Chapter 20

Sasuke Uchiha was awake. Like the last fifteen nights, he slipped silently from his bed, his movements careful to avoid stirring the stillness of the house. The moonlight cut through the window, outlining the path he knew by heart. Like the last fifteen nights, he made his way to the compound training grounds, the cold air biting at his skin but doing nothing to slow his steps.

And like the last fifteen nights, he trained.

Kunai flew through the air, the satisfying thud of steel meeting wood marking his every throw. Each movement carried a sharpness that came not from mastery but from anger, coiled tight and desperate. And like the last fifteen nights, his rhythm was broken by a voice—a voice steady and unshaken.

"You're gripping it too hard. Again. Let it flow."

Sasuke's hand froze mid-throw, the kunai trembling in his grip. Slowly, he turned, and as always, the Third Hokage stood there. Moonlight caught his weathered face, his hands resting behind his back as if this were nothing more than a casual stroll.

"Hokage-sama," Sasuke said stiffly, standing straighter.

He didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he attacked, launching forward with the kunai flashing in his hand. Like the last fifteen nights, the Hokage didn't retaliate. He moved effortlessly, his body shifting just enough to avoid each strike, sometimes gesturing with the slightest motion to adjust Sasuke's stance or redirect his focus.

But unlike the last fifteen nights, Sasuke didn't let his frustration guide him. He held his anger at bay, biting back the urge to press harder, faster, angrier. He forced himself to listen—to the subtle adjustments, to the soft corrections that shaped his every move. His strikes became less wild, his breathing more controlled.

"Good," said Hiruzen, stepping back as Sasuke lowered his kunai. "You're learning."

The words settled over Sasuke like the rain threatening to fall, a weight both heavy and light. He stood there, staring at the Hokage, his chest rising and falling with effort. But this time, he didn't kneel. He didn't beg to be taught.

Instead, he bowed his head slightly. "Thank you for the lesson," he said, his voice steady, almost quiet.

The Hokage regarded him with a faint, unreadable expression. For a moment, there was no sound but the distant rustle of leaves. Then Hiruzen nodded, turning on his heel. The soft shuffle of his footsteps faded into the darkness.

Sasuke stayed behind, standing alone in the empty training ground. Like the last fifteen nights, he gripped the kunai tightly in his hand. But unlike the last fifteen nights, he felt something unfamiliar—a calmness in his anger, a sense of progress.

Konohamaru's triumphant shout cut through the courtyard: "Step one—pocket sand! Step two—the balls!"

"Hell, yeah!"

Hiroto sighed. "I should've stayed in ANBU."

?

The scrape of sandpaper cut through the stifling silence like the rasp of dry bones grinding together. Sasori worked without pause, his puppet's arm taking shape under his meticulous hands. Around him, his workshop was a realm of unrelenting grotesquery, where art and atrocity merged into something neither human nor comprehensible. The air hung heavy with the smell of lacquer, metallic tangs of blood long spilled, and the faint putrid stench of preserved flesh.

Cabinets lined the walls, their glass doors revealing horrors encased within. Preserved torsos floated in viscous fluid, their chests splayed open, exposing mechanized innards where lungs and hearts once were. Jars filled with human eyes gazed out in perpetual terror, suspended like grotesque jewels in amber. Puppets dangled from above, their limbs hanging at odd angles, some with human skin stretched taut over wooden frames, their sewn-shut mouths frozen in screams or expressions that mocked life. Sasori didn't flinch at his surroundings. To him, this was not horror—it was perfection. Art in its purest form. Beauty.

The pulse came suddenly, a vibration that thrummed through the ring on his left thumb. Sasori's hand stilled, the sandpaper dropping to the table. He raised his hand to inspect the ring—Gyoku, "Jewel"—the metal faintly cool against his artificial skin. He stared at it for a long moment, frustration bubbling beneath his impassive exterior. Years of study, endless experiments, and still, the ring's secrets eluded him. It was a tool of connection, yes, but to what? Its power was beyond even his understanding, and that gnawed at him.

The pulse grew stronger, insistent. Sasori allowed his chakra to flow into it, and the pull began. It wasn't a journey—it was an invasion. His consciousness was wrenched from his puppet body, dragged into a void that felt alive with wrongness. For a moment, he existed in two places at once: his workshop, with its macabre trophies, and a realm he could never fully comprehend.

The space unfolded around him, a vast nothingness that seemed to press inward from all sides. The ground beneath him was neither solid nor shifting, an endless expanse of something that wasn't truly there. The walls—or what might have been walls—shimmered faintly, as if alive, pulsating with unseen energy. Shadows moved without cause, their shapes unrecognizable and wrong, writhing in patterns that hurt to look at.

The other members stood in the void, their astral forms flickering, their outlines jagged as if their existence here was only tolerated, not welcomed. Zetsu's duality was more pronounced in this realm, his white and black halves shifting and twisting unnaturally as they whispered to themselves. Deidara paced, his projection crackling faintly with bursts of chakra, the energy spilling from him in uneven bursts. Kakuzu loomed, unnervingly still, his eyes glowing faintly in the void. Hidan twitched, a crooked grin stretching his astral face, his fingers curling as though gripping an invisible weapon. Konan stood beside the Leader, her projection calm yet unnervingly clear, her presence a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding her.

And then there was the Leader. Pain.

Pain's projection dominated the space in ways that defied logic. His form was indistinct, yet his presence was suffocating, as if the void itself bent around him. The Rinnegan eyes shone with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the veil of existence, their gaze both terrible and inescapable. Pain didn't move, yet every flicker of his form carried a weight that pressed against the minds of all who looked upon him. When he spoke, his voice reverberated not through the air but through the very fabric of their thoughts. It wasn't sound—it was an intrusion, a force that bypassed the senses entirely.

"I felt Kisame die," the Leader said, each word an unrelenting hammer against their consciousness. One of the few things that made Sasori, the Puppet, the body without pain receptors, feel pain.

Deidara froze mid-pace, his astral form flickering erratically. "What? Kisame? No way, yeah! He's—he was—practically unstoppable! And he's hanging with Itachi around!".

Kakuzu's voice, harsh and jagged, cut through Deidra's surprise. "And Itachi?"

"No signal. He either severed his connection to the ring before death or removed it himself. If he removed it, he lives. If not, he is gone."

Hidan snorted, his grin widening into something feral. "So, what, Itachi betrayed us? Offed Kisame and ran off? Knew that bastard was too quiet. Probably thought he was too good for us. I'll chase him and sacrifice him!"

The pause that followed was not empty; it carried the weight of Pain's silence, his gaze boring into each of them as if dissecting their thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was a dagger slipping through unseen barriers. "The rings—朱 ('Scarlet') and 南 ('South')—are in Konoha. I can feel them."

Sasori's mechanical mind clicked through possibilities. If he could still feel surprise, he might have. Instead, he spoke, his tone as even as the polished wood of his puppets. "Then it is not Itachi. Or he has been captured. He would never willingly return to Konoha—of all places. The only one who could do it…This reeks of Danzo's interference."

Konan stepped forward, her movement graceful but carrying an unsettling precision, as though even her presence bent the space around her. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost tender, almost happy. Sasori did not like that. Not at all. "Shimura Danzo is dead," she said, her lips curling into the faintest smile—a delicate twist that hinted at satisfaction rather than joy.

Sasori's amber eyes narrowed, the faint rattle of his puppet tails betraying his momentary surprise. Unexpected. The Old War Hawk had flown to the other side. He tilted his head slightly. "Who killed him?"

"That's it," rasped Kakuzu, his tone grating as if it emerged from a throat made of rust. "According to my sources, it was Sarutobi. Alone."

Deidara let out a scoffing laugh, his projection flickering erratically as he crossed his arms. "Sarutobi? The old relic? What kind of bullshit propaganda are they trying to sell, yeah?"

Hidan snorted, his grin widening into something feral. "Let me guess—he took Danzo out with nothing but his wrinkled fists and a speech about 'the Will of Fire.' Sounds like bullshit."

Konan ignored their derision, her eyes shifting with unsettling precision to Sasori. Her gaze, though calm, carried a pressure that seemed to tighten the void around him. "Do you still have agents in Konoha?"

The sound of rattling metal filled the silence as Sasori's tails twitched behind him, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of her question. He considered briefly, his mechanical mind sorting through the network of operatives he had cultivated, pruning away the irrelevant. One name surfaced. "I can reactivate one," he said at last, his voice as steady as wood under tension. How was he called? Ah, yes. Kabuto.

Shizune sighed as she wiped the last traces of vomit from Tsunade's lips, her mentor's pale face slack in unconsciousness. The legendary Sannin, hailed as one of the strongest shinobi alive, lay crumpled on the bed, undone by the contents of a bottle and the weight of memories she refused to carry sober. Shizune pulled the blanket over Tsunade's body, tucking her in with a care that felt more maternal than respectful. And to say she was the one supposed to be taken care of as a student…

"Again," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. This wasn't the woman who had inspired her years ago, who had taken her in after Dan's death. This was what grief, loss, and too much time alone could turn someone into. And yet, Shizune stayed.

Stretching her arms, she felt the tension in her shoulders crackle and pop. She moved to her small corner of the room, rubbing her neck as Tonton trotted toward her, the tiny pig's soft snorts breaking the heavy silence.

"Hey, Tonton," Shizune murmured, crouching to scoop her companion into her arms. The pig pressed its snout into her chest, letting out a comforting grunt.

"You're the best, you know that?" Shizune said, scratching Tonton behind the ears. "She'd probably end up sleeping in a ditch if it weren't for us. Not that she'd notice. Or care." She chuckled humorlessly, setting Tonton back down and watching as the pig circled her legs, her small hooves clicking softly against the wooden floor.

"You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?" she added, smiling faintly as she ruffled the pig's fur. Tonton oinked, tilting her head as if in protest.

"Fine, fine. You're smarter than I give you credit for," Shizune said, standing and stretching again. "I'm going to take a shower before anything else happens tonight. Watch her, will you?"

Shizune shrugged off her long-sleeved blouse, the buttons slipping through her fingers as the fabric slid down her arms, revealing the pale, smooth skin beneath. She tossed it casually onto a chair, her chest rising and falling as she exhaled. Her hands moved to her pants, the soft snap of the waistband filling the quiet room as she worked them down her hips. Her toned abs flexed slightly as she bent to step free, leaving her in nothing but black lace underwear that hugged her form.

She stood for a moment, her reflection faint in the window, catching the way the lace framed her breasts and the curve of her hips. Her nipples pressed lightly against the fabric, teased by the cool air of the room. Running a hand down her stomach, she paused at the waistband of her underwear, brushing against the lace briefly before reaching behind her back. The clasp of her bra gave way, and she let it fall, exposing her breasts fully to the room. The chill brought her nipples to attention as she reached up, pushing her dark hair off her shoulders. The faint light in the room played across her skin as she walked toward the bathroom, her hips swaying naturally with every step.

She twisted the shower knob, the rush of water spilling onto the tiles filling the space. Steam rose quickly, curling around her as she hooked her thumbs into her panties, sliding them down her legs and kicking them aside. The warm water called to her, promising relief from the tension of the day.

Then, the knock.

The knock came again, sharp and insistent, cutting through the soothing rhythm of the shower like a thrown kunai. Shizune froze, water trickling down her arm as her thoughts scrambled. Whoever it was, they had better have a damn good reason. She shut off the water, yanked a towel from the rack, and wrapped it tightly around herself, the damp cloth hugging her skin. She was still dripping, her hair clinging to her shoulders as she grabbed a kunai from the nearby counter.

"Seriously?" she muttered, stalking toward the door, her bare feet making soft sounds against the wooden floor. "If this is a debt collector or another idiot Tsunade owes money to—"

She flung open the door with more force than intended, steam billowing out behind her. Her irritation evaporated when her eyes locked onto the mask. A reptilian design, sleek and familiar. Lizard. One of Konoha's ANBU operatives.

Her grip on the kunai loosened, the tension in her shoulders faltering. "AN… ANBU?" she stammered, blinking at the figure who loomed in the doorway.

"Shizune, Jonin of Konohagakure?" The voice was clipped, professional, and utterly devoid of emotion.

"Yes," she managed, her tone sharp but faltering under the weight of the unexpected presence.

The ANBU nodded once. "The Hokage has issued a recall order. You and Tsunade Senju are to return to Konoha immediately."

Shizune let out a long, exasperated sigh, her posture relaxing as she stepped back. "Of course," she muttered, barely masking her frustration. It was always the same—every year, the same summons, the same refusal. She folded her arms, adjusting the towel with a small tug. "Well, you're welcome to see how far you'll get with her."

She pushed the door open wider, gesturing toward the snoring form sprawled across the bed. Tsunade, red-faced and completely oblivious, was cocooned in blankets, an empty sake bottle lying on the floor nearby.

The ANBU hesitated, their posture stiffening as they took in the scene. That pause was new. Usually, they would simply shrug and leave after delivering the summons, unflinching and unquestioning. But this time, Shizune's eyes widened in disbelief as the masked figure took a step forward—toward the bed.

"No way," she whispered, watching as the operative extended a gloved hand toward the snoring form of Tsunade Senju. "He's not… he wouldn't…"

But he did. The ANBU lightly tapped Tsunade's shoulder, then shook her gently, though his entire stance radiated reluctance, as if bracing for an explosion.

"You're not really…" she muttered, her voice barely audible. But the ANBU pressed forward, their hand lightly shaking Tsunade's shoulder.

Shizune gasped, clutching at her towel. Either the bravest ANBU she'd ever met… or the absolute dumbest.

Tsunade stirred, letting out a low groan. "Mmm… S'fine… juss' five more minutes…" she slurred, waving her hand feebly as if brushing away a pesky fly. "Shizune, s'fine… I'm good…"

The ANBU operative, to their credit—or their doom—shook her again, firmer this time.

Tsunade's eyes snapped open, her hand twitching dangerously. Shizune tensed, her heart pounding as she saw the reflexive motion—the instinct that could send the masked shinobi flying through the nearest wall.

"What… what the fuck," Tsunade growled, her voice hoarse and thick with drink. She sat up, her disheveled hair sticking to her flushed face. Her bloodshot eyes squinted at the ANBU in confusion before a flicker of recognition crossed her face.

"Oh. It's… it's you," she slurred, leaning heavily back against the headboard. Her hand waved weakly, as though trying to brush away the sight of the mask. "Wha' do you want? Wakin' me up for… for what, huh? Huh?"

The ANBU remained silent, motionless. Shizune, seeing where this was going, tried to interject. "Tsunade-sama, it's the Hokage—"

"Shut it, Shizune!" Tsunade snapped, her words slurring into a tangle. She jabbed a wobbly finger at the ANBU. "You—tell… tell the old… the old man Hokage, 'kay? Tell him… I'm. Not. Comin'. Back. Not comin' back! Y'hear me?"

The ANBU flinched but didn't move.

"Not," Tsunade continued, her words stumbling over each other, "comin'. Back. He can… he can take his… his goddamn summons, and his… his stupid chair… and go fuck himself! Yeah! Fuck. Him. Self! He can… he can go sit on a chair… made of kunai! And spin!"

Shizune groaned audibly, burying her face in her hands. "Tsunade-sama, please…"

Tsunade barely noticed. She flopped backward, her words devolving into incoherent muttering. "Stupid… old man… tell him… I'm stayin' here… yeah. S'fine…"

The ANBU's masked face turned slowly toward Shizune, their posture stiff. She waved a hand at them, exasperated. "Don't look at me. You woke her up. Your problem now."

Before the ANBU could respond, the door creaked open, and a familiar voice filled the room.

"Oh, fuck myself. Truly, Tsunade? What an original suggestion."

Oh.

Oh

AN : Next time is my favorite chapter so far - the confrontation between Hiruzen and Tsunade.
If you're bored, I've published two snippets (one Naruto, Time-Loop fanfic and one PJO & Highschool DxD) on my plot bunnies pages on QQ. You can just click on the link below in my signature to read them.
As usual, advanced chapters are available on my P-site, with pictures and exclusive content.
Cheers,
LaChenille.