crow's eye—a safeguard, a message that could be delivered only to its intended recipient. The genjutsu carried no words, only images and sensations designed to convey urgency and subtlety in equal measure. The recipient would know immediately what Itachi required of them and the stakes involved.
Itachi stared at the bird for a moment, his mind heavy with unspoken concerns. The enemy's plan was moving faster than he had anticipated. Sasori's actions, the fall of the Sand, the timing of this mission—it all pointed to a larger scheme in motion, one he could not yet see in its entirety.
The crow flapped its wings and took flight, soaring gracefully out the open window. Itachi watched its dark silhouette fade into the distance, disappearing against the warm hues of the setting sun. The soft rustle of feathers was the only sound in the room as he leaned back in his chair.
Now truly alone, he exhaled softly, his hands resting on the desk as his gaze shifted to the village below. The streets of Konoha buzzed with the quiet rhythm of daily life, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing on the horizon.
He just hoped his team was ready.
Deep in the heart of the Village Hidden in the Sand, a red-haired man sat upon a throne that reflected his eerie craftsmanship. The throne, like everything else in the grand hall, was a construct of wood and lacquer, gleaming faintly in the dim, amber light that filtered through the sand-smeared windows. The throne's intricate carvings bore the marks of obsessive precision—an artist's hands creating something lifeless yet disturbingly lifelike. It loomed high above the room, almost giving the impression of a monarch surveying his court. But this was no court, and its occupants were not people.
The expansive hall was filled with countless figures, standing motionless in perfect rows. Yet, not a single one among them drew breath. They were puppets, each crafted with meticulous detail that made them seem unnervingly alive. The flickering light played tricks on their glassy eyes and painted features, making it seem as though they might blink, smile, or move at any moment. Each puppet stood frozen in a tableau of mockery, the semblance of human life twisted into something grotesque. A child clutching a broken toy. A woman caught mid-dance, her jointed limbs forever frozen in a graceful arc. A warrior with his blade raised high, poised for a strike that would never land.
It was these lifeless constructs that had marched into the Sand Village like a tide of death, overwhelming its defenders with their uncanny precision and relentless advance. These were the instruments Sasori had used to conquer the village that had once been his home, and now they served as silent witnesses to his reign.
The air in the hall was oppressive, heavy with a mix of fine sawdust and the faint scent of varnish. The stillness was suffocating, broken only by the faint creak of Sasori's throne as he shifted his weight. He sat with an air of detachment, his crimson hair stark against the dark backdrop of the room. His porcelain-like face, devoid of expression, was a chilling reflection of the puppets he surrounded himself with. Even he, in many ways, was no longer human—a soul encased within a hollow shell of his own design. His unmoving gaze swept across the hall, taking in his creations without pride or satisfaction. To him, they were tools, nothing more.
The eerie silence of the hall amplified the strange sounds of his own body. The faint, mechanical whir of gears and joints echoed softly as he leaned back in his throne, his movements unnaturally smooth and precise. His right hand rested on the armrest, fingers tapping in a rhythm too perfect to be human. In his left hand, he held a half-finished puppet piece—a delicate hand carved from fine wood. He turned it over idly, examining the grain and structure with the detached eye of a craftsman, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
The entire room seemed frozen in time, as though the village itself had become a massive puppet theater with Sasori as its sole director. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by flickering lanterns that swung gently from the high ceiling. Each lantern was suspended by an intricate pulley system—another of Sasori's creations—ensuring that not even the light was beyond his control.
To think he would return in such a manner. It was far beyond the realm of expectation, and yet here he was. In a village he had no love for, ruling over it as the true Fifth Kazekage. Though to call him a ruler was a stretch. After all, there were no people left—not in this hall, not in the village. His conquest had stripped Sunagakure of life, leaving behind only husks of what had once been. Puppet replicas of the villagers now populated the streets, frozen in mundane poses as if the village had been swallowed whole by an uncanny stillness.
Sasori's amber eyes, devoid of warmth, stared into the distance. "Is this the art I had been searching for?" he murmured, his voice low and hollow, echoing faintly in the vast emptiness of the hall. The words seemed to hang in the air, unanswered, like a question asked of the dead.
The puppets around him, of course, offered no response. They remained as they were—silent, unthinking, and eternally obedient. It was ironic, in a way. Sasori, the puppet master, surrounded by an audience incapable of thought, expression, or dissent. His pursuit of eternal art had brought him to this moment, but the emptiness it left behind was inescapable.
"Feeling lonely?" A voice emerged from the stillness, calm and taunting. The air twisted, distorting like the ripples of a stone dropped in water. A moment later, Uchiha Obito materialized in the eerie stillness of the hall, his form emerging from the swirling distortion of Kamui like a phantom stepping through a veil. The transition was seamless, and as the space-time distortion closed behind him, he stood with an air of understated command, his presence undeniable despite the casual lightness of his movements.
His appearance was striking, a blend of reverence and menace that seemed to encapsulate his role as Amaterasu's vassal. The first thing that drew attention was his face—scarred and weathered, a testament to the countless battles and tragedies he had endured. The left side bore deep ridges, the skin warped and rough, evidence of the rockfall that had nearly ended his life. Despite this, his expression was calm, almost serene, as though the scars themselves were part of some divine purpose.
Obito's attire had changed drastically since his days as Tobi. He now wore the garments of a Shinto priest, a reflection of his elevated status as Amaterasu's chosen vassal. His robes were flowing and elegant, crafted from dark, rich fabric that shimmered faintly like obsidian in the flickering light of the hall. The haori he wore was embroidered with intricate patterns of flames, golden threads tracing the shapes of Amaterasu's sunbursts along the edges. His hakama were deep crimson, the color of blood, their wide folds flowing with each step like liquid fire.
A white obi cinched his waist, its simplicity contrasting sharply with the ornate haori, as though to ground his divine image in something human. Over his shoulders draped a long stole, its ends embroidered with symbols of the celestial. The motifs seemed to pulse faintly with chakra, as if imbued with Amaterasu's blessing. His feet were clad in traditional sandals, their straps blackened as though they had been scorched by divine flames.
He walked closer to Sasori, the flickering lanterns casting shifting shadows across his face. The scars and mismatched Sharingan eyes seemed to deepen the contrast between the man he had been and the vessel he had become. Even as he moved with an almost carefree air, there was an undeniable weight to his presence—an unspoken reminder that he carried the will of a deity who had upended the natural order of the world.
Sasori let out a sigh, leaning back against his throne. His eyes narrowed, studying Obito's scarred face with a mix of irritation and disdain. "That happy-go-lucky attitude hardly suits you as you are now, Uchiha Obito," Sasori muttered, his tone sharp. He still remembered the days when this man had hidden behind an orange mask, playing the fool. Even if it had been a ruse, Sasori found it impossible to respect someone who had so easily debased himself with such theatrics.
Obito chuckled, the sound low and dry. "Is that so?" he replied, his lips quirking in a faint smirk. He placed a hand on his hip, tilting his head slightly. "You might be surprised to learn this is how I was as a kid. Lighthearted, hopeful—the whole package." His tone carried a touch of humor, though it was hard to tell if he was joking or not.
Sasori's gaze remained cold, unamused. He didn't care for Obito's attempts at levity, real or feigned.
"It's not loneliness that troubles me," Sasori returned, steering the conversation back to Obito's initial question. "I would say what I lack right now is inspiration." His words sounded hollow to his own ears, the sentiment almost too trite to admit. Perhaps Deidara's theatrics had rubbed off on him. "With the power Amaterasu has given me, I can create any piece of art I desire. My quest for perfection is essentially complete. Yet I still live… and to live means to seek out something higher. But I cannot imagine heights beyond what I've already achieved."
Sasori's voice drifted into silence, the quiet of the hall pressing down on him like a weight. He wasn't sure why he was saying any of this to Obito, of all people. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of this hollowed-out village, or the eerie quiet of the puppets that surrounded him. Or maybe, he considered bitterly, he really was lonely after all. The thought was almost amusing in its irony. A man who had severed himself from humanity's imperfections, longing for something as human as connection.
"Hmm." Obito didn't mock him as Sasori expected. Instead, the Uchiha appeared genuinely intrigued, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly in thought. He tapped his chin, an action that felt almost too casual in the somber setting, yet it didn't seem forced. Obito's interest, for whatever reason, appeared sincere, and that unsettled Sasori more than any derision would have. The way Obito leaned slightly forward, his posture engaged yet calculated, made Sasori feel as though he was part of some larger game he had yet to comprehend.
"Well, I might have some good news for you," Obito said, his tone light, almost teasing.
Sasori raised an eyebrow, though he refrained from allowing any hope to surface. Obito was a master manipulator, and his words, no matter how seemingly benign, were always aimed at eliciting a response. Still, curiosity tickled the edges of his carefully controlled demeanor. Obito rarely delivered such vague openings unless he had something specific to gain.
"One of the rats you allowed to escape went to Konoha, just as we anticipated," Obito continued. He began to pace, the crimson of his hakama brushing the floor with each measured step. "He's recruited allies and is bringing them here as we speak."
Sasori's eyes narrowed, his interest rising despite himself. A faint spark of intrigue flickered in his otherwise stoic expression. "Is that so?" He rested his cheek against his fist, allowing a hint of disinterest to slip into his tone. Still, a part of him stirred. Perhaps this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He allowed himself a small spark of excitement, just for a moment, before snuffing it out like a candle. "Unless they're sending the entire village, I don't see what threat they could pose to my masterpiece."
Obito stopped pacing, turning his head slightly as though weighing his next words. Then, with deliberate simplicity, he said, "They're sending the White Lotus."
The words landed like a kunai piercing armor. Sasori froze, his composure slipping for the briefest of moments. His widened eyes betrayed the thrill that coursed through him. If he still had a heart, he was sure it would have quickened its pace. But he didn't, and that was precisely why his intrigue was so rare, and so potent.
Hinata of the White Lotus.
Her name carried with it a weight that resonated deeply, even with someone like Sasori, who had long since detached himself from the fleeting nature of human affairs. She was no ordinary opponent. The stories of her abilities, her precision, and her artistry in combat had reached even his ears. She was a figure who embodied perfection, much like the ideals he had pursued all his life. If she was coming, then perhaps there was something worth looking forward to after all.
He leaned back in his throne, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The puppets around him seemed to watch silently, as though anticipating his reaction. "Is it really acceptable to allow this?" Sasori finally asked, his voice sharp, though there was a flicker of amusement in his tone. His gaze focused on Obito, scrutinizing the man's expression for any sign of duplicity. "Our goddess forbade us from interfering with her, did she not?"
Obito's gaze shifted, his mismatched eyes drifting to the high windows where sunlight spilled through in golden beams, cutting the shadows that blanketed the hall. His face remained calm, almost detached, but his words carried weight. "It can't be helped if she's the one attacking you," he replied. His tone was neutral, almost dismissive, as though this were a matter of simple inevitability. The two men remained in the shadows, deliberately out of reach of the light—a precaution that neither needed to vocalize. Obito's smirk deepened, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. "Consider it a test of your art."
Sasori's fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his throne as he considered Obito's words. A test. It had been so long since he'd truly been tested. He leaned back further, his posture easing slightly as he allowed himself to imagine the possibilities. "Well, I can't deny I'm curious about her abilities," he admitted. There was a note of excitement in his voice now, though faintly restrained. "I won't complain."
Obito's smirk grew wider, though his expression remained shrouded in mystery. "Good," he said simply. He let the word hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Because she's not coming alone. Uzumaki Naruto and Uchiha Sasuke will be joining her."
Sasori's eyes narrowed again, the flicker of intrigue growing into something far more consuming. Those names carried weight as well, though in very different ways. Uzumaki Naruto, the unrelenting force of will who had defied fate at every turn. And Uchiha Sasuke, the embodiment of vengeance and power, now sharpened to a deadly edge. Together with Hinata, they formed a trio unlike any other.
The corner of Sasori's mouth curled into a faint smirk. "Then this may be more entertaining than I expected," he said, his voice low and edged with anticipation. "But I assume you didn't come here just to deliver a warning."
"Of course not," Obito replied smoothly, his tone laced with faint amusement. Another tear in space-time spiraled open beside him, distorting the air as it expanded. "You'll have some help."
From the portal stepped Yakushi Kabuto, his glasses gleaming in the dim light as he adjusted them with his left hand. His right arm remained concealed beneath his Akatsuki cloak, though Sasori had no trouble imagining the grotesque modifications it likely hid. Kabuto and Orochimaru had been busy during their partnership, delving into experiments that even Sasori—whose very body was a testament to his lack of moral boundaries—might have considered excessive.
Kabuto's face was as composed as ever, his smirk faint but calculated. "You look well, Sasori-sama," he greeted, his voice carrying the polite detachment of a man who always believed himself the smartest person in the room. In his left hand, he held a cylindrical container filled with glowing green liquid. Floating within it was a severed head, its crimson eyes burning with raw, unfiltered rage. A gag muffled the head's furious attempts to speak, though the glowering hatred in its expression was more than enough to communicate its thoughts.
"If you gagged him, then I assume this isn't a gift," Sasori remarked dryly, his wooden eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward on his throne. Recognition flickered across his features as he studied the head. "Hidan." The name fell from his lips with a mix of disdain and mild amusement.
Kabuto's smirk deepened. "I thought you might appreciate the challenge of incorporating him into your work," he said smoothly, lifting the container slightly as though presenting a prize. "After all, you've always sought perfection, and Hidan is… uniquely durable."
Sasori sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose I could attach his head to one of my puppets. Not that I expect much." His voice was clipped, but beneath his dismissive tone lay a flicker of interest. Hidan's immortality presented intriguing possibilities, though the man's volatile personality and sheer unpredictability made him a less-than-ideal subject. Still, Sasori had worked with worse materials.
Obito, watching the exchange, glanced between the two men with mild amusement. "Then I'll leave it to you," he said, his tone casual. He stepped back toward the portal, his crimson and black robes swirling faintly around him. As the tear in space-time began to close, he offered a faint smile, one that seemed almost sincere. "Do your best—I have high expectations."
With that, Obito disappeared into the spiraling void, the sound of the portal's collapse echoing faintly in the cavernous hall. His absence left an unsettling stillness, broken only by the faint hum of the machinery sustaining Sasori's puppets.
Sasori leaned forward again, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as his sharp eyes focused on the container Kabuto still held. Inspiration had been elusive as of late, but the arrival of the White Lotus and her companions might finally provide the spark he needed. The thought sent a faint ripple of anticipation through him, a rare sensation for someone who had long since numbed himself to the trivialities of human emotion.
"Let's see if you can become part of my masterpiece," he murmured, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. Whether the intruders came to destroy him or simply to die, Sasori would ensure that their contributions would last forever.
In the Land of Wind, Hinata, Naruto, Sasuke, and Kankuro set up camp for the night.
For Hinata, it was her first time beyond the dense, towering forests of the Land of Fire. Despite her pilgrimage to the eighty-eight Hinoshita shrines, her journeys had never taken her beyond her homeland's borders. The forests of the Fire Country were deeply ingrained in her identity—each tree with its distinct shape, every patch of woods holding its own character, alive with the rustling of leaves, the distant calls of birds, and the ever-present hum of life.
Now, all of that was gone.
The desert stretched endlessly before her, an expanse so vast and featureless it seemed almost unreal. By day, the sun transformed the sand into a blinding sea of gold, its heat merciless and all-encompassing, leeching every ounce of moisture from the air. But now, under the velvet darkness of night, the desert had an entirely different character. The sand, pale and cold, stretched into infinity, its endless dunes catching faint glimmers of starlight. The sky, impossibly clear, held a dazzling array of stars, more than Hinata had ever seen in her life. Yet even the beauty above couldn't dispel the vast emptiness below.
The air was dry and crisp, carrying none of the earthy dampness she was used to. It felt thin and sharp, as if the desert had stripped it of everything unnecessary. Without the warmth of the sun, the temperature had plummeted, and Hinata found herself pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
The silence was the most unsettling thing of all. It wasn't like the soft, comforting quiet of the forest, where life still murmured in the background. This was a silence that swallowed everything, vast and oppressive. Even the crackling of the campfire seemed muted, the sound dissipating into the endless void around them.
The group had spent several days trekking through this alien landscape, and Hinata was still trying to adjust. The Land of Fire was vibrant, full of landmarks that made every step of the journey feel purposeful. Here, everything looked the same. The dunes rolled on and on, their shapes blending into each other like waves on a still ocean. It was disorienting and surreal, a world without boundaries or edges.
Yet despite its monotony, the desert had a stark, haunting beauty. The way the wind sculpted the dunes into elegant curves, the way the stars reflected faintly on the surface of the sand—it was unlike anything Hinata had ever seen. And it was quiet in a way that demanded respect, as if the desert itself was a being older and more profound than anything she could comprehend.
The crackling campfire cast flickering shadows across the sand as Hinata and Kankuro sat in silence. Naruto and Sasuke had retired to the tent, leaving the two of them alone to keep watch. Kankuro sat hunched forward, his posture tense as he prodded at the fire with a stick. He said nothing, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the flames, while Hinata scanned the horizon with her Nichiren Byakugan.
The desert stretched on forever, and though Hinata's enhanced vision could pierce the darkness, there was little to see. The flatness of the terrain only added to her sense of vulnerability. There were no trees to hide behind, no rocks or ridges to take cover against. If anything approached them, there would be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It was a strange and humbling feeling, being so exposed under the vast sky.
Despite the barrenness, Hinata couldn't help but wonder if the desert had its own kind of life, its own stories. To her, it all looked the same, every grain of sand indistinguishable from the next. But she wondered if Kankuro saw it differently. Did he see the dunes and ridges as unique, the way she saw the trees of her homeland? Was this place familiar and comforting to him in a way it could never be for her?
Hinata glanced at Kankuro out of the corner of her eye. His face was stoic, his gaze fixed on the fire, yet his shoulders carried a weight she could almost feel from where she sat. She hesitated, the vast silence of the desert pressing down on her, as if it might shatter under the weight of words. The fire crackled between them, its flickering light casting shadows over Kankuro's face, making it harder to read his emotions.
For a moment, Hinata thought about leaving the silence intact. It was easier that way—safe. But the questions swirling in her mind refused to be stilled.
She shifted slightly, adjusting her posture before finally breaking the silence. "How… did your village fall?"
Her voice, though soft, cut through the quiet like a kunai, drawing Kankuro's attention immediately. His stoic mask faltered for a split second, his grip tightening on the stick in his hand. Then, as he turned his gaze toward her, his expression hardened, sharp and guarded.
"Tch. Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he snapped, his tone cutting. "You're trying to catch me in a lie, aren't you? Make sure I'm not leading you into a trap."
Hinata met his gaze, her expression calm but uneasy. She didn't deny it outright—Sasuke's suspicions had been plain from the beginning, and Kankuro had every reason to be defensive. Yet, this wasn't about doubting him, not for her. It was about understanding.
"I…" Hinata started but faltered, the words catching in her throat. She could feel the tension in the air between them, like a wall neither of them knew how to breach. Kankuro resented her—that much was obvious. She had been the one to defeat Gaara, the one who had unraveled the Sand's greatest weapon during the Chūnin Exams. She understood why he hated her for it.
And perhaps, on some level, she hated herself for it too.
Kankuro sighed, his shoulders slumping as his glare softened. He turned back to the fire, staring into the dancing flames. The crackling of the wood filled the silence for a long, awkward moment. Hinata glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, unsure whether to press him or let the conversation die.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now. "I guess I can't blame you," he muttered, though the edge in his tone remained. His eyes reflected the firelight, but there was something distant in his gaze, as though he were staring at something far beyond it. "I think our village fell a long time ago."
Hinata tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to continue. She didn't interrupt—she didn't trust herself to say anything without making it worse.
"We've always been a poor nation," Kankuro began, his voice low and heavy. "And after we lost the support of our Daimyo, we were desperate. That's why my father turned to Orochimaru. Probably the last mistake he ever made… that snake bastard killed him and took his place. We didn't even realize it until after everything was over."
Hinata's chest tightened. She couldn't imagine the pain of such betrayal, the shame of realizing too late that someone you'd trusted had destroyed everything. "I'm sorry," she said softly, though the words felt hollow.
Kankuro scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. "We don't need your pity," he said, though his tone lacked its usual venom. He leaned back slightly, the lines of tension in his body softening just enough to show his weariness. "After Father died, it should've been one of us—his children—who became Kazekage. But Temari and I weren't strong enough on our own, so we split the role. And Gaara…" He hesitated, the firelight catching in his eyes as he glanced at Hinata. "Gaara was never the same after he lost to you."
Hinata's breath caught. She wanted to look away, to avoid the weight of his gaze, but she forced herself to meet it.
"You broke him," Kankuro said bluntly. There was no accusation in his voice, only a quiet bitterness that cut deeper than any shout. "He became terrified of everything—the world, himself—and when he stopped fighting, we lost our greatest weapon. Without Gaara to protect us, it was only a matter of time before someone came to take the village."
Hinata's guilt deepened, her fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak. She remembered her battle with Gaara vividly—the fear and pain in his eyes, the way he had crumbled under her strike. She had done what she had to, what was necessary to win her match, but she hadn't considered what it might mean for him or his siblings.
Kankuro clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I just never imagined it would be Sasori. When I was a kid, I idolized him—even though he was a missing-nin. I couldn't help but admire him, you know? And then, when he came back… it was genius."
His voice grew sharper, laced with bitterness as he continued. "He had his puppets infiltrate the village little by little. We didn't even realize it until it was too late. They were everywhere—blending in perfectly, indistinguishable from real people. How could anyone master the craft to that extent? It was like they were alive."
Hinata stayed silent, her Byakugan sweeping the horizon as she absorbed his words. She could see the strain in his posture, the way his hands shook faintly as he gripped the stick in his hands.
"When the killing started, we tried to fight back," Kankuro said, his voice trembling. "But Sasori took control of our puppets—mine, everyone's. I still don't know how he did it. Only Chiyo-sama managed to resist him, and she died buying us time to escape. Temari and I gathered as many civilians as we could and fled into the desert. Now… we're scattered, hiding, barely surviving."
He lowered his gaze, staring at his hands as though the memories of that day were etched into his skin. "There's maybe a hundred of us left that are trained shinobi. We're running out of time and options, which is why I came to Konoha. You're all we've got."
Hinata watched him quietly, her heart heavy with the weight of his words. She wanted to offer some kind of comfort, some assurance that they could fix this, but the reality of the situation loomed too large. Instead, she simply nodded, her gaze shifting to the fire as the silence stretched between them once more.
For the first time, she truly understood the depth of Kankuro's resentment toward her—and she couldn't blame him for it. But beneath that resentment, she saw something else: a desperation that mirrored her own.
They weren't so different after all.
"Is it even possible to assassinate someone like him?" Hinata murmured, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the fire. The question was meant more for herself than for Kankuro, a stray thought spoken aloud. She tried to picture it—sneaking up on a man who had turned an entire village into a stage for his macabre art, a village now entirely under his control. It felt impossible.
"We have a plan," Kankuro replied, though the confidence in his voice sounded forced. He glanced at the fire, his jaw tightening. "Once we link up with my sister, we'll—"
He froze mid-sentence. The stick he had been holding slipped from his fingers, falling into the fire with a faint hiss. His entire body went rigid, his eyes widening as he stared into the distance.
Hinata immediately began scanning the horizon. At first, she saw nothing, only the seemingly endless dunes shifting in the night breeze. The silence of the desert pressed down on her, heavy and unnatural. But then, she noticed the sand. What she had mistaken for wind-blown dust was something else entirely.
The dunes weren't just shifting—they were alive, rippling like waves across an ocean. A massive force moved beneath the surface, disturbing the desert with an eerie, almost liquid grace. The motion was hypnotic and terrifying, a predator gliding just beneath the surface, unseen but unmistakable.
"Shit," Kankuro cursed, scrambling to his feet. The sharpness in his voice jolted Hinata out of her trance. His face was pale, his usual composure crumbling into raw panic. "Why now? It's not even a full moon!"
"What is it?" Hinata asked, moving quickly to his side. gaze continued scanning the horizon where the rippling sand grew more pronounced. The sheer size of the disturbance sent a cold chill down her spine.
"It's you…" Kankuro muttered, his voice barely audible. His gaze locked onto her, his expression a mix of realization and dread. "He's coming for you."
"Who?" Naruto's voice cut through the rising tension as he and Sasuke emerged from the tent, instantly alert. Naruto's blue eyes flicked toward the shifting dunes, narrowing as he caught sight of the unnatural movement. Sasuke stepped forward, his Sharingan igniting with a faint crimson glow, ready to react.
"It's Gaara," Kankuro finally spat, his voice trembling. "Or rather…" He hesitated, his words sticking in his throat.
The sand moved with an unnatural rhythm, the dunes surging and crashing like waves driven by a sentient force. Moonlight spilled across the desert, casting eerie shadows that twisted and stretched as the ground heaved beneath them. The ground beneath their feet trembled, the faint vibration growing into a steady, ominous rhythm. The campfire flickered in protest against the unseen force, its flames sputtering before they were snuffed out entirely, plunging the camp into darkness.
Hinata heard it now—a deep, guttural rumble, resonating like the growl of a massive beast. It wasn't just a sound; it was a force, vibrating through the air and settling into her chest like a stone. Her Nichiren Byakugan caught a glimpse of something breaking the surface—a claw-like appendage, enormous and jagged, trailing streams of sand as it emerged briefly before disappearing beneath the dunes again.
The dunes rippled, cascading in unnatural waves that swallowed the faint starlight. The sky above seemed impossibly far, and the desert below felt alive, as if it were breathing.
Kankuro stepped back, his voice trembling. "This isn't just Gaara. He's not in control anymore." He clenched his fists, his face pale in the moonlight. "This is Shukaku unleashed."
Naruto frowned, his usual fire dimming as he processed the weight of Kankuro's words. His fists clenched at his sides, his blue eyes narrowing as he gazed into the distance where the sandstorm churned. "I don't care if it's Gaara or Shukaku," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "If we have to fight, we fight."
Sasuke didn't say anything immediately. His Sharingan glowed faintly in the dark as he scanned the horizon, his expression cold and calculating. "Hinata," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the rising tension. "What do you see?"
"It's massive," she replied, her voice tight. "The chakra is everywhere. It's wild and erratic… like a storm with no center. And it's coming straight for us."
The desert erupted. A towering column of sand shot into the sky, spiraling upward like a cyclone. The force of it whipped the air around them, extinguishing any lingering light and plunging them into complete darkness. Moonlight pierced through the storm in faint, fractured beams, illuminating a monstrous silhouette forming within the chaos.
Jagged claws emerged first, slicing through the air, followed by a grotesque maw filled with rows of gleaming teeth. Its yellow eyes burned like twin suns, brimming with unrestrained malice. The beast's roar followed—a deafening, primal sound that shook the very ground they stood on and sent a wave of sand rushing toward them like an unstoppable tide.
Hinata's heart raced, her instincts screaming at her to move, to fight, to do anything. But as the Tailed Beast's full form came into view, she could feel the crushing weight of its presence bearing down on her. This wasn't just a monster. It wasn't even a shinobi. This was a force of nature, a wrathful god incarnate, and it was coming for them.