Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The desert night was unnervingly still, the kind of silence that pressed down on the chest like weight. Stars glittered above in a sky so clear it felt hollow, and the breath of the wind—thin and dry—whispered ghostlike between the dunes. Far beyond the reach of Sunagakure’s main roads, nestled between eroded cliffs, stood an ancient mausoleum built from black sandstone and half-swallowed by time.

Two shinobi stood guard at the main entrance, their eyes half-lidded but senses sharp. The wind tugged at their cloaks, scattering fine sand across the stone steps. Around the perimeter, more patrolling guards moved in slow arcs, alert for jackals, smugglers… or worse.

What came next, they never saw coming.

A whistle in the air.

Then—
BOOM.

An explosion shattered the eastern watch post, sending up a geyser of fire and dust. The night lit orange for a heartbeat. Screams followed. Not long. Not loud. Just brief.

From the smoke emerged figures cloaked in black from head to toe, faces masked save for their eyes—cold and gleaming with intent. They moved with terrifying precision. The first shinobi barely had time to draw a kunai before a blade sliced across his throat, blood spraying in an arc against the mausoleum wall. Another guard screamed as his chest was pierced by something long, metal, barbed—twisted with cruel design. His body spasmed, then stilled.

It was a massacre. No hesitation. No mercy.

Inside the tomb, the heavy stone door boomed as it was blasted open. Dust rolled out like breath from the mouth of a corpse.

The interior was vast, carved directly into the cliff rock—pillars lined the hall, their surfaces etched with runes and patterns older than the village itself. At the center of the sanctum, surrounded by concentric circles like the teeth of a massive clock, hovered a glowing relic—an ethereal blue stone suspended unnaturally above a broken timepiece mechanism.

The intruders entered like shadows into candlelight.

Then he stepped forward—their leader.

He didn’t run. He didn’t speak. He simply walked, as if the temple had been waiting for him. He was taller than the rest, shoulders broad beneath torn and scorched armor. His mask came off with slow deliberation, revealing a face twisted by old burn scars, skin melted in places and pulled tight around a dead eye. The other eye was sharp, cold, alive.

He raised his hand toward the relic. Fingers—bare, knuckles discolored by frostbite—hovered near the stone. And then he smiled.

Not with joy.
But with cruelty.

He touched the stone.

The air shifted. A hum began low in the bones of the walls. Then a crack. A second. Then a deep rumble—like something old and hateful awakening beneath the tomb.

The leader turned without flinching. “We have what we came for. Get out. Now.”

His voice was dry, like gravel rubbed through old cloth. It wasn’t loud. But the others moved instantly.

Outside, bodies lay sprawled. One had his arm twisted the wrong way, bones exposed; another had been stabbed through the stomach and left to bleed out on the sand. A third had been burned, still smoking.

But one still breathed.

Face down, chest barely rising. Blood pooled beneath him. His fingers twitched. He turned his head just enough to see them—the cloaked figures fleeing into the dark, the scarred leader among them. He saw the glint of the relic, glowing in a black-gloved hand.

And with a grunt of pain, he pushed his broken body just enough to see.

His jaw clenched.

And he remembered.

Chapter Text

The heat of Sunagakure bore down like a weight. The sky was a sheet of blinding white, the buildings glowing with the color of scorched clay. From the training grounds, Temari stormed into the compound she shared with her brothers, the door banging open behind her like a war drum. Her boots tracked fine sand across the polished floor as she tossed her fan onto the nearest wall and dropped onto the sofa—not in exhaustion, but fury.

Kankurō looked up from a puppet joint he was reinforcing, one eyebrow raised, grease on his fingers. Gaara sat across the room, skimming mission reports at the low table, his presence calm as ever.

“Alright,” Kankurō said slowly. “Who pissed you off now?”

Temari’s jaw clenched. “Some shinobis I just passed by the archive room after patrol. I heard them talking.”

Kankurō didn’t flinch. “And?”

“They were quoting the elders.” Her voice was sharp. “About me. About him.”

Now Gaara set the report down. Kankurō sat straighter.

“They said it’s shameful,” Temari continued, not looking at either of them yet. “That I’ve ‘lowered myself’—their words—to be seen with a shinobi like Shikamaru Nara. Someone common. Unremarkable lineage. A Konoha nin, no less.”

Her fists clenched against her knees.

“One of them said, and I quote, ‘The Kazekage’s sister choosing a strategist over a warrior is like offering fine gold to a carpenter. It gets used, then forgotten.’”

Silence.

“And another added, ‘She must be thinking with her loins, not her duty. The Nara boy’s genjutsu must be better than we thought.’”

Kankurō’s expression darkened instantly. “Those sons of—”

“Don’t.” Temari cut him off, voice low. “Don’t soften it. They weren’t muttering. They wanted to be heard.”

Gaara stood slowly. “Why didn’t you confront them?”

Temari finally looked up, eyes sharp as the steel edge of her fan. “Because I’d rather not start slicing through my own village without cause. Not yet.”

Kankurō crossed his arms. “You know what they’re like. They’re old. Dusty. Paranoid.”

“They’re cowards,” Temari snapped. “Afraid of anything that doesn’t fit their vision of purity. They want me married off like a damn contract. Someone with bloodlines they can parade around at councils.”

Her voice cracked not with weakness, but controlled fury.

“They don’t care if I’m happy. They care about alliances, appearances, blood status. They’d rather see me tied to some Hyūga heir I’ve never met than acknowledge someone like Shikamaru. Never mind that he’s one of the smartest shinobi of our generation. Never mind that he’s fought and bled for peace more than any of them ever have.”

Gaara stepped closer, his presence grounding. “You don’t owe them anything.”

“I know,” she said, standing. “And I won’t apologize for choosing someone who sees me as more than a title.”

Kankurō gave a grim smile. “If they try to push it, let me know. I’ll set up a puppet show just for them.”

That made her snort—barely—but her posture didn’t soften. The weight of years of expectation, of bloodline politics, still clung heavy in the air.

Before any of them could speak again, a firm knock echoed from the main hall.

Gaara’s eyes flicked to the door. “Come in.”

A young shinobi entered, his uniform marked with the dust of travel. He bowed deeply, breathing hard.

“Kazekage-sama. Urgent dispatch. Straight from Kagerō Village post.”

He stepped forward and handed over a tightly sealed scroll.

Gaara broke the seal and scanned it quickly. His jaw stiffened.

Temari immediately turned, alert. “What is it?”

Gaara rolled the scroll and handed it to her. “Trouble. South border.”

Temari caught the shift in his tone. Her eyes narrowed. “Where exactly?”

“Kagerō,” Gaara said. “And it sounds like the trouble’s already started.”

Chapter Text

“A grave robbery?” Temari’s voice was quiet, but the edge in her tone cut sharp.

Gaara gave a slow nod, his fingers tightening slightly around the scroll he held. “That’s what it appears to be,” he said, his voice low. “One of the sealed desert tombs outside Kagerō Village was breached last night.”

Kankurō stood across the room, arms folded, gaze narrowing. “What did they take?”

Gaara looked up. “Fushi no Seki—the Stone of Immortality.”

Temari’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that wasn’t just a myth?”

“It’s real,” Gaara said. “A core of condensed chakra. Ancient. Stable. If activated, it can slow cellular decay, accelerate regeneration, even potentially stop death itself for a limited time.”

Kankurō frowned. “How the hell do you activate something like that?”

“There’s a ritual,” Gaara replied. “Outlined in the Tenshō Kōbunsho. The Guiding Manuscript.”

Temari’s brow furrowed. “Wait. That book still exists?”

“It’s in the restricted archives,” Gaara said. “Lower chamber of the Sunagakure Library. Triple-sealed. Hidden. Only a few people even know it’s there.”

The room went quiet.

Temari stepped forward. “Then if they know about the stone, they might already be planning to come for the manuscript next.”

“Exactly,” Gaara said, his voice tense but level.

Kankurō looked between them. “How much time do we have?”

“Not much,” Gaara said. He stood up straight, placing the scroll gently on the table, then looked directly at both of them. “We move immediately.”

He turned to Kankurō first. “You'll go on pursuit but I want a puppet unit stationed at the archive as soon as possible. Coordinate with the Sealing Corps. Reinforce every entry. Use traps, misdirection, anything. I’ll assign Baki to command the inner perimeter.”

“Baki?” Kankurō asked, surprised. “Haven’t seen him in months.”

“He’s back. I already summoned him,” Gaara said. “I want someone who understands how we operate—and how outsiders think.”

Kankurō nodded, gears already turning in his head. “I’ll handpick my crew.”

Gaara turned to Temari. “You’ll lead the pursuit team.”

Temari didn’t flinch. “I want Yukata and Matsuri with me. They know the border better than most.”

“Approved,” Gaara said. “Take two elite trackers from the west post and a field medic. I’ll assign a sensory jounin to support you.”

“Also bring two of Kankurō’s puppet squad. For ranged coverage.”

Kankurō nodded. “I’ll spare them.”

Temari opened her fan slightly, then shut it with a snap. “I’ll prepare the team tonight. We move at dusk.”

Gaara gave a single, short nod. “Good.”

As Temari turned toward the door, she paused. “If they get to that manuscript before we do…”

“They won’t,” Gaara said.

And for the first time in the room, the air grew colder.

Chapter Text

Night creeping over the desert like a curtain of rust and ash. The sun had slipped and the wind had grown cooler, brushing fine grains of sand across armor plates and exposed cheeks. Temari stood atop a slanted rock shelf, scanning the horizon through narrowed eyes, her fan strapped tight to her back. The last glimmer of daylight traced the edge of the landscape in pale gold.

Below, her team fanned out—silent, methodical. Their movements left minimal disturbance in the sand, honed by years in this harsh terrain.

Yukata knelt at the edge of a low slope, his gloved fingers brushing over faint depressions in the earth. “Weight distribution’s uneven,” he muttered. “This wasn't a cart—more likely a chakra-reinforced sled or sealed transport scroll being dragged.”

Temari looked down toward him. “Direction?”

Yukata pointed toward the northeast. “Veering east. Still following the abandoned merchant route. That path’s leading straight toward the border with the Land of Rivers.”

Matsuri stood a few meters away, a pair of chakra-enhanced binoculars raised to her eyes. She adjusted the focus, tracking the jagged ridgelines in the distance. “There’s a natural choke point near the old stone gully—just before the border marker. Beyond that, the terrain gets messy.”

“How messy?” Kankurō asked, emerging from behind a jagged boulder. His hood was down, exposing the dark paint markings on his cheek. He flicked a small cigarette from his fingers and ground it under his heel.

Matsuri didn’t look away from the view. “River valleys. Shallow streams. Dense cliff shadows. It’s not desert anymore—it’s layered stone, shifting riverbanks, and fog at night. Easy to lose someone there.”

“We’re not losing anyone,” Temari said firmly.

A tracker shinobi crouched nearby—a lean woman in a pale gray cloak with a respirator mask pulled down around her neck. Her name was Sabaki, one of the best trail readers in the region. She traced a line on a map scroll using a grease pencil.

“The scent trail is still faint but intact,” she said. “Whatever they’re transporting is leaking something—could be chakra residue, maybe decay. And they’re avoiding water crossings, which means they’re worried about corrupting the cargo or losing the trail themselves.”

Kankurō stepped in closer, looking over her shoulder. “So they’re not just running. They’re being careful.”

Sabaki nodded. “Very.”

Temari crouched beside Yukata, who handed her the map with his rough outline etched in. She studied the curves and chokepoints, then looked toward the twilight sky.

“Matsuri, prep the message hawk. Let Gaara know we’re heading toward the Land of Rivers. Estimated engagement window—within forty-eight hours.”

“Yes, Temari-sama.” Matsuri was already reaching into her satchel, pulling out a small scroll capsule and sealing it with her chakra signature.

Temari stood and brushed her palms off against her thighs. “No fires tonight. We rest, move again two hours before dawn. Kankurō, double-check your puppets. Yukata, you and Sabaki recalibrate the trail markings every hour.”

Kankurō gave a tight nod. “If we catch them before they cross into enemy territory, we might still have a chance to recover the Fushi no Seki intact.”

Temari’s jaw tensed at the name. “If.”

The wind shifted again, bringing a new bite to the air. The stars were starting to peek out above them—sharp and unblinking, like eyes watching the hunt unfold.

Chapter Text

The underground archive of Sunagakure was buried deep beneath layers of sandstone and silence. Only a handful of shinobi in the village even knew this chamber existed. The walls were carved with ancient seals—some predating the founding of the village—and each breath here felt weighted with generations of secrets.

Gaara stood at the center of the chamber, hands behind his back, his eyes focused on the dark pedestal where the sealed black box rested. The Tenshō Kōbunsho.

“It’s not just paper in that box,” he said quietly. “It’s knowledge meant to remain forgotten.”

Baki stood beside him, posture straight. He had served three Kazekage before Gaara, but even now, he spoke with cautious deference. “And now, we’re forced to remember it.”

Gaara’s eyes narrowed. “Because someone else already has.”

He stepped forward slowly, examining the chakra threads wound around the seal. His fingers hovered just above the protective layers—he wasn’t going to touch it, but he needed to see its condition. After a moment, he turned.

“We’re reinforcing the entire archive,” he said. “I want overlapping barrier fields. First tier triggered by movement, second by chakra signatures. No failsafes—if they trip one, they face all of them.”

“Kankurō’s puppet specialists are ready,” Baki replied, producing a scroll and unrolling it on the nearby stone table. “Maruto and Tatsuki. Loyal. Quiet. Excellent with embedded defense mechanisms.”

“Good. I want each entrance trapped, each corridor warded. No rotating shifts—single unit teams, screened and cleared. One scribe only. Someone you personally approve.”

Baki nodded. “I have one in mind. Former intel clerk, retired after losing his right arm. But his memory is flawless.”

“Perfect,” Gaara said. “A man with no ambition is the best man for guarding ambition.”

He stepped toward the far wall where an old chakra lattice was carved into the stone. It shimmered faintly under his palm as he activated a hidden conduit. Instantly, the veins of the chamber lit up with sand-colored light, revealing the full network of barriers built centuries ago.

“These runes haven’t been active since the Second Kazekage,” Baki murmured.

“They’re crude by today’s standards,” Gaara replied, “but they’re buried deep enough that no outsider would expect them.”

Baki watched as the lights pulsed slowly. “And what about access control?”

“Three keys,” Gaara said, turning back. “Mine, yours, and one of the puppet guards. No seal opens without all three signatures. And the puppet’s chakra node will change every 48 hours, randomized.”

Baki’s expression betrayed quiet respect. “Thorough.”

“I’m not being thorough,” Gaara said. “I’m being hunted.”

The door hissed open behind them. Maruto and Tatsuki entered—tall, masked, silent. One carried a case containing segmented puppet parts; the other already had chakra wires strung between his fingers.

Without waiting for instruction, they bowed deeply.

“Begin perimeter work. Priority one: concealment. Priority two: lethality,” Gaara instructed. “The more this chamber looks unassuming, the more time it buys us.”

Maruto’s voice was gravel-deep. “How many intruders are we expecting?”

“None,” Gaara said, flatly. “But we’re preparing for ten.”

Baki gave a brief grin.

Tatsuki moved to the left corridor, unspooling a centipede-like puppet that immediately began scanning the stone. Maruto tapped the floor, and a spider-formed core unfurled, its legs embedding into the walls silently.

“I want live feedback linked to my quarters,” Gaara added. “If there’s a fluctuation in chakra pressure down here, I want to know before the intruder does.”

Baki nodded once more. “Temari and Kankurō?”

“Already en route,” Gaara said. “If they fail to retrieve the Fushi no Seki, this becomes the most dangerous object in the Land of Wind.”

His voice was quiet, but firm. Final.

Baki straightened his robes and folded his arms. “Then we guard it with our lives.”

Gaara didn’t look at him when he replied, “No. With our minds. We win this war by staying two moves ahead.”

As the puppets clicked into place and chakra grids sealed layer upon layer of the chamber, the desert above sank into night.

And in the dark belly of Sunagakure, the true game began.

Chapter Text

The swamplands of the Land of Rivers stretched endlessly beneath the bleeding light of dusk. Trees loomed like broken fingers, their roots twisting through black water. A damp mist clung to the air, muffling sound, wrapping the marsh in a choking silence that felt too heavy for any natural place. Even the insects had gone quiet.

Hidden within a curtain of illusion, far beyond the beaten path, two figures stood in the center of a flooded clearing—one kneeling, the other standing motionless.

“They’ve noticed,” said the kneeling man—the same shinobi who had stolen the Fushi no Seki, the Stone of Immortality. Mud coated his boots, and sweat clung to his brow. “The chaos at Kagerō won’t go unanswered. Sunagakure will send pursuit.”

“Of course they will,” replied the figure above him, voice coarse and hollow, like wind scraping across bone. “That’s why we brought them here. Let them chase ghosts through mud and fog. Let the swamp consume them.”

The standing man stepped forward, into the waning light.

His appearance was monstrous.

Skin dark but bloodless, mottled with the hue of stagnant water. His eyes were yellow—brilliant and cruel. The top of his skull was bald, covered in ancient burn scars, but down his back spilled thick, greasy strands of black hair that clung to his cloak like leeches. His face was angular, his teeth far too sharp, and his breath left the faintest curl of frost in the humid air.

He was known only as Kurome.

“The plan remains unchanged,” Kurome said. “We divide. You, Jinbei, will remain here and lure the Sunagakure trackers into the mire. Let them see false trails, half-submerged scrolls, anything that smells like truth. Give them hope.”

Jinbei nodded once. “Understood. My squad is in place. Chakra dampeners, pitfall traps, sentry puppets hidden in the trees. We'll make it feel like they're always one step behind.”

Kurome grinned—thin, inhuman. “Good. The longer they believe they’re close, the deeper they’ll sink.”

He turned, motioning behind him. From the darkness beyond the mist, other figures emerged—shrouded, silent, dangerous. Cloaks smeared with dried blood. Many wore no forehead protectors. One had three arms. Another moved without sound despite dragging a serrated blade longer than his body.

“These,” Kurome continued, “are coming with me. We’ll cut through the desert while they’re distracted here. By the time the Kazekage realizes what we’re after, it will already be in my hands.”

“The Tenshō Kōbunsho,” Jinbei whispered.

“Yes,” Kurome murmured. “That book is the spine of the old world. The rituals in there—some were sealed before the First Great Shinobi War. Suna locked it away because they feared what it could become. And they were right to fear it.”

He paused, then added coldly, “But fear won’t save them now.”

“What of the Stone?” Jinbei asked.

Kurome’s yellow eyes narrowed. “It will be hidden, for now. Taken north through the forest, into the deep valley of Yomi-no-Tani. There’s an old monastery—long abandoned, shrouded in fog and curses.”

He looked skyward, where the last smear of orange light was fading behind storm clouds.

“We take the scroll. We feed the stone. And then… we change everything.”

With that, he turned and stepped into the marsh path, vanishing into the fog with his strike force behind him—like shadows swallowed by a deeper shadow.

Back in the clearing, Jinbei, the man who had stolen the Fushi no Seki remained kneeling for a moment longer. Then he rose.

He looked toward the north, toward the path the Suna team would surely take.

His voice was low as he muttered to himself.

“Let’s see if you desert rats can survive where the ground eats men alive.”

And the swamp waited.

Chapter Text

The terrain changed long before the scent did.

Gone were the golden dunes and open skies of Sunagakure. The Land of Rivers breathed in thick canopies, clustered vines, and air so wet it clung to the skin like sweat. Streams wound like snakes between dense groves, and mist hovered low above the ground, coiling between the ankles of the shinobi as they moved.

The forest didn’t whisper. It watched.

Temari halted at the edge of a shallow stream, her sandals sinking slightly in the damp soil. The air smelled of rot and wet leaves. Her fan rested against her back, heavy and unused—wind release was tricky here, where the breeze itself seemed to curl and vanish among the trees.

Matsuri squinted ahead. “I don’t like this,” she murmured. “Feels like the trees are listening.”

“They probably are,” Yukata replied grimly, crouching to examine the tracks near the riverbank. “Footprints. Faint. Recent.”

Kankurō moved in behind them, his face partially covered by a thin breathing cloth. His puppet scrolls were strapped high on his back to avoid the mud.

“Humidity’s hell on the joints,” he muttered. “My puppets aren’t gonna like this terrain.”

Temari didn’t turn. Her voice was steady. “Neither do I. But we keep moving.”

The squad pressed forward, stepping over roots and fallen logs. Mosquitoes buzzed. Somewhere deep in the thicket, something let out a slow, guttural croak that echoed too long.

One of the jōnin trackers pulled up beside Kankurō. “The trail’s splitting. Some of them veered north, some kept heading west.”

“They’re trying to fragment us,” Kankurō said, frowning. “Divide and pick off. Classic.”

Temari raised her hand. “We don’t split. Not until we’re sure of the layout. Everyone stays within ten meters of each other—no lone scouts.”

She stepped into the murky path ahead, the tall reeds brushing against her arms. “They want us disoriented. They want us cautious.”

Matsuri hesitated. “And we’re not?”

Temari glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes sharp despite the fading light. “We’re prepared.”

Behind her, the squad moved like a single body. The vines tugged, the fog thickened, and the sounds of the desert became a distant memory.

Kankurō sighed as another mosquito landed on his neck. “This place is a damn swamp.”

Temari didn’t stop. “Then let’s be the storm that drains it.”

And with that, the shinobi of the Sand pushed deeper into the marsh—unfamiliar, unwelcome, but undeterred.

Chapter Text

The morning sun crept over the jagged horizon of the desert, casting a golden glow across the sandstone walls of Sunagakure. In summer, even the early hours shimmered with heat. The wind, dry and sharp, swept fine dust across rooftops and alleyways, rattling the wooden shutters of sleeping homes.

Inside the Kazekage’s office, the air was already heavy with tension.

Gaara stood near the wide, arched window, watching the wind stir the crimson banners of the village. His eyes were focused, unreadable. On the table behind him lay a growing pile of scrolls—border reports, supply lists, chakra field readings—all marked urgent.

Baki stepped in, arms behind his back, his movements brisk. The lines on his face seemed deeper this morning, like the desert had etched its worries directly into his skin.

“Report from the northern and eastern borders just arrived,” he said, handing over a scroll with the Kazekage’s seal still warm from the courier’s chakra.

Gaara took it without a word, his fingers moving swiftly as he broke the seal and scanned the contents. A moment later, another shinobi stepped in and bowed low.

“Message from Commander Temari, Kazekage-sama,” the shinobi said, voice clipped. “Just delivered via falcon. It arrived minutes ago.”

Gaara turned. He accepted the smaller scroll with a nod and read silently.

Baki watched him closely. “What’s the word?”

Gaara looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. “They move to the Land of Rivers. Signs suggest enemy movement in the swamplands west of the trade routes.”

Baki gave a slow nod. “So they are being drawn in.”

“It was expected,” Gaara replied. “But we cannot assume we know the full extent of the enemy’s plan.”

He moved to the table, unrolling a wide map of the border regions, his fingers tracing a path Temari’s team would likely take—through shallow ravines, around fractured ridgelines, into the humid unknown. The contrast between their terrain and the jungle wetlands of the Land of Rivers was stark.

“This heat,” Baki muttered, wiping his brow, “it’s heavy for morning. Even for Suna.”

Gaara didn’t look up. “The wind is shifting.”

The two men stood in silence for a beat.

Then Gaara spoke again, his tone low but firm. “Keep the patrols doubled along the southern corridor. Rotate the chakra barrier teams every six hours. I don’t want fatigue to cost us our secrets.”

Baki nodded. “The library perimeter remains secured. Our embedded team hasn’t reported any fluctuation.”

“Still,” Gaara said, rolling the scrolls tighter. “Stay alert. The real attack never announces itself. It arrives in silence, while everyone is looking elsewhere.”

Outside, the wind howled briefly, sweeping across the desert with sharp, stinging fingers.

In the heat of Sunagakure’s rising day, vigilance became the only shield they could trust

Chapter Text

The sun had long risen in the sky, but down here—beneath the thick canopy of the Land of Rivers—daylight was a rumor, not a truth.

The air was wet, heavy, and unmoving. Each breath felt thick, as though the jungle itself resisted their presence. Vines coiled down from massive trees like hanging nooses. The swamp reeked of decay—of rotting leaves, wet moss, and something darker beneath. Pools of black water stretched between thick roots and half-submerged rocks, their surfaces disturbingly still.

Every step squelched. Every movement echoed oddly through the trees, then was swallowed by silence.

Temari raised a hand, signaling the team to slow. Her fan was already drawn, but not open, her eyes scanning the fog-threaded swamp. Kankurō moved beside her, one hand on Karasu’s scroll. Behind them, Yukata and Matsuri flanked the rear, while two jōnin trackers fanned out, crouching low and scanning the muddy ground and water surface.

"This place…" Yukata muttered, voice barely above a whisper, “...it’s not made for us.”

Matsuri nodded grimly. “Even sound dies here.”

Suddenly, the water ahead stirred.

A soft ripple. Then another. Then silence.

Then—

From beneath the black surface, figures began to rise.

Slowly. Deliberately. Silently.

One by one, they emerged—half-covered in algae, their bodies coated in mud and reeds. No splash, no sudden movement. Just the grotesque calm of men too used to the swamp, too inhuman in how they claimed it.

At the center stood a man with silver hair matted to his scalp, his aged face carved with deep lines like riverbeds. His eyes were sharp, calculating—and cruel. Though old, his frame was solid, his presence commanding.

“Jinbei,” Temari whispered. Her grip tightened.

The man smiled—no, he grinned, revealing rows of uneven teeth stained a sickly yellow. “So you do remember,” he rasped, voice rough like wet stone grinding against metal. “Kankurō… Temari… children of the desert.”

Kankurō's expression twisted in disgust. “You were supposed to be dead.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jinbei said, spreading his arms mockingly. Behind him, his companions began to spread out—hulking, weathered men with tribal tattoos, carrying strange weapons shaped from bone and metal. One of them had a skull mask fused into his armor. Another’s arms were wrapped in tar-black bandages that oozed slowly.

Temari stepped forward. “Where is the Fushi no Seki?” she demanded.

Jinbei tilted his head, his grin widening. “Ah… so you’ve already named the stone. Good. It saves time.”

Kankurō unsealed Karasu with a thump. The puppet crouched low, ready to strike. Matsuri and Yukata moved into formation, weapons drawn. The swamp trembled—not with noise, but with a rising tension, like the water itself had begun to hold its breath.

“You’ve come far,” Jinbei said, raising one muddy hand. “But this is our ground. Our roots go deeper here. The desert trained you to survive the sun—”

He stepped forward, water parting around him.

“—but this place will eat you whole.”

Temari’s eyes narrowed. Her fan opened with a snap.

“Then let it choke,” she said.

For a moment, both sides stood in complete stillness, surrounded by fog, trees, and the quiet drip of swamp water.

No one moved.

Yet the next breath could ignite a battle.

Chapter Text

The swamp exploded in motion.

Matsuri fired a volley of kunai wrapped with explosive tags into the mist. BOOM—trees cracked, vines snapped, and muddy water sprayed into the air.

“On your left!” Yukata shouted, hurling a shuriken that curved unnaturally through the thick air—laced with wind chakra.

A figure leapt from the canopy—one of Jinbei’s warriors, dressed in moss-wrapped armor, his limbs slick with oil and rot. He twisted mid-air and hurled a long, barbed spear into Yukata’s chest.

Thud.

“Yukata!” Matsuri turned, but too slow.

Another emerged behind her—silently, half-submerged—and grabbed her ankle.

She screamed as she was yanked beneath the swamp water.

Nearby, the Suna tracker-nin loosed a flurry of wire traps into the trees, trying to isolate movement. “They’re using the roots!” he barked. “They’re moving through the terrain!”

One suna shinobi had her hands clutched in a focusing seal, sweat pouring down her face. “They’re all around us! There’s too many signatures—” Her words cut off as a blunt club caught her ribs and sent her flying into a tree trunk.

Another shinobi stepped forward, slapping his palms on the wounded tracker’s back and pushing chakra through him. “Get up! You have to move—!”

A jagged vine pierced his thigh. He gasped, crumpling as two swamp warriors dragged him under screaming.

Temari spun, fan wide, unleashing a slicing gust of wind—Kamaitachi no Jutsu—that split the air with shrieking force. It tore through vines, ripped bark from trees, and cleaved one attacker in half, his body vanishing into the dark water.

But more came.

The swamp was birthing them—from the muck, from tree roots, from behind mossy trunks.

Temari’s arms ached. Her chakra was thinning.

All around her, it was chaos. Screams of her comrades had turned into silence. The medic-nin’s body floated, lifeless, face-down in the water. Yukata’s kunai belt lay abandoned. The tracker’s sensor tags hung torn from the trees like paper prayers shredded by wind.

Only Kankurō still fought—his chakra strings twitching erratically, his breath ragged. The swamp was killing his puppets. Moisture made them heavy, the wires sluggish. One of them—Karasu—collapsed, its chest torn open by a swamp warrior’s hammer.

“No—!” Kankurō shouted, trying to reroute chakra, but it was too late.

A spear drove through his shoulder.

He stumbled back, clutching the wound, blood soaking his flak jacket.

“Kankurō!” Temari screamed.

She dashed to him—but too late.

From the corner of her eye, movement—silent and sudden.

A shadow behind her.

She turned—

Jinbei.

His massive hand closed around her throat.

She gasped, chakra surging reflexively, but he lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Her legs kicked. Her fan slipped from her hand and hit the swamp with a heavy splash.

“You remember me now?” he rasped, his voice like gravel over stone. “Kazekage’s sister.”

She choked, clawing at his hand.

“Your village… your clan…” He began walking, dragging her over the surface of the swamp, the water parting at his knees. “You came to our home in the dead of night. You cut us down. Burned our elders alive. And for what?”

He reached a pool in the center of the swamp—dark, brackish, still.

“For this,” he spat.

He slammed Temari’s body into the water—submerging her.

The cold hit her lungs before the water did. Murk filled her ears, her mouth, her mind. She thrashed—fought—but his grip on her neck never loosened.

Then—

He pulled her up.

Temari coughed, sputtered, gasped for air.

“You hunted us like animals. For the monks of Kagerō. You helped them guard what never belonged to them.”

He plunged her under again.

Her scream became bubbles.

Jinbei’s voice echoed in her ears even beneath the water. As if the swamp itself carried his fury.

“When the shinobi villages formed,” he growled, lifting her again, “the desert clans split. Some became nobles. Some became killers. And some of us? We were thrown to the wild.”

Temari's face was pale, her body trembling.

He lowered her again, slower this time.

“We lived in exile. In filth. We bled. We waited.”

He pulled her up one last time—her hair soaked, blood at her temple, lips parted with shallow gasps.

“Now we take back what was ours.”

And he hurled her.

Crack—her body slammed into a massive swamp tree, bark splintering.

She collapsed at its roots.

Her vision spun, black edges closing in.

The last thing she heard was the creak of leather and wet footsteps approaching.

Then—nothing.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

Chapter Text

The swamp had gone silent.

What had been a battlefield just moments ago was now a graveyard of breathless bodies and blood-drenched water. The thick air hung heavy with the stench of sweat, blood, and decay. The cries of jutsu had faded. The clash of steel no longer echoed. All that remained was the slow drip of water from tangled vines and the buzzing of insects returning to claim the dead.

From the shadows, one of Jinbei’s men approached carefully, stepping over a broken blade buried in the swamp floor. His voice was low, uncertain.
“What now, Commander?”

Jinbei stood in the shallows, breathing slowly through his nose as he surveyed the carnage. Blood clung to his arms and neck. His hair, wet and heavy, dripped as he turned his head toward the fallen.

Without answering, he walked forward.

Kankurō’s body lay facedown in the mud, his chakra strings still faintly flickering, limp and broken. Jinbei crouched beside him. Slowly, he reached for the Suna forehead protector—half-buried under Kankurō’s head and streaked with filth and blood. With deliberate calm, Jinbei lifted it, wiped it clean across his leg, then dragged the tip of a kunai across the metal plating.

Screech.

Suna’s symbol—the proud wind swirl—was scarred through with a deep X.

Jinbei stood and tossed the defaced protector to his subordinate.
“Take it,” he said coldly. “Let Kurome know we’re finished here.”

The subordinate caught it with both hands, eyes wide. “And the prisoners?”

Jinbei turned slowly, his gaze sweeping across the barely breathing bodies of the survivors—Temari slumped against a twisted root, Kankurō barely conscious, the others twitching or moaning faintly. His eyes were as cold as the swamp beneath them.

“We bring them,” he said. “But don’t kill them yet.”

He raised one boot, resting it squarely on the side of Kankurō’s head and pressed it down into the mud.
“Sudden death is mercy,” Jinbei said, voice like venom. “They don’t deserve mercy.”

The man nodded wordlessly, pocketing the defaced forehead protector like a relic of war.

Jinbei stepped back, letting Kankurō’s face sink slightly into the muck before he turned away.

The air was quiet again. But this time, it was a silence full of promises—of pain, and reckoning.

And deep in the swamp, the wind did not blow.

Chapter Text

The scorching sun climbed steadily over the sandstone rooftops of Sunagakure, but despite the searing light, a strange chill lingered in the air. The wind, which usually swept across the village in dry, stinging gusts, had gone eerily still.

Gaara stood alone on the upper balcony of the Kazekage Tower, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the distant horizon. The dunes shimmered under the heat, but something far more unsettling than a sandstorm hung in the air.

Two days.
No word from Temari and others.
No hawk. No message. No chakra signature spotted at the outer borders.

They were all experienced. Moreover, Temari always follows protocol. Her silence was not tactical—it was alarming.

Heavy footsteps approached behind him.

“Kazekage-sama,” Baki greeted, his voice calm, but tense. “Still nothing?”

“Nothing,” Gaara replied without turning. "Not even pulse from their chakra sensor."

Baki frowned. “The Land of Rivers isn’t known for blocking chakra readings.”

Gaara’s eyes narrowed. “Which means someone doesn’t want them found.”

He turned to face Baki fully. “Increase all patrol rotations in the northern and eastern sectors. Triple the guards at every gate. We are not waiting to be taken by surprise.”

“Understood,” Baki said quickly. “What about reinforcements?”

Gaara nodded once. “Send a hawk to Iwagakure. Keep the message brief but direct: Sunagakure may require immediate backup. Iwa is the closest village by land, and among our most reliable allies.”

“Right,” Baki said, already making mental notes. “And Konohagakure?”

“Also send a hawk to them,” Gaara said firmly. “Have them dispatch a sensory and tracking unit immediately. Tell them to sweep the Land of Rivers, east to the Fire Country border. They’re the only ones who can cover that terrain fast enough.”

He paused, gaze drifting toward the distant ridgelines.

“Of all our allies,” he continued, “Konoha and Iwa are the ones we can depend on to move quickly—and without question.”

Baki gave a crisp nod. “We’ll mobilize every capable shinobi. Medical corps, sealing units, sensory teams—ready for combat?”

“Yes,” Gaara said coldly. “Prepare for the worst.”

He turned back toward the horizon, his robes caught in the faint, returning wind. The sun above glared down like an unblinking eye, merciless and unrelenting.

A hawk launched into the sky from the tower behind him, its wings slicing the heat like a blade through silk. Another followed seconds later, banking east.

Gaara didn’t move for a long time.

In his chest, a silent storm brewed.

Chapter Text

Temari awoke to darkness and pain.

A cold, biting dampness had soaked into her bones. Her chest rose with a wheeze, her lungs barely working, as if the swamp itself still clung to her ribcage. She didn’t remember where she was—or how she got there. Her mind was fog, scattered like shattered glass.

Something heavy pressed on her sternum, invisible but suffocating. Every breath stabbed. Her shoulders throbbed, as though they’d been dislocated and jammed back into place. Her legs felt like they’d been folded and tied in knots.

And underneath it all—
A deep, dull ache in her spine. Like she had been slammed against something hard.

She coughed.

The sound echoed around her.

Wet stone. Iron. Muck. Her skin was slick with sweat, grime, and dried blood. She blinked slowly, the effort painful. Above her was only blackness—no window, no stars, no moon.

Her fingers scraped the ground.

Rough stone. Uneven. Cold. Damp.

A cell.

A prison.

Somewhere underground.

She groaned and tried to sit up. Her back screamed in protest, but she pushed through it. Her vision blurred, swimming between shadows. She could just barely make out walls—thick and grimy. The scent of mildew was overpowering. Water dripped from the ceiling somewhere. It was hard to tell whether she was sweating or the room itself was sweating.

Then, faintly—
A sound.

A scream.

Temari froze.

It was far off, muffled. But real. Male. Familiar.

“Kankurō,” she breathed.

A second scream—louder, sharper. This time, raw.

She flinched, her breath hitching in her throat. It felt like the walls leaned in around her.

“Kankurō!” she called hoarsely, panic catching in her voice.

No reply. Only echoes. Distant, cruel echoes.

Temari braced herself against the wall, pulling herself up inch by inch. Her legs buckled immediately, and she slammed back down, her elbow cracking against the floor. She gasped.

Try again.

Blood filled her mouth.

She crawled instead—dragging her battered body across the wet stone. Every movement sent pain spiraling down her back. Her arms shook. Her hands slipped on old grime and something thicker. Darker. Stickier.

She reached the bars.

Beyond them—nothing but shadow.

“KANKURŌ!” she screamed, her voice cracking, splintering with desperation. “KANKURŌ, ANSWER ME!!”

Then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Heavier than a shinobi’s should be. Not stealth—these steps wanted to be heard.

Water sloshed.

Metal clinked.

Voices murmured—low, gravelly, in a language she didn’t quite understand.

Temari pressed herself to the bars, straining her eyes.

Then they came into view—phantoms emerging from the darkness.

Three figures. Soaked from the waist down, dripping with swamp water. Faces shadowed, eyes reflecting something inhuman in the gloom.

They were dragging something.

Someone.

Temari’s breath caught in her throat.

The body was small. Fragile. Wet hair clung to a bloodless face. Her arms hung lifeless. Her head lolled. Her feet dragged uselessly behind her.

“Matsuri,” Temari whispered.

And then, louder—
“MATSURI!!”

The body didn’t stir.

Temari slammed her fists against the bars, over and over. “YOU BASTARDS! LET HER GO! MATSURI!!”

No response.

The girl was still breathing. Barely. Her lips were blue. Her skin—ghost-pale.

Then, just behind the others—
A silhouette.

Large.

Hulking.

Moving with impossible calm.

Jinbei.

His presence filled the hallway like a curse. The moment he entered the light, the temperature seemed to drop. His skin was sickly gray, veined with black. Moss and blood streaked his arms. His eyes, sharp and sunken, glinted with a predator’s patience.

He stopped in front of Temari’s cell.

His lips peeled into a grin.

Temari glared at him, teeth bared. She wanted to stand, to strike, to claw at him through the bars.

But she couldn’t move.

Not fast enough.

Not anymore.

Jinbei leaned in until only the bars separated them. His breath smelled like dead things left too long in water.

"Your turn," he rasped. Voice like wet stone dragged over bone. “Let’s see what kind of noise you make when the water starts rising.”

He chuckled low—almost lovingly—and then turned to unlock the cell.

Chapter Text

The gates of Konoha glowed in the warm light of dusk — hues of soft pink, amber, and golden yellow brushed across the sky as a flock of birds soared overhead. The air smelled faintly of tree sap and warm earth after a long summer day.

Three familiar figures approached the gate from the forest path: Ino stretched her arms above her head with a groan, Chōji munched happily on a paper bag of sesame rice crackers, and Shikamaru rolled his neck with a click, hands in his pockets, slouching just enough to look perpetually annoyed at gravity.

They had just returned from a successful simple mission in Kusabe Village, a small mining settlement nestled in the hills of the Land of Fire known for its copper, gold, and other rare minerals. It had been routine escort work — simple, uneventful, and exhausting in its own boring way.

At the gate, Izumo and Kotetsu leaned against the post, looking bored until they spotted the trio.

“Yo, Team Ten! Back from babysitting miners?” Kotetsu called.

“Yeah, and not even one bandit,” Ino said with mock frustration, rubbing her shoulder. “All this chakra buildup and nothing to blast.”

“Bet you still made it dramatic,” Izumo teased.

They shared a brief laugh as Ino blew a strand of hair off her face.

“Let’s hit the bathhouse before going home,” Ino declared. “Just a quick soak. I feel like my joints have turned into gravel.”

“Seconded,” Chōji said through a mouthful of snacks. “Then Yakiniku-Q. I've been dreaming of that new garlic miso sauce.”

Shikamaru groaned audibly, slouching even further. “Pass. I have to drop the report to Kakashi, then meet up with Shiho. We're working on that new encryption system.”

Ino stopped mid-stretch, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“You’ve been meeting with Shiho a lot lately,” she said slowly. “Almost every day when you’re not on a mission.”

Shikamaru shrugged. “So?”

Ino crossed her arms. "You’re not messing with her, are you?” she said, holding her hands up as if measuring how close she was to smacking him. “Because I swear to the Sage, Shikamaru—”

Shikamaru rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s going on. Stop overthinking.”

“She’s liked you since forever, you know.”

Shikamaru sighed and tilted his head back. “That’s her problem, not mine.”

“You jerk,” Ino huffed. “Don’t play with her heart.”

“I’m not playing anything,” he muttered. “Besides—” He exhaled, shifting his stance. “Why would I start a fire when Temari already has both my hands full?”

That made Chōji choke slightly on his rice cracker.

Ino blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, metaphorically,” Shikamaru added, deadpan. “Temari’s exhausting enough as is. Two women? I’d die before I finished my first sentence.”

Ino jabbed a finger at him. “She’s too good for you. Temari.”

“I know,” he replied, and for once, his voice wasn’t sarcastic. “I know she is.”

Ino glared. “Good.”

She turned to Chōji. “And you—don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. You’re dating Karui now, so you better keep yourself in check too. She’s got a sword and zero patience.”

Chōji raised his hands in surrender, crumbs falling from his sleeve. “I’m respectful. I swear.”

As Ino continued her tirade, Shikamaru tilted his head slightly.

A sharp, high whistle cut through the chatter. He turned toward the sky.

A hawk, its wings dark against the fading pink, was diving fast — a direct line toward the Hokage’s tower. It wore the distinct wrappings and insignia of Sunagakure.

Shikamaru’s casual posture straightened. His eyes narrowed, following the hawk’s trajectory with silent focus.

“…Something happened,” he muttered.

Ino paused mid-rant. “Huh?”

But Shikamaru was already moving, his slouch gone, replaced with the cold precision of a strategist on high alert. His mind was moving fast.

That wasn't a routine message.
It was a warning.

Chapter Text

The sun was slipping behind the rooftops of Konoha.

Paper lanterns were being lit one by one, casting flickering gold over the streets. The air buzzed with the summer festival — laughter, the crackle of food stalls, the distant pop of a firecracker. Children ran with sparklers, and couples strolled hand in hand beneath the decorated archways.

But none of that reached Shikamaru.

He moved with purpose down the hall of the Hokage's building, flanked by Ino and Chōji. The cool stone beneath their feet echoed their footsteps — sharp, steady. The hush of the corridor was in stark contrast to the noise outside.

Shikamaru’s face was unreadable, calm as always.

But under that calm: tension. Worry. A quiet thrum of dread.

He could feel it pulsing at the base of his spine.

They stopped at the Hokage’s door.

Shikamaru knocked once.

A beat.

“Come in,” Kakashi’s voice called from inside.

The door slid open.

Kakashi sat behind his desk, a scroll unfurled in front of him. Iruka stood beside him, arms crossed, expression grim. Two shinobi from the Cryptanalysis Division stood nearby, pale and alert.

The atmosphere in the room was heavy — sharp like cold steel.

“Thank you,” Kakashi said to the two shinobi, voice steady. “Return to your post. Prioritize anything from Suna."

“Yes, sir.”
The two bowed, turned, and passed by Shikamaru, Ino, and Chōji. A nod of acknowledgment was exchanged.

Shikamaru stepped forward. “Something happened in Suna, didn’t it?”

Kakashi sat straighter.

Iruka exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

“There was a grave robbery,” Kakashi said, tone even. “An ancient Tomb im Kagerō — one of the small village in the Land of Wind. An artifact was stolen. It’s called Fushi no Tenshin, the Stone of Immortality.”

Chōji blinked. “Immortality?”

Kakashi nodded once. “Or so the legend goes. The guards were slaughtered. All but one.”

Ino frowned. “Who survived?”

“A shinobi from Suna. Barely alive. He managed to send a coded message to the Kazekage before collapsing.”

“And Gaara?” Shikamaru asked, his voice level.

“Still in Suna. He dispatched Temari and Kankurō immediately to retrieve the artifact. Meanwhile, he and Baki stayed behind to guard the scrolls related to the stone’s use.”

Iruka added, “It’s not just the artifact. There’s an old manuscript — Tenshō Kebunshō — that outlines its potential. If the thief gets both...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Ino’s expression darkened. “What’s the problem now?”

Kakashi looked her in the eye. “Temari and Kankurō haven’t reported back. It’s been three days.”

Silence fell.

Shikamaru’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. His thoughts sharpened, cutting through the noise in his head like blades.

“Have they crossed into the Land of Fire?”

“No confirmation,” said Iruka. “Their trail leads into the Land of Rivers — then vanishes.”

Kakashi stood and made a quick seal with his hands.

A poof of smoke filled the room — four ninken appeared, with Pakkun at the lead.

Kakashi reached into a drawer and pulled out a sealed pouch. He opened it and took out a small, tattered piece of dark cloth.

“This belonged to Kankurō,” Kakashi said, handing it to Pakkun. “Your orders: search the riverbanks, marshes, and valleys near the border of the Land of Fire and the Land of Rivers. Report any sign, no matter how small.”

Pakkun sniffed the fabric, then looked up. “Understood.”

The ninken scattered into the night without another word.

Kakashi turned back to Shikamaru. “You’ll form the pursuit team.”

“When?” Shikamaru asked.

“Two hours. Be ready to leave the moment the ninken find a lead.”

Shikamaru nodded without hesitation. “Understood. I’ll select the team myself.”

Chōji scratched the back of his head. “Do we have terrain maps of the area?”

Iruka moved to a nearby scroll shelf. “We’ve marked the high-risk zones based on the survivor’s message. I’ll get you copies.”

Ino folded her arms. “Are we expecting a fight?”

Kakashi’s gaze was steady. “Whoever took the stone killed a squad of trained guards. Be ready for anything.”

Shikamaru stared at the spot where the ninken had vanished, already deep in calculation.

He didn’t speak again, but inside, the weight of the situation pressed hard against his ribs.

Temari was out there. Missing.

And the clock was already ticking.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low over Iwagakure, pale and silent, veiled by the thin shroud of passing summer clouds. Dust stirred gently over the barren stone streets, rolling down the crags like ghostly mist. From the highest window of the Tsuchikage Tower, a single light flickered behind half-drawn blinds — the only sign that someone inside was still awake.

Ōnoki stood in silence before a wide map table, his back slightly stooped, a scroll clenched tightly in his weathered hand. His eyes — still sharp despite the years — scanned the parchment one last time before he exhaled, slowly, and turned to face the window. The amber moonlight traced the lines on his face like worn sandstone.

Behind him stood Kurotsuchi, arms crossed, a furrow in her brow. Beside her, Akatsuchi stood solemn and still, his massive frame casting a long shadow against the wall. The room was thick with tension — not the kind born of war, but of uncertainty. The kind that left even the hardest stone feeling brittle.

Ōnoki finally spoke.

“There’s been a theft,” he began, voice grave. “A remote village under Sunagakure’s protection was attacked two nights ago. Its tomb was raided.”

He held up the scroll before gently laying it on the table.

“The target was something called Fushi no Tenshin — the Stone of Immortality. A relic passed down since the time before shinobi villages were even founded.”

Kurotsuchi narrowed her eyes. “That old myth? I thought that was just a desert folktale.”

Ōnoki shook his head slowly. “So did I. I dismissed it as a ghost story—something whispered in the windstorms of the Land of Wind. But someone took it. Killed the guards. One survived long enough to send word back to Suna.”

Akatsuchi shifted uneasily. “And?”

“They responded immediately. Gaara sent two of his best — his siblings. Temari and Kankurō.” He paused here, letting the names settle into the silence. “Along with an elite Suna team, they pursued the culprits into the Land of Rivers.”

Kurotsuchi stepped forward. “You mean they’re already outside Wind territory?”

Ōnoki nodded. “But that was three days ago. Since then, nothing. No messages. No signals. They’ve gone silent.”

The silence that followed was heavier than stone.

Kurotsuchi’s fists clenched at her sides. “Temari and Kankurō aren’t the kind of shinobi who just disappear.”

“They’re not,” Ōnoki agreed. “Which is exactly why Gaara is worried. He’s requested Konoha’s help in tracking them. He believes they may have crossed into the borderlands near the Land of Fire, and no one knows that terrain better than Konoha.”

“Shikamaru,” Kurotsuchi murmured. “He’d already know where to look.”

Akatsuchi added, “And if it’s a trap or something deeper, he’ll prepare for it.”

Ōnoki gave a small nod. “Konoha sure will mobilized a tracking unit. But Gaara didn’t stop there.”

He turned back to the scroll and tapped the lower half. “He’s asked us to defend Sunagakure itself. He suspects the theft may only be the beginning. There’s something else — a scroll called the Tenshō Kebunshō, stored within their village. It details how to activate and use the stone.”

Akatsuchi frowned. “If that falls into the wrong hands…”

“It won’t,” Ōnoki said. “Not if we get there first.”

Kurotsuchi stepped up to the map, eyes scanning the route between Iwa and Suna. “So we go south. Fast. With a support team.”

Ōnoki inhaled slowly, his gaze distant. “Gaara is staying in the village to protect the scroll, but he’s lost two of his top commanders. The political risk is high, and I suspect he fears an even larger offensive.”

He looked between Kurotsuchi and Akatsuchi.

“This is what alliances are for. When one pillar cracks, the others hold it steady.”

Kurotsuchi gave a slow, proud smile — the kind that didn’t reach the surface often. “Then let’s be the wall they need.”

Akatsuchi thumped a fist over his chest. “We’re ready.”

Ōnoki gave a final nod and stepped back toward his chair. “Gather your best. Especially defense support. Keep the team lean and mobile. You leave before the moon is high.”

As Kurotsuchi turned to leave, she hesitated at the doorway and glanced back.

“Temari’s tough,” she said softly. “So’s Kankurō. But I still don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Ōnoki replied. “But if anyone can bring balance to this, it’s you.”

Outside, the cold wind blew down from the cliffs, ruffling the red banners above Iwagakure. Below, the forges lit up in preparation. Boots scraped stone. Armor was fastened. The mountains were stirring — stone rising for sand.

The Shinobi Union had been forged in war.

Tonight, it answered a call for peace.

Chapter Text

The night sky above Konohagakure was clear and scattered with stars, the crescent moon casting a pale glow across the rooftops. The summer breeze rustled the leaves gently — a deceptive calm that belied the urgency brewing at the village gates.

Shikamaru stood at the central gate, the gravel beneath his sandals cool against the soles of his feet. Around him, a small task force had already assembled: Ino, Chōji, Kiba, Rock Lee, Naruto, Sai, Shino, and Tenten. A group of medical-nin, light on their feet and carrying compact packs, stood nearby with serious expressions. Pakkun, the stout pug summon, stood at the front, his fur dusty and paws damp from travel.

“I’ve got a confirmed scent,” Pakkun said, his voice low but urgent. “One of my pack picked up Kankurō’s trail — it’s faint, but it’s him. North-northeast, past the river valleys. He’s at the edge of Yami no Tani.”

Shikamaru’s brow furrowed. “Yami no Tani? That’s almost abandoned territory.”

“Exactly,” Pakkun replied. “Old monastery, cliffside. There’s a stream that runs through it. That’s where the scent was strongest. My pack’s still following the trace upstream, but I was the closest to the village — came back to report.”

Shikamaru nodded once. “Thank you, Pakkun.”

He turned and crouched low, unfurling a topographical map onto the ground. The others gathered around. Pakkun padded forward and pointed a paw toward a narrow notch on the map — a stretch of crags and valleys bordering the darker edge of the Fire Country’s northern limits.

“Here,” Pakkun said. “Right here.”

Shikamaru’s hand moved swiftly, drawing a circle around the monastery’s suspected location. He then drew clean lines branching outward from it — fallback zones, flanking routes, observation posts.

“We don’t know what’s waiting for us out there,” he said, eyes sharp. “We split into tactical units. I need coordination, not chaos.”

He turned to the medics. “You set up base here — 2.3 klicks southeast of the monastery, just along this ridge. It’s out of direct sight but close enough for emergency response. Ino, you’re in charge.”

Ino gave a firm nod, adjusting her gloves. “Understood.”

“Tenten and Shino, stay with the medics. Tenten, short-range defense. Shino, give us aerial surveillance and long-range recon. Kiba—” Shikamaru turned toward the Inuzuka, “—use your nose. If anything’s approaching that post — allies or enemies — you’re our early warning.”

Kiba grunted. “You got it. If the Sunas even breathing, I’ll sniff them out.”

“Good,” Shikamaru replied.

He turned to Sai. “You take your ink birds and patrol the entire perimeter of Yami no Tani. You see movement, I want a signal. Use the comm-link if there's a sighting — visual or chakra.”

Sai nodded silently, already preparing ink on his scroll.

Shikamaru’s gaze swept across the group, then returned to Naruto, Lee, and Chōji. “The four of us are going in directly. Pakkun will guide us.”

Naruto’s face darkened slightly. “We’ll bring them back.”

“I’ll also signal Sasuke and Sakura,” Shikamaru added, “They’re already stationed in the Land of Rivers on standby. Kakashi briefed them before we departed. Once we move in, they’ll flank from the south.”

Everyone gave a quick nod — some tense, others steady.

Shikamaru stood. His face was calm, but his jaw was tight. Every decision had to count. Every second was borrowed time.

He turned to Ino once more. “You’ve got antidotes prepared?”

Ino reached into the medical pack and opened a reinforced pouch. “I'll give some. Ten doses, fast-acting. Tested against multiple toxin strains. Use only if you see signs of organ failure or paralysis.”

Shikamaru accepted them without a word, slipping the small vials into a hidden pocket on his thigh pouch.

“Be careful,” she said quietly.

He looked at her for a second and gave the smallest nod. “Of course.”

He turned back to the team, adjusting his forehead protector.

“Stay sharp,” he said. “Eyes up. Don’t hesitate. We don’t know what we’re walking into — but we know who we’re walking in for.”

Pakkun gave a quick bark. “We move now.”

“Let’s go,” Shikamaru said, already walking toward the forest line.

“Yosh!!” Lee shouted with a clenched fist.

“Time to get the sunas back,” Kiba growled, cracking his knuckles. He stand beside Akamaru who is barking now.

Naruto stood beside Shikamaru and gave a quiet smile, determination in his voice. “We’ve got this.”

Shikamaru didn’t answer.

But as the trees swallowed them, the stars above seemed to shimmer more sharply — as if the wind itself had shifted.

Chapter Text

The stone corridor was damp, narrow, and choked with the smell of mold and stale water. Every breath felt like swallowing rot. Moisture clung to the walls like sweat. Somewhere distant, the faint sound of dripping echoed endlessly, like a forgotten clock ticking down.

Temari stirred.

Her head pounded. Her vision was a blur of shadows and light. Every muscle ached — heavy, sluggish. The air felt thick and slow, as if time itself had been poisoned. She lost track of time.

She groaned and tried to sit up, leaning against the jagged wall behind her. Her hands trembled. Her chakra was off — sluggish, erratic. A faint sting still pulsed near her upper arm. The injection…

Across the room, a figure leaned against the wall, backlit by a sickly orange glow. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward, glowing at its tip.

Jinbei.

He exhaled long and slow, watching her through half-lidded eyes.

“Feeling it now?” he asked, his voice low and sick with amusement. “The venom works slowly. But surely.” He took another drag from his cigarette and approached her — until his face was only inches from hers.

Temari tried to pull away, but her body didn’t respond fast enough.

She winced. The smell — damp earth, smoke, and something sickeningly sweet — clung to him like rot.

“Let’s have a look,” Jinbei whispered, flicking the cigarette away.

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her forward violently.

Temari cried out, struggling, but her limbs felt like sandbags. The pain burned down her scalp and into her spine. Her voice cracked as she screamed for him to let go — but her resistance only fed his twisted delight.

Jinbei laughed. The sound was sharp, echoing around the stone chamber.

“Over there,” he hissed, jerking her head toward the far side of the room.

Temari blinked through the blur of pain. Her heart stopped.

A figure was being dragged across the floor by two masked shinobi. Stripped to the waist, his torso was covered in bruises and deep lacerations. His limbs hung limp. But the unruly mop of brown hair — she recognized it instantly.

“Kankurō!” she screamed, struggling harder now. “KANKURŌ!”

There was no response. He didn’t even flinch.

Jinbei pulled harder, then slammed her into the wall. Her shoulder cracked painfully against the stone.

She gasped.

His laughter grew louder.

He lunged again, gripping her neck and lifting her half off the ground. One-handed, he began pummeling her stomach over and over. The punches were brutal, cruel — not meant to kill, just to break.

Temari choked. Blood spilled from her lips. She couldn’t breathe.

Then, he threw her down — into a shallow stream of water running through the chamber’s floor. Her body hit the stones with a splash, her lungs seizing. She coughed violently, crawling up onto her hands and knees, soaked and shivering.

But her eyes caught something — just past the water’s edge. A crack in the far wall. An opening. A current flowing through it.

An exit.

Temari’s mind snapped into focus.

Just one chance. One.

Jinbei was already at her again, dragging her out of the water, back onto a stone platform near the stream’s edge — a slab of dark rock that served as a table, or perhaps an altar.

Temari’s head lolled to the side. Her vision spun.

She felt the cold press of stone beneath her back.

Jinbei hovered over her, straddling her waist. With one hand, he pinned both her arms above her head. His other hand reached toward a small vial at his belt — he uncorked it and plunged a needle into her shoulder.

“I want to see how your desert chakra reacts to this batch,” he said, laughing. “Let’s make you a proper specimen for our little experiments.”

Temari shuddered as the venom surged through her veins. Her vision dimmed, then sharpened, colors bleeding at the edges.

“You know,” Jinbei said, leaning in, “I’ll admit it — Suna produces some exceptional women.” His breath was hot and rancid against her ear. “Talented... and so very lovely.”

He traced the line of her jaw with one finger.

Temari didn’t move.

She kept her eyes low, her breathing shallow — measured. She played the part.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

He was loosening his belt.

“You desert dogs think you’re strong,” he hissed. “But you’re just dust — scattered and weak.”

He leaned in again, grinning.

That was it.

Temari’s leg snapped up, fueled by every last ounce of chakra she could draw. Her heel drove directly into his groin.

Jinbei screamed — a high, choking sound.

Before he could fall away, Temari twisted upward, slammed her elbow into his throat, and grabbed his hair. With a roar, she bashed his skull against the stone slab. Once. Twice.

Blood sprayed across the altar.

Jinbei’s body slumped sideways.

She didn’t wait.

Temari vaulted from the table, her body slipping and sliding across the wet stone. She hit the stream and let the current take her, scrambling toward the narrow crack in the wall.

Behind her, Jinbei shouted after her hoarsely, “STOP HER! GET HER BACK!!”

Guards’ footsteps echoed somewhere.

Temari turned her head one last time. Just enough to sear the image into her mind — blood, stone, firelight, her brother broken in the corner.

She clenched her jaw.

Then she dove through the crevice and vanished into the current.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke over Sunagakure like a blade of light tearing through the darkness.

The horizon glowed red and gold, the desert wind stirring up fine grains of sand that shimmered in the early light. At the village gate, the air was dry, tense — as if the land itself was holding its breath.

Gaara stood at the front lines.

Silent.

Still.

The Kazekage’s cloak rippled behind him. His gaze was unblinking, fixed on the distance. At his side, Baki adjusted his gloves wordlessly, his brow furrowed. Behind them, rows of Suna shinobi stood tall, dust settling on their shoulders. Every one of them tense, alert, waiting.

They had been summoned moments ago — a mass of foreign bodies was moving near the border, entering unmarked. Hostile. No formal declaration. No alliance band. No insignia.

Now they were here.

A group began to appear on the horizon — figures moving through the morning haze. Shadows became shapes. Shapes became men.

And soon, monsters.

There were nearly a hundred of them. Dirty. Grinning. Faces smeared with old paint and blood. Tribal tattoos, bone piercings, patchwork armor stitched with wire and torn cloth. They walked like they owned the sand, kicking up the desert as they came.

Men of all ages — mostly male, mostly armed. Every step felt like a threat.

Kazekage-sama…

The one at the front called out mockingly. A deep, amused tone.

Gaara didn’t answer.

A man with matted black hair and a jagged scar across his cheek stepped forward. Kurome. His eyes burned with cruel amusement.

He grinned wide, cracked teeth gleaming.

“Give me the Tensho Kebunsho,” Kurome said, voice sharp. “Now.”

Still, Gaara said nothing. His expression was unreadable.

Kurome laughed.

“I figured you might say nothing. So I brought you a gift.”

He pulled something from inside his ragged cloak. A soft, wet sound.

And then — he hurled it into the sand between them.

It landed with a dull thud. Sand puffed up around it.

Gaara’s eyes flicked downward.

A headband.

Suna’s symbol — slashed across.

Wrapped around it, torn fabric from a familiar hood.

Kankurō’s.

Behind him, Baki’s jaw tightened. Several shinobi gasped softly, fists clenching.

Gaara’s gaze slowly rose to meet Kurome’s again.

There was no anger in his eyes.

Only silence.

And then —

“Get ready to join your brother,” Kurome sneered, stepping back.

Around him, the mob began to scream, howl, bang their weapons together. The desert filled with noise — laughter, slurs, animalistic cries. Some banged their blades against their chests. Others cursed at the walls of Suna.

But Gaara did not move.

He did not blink.

He raised a single hand.

The sand trembled.

Chapter Text

The current was stronger than Temari had expected.

Her body was tossed violently through the narrow stone tunnel, swallowed by cold, rushing water. She slammed against the jagged walls, her skin scraping against sharp rocks. Her clothes torn open at some side, blood mixing with water. She gritted her teeth, choking on the cold.

Everything was dark — claustrophobic.

The ceiling was low, the walls tight. She couldn’t tell where the current was taking her. Her limbs were too weak to fight the flow.

Then — a glimmer.

Light.

Faint at first. Then brighter. It pulsed ahead of her like hope through the dark.

She blinked rapidly, barely keeping her head above water.

Please… let that be a way out… not another chamber... not more of Jinbei’s monsters…

The tunnel widened — the roar of rushing water grew louder.

Suddenly, Temari felt the ground vanish beneath her.

There was nothing but air.

Then —

A drop.

She fell.

The stream had turned into a steep waterfall — not tall, but high enough to throw her off balance.

Her body hit the river below with a hard splash.

The cold water closed over her like a coffin.

She twisted under the surface, disoriented, spinning as the undercurrent dragged her deeper. Her lungs screamed. Her legs kicked, weakly at first — then with more urgency. Her arms flailed upward, desperate for air, for light, for life.

I have to live.

I have to warn them.

Her fingers broke the surface — then her face. She gasped. Choked.

She wasn’t a strong swimmer, not in full gear and not in her condition.

But she kicked anyway. Harder. Desperate.

She tried to grab a branch hanging low over the water — it snapped in her hands and spun her sideways.

A jagged rock came next — slippery. Her fingers clawed at it, but she couldn’t hold on. The current pulled her away again.

Now she was in the open river. Wider. Deeper.

The adrenaline faded.

Her limbs ached.

Her strength began to falter.

Her mind fogged.

She was losing it — her grip, her fight, her focus.

Then — something solid brushed her arm.

A log. A half-rotted tree trunk drifting beside her.

She grabbed it with what little she had left.

She clung to it, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Her cheek pressed against wet bark. Her eyes fluttered half-shut.

She didn’t know where the river was going.

She didn’t care anymore.

She just hoped it led somewhere… anywhere… where someone would find her.

Temari whispered a name she couldn’t remember speaking out loud.

Then — she lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

The sun stood high above Sunagakure, blistering and unrelenting. It scorched skin, cracked lips, and dried throats—but for the people of the sand, the heat was not a burden. It was fuel. The wind howled, dry and sharp like blades, sweeping across the battlefield just beyond the village gates. And still, the shinobi of Suna stood tall.

They marched forward with unwavering steps, cloaked in the storm of their homeland.This was their identity—unyielding, battle-forged, fearless.

Their feet burned, their muscles strained, but their eyes blazed with the fire of survival. They were Suna.

At the front, Gaara’s sand gourd cracked open like an awakened beast. His sand surged and whipped through the air, halting a wave of enemies with surgical brutality. Each movement was precise, every grain of sand guided by will sharper than any blade.
Beside him, Baki’s iron wire danced—snapping bone, slicing flesh with ruthless elegance. Together, they cut through the invading tide like desert wind through dead brush.

But these enemies were not mere rabble.

They were monsters born of isolation.

Outcasts. Tribals. Exiled generations raised on resentment and old blood. The sun did not fuel them—it seared into their fury. Drenched in sweat, dust, and years of hatred, they charged like demons, eyes wild, muscles rippling with purpose. Dying meant nothing. Victory meant everything.

And at the center of them… stood Kurome.

His laughter cut through the storm like thunder. His black cloak flared with every step, stained by the blood of past battles. This was his moment. "Let Suna burn!" he roared, spreading his arms to the carnage like a prophet welcoming the end of days. "Let the ghosts of our pain dance through your sacred halls!"

The horde howled back, drunk on chaos.

But then—a whisper against the violence.

Gaara, composed yet deadly, turned to one of his messengers—a young shinobi with sand sticking to sweat-slicked skin. “They’ve crossed the ridge,” the boy panted. “Iwa forces. They’ll reach us by sunset. Kurotsuchi and Akatsuchi lead them.”

Gaara’s eyes flickered. No smile. No celebration. Only a nod.

He turned back toward Kurome, stepping forward as the winds shrieked between them. Their forces clashed around them, the sand painted red, but the two commanders found each other in the chaos.

Kurome’s lips twisted into a feral grin. “I was hoping for this,” he growled. “Just you and me, Kazekage.”

Gaara raised a hand, sand curling upward like a serpent ready to strike.

“No more words.”

The desert held its breath.

The Kazekage stood like a monolith in the chaos, his gourd dripping with golden sand, his cloak fluttering in the wind. Calm. Composed. Deadly.

Their eyes locked. The war around them seemed to blur and muffle into background noise.

Kurome lunged forward. A blur of steel and chakra.

Gaara raised his hand. A wave of sand exploded upward, meeting the blow with a thunderous crash. Sparks flew. Metal hissed against a thousand grains compressed like stone.

“You think your sand makes you a god?” Kurome spat, retreating, then twisting into a spinning strike. “You’re just a child who hides behind a wall.”

“I don't hide,” Gaara replied, his voice low. “I protect.”

With a flick of his fingers, the sand surged. Sabaku Kyū—a crushing prison of sand shot up around Kurome. He narrowly dodged, planting explosive tags mid-air that blew the sand apart.

Kurome grinned. “I’ve studied you, Kazekage.”

He slammed his palms into the ground. Fūinjutsu: Drought Seal. A low hum rippled through the terrain. The sand dried—became brittle—cracking, falling from the air like ash.

Gaara narrowed his eyes. So this was no ordinary tribal warlord. This man had prepared for him.

But Gaara was not one trick.

He drew from the desert itself—not just sand, but the ancient, heavy grains buried deep beneath. The air shimmered gold. Kurome stepped back.

The ground exploded.

Sabaku Taisō.

A massive pulse. A sandquake.

Kurome was flung back, his armor torn, blood trailing behind him.

Gaara took a single step forward. His gaze didn’t waver.
"You won't leave this desert alive."

Chapter Text

Sai soared high above the forested ridges and dry ravines of the Land of Rivers, the pale-gray ink bird beneath him gliding effortlessly through the summer air. From this altitude, the terrain stretched in stark contrasts—rocky ledges, winding rivers, and thick canopy patches casting broken shadows below. The further east he went, the quieter everything seemed. The forest stilled. Even the wind seemed to hush.

Through his comm-link, Shikamaru’s calm voice crackled, “Keep sweeping the perimeter, Sai. Report immediately if anything looks off.”

“Understood,” Sai responded, his eyes narrowing as the landscape below shifted to reveal a wide, slow-moving river—a muted silver ribbon curling through the trees.

A glint of light caught his attention.

He lowered altitude for a closer look.

A log—no, not just a log.

His eyes widened. “Wait… that's not—” Sai leaned forward, peering sharply.
There was something on top of it. Draped over it.

Fabric?

No. A person.

“Shikamaru,” he called through the comm. “I’ve spotted someone. Floating downstream, east of Yami no Tani. Near the second perimeter mark. Permission to descending.”

There was a pause.

Then Shikamaru’s voice, low and firm: “Permission granted.”

Sai angled the ink bird into a spiral, descending swiftly. He landed on a rocky embankment by the river, gravel crunching under his sandals. Without hesitation, he jumped off the bird and waded into the shallow current.

The log was heavy—waterlogged, coated in mud—but he gritted his teeth and hauled it closer. His hands reached for the slumped figure clinging unconscious to it.

Blonde hair. Blood-matted. Skin pale and bruised.

Brown and crimson battle gear.

His heart sank.

Temari.

He turned her over gently.

Her face was scratched and swollen. Her body bore dark, splotchy bruises, dried blood at her lips, and lacerations across her arms. She was barely breathing.

“Shikamaru…” Sai’s voice dropped, almost reverent with disbelief. “It’s Temari. She’s unconscious. And she’s in bad shape.”

There was silence over the comm.

Then: “Flare.”

Sai didn’t need a second command.

He pulled the red signal flare from his pouch, snapped the cap, and sent it streaking high into the sky.

A piercing fwooosh echoed across the valley.

The flare erupted slicing across the cloudy sky.

A signal in the sky.

She was found.

Chapter Text

Pressure.
Once.
Twice.
Again.

Temari's chest jolted as something heavy pressed down, rhythmically, insistently. A second later, a sharp rush of air was forced into her lungs. It was hot. Wrong. Her body reacted violently.

She coughed.

Then gagged.

Then vomited.

Water burst from her mouth—and from her nose. Her throat felt torn open, her lungs burned. It was as if the river was clawing its way out of her.

A hand cupped her shoulder and gently turned her to her side. She convulsed again. More water spilled out. Her nose and throat screamed. The burn lingered like acid.

Then the hand gently laid her back down. She could hear footsteps—shifting gravel, sandals moving in a circle around her.

Who…?

Temari’s eyes fluttered open, but her vision was dark, smeared. Shadows moved around her, blurred outlines of people she couldn’t recognize.

A warm hand grasped her wrist.

Then slid up.

Fabric tore.

“Injection site,” a calm, commanding voice said. Deep and steady.

A second voice replied, slightly higher. “Could be poison?”

“Possible,” the first voice confirmed.

She felt the hand again—this time at her face. Her eyelids were gently pried open.

“No pupillary response,” the calm voice continued. Fingers moved to the back of her ear, then trailed down her neck. “Veins pronounced—running from the base of the ear down to the chest.”

Another voice—not quite as calm, but kind—added, “Fingers and toes are blue, too.”

“I’m giving her the antidote,” said the first voice. Firm. Focused.

“Hold her steady—Naruto, her shoulders. Choji, her legs.”

Two sets of strong hands gripped her—one pressing gently at her shoulders, the other securing her ankles.

Rustling. Preparation.

Then—

“Hang in there, Temari. You can do this,” the first voice said, softer now, yet resolute.

She felt it.

A heat. Sharp and searing, like fire flooding her veins.

She screamed.

Her back arched violently. Pain crashed over her like a tidal wave. She writhed, fought, but the hands held her down—just tight enough, never cruel. Her sobs broke free. She was crying now, and she didn’t even know why—pain, fear, helplessness, all of it.

“It’s okay, Temari. It’s okay,” said the voice again—gentler now. She felt fingers comb slowly through her hair.

Then the pressure shifted.

Her body was lifted—carried carefully, tenderly—and placed onto something soft and warm. She couldn't tell what.

The same voice spoke again. “Sai, take her to the medic post. Ino’s waiting—she’ll stabilize her. Once her condition evens out, summon another ink bird and fly her straight to Konoha. Tenten will escort.”

“Yes,” came a new voice. Crisp, focused.

Temari felt someone crouch near her.

Then came another voice—the leader again. “Alright. Naruto, Choji, Lee—let’s move. Yami no Tani’s waiting. Sasuke and Sakura should be there already. Pakkun, lead us in.”

“Right.”

“Yosh!”

Temari heard them moving, pulling away. Their voices faded slightly—but not entirely. She still felt their presence.

A hand brushed her arm.

“You’re doing good,” the calm voice whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

That was the last thing she heard before her body was lifted once more—wind rushing past her face—and darkness pulled her back into sleep.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun burned low above Sunagakure, the desert wind still howling across the battlefield. Sand, dust, and blood mixed in the haze as the remaining Suna shinobi pressed forward, cutting through the tribal marauders with grim, relentless force.

Gaara stood at the center of the storm, every movement a calculated strike. His sand erupted in swirling shields, deflecting crude arrows and flying blades. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he unleashed a crushing sand prison that battered its captives into the dust. Behind that, he sent a wave of tactical sand that pulverized the ground and threw enemies off balance.

But even as his defenses held, the invading warriors adapted—racing through the sandstorms, using terrain to flank him, pressing his attention from every angle. Their strength was born of generations bred in exile and rage; their determination was fueled by centuries of resentment that wouldn’t be poured out so easily.

Just as Gaara felt fatigue prickle behind his eyes, a tremor shook the battlefield. The dusty wind shifted—and with it, a new energy rippled through the air. Cracks formed in the fractured ground at his feet.

From the eastern ridge, a rumble echoed.

Iwagakure’s shinobis appeared in the haze.

A figure strode forward first—Kurotsuchi. Her body was wreathed in molten rock armor, lava coursing through cracks on her skin with each powerful step. The earth churned and cracked where she walked, volcanic heat shimmering around her.

Beside her, Akatsuchi followed, every footstep causing boulders to tremble. His arms, massive and stone-like, glowed with earthy chakra—each step a quake.

Behind them marched a phalanx of elite Iwa shinobi, their weapons composed of hardened stone, chakra weapons infused with geomantic strength. Each one moved with the confidence of granite—unyielding, unbreakable.

Baki turned to Gaara, voice low. “Suna’s allies are here. Iwa’s stone units—very powerful, especially against these numbers.”

Gaara didn’t hesitate. His posture straightened as he locked eyes with Shikage Kurotsuchi. He allowed himself the slightest flicker of respect.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice carrying across the chaos.

Kurotsuchi nodded with a fierce smile. “We learned the hard way what happens when Suna falls,” she said. “Let us help you finish this.”

Akatsuchi raised his massive rock-hardened fist, cracking a boulder-sized marking in the ground. “Stone and sand shall hold this land.”

Together, they joined Gaara’s side.

Gaara gestured, and the Iwa shinobi split, flanking both sides, turning tribal warriors into targets pressed between desert and mountain forces.

Kurotsuchi surged forward first: her hands glowing with molten chakra, she smashed into a group of attackers with an eruption of volcanic stone and fire that knocked enemies back and sealed their escape in ash and magma.

Akatsuchi climbed another sand dune, gathering earth chakra until boulders formed into giant fists that he hurled with brutal force, blasting enemy formations apart.

Seeing the front falter, Gaara seized the moment: he sculpted into a revolving sphere of sand rotating outward to both protect his newfound allies and scatter the remaining foes into the desert wind.

The battlefield went silent as the last of Kurome’s tribe lay defeated in the sand, their chants and roars swallowed by the storm.

High above, the sky reflected victory in shifting shades of red and gold.

Gaara’s eyes glowed with determination as he stared across the dunes.

Chapter Text

The sky was bruised with the colors of dusk—smoky purples and muted blues bled together, smothering the sun’s last light behind a shroud of thick clouds. Wind cut low through the trees, rustling leaves that whispered warnings in the otherwise still forest. The air was sharp and damp, holding the scent of moss, dust, and something old—something that hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Shikamaru stood tall on a high branch, arms crossed, his gaze cast out across the deep canyon before him. The cliff dropped straight down into a roaring river far below, where mist curled like ghosts around jagged stone. Opposite the canyon, half-hidden behind hanging roots and leaning pines, stood the Old Monastery.

Time had not been kind to the structure. Its walls, once regal, were cracked and slouched beneath the weight of vines and damp. Wooden beams jutted out at odd angles. Half the roof had caved in, leaving one wing exposed to the darkening sky. Faint sounds echoed from within—movement, muttering, maybe more. A single crow perched on the broken steeple, cawing loud and long into the wind.

A quiet thud broke Shikamaru’s focus. He didn’t look, but he heard the landing clearly—a light-footed step on bark.

“You’re back,” he said flatly.

“Yeah,” Naruto replied, Sage Mode glowing faintly around his eyes. “They’re in there. At least fifty of them. Some armed, some just watching. Kankurō and the others are probably being held deeper in—couldn’t see clearly.”

Shikamaru nodded once, still watching the monastery.

“Lee?” he called over his shoulder.

“I am ready.” Lee’s voice was full of fire, standing on a nearby branch with his fists clenched. “Just give the word.”

Chōji sat with his legs dangling, licking the crumbs of a finished snack from his fingers. “I’m full. Let’s go.”

“Sasuke?” Shikamaru asked, his voice barely louder than the wind.

Naruto glanced sideways. “Soon. He’s almost here—”

Before he finished, the branches above rustled again. Sasuke and Sakura emerged, moving like shadows between the trees. Sasuke landed silently next to Shikamaru, his Sharingan already active. Sakura followed close, scanning the team with calm focus.

Shikamaru gave them both a slight nod; Sasuke returned it with a tilt of his head, and Sakura offered a quiet “Shikamaru” in greeting.

“Gather here,” Shikamaru said, kneeling as he pulled out a large map scroll and spread it on the flattest part of the branch.

Everyone leaned in.

He pointed to a sketched outline of the canyon, then traced a finger along a thin trail from the east side.

“This is us. The monastery’s here—” he tapped a circled mark across the chasm “—partially collapsed, lots of debris. The canyon’s too steep for direct crossing. So…”

He drew two lines.

“Naruto. Sasuke. You two approach from the front. Your job is distraction—draw as much attention as possible. Naruto, I want clones—at least a dozen—to scatter across the entry and upper walkways.”

“Got it,” Naruto said.

“Sasuke—disrupt their defenses. Focus on high vantage points, take out snipers or chakra users if you spot any. If things get bad, use Chidori Nagashi for crowd control.”

“I know,” Sasuke said simply.

Shikamaru moved his hand to another mark on the map.

“Pakkun,” Shikamaru said without looking up, “you'll lead me, Lee, and Chōji through the opening you found before. The crack at the western slope—between the trees and the rubble.”

He looked at Lee and Chōji now. “No chakra flares. No unnecessary fights. Just get in, find Kankurō and the others, and we'll extract quietly.”

Lee tightened the straps of his gear and gave a firm nod. “Understood.”

Chōji exhaled and looked more focused than usual. “We’ll bring them home.”

“Once you’ve got them,” Shikamaru continued, pointing at a new symbol on the map, “bring them here. Point Alpha. It’s defensible, close to water, and we’ve already cached emergency supplies there. Sakura will be stationed at Alpha—she’ll start triage and sort critical from stable. Kakashi's ninkens are patrolling around to secure Point Alpha and Sakura."

“Understood,” Sakura said.

Shikamaru turned slightly and tapped his earpiece.

“Sai. You reading this?”

Sai’s voice crackled in. “Loud and clear.”

“You stay airborne. Watch for enemy reinforcements, scouts, or retreat routes. If you see anyone trying to escape the monastery or circle back, I want you to intercept and alert us immediately.”

“Copy that,” Sai replied. “I’ll maintain overwatch.”

“Good,” Shikamaru said. “Once we have the wounded stabilized, Sai will relay them to Ino’s post via ink bird—only if they’re transport-ready.”

He paused, then added, “Kiba’s still patrolling between Point Alpha and the medic outpost. He’ll reinforce Sakura if anything happens.”

“Okay, boss,” Kiba’s voice came in, slightly static-y. A bark from Akamaru followed.

Shikamaru rolled the map up with precision and tucked it into his pouch. He stood.

“This operation isn’t about killing them. It’s about getting our people out. Quick, quiet if we can—brutal if we have to.”

Everyone straightened.

Naruto cracked his knuckles. “Let’s show them what happens when you mess with our allies.”

“Stay sharp,” Shikamaru said, glancing across the chasm one last time. The monastery sat like a forgotten tomb, daring them to enter.

He exhaled.

“Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

The trees whispered. Leaves rustled faintly around them, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.

Shikamaru raised a hand, clenched it—Hold.
His other hand flicked in a swift, precise signal toward the front. Go.

Naruto and Sasuke nodded and moved.

They descended in silence through the tangled underbrush, stepping lightly around roots and jagged stones, their forms slipping between the trees like shadows. As the broken monastery came into view—looming and crooked at the edge of the cliff—they slowed. Naruto crouched behind a boulder while Sasuke kept to the tree line, their eyes locked on the shattered doorway ahead.

There were guards. Two of them.

Naruto gave a subtle whistle. The guards stiffened.

Then—bam. A stone was tossed. A whisper of motion.
Naruto’s bunshin emerged from the darkness, two... then four... then twelve. They sprinted forward, drawing attention with whoops and taunts.

The first two enemies reacted fast, hurling kunai and charging. But the clones exploded in plumes of smoke, only to be replaced by more. Dozens.

From the shadows, Sasuke stepped forward, his Sharingan glowing deep red. One enemy raised a hand to signal—too late. Chidori sparked through the mist, lashing across stone and skin. A burst of screams echoed.

Naruto laughed as his clones swarmed the front entrance.
The enemy scrambled—more poured out of the monastery. Not just human anymore. Their movements were wrong. Jittery. Jerking. Some dragged limbs like puppets with broken strings. Their skin slick with water. Eyes bloated, bulging from their sockets. One opened its mouth too wide—far too wide—revealing a jaw full of jagged, blackened teeth.

Shikamaru watched it all unfold from above.
His expression never changed. He waited, counted, measured—

Now.
He signaled again.

Pakkun barked softly and darted forward, leading Shikamaru, Lee, and Choji toward a narrow break between stone and tree root—an opening hidden by moss and warped bark. They slipped through one by one, disappearing into the side of the monastery.

Inside was worse.

The hallway was suffocating—dark, damp, thick with the stench of mildew and rot. The floor was slick with moisture, the walls glistening with condensation. The stone was uneven, whispering under their steps. Somewhere above them, the distant sound of Naruto’s battle echoed—screams, crashing, the shriek of steel.

They moved deeper, led by Pakkun, until they found a narrow spiral staircase descending into the earth.

Pakkun stopped at the top. “This way.”

They followed.

The stairs ended at a sealed door—thick, iron-rimmed, heavy.

Choji stepped forward.

“Open it.”

Choji nodded, took a breath, then expanded into his Partial Expansion Jutsu. His massive frame surged forward, smashing the door and cracking the wall around it in a thunderous blow.

The stone groaned. Dust rained from above.

They stepped inside.

Torches flickered on the walls, casting low orange light over a blood-stained floor. A stone table stood near the center, dark with old and fresh splatter. A narrow stream ran beside it—clear water flowing gently over smooth stones. But even the stream smelled tainted, like iron and decay.

Shikamaru stared at the table.

Too much blood.

They moved to the next room.

The smell hit them first—rank, sour, unclean. The room opened into a crude stone prison, bars welded to uneven walls. The cells were shadowed and silent, but not empty.

“There,” Choji whispered, pointing. “Isn’t that... Matsuri?”

In the furthest corner of a cell, slumped against the stone, was a young woman with cropped brown hair. Her skin was mottled with bruises, her uniform torn. She didn’t move.

Lee turned, eyes sharp. “More, in the far cell. I see three... maybe four.”

They were barely silhouettes, huddled together in the dark. Shinobi of Sunagakure. Silent. Barely breathing.

Shikamaru stepped up to the bars.
“Break them open.”

Choji grunted and grabbed the bars—nothing. He growled, trying again. No give.

Shikamaru stepped forward, hand brushing the cold metal.

A sudden static charge crawled up his palm.

“Chakra seal,” he muttered. “They’re reinforced.”

A clang echoed behind them.

They spun.

At the far end of the corridor stood a man—tall, draped in wet fabric. Behind him, two figures shimmered like phantoms. Their shapes were humanoid but melted, dripping—clones made from water. Their skin sagged, their faces incomplete. One was missing half a skull. The other’s eyes were two black voids, bleeding trickles of water.

“Well, well,” the man said, his voice echoing slightly.
“Looks like we’ve got more prisoners for the collection.”

Pakkun growled low in his throat.

Lee dropped into stance.

Choji widened his fists.

Shikamaru narrowed his eyes, shadows already lengthening around his feet.

The corridor held its breath. The blood. The water. The air.
Everything was waiting.

Chapter Text

Shikamaru's shadow crept silently across the cracked stone floor, like a living thing hunting through the damp, fetid dark. The flickering torchlight made the silhouette twitch and slither as it extended—searching, measuring.

“Lee,” Shikamaru said calmly, his voice low but commanding. “Start extracting the prisoners. Do it quietly. Once you're near the exit, signal Sai.”

Lee nodded once, fists tightening. “Understood.”

“Choji, move forward. I’ll cover you,” Shikamaru added, eyes narrowing on the enemy ahead.

“Let’s go,” Choji rumbled. He activated his technique—the Partial Multi-Size Jutsu—and his arm expanded with a deep whomp of chakra. He flexed, preparing to strike as Shikamaru’s shadow rippled in anticipation.

Lee sprinted to the rusted iron bars of the prison cell and with a surge of chakra, launched into a flurry of kicks. “Konoha Senpū!” he shouted, his taijutsu strikes slamming into the metal. Each blow rang out, loud in the tight space, bending the bars inch by inch.

From across the room, the strange man smirked—tall, narrow-eyed, and soaked like something born of rot and rain. Water dripped from his fingertips, pooling at his feet.

“You think I’ll just let you take out that Sunagakure trash?” he snarled. His grin stretched wider than his jaw should allow. “Not a chance.”

He lunged.

Choji responded fast—his enlarged fist slammed into the stone floor, shaking the room and forcing the attacker to dodge. Water splashed upward as Shikamaru’s shadow struck next, snaking toward the man’s feet. But the figure was fast, unnaturally so, dissolving into a mist-like spray before re-forming in the air above them.

With a wet snap, two distorted water clones oozed into existence beside him. Their forms were grotesque—melting features, stretched mouths filled with misshapen teeth, eyes that bulged unnaturally and leaked water.

“Gross,” Choji muttered, raising his arm again.

“Stay sharp!” Shikamaru barked. He maneuvered toward the center of the room, forcing the clones to split. His hands flew into seals, and his shadow split off toward the one on the left. The clone hissed and dissolved into a puddle—but reformed again instantly with a new twisted face.

“They regenerate,” Shikamaru muttered.

At the same time, Lee finally shattered the bars with a final kick, the metal splintering with a loud clang. He rushed inside and gently pulled Matsuri to her feet. She was barely conscious, her body bruised and trembling. A second Sunagakure shinobi lay against the far wall, groaning softly but alive.

“I’ve got them!” Lee called. “Pakkun, lead the way out!”

Pakkun barked and bounded ahead toward the narrow corridor they came from. Lee followed close, holding both captives, breath steady.

The enemy moved to intercept.

Shikamaru stepped in, his shadow stretching again—this time toward the man's real form, not the clones. The attacker leapt sideways, but Choji had anticipated it. With a roar, Choji spun in place.

“Spiky Human Bullet Tank!”

He crashed into one of the clones, scattering it into a wave of water and bone-like sludge. Still, it started reforming—again.

“They won’t stop!” Choji growled.

“Then don’t give them time to regenerate,” Shikamaru snapped.

As Lee made for the stream room, the enemy darted toward him again. But Shikamaru and Choji cut him off, forming a protective wall between the attacker and their retreating teammate.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the water-man hissed.

“Neither are you,” Shikamaru replied coldly, flicking a kunai into the torch nearby. The flame burst outward—briefly lighting up the full horror of the melting clones.

The battle wasn't over.

But Lee was moving.

And that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

In seconds, four more clones burst from the floor, dragging themselves into shape with grotesque speed. Their bodies were bloated and glistening, heads twisted like melted wax, arms sagging before snapping into jagged limbs of sharpened water. Their eyes were glassy and bulbous—barely human.

Chōji instinctively stepped in front of Shikamaru. “They’re multiplying.”

“No kidding,” Shikamaru muttered, eyes darting. His shadow branched again, but it was spread thin—one tendril caught a clone by the leg, another flicked at a second’s hand, but they were already swarming.

The clones moved unnaturally fast. One of them lunged at Chōji with a screech, slashing with fingers like spears. Chōji blocked with his arm, chakra surging to reinforce his skin, but the force sent him skidding back, boots dragging lines in the wet floor.

Another clone dove straight toward Shikamaru.

“Shadow Stitching!”

Dark tendrils shot upward like spikes, impaling the creature mid-air. For a heartbeat, it froze—then exploded into a rush of water that splattered the walls and reformed behind him.

“Tch. They’re learning.”

From behind them, a tremor shook the room. Cracks appeared near the far corner.

“Shikamaru,” Chōji grunted, “this floor isn’t gonna last long if we keep smashing it!”

Shikamaru nodded, mind racing. He turned his head just enough to speak into the comm link. “Lee, status.”

“We’re out of the cell block and moving through the stream room. Prisoners are stable. Pakkun’s guiding us now,” Lee’s voice came, urgent but controlled.

“Good. Signal Sai the moment you see the light.”

“Already done,” Lee replied. “He’s circling above.”

Shikamaru exhaled once. Then glared forward.

“Chōji,” he said without looking, “go.”

“But—”

“Now. I’ll handle this. Back me up once the others are secured.”

Chōji hesitated—just a breath—then gritted his teeth. “You better not die.”

Chōji inhaled, forming the familiar seal.

“Baika no Jutsu!”

His arm ballooned with chakra-inflated muscle. He whirled once, then slammed an oversized fist straight into the gate.

CRACK!

Iron screamed; the entire front of the cell folded inward.

Chōji dived through the twisted opening. In the corner lay Yukata, unconscious but breathing. Two other Suna shinobi—one clutching a broken arm, the other limping—stared in dazed relief.

“We’re getting you out,” Chōji whispered. He lifted Yukata gently, then guided the two survivors toward the corridor.

Chōji shrank back to normal size, panting. “Lee, I'm moving now with prisoners. Prepare to pick me up once you done," Chōji said through the link.

"Roger," Lee answered.

Not far from Chōji, shadows writhed beneath Shikamaru’s boots as he fell back through a crumbling doorway. Water-slick stone made footing treacherous; the air smelled of iron, mold, and old despair. Behind him, the enemy’s warped clones sloshed onward, limbs reforming every time his shadow stakes tore them apart.

A barred chamber gaped at his left—a dead end, but he needed cover. He slipped inside, pressing against the wall, letting the darkness swallow him.

That’s when he heard it—ragged breathing, so faint it almost merged with the distant drip-drip-drip of the ceiling.

He turned.

Kankurō lay half-naked in a corner, body a ruin of bruises, lashes, and dried blood. One wrist was swollen, the other cuffed by a fractured shackle. Purple welts blossomed across his ribs; a shallow gash carved down his jaw. Each breath was a battle.

Something inside Shikamaru twisted—then iced over.

Rage did not flare; it froze. His heartbeat slowed, his eyes sharpening to flint. Memories of Hidan, of Asuma’s blood on dead leaves, surfaced—cold, clinical, merciless.

No more mistakes.

Laughter echoed down the corridor—wet, mocking.

“Stop hiding,” the water-man taunted. “I’ll carve you open next to your puppet master.”

Shikamaru’s face remained unreadable. His shadow crawled along the floor, slick as oil, feeling every crack and dip. He studied the cell: rusted bars, a floor drain wide enough to swallow a man’s leg, chains dangling from an overhead beam. Water dripped in rhythmic pulses, pooling at his feet.

An idea coalesced—sharp, lethal.

He whispered into the comm: “Chōji, Lee—prisoners away?”

Lee’s voice, strained but steady: “On the way to pick up Chōji and the prisoners. Matsuri and other Suna's shinobi are on the birds."

“Good. Stay clear of this wing.”

He cut the channel.

Shikamaru knelt by Kankurō, pressing two fingers lightly to his throat—weak pulse, but there. A promise flickered behind his eyes.

Then he stood, stepped into the center of the chamber, and spoke—voice low, devoid of warmth:

“You enjoy torturing people, huh? Let's flip the card.”

Chapter Text

The air in the prison wing was thick with moisture and blood. Water trickled down the walls like sweat, echoing against cracked stone. Then—
CRACK!
A shadow slammed across the wet floor, and Shikamaru lunged.

The enemy moved fast.

Their clash was immediate and brutal.

Shikamaru ducked low, dodging a slice of water shaped like a blade. The man's jutsu warped mid-air, liquid morphing into a spear that twisted unnaturally, crashing into the wall behind Shikamaru with a hiss.

“Not bad,” the water-man laughed, spinning through his own mist. “C’mon, Shadow Boy! Make me bleed!”

Shikamaru didn’t answer. His eyes were cold, his expression unreadable.

He twisted to the side, hands flashing through seals—
Kagemane no Jutsu.
A black tendril shot forward—missed.

The clone behind the enemy tried to leap onto Shikamaru from the side—he ducked, rolled, and retaliated with a kunai flung straight through the clone’s chest.

It burst into water—but another took its place.

The real enemy surged in, water coating his fists like gauntlets. He swung hard. Shikamaru blocked with his forearm, staggered back, then pivoted and kicked at the man’s ribs. It connected—but only barely. The jutsu absorbed the blow with a sickening splash.

The man laughed again. “You're fast for a brain.”

Shikamaru exhaled slowly. Focused. Calculated.

He moved again—sidestepping a whip of water, then launching himself onto a pillar half-collapsed at the edge of the room. From the high ground, he wove another jutsu—
Shadow Sewing.
Sharp spikes of darkness erupted from the floor. The enemy danced between them like a ghost, grinning wide. His face was starting to split unnaturally with the pressure of his own chakra. Eyes bulging, skin slick and veiny.

“You’re pushing me,” he hissed. “I like that.”

The fight closed in again.

They clashed hand-to-hand—Shikamaru barely parrying a slash, then delivering a sharp elbow to the man’s throat. But it wasn’t enough. The enemy was slippery—liquid muscle and shifting mass.

A punch caught Shikamaru’s ribs.

He coughed, skidding back. Blood sprayed against the wall.

The man stalked forward, chuckling low.

“Tired already? That’s disappointing.”

Shikamaru didn’t reply. He reached for another kunai—but was met with a stream of slicing water. He deflected it, barely.

The man raised his arms. His clones began to reform behind him.

“Guess this is where your little hero game ends.”

Shikamaru was silent.

The man laughed harder, stepping forward, ready to end it—
And then stopped.

Dead still.

His arms trembled—then locked. His legs wouldn’t obey.

“What...?”

He looked down.
His shadow.

His eyes snapped to Shikamaru—still bleeding, still breathing, still standing.

Straightened now. Cold. Calm. Ruthless.

“Got you,” Shikamaru said flatly.

The enemy snarled, straining. “You let me—get this far—on purpose?!”

“I needed you in position.”

Shikamaru stepped forward, his shadow thickening. Cold fury radiated off him like smoke.

“I gave you the rope.”

He tilted his head.

“You tied the noose.”

Chapter Text

Shikamaru stood motionless, his eyes flat and distant as the darkness he controlled slithered across the floor. His shadow had already crept up the man's legs, branching like vines, rooting the man in place. It coiled tightly now—around his wrists, ribs, throat—slow and suffocating.

The chamber was deathly still, save for the faint drip of water from the ceiling and the soft strain of leather from Shikamaru’s gloves.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Shikamaru murmured.

The man's muscles twitched in protest. He tried to move, to shift, but every limb was wrapped in invisible weight.

“You thought I was panicking. Running. But everything in that room was a setup.”

The shadows cinched tighter. The man breathing turned shallow.

“I led you step by step into a position you couldn’t see coming. You were too busy enjoying yourself.”

Shikamaru took a step forward. And another. The edge of his trench coat fluttered slightly with his movement. His voice was low, flat. It held no anger—just calculation.

“Your name.”

The prisoner’s lips peeled into a wide grin, teeth yellowed and cracked.

“Jinbei.”

“Your motive?”

“Revenge,” Jinbei hissed. “For what your allies did to us. My clan was erased—our records wiped, our jutsu labeled forbidden. All for politics.”

He struggled against the shadows, his limbs trembling, veins standing out across his neck.

“But I survived. I learned. I built an army from nothing. I used what was thrown away.”

“And the torture?” Shikamaru asked quietly.

Jinbei let out a wheeze—half cough, half laugh.

“They screamed so beautifully,” he croaked. “Suna shinobi are rats. They die easily. They’re perfect toys.”

A long breath.

“I made them useful, finally. Turned their bodies into lessons. Into art.”

There was a sound behind them—urgent footsteps.

Naruto burst into the chamber, cloak fluttering around him, Sage Mode fading from his eyes. Behind him, Sasuke entered in silence, the gleam of his Sharingan sharp and watchful.

Naruto’s face twisted with horror when he saw Jinbei wrapped in the crushing grip of shadows.

“Shikamaru—wait! Don’t—!”

Shikamaru didn’t even turn. His voice was a whisper.

“Where’s the stone you stole?”

Jinbei spat blood at the ground, a red blotch blooming on the stone floor.

“I dropped it in the river. Maybe.”

He smirked. “You’ll never find it.”

Shikamaru exhaled slowly. His expression didn’t change. The shadows crept higher—around Jinbei’s jaw now, curling under his chin like the noose of a hangman.

“And the prisoners? Why push them so far?”

Jinbei’s eyes rolled back as he laughed—deep and maniacal.

“Because I could. I liked it. It pleasure me,” he gasped. "They deserved it. Suna filth—worthless, arrogant, weak. Their screams made this place feel alive again.”

Naruto’s eyes widened, hands tightening into fists. His chakra flared hot with fury.

“You son of a—!”

He started forward—but a sudden blur of motion cut across the room.

Shikamaru had moved.

Fast. Clean.

His hand raised high, a trench knife—Asuma’s—flashing in the dim light. Chakra pulsed along the blade’s edge in pale blue arcs.

THNK!

The sound was final.

Steel through flesh and bone.

Jinbei’s mouth fell open in silent shock. His eyes widened.

Then his head rolled.

It thumped against the stone once, then twice, before coming to a stop beside Shikamaru’s feet. Blood flowed in a slow, thick stream from the stump of his neck, soaking into cracks in the floor.

Shikamaru didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t speak.

He simply knelt, calmly wiped the blade on the dead man’s cloak, and slid the trench knife back into its sheath.

Naruto froze where he stood. His breath hitched in his throat. The rage in his body seemed to dissipate all at once, leaving only the raw echo of disbelief.

“Shikamaru…”

His voice faltered.

Sasuke stood behind them, unmoving. His eyes, dark as winter, watched Shikamaru carefully. He said nothing.

The silence pressed down like a weight.

Shikamaru looked down at the head on the floor.

Then slowly turned his back to it.

“…Let’s finish the extraction,” he said.

Nothing more.

Chapter Text

Smoke curled thick through the air, clinging to every shattered wall and splintered beam like a second skin.

Temari stood amid the ruins, unsteady on her feet. Her legs trembled beneath her, one hand reaching for balance against a broken pillar. Blood roared in her ears; her vision blurred at the edges. She blinked, coughed, staggered forward.

The ground beneath her was cracked stone, and around her—movement. Panic. Figures darting through the haze, shouting in every direction. Footsteps thudded. Someone screamed. Somewhere, metal clashed with metal.

It was chaos.

Temari gritted her teeth and tried to focus. Where am I?

This wasn't Suna. The air was too thick, the earth too soft. Not sand, not desert wind. The terrain was cooler, damper. There was something familiar here, but distant, like a memory with smudged edges.

She turned her head, wincing at the pain. Then her gaze froze.

There, at the edge of a broken cliff—stood a monument.

Seven carved heads, partially destroyed, partially crumbled. Cracks ran down their stone features, but the outlines remained.

Faces.

Faces she knew.

Faces of Hokage.

Her breath caught.

Konoha?

She squinted at the last face. The seventh.

The one she hadn’t noticed before.

“…Who…?” she whispered, barely audible.

And then—

A sudden pull, deep and wrenching, as though something invisible had hooked her soul and yanked her backward through the air.

The battlefield collapsed into whiteness.

Everything was gone.

---

Temari gasped.

Her eyes flew open, lungs burning as if she'd been held underwater. The sky stretched pale above her, broken by streaks of cloud. A breeze brushed against her face.

She was floating. Not flying—being carried.

“Temari?”

The voice was soft. Feminine.

She turned her head slowly, eyes heavy.

“…Tenten?” she whispered.

Tenten leaned over her, visibly relieved. “You’re awake. Thank the gods.”

Temari’s lips moved but no sound came.

Tenten smiled a little, brushing damp hair from Temari’s forehead. “You passed out again. We’re en route to Konoha. Sai’s ink bird is carrying us. You’ll get proper treatment soon, just hang in there.”

Konoha?

Temari blinked. But I was just there…

Or had it been a dream?

The monument. The fire. The screaming.

She couldn’t tell anymore.

Her body was too tired. Her mind too numb.

Temari didn’t answer—she just nodded faintly, turning her gaze skyward again. The sky swirled gently above, soft and slow, as if the world itself was giving her permission to rest.

And so she did.
Eyes open, but silent.
Floating between memory and breath.

Chapter Text

The skies above Sunagakure boiled in a haze of sand and chakra. The battlefield ground at the edge of the village turn to scarred wasteland of cracked stone and swirling dust. The walls trembled with the force of each collision, and the air shimmered from the clash of jutsu. Craters pockmarked the earth, and pillars of stone, sand, and lava jutted out in chaotic defiance.

Gaara stood firm in the eye of the storm, sand swirling protectively around him in an ever-shifting barrier. His breath was steady, his gaze sharp. Across from him, Kurome—a rogue shinobi wielding brutal power—moved like a phantom cloaked in dark wind. Each of Kurome's strikes shattered earth and sundered stone, but Gaara matched them with unyielding calm.

Explosions thundered as Akatsuchi hurled massive boulders with his brute strength, shaking the battlefield and forcing enemy shinobi into retreat. Iwagakure reinforcements, battle-hardened and precise, carved a path through the chaos.

Kurotsuchi’s lava tore through the battlefield like molten fury, melting barriers and leaving rivers of heat in her wake. Her forces followed close behind, uniting with Suna’s remaining defenders. For a moment, the tide seemed to shift.

But Kurome refused to fall.

With a cry of rage, he summoned a storm of chakra-laced blades, sending them in a whirling barrage toward Gaara. The Kazekage's sand caught them mid-air, but the impact drove him back, his feet skidding across the broken ground.

"Still hiding behind your sand?" Kurome sneered, eyes wild. "You call yourself a Kage, and yet you beg other villages for help. Coward!"

A sudden presence appeared beside Gaara, steady and composed.

"He's not a coward," Kurotsuchi said, her voice sharp as the rock beneath her feet. She stepped forward, hands raised, lava chakra already forming at her fingertips. "He's an ally. A friend."

Gaara nodded, his voice low but resolute. "We’re not here to prove who's stronger. We're here to protect what matters."

Together, they launched forward—sand and lava converging in a breathtaking assault. Kurome tried to block, to retaliate, but the synchronized fury of wind-carved sand and molten earth overwhelmed him. The sand bound his limbs while lava scorched his remaining defenses.

"You asked why we stand together?" Kurotsuchi shouted, voice echoing through the roar. "Because helping each other in difficult times... that's what friends do!"

The final blow struck—Gaara’s sand encased Kurome midair while Kurotsuchi’s lava surged upward in a tidal wave. A deafening blast erupted, and when the smoke cleared, Kurome lay defeated, half-buried in scorched glassed sand, his chakra extinguished.

The battlefield fell into sudden silence.

Gaara’s sand settled around him like a cloak. Kurotsuchi landed beside him, panting, sweat trailing down her face.

They exchanged a glance.

Victory, hard-earned, had come at last.

Chapter Text

The wind above the ruined monastery began to shift. High in the gray skies, Sai’s ink bird soared with silent grace, carrying Kankurō’s limp body in a secure wrap of reinforced cloth. His face was pale, bruised, his chest barely rising with breath—but he was alive. The bird dipped once, banking hard toward the southwest horizon, heading straight toward Sakura’s post.

“Target secure,” Sai’s voice crackled through the comm link. “I’m en route to Sakura now.”

Shikamaru watched the figure disappear into the clouds, his breath steady. “Keep us updated.”

Around him, the dust of the collapsed structure still lingered in the air. Rubble groaned under shifting weight. Deep beneath the stone monastery, a silence had begun to settle—but it was a silence that felt unnatural, as if something old still lingered just beyond reach.

He turned to Naruto and Sasuke, who had both returned to scanning the crumbling corridors around them. “Start sweeping the underground levels,” Shikamaru said. “The Fushi no Seki has to be here somewhere.”

Sasuke gave a curt nod and activated his Sharingan. His gaze sharpened, picking up traces of chakra that normal eyes would miss. Without a word, he disappeared down a narrow, vine-choked hallway to the east. Naruto inhaled deeply, yellow pigment blooming around his eyes as he slipped into Sage Mode. With a quick glance toward Shikamaru, he darted down the opposite tunnel, scanning for anything unnatural.

Shikamaru followed a third path, slower, more methodical. Every chamber they passed held signs of occupation—broken tools, discarded cloth, faint scorch marks—but none suggested a room sacred enough to house something as legendary as the Stone of Immortality. Still, they searched.

Minutes turned to fifteen. Then twenty. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. The walls shifted—at first rough and natural, then more deliberate. Ancient. Symbols began to appear, carved deep into the stone, older than any script Shikamaru recognized. Faint impressions of seals long-since broken traced the walls, pulsing faintly beneath layers of grime.

A sharp buzz clicked in his ear.

“I found it,” Sasuke’s voice came, low and even. “Northwest shaft. Deepest floor. There’s a sealed chamber. The chakra density down here—it’s different.”

Shikamaru stopped mid-step, tapped his communicator. “All right."

“On my way,” Naruto added.

Shikamaru adjusted his gear and broke into a run, moving faster now, feet barely skimming the broken floor. Down ancient steps, around collapsed support beams, he moved with purpose. The passage began to slope downward into a chamber that smelled of stone dust and something much older—ozone and metal, maybe, like the taste of lightning.

He entered the chamber moments after Naruto.

There, in the center of the hollowed hall, Sasuke stood in front of an altar carved directly into the bedrock. The air around it felt heavy, charged. Sitting atop the slab was the Fushi no Seki.

The stone was not what Shikamaru had expected.

Small—smaller than a clenched fist. Smooth. Oily-black, with thin glowing veins like cracks running just beneath its surface. It didn't glow or hum or pulse. It simply… was, sitting there in a silence so deep it seemed to hush their breathing.

Sasuke was holding it now, having just picked it up.

Something in his posture was off.

His shoulders were stiff. His head slightly tilted, as if listening to something no one else could hear. His fingers tightened minutely on the stone’s smooth surface.

“Sasuke,” Shikamaru called out quietly as he approached, voice even but alert.

Sasuke turned. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—there was a flicker in them. Not madness. Not corruption. Something far more subtle.

Power.

For just a second, Shikamaru saw it. A glimpse of that old gleam—the part of Sasuke that had once wanted to stand above the world. That had known what it was like to wield godlike strength and believe he deserved it.

Then it passed.

Their eyes met, and without a word, Sasuke slowly extended his arm, offering the stone outward.

Shikamaru did not move to take it.

“You shouldn’t give it to me,” he said plainly.

Sasuke frowned. “Why not?”

Shikamaru’s eyes shifted to Naruto. “Because he’s the only one who can carry it without being tempted.”

Naruto, confused, looked between them. “Huh? Me?”

Shikamaru didn’t smile. He simply said, “If anyone can keep a hold of this thing without wanting to use it—it’s you.”

Sasuke gave a short nod of agreement and placed the stone into Naruto’s hands. The weight surprised him. It wasn’t just physical—there was a strange sense of gravity to it, like holding something that watched you in return.

“So… what now?” Naruto asked, staring down at the stone.

“We check on the medics,” Shikamaru answered. “Sakura first, then regroup at Ino’s post.”

Naruto tucked the stone away, nodding.

“And after that?” he asked again, quieter.

Shikamaru glanced back toward the tunnel, toward the wind, the sky, and the distant desert beyond. His voice was calm. Certain.

“We head back to Suna,” he said. “Gaara will know what needs to be done with it.”

Naruto and Sasuke both nodded.

And together, they stepped out of the dark.

Chapter Text

Temari's eyes fluttered open.

The room around her was bathed in clean, white light—the sterile kind found only in hospital recovery wards. The walls were smooth and pale, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. The quiet hum of machines, the faint rustle of bedsheets, and the soft tapping of footsteps in distant corridors filled the silence.

She turned her head slowly, wincing at the ache in her neck. To her right, a large window was open. Pale blue curtains billowed gently in the breeze. Outside, the sky was clear, a soft cerulean canvas with scattered white clouds drifting lazily across it.

And then—

Choo.

A soft, tiny sound. Like a baby cooing.

Temari blinked and turned toward the source.

A baby—no more than a few days old. Maybe hours—was cradled peacefully in her lap. His chubby cheeks were tinged pink, and thick tufts of jet-black hair curled over his forehead. He had his fingers in his mouth, lazily sucking on them, his eyes half-lidded with contentment.

Temari stared.

What?

What??

Whose baby is this?!

Her breath hitched, confusion tightening in her chest. She glanced around wildly, expecting someone—anyone—to explain.

The door creaked open.

A woman in a pale uniform stepped inside, a gentle smile on her face as she wheeled a small medical tray.

“Good afternoon, Temari-san,” the nurse greeted cheerfully. “Let’s check on you today.”

Then, as she approached with a stethoscope in hand, she added, “Congratulations, by the way. He’s a healthy, beautiful baby.”

Temari's mouth fell open. “Huh? Wait—what??”

The nurse didn’t seem to notice her panic. She reached forward as if to adjust the baby’s blanket, and Temari recoiled slightly, heart thundering in her ears.

Whose baby is this? This can’t be real—

But just as the nurse’s hand made contact with her arm, the world spun.

The air rushed out of Temari’s lungs.

It was like being pulled backward through water, gravity losing meaning, color stretching into blurs, sound warping into echoes. The sensation was suffocating and boundless all at once—her body both floating and falling.

Then—

“Mom…”

The voice was small, uncertain.

Temari’s feet hit solid ground again, though she didn’t remember standing. She turned sharply, dizzy.

She was in the middle of a bustling city street. People walked past with bags of groceries, children ran laughing nearby. The buildings were tall, clean-lined, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

Standing before her was a boy—no older than five or six.

He had black hair, loosely tied into a small spiky ponytail on top of his head. His expression was calm, observant. His face… it looked like Shikamaru’s.

But the eyes—those were hers.

Sharp. Steady.

“Mom? Are you okay?” the boy asked again, brow furrowed.

Temari opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. Her hands were shaking.

She knelt slightly, trying to reach him, to ask his name—to understand—

Then the spinning came again.

Her vision twisted. The child blurred. The city faded.

She gasped as her eyes flew open.

The hospital room again.

White.

Sterile.

Temari let out a ragged breath, one hand flying to her head as a wave of dizziness rolled through her.

“Temari,” a voice called gently.

She turned.

Kankurō.

He was covered in bandages and sitting in a wheelchair, his expression strained but alive. He rolled closer to her bed, stopping at the edge.

“About time you woke up,” he said with a weak grin. “You scared the crap outta everyone.”

Temari blinked at him. Was she… still dreaming?

Still trapped in some illusion?

She reached out, grabbed his arm, and pinched.

“OW—what the hell?! That hurt!” Kankurō recoiled.

Temari slowly let go, her eyes wide.

Not a dream.

She leaned back into her pillow, silent for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.

“…Well,” she murmured at last, voice dry. “Guess I’m really back.”

Chapter Text

The recovery wing was hushed, save for the soft whoosh of an oscillating fan and the gentle chirp of birds beyond the open window. Warm air drifted in, stirring the curtains and carrying the bright scent of early-summer flowers from Konoha’s hospital garden. Somewhere below, children’s laughter rose and fell—a happy counterpoint to the steady beep of monitors.

Kankurō sat in a wheelchair beside Temari’s bed, his good arm resting on the sill while he watched two little kids chase one another across the courtyard. Every so often he smiled, as if their game were the funniest show in town. Sunlight caught the faint lines of bandages peeking from his loose sleeves.

Temari studied him for a moment, then cleared her throat. “How’s the wreck holding up?”

Kankurō turned, raising an eyebrow. “Wrecked,” he said with theatrical misery, then tapped the wheel rim. “Figured I’d try the deluxe seating while it’s free.”

Temari’s mouth twitched. “So you’re not stuck in that thing forever?”

“Nah.” He rolled the chair back a half-turn and spun it forward again for effect. “Just milking the sympathy points before I’m kicked onto crutches. How about you, oh Mighty Desert Princess?”

“Bruised, dizzy, poisoned,” she said dryly, “but otherwise fabulous.”

They traded a look, shared sarcasm softening into genuine relief. Temari flexed her fingers, as if confirming she still had them, then asked, “Anyone been in to pester you yet?”

“Plenty.” Kankurō’s grin turned lopsided. “Sakura stopped by an hour ago—checked the stitches. I thanked her. Second time she’s dragged my carcass back from the brink—first Sasori’s poison, now this. Ino’s been running herself ragged too.”

Temari nodded gratefully. “Healers are saints.”

Kankurō’s expression shifted, just a bit more serious. “I’ve been meaning to ask… you feel anything weird lately?”

Temari frowned slightly. “Define weird.”

“I mean—aside from the obvious trauma and near-death stuff.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve been off. Motor skills are lagging. Sometimes I stand up too fast and the whole room tilts like I’m on a boat. My balance is crap. I want to told Gaara once we’re back in Suna, I need time off from field duty. Gonna retrain my body, get the coordination back.” He paused. “And the dreams…”

Temari’s gaze sharpened. “Dreams?”

“Yeah,” Kankurō admitted. “Not just flashbacks. They’re… weird. Long. Twisted. Like I’m in ten places at once. Sometimes I wake up thinking I’ve been somewhere else for days.” He rubbed his eyes. “And then I remember I’ve been in this hospital bed the whole time.”

Temari’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Same here. Dreams feel too real. Like I’m living whole lives that don’t exist.”

“Sounds like the poison’s lingering in more than just the bloodstream,” Kankurō said. “Mental side effects, hallucinations, maybe memory displacement.”

Temari looked down at her hands. “Doesn’t help that the line between dream and memory keeps blurring.”

Kankurō didn’t try to argue. “We’ll sort it out.”

“Yeah,” she said, a little quieter. “Eventually.”

A moment passed.

“Speaking of overachievers: Gaara arrived this morning,” Kankurō added, tilting his head toward the window as if he could see their brother somewhere beyond the rooftops. “Came straight from Suna with Shikamaru, Naruto, and Sasuke in tow.”

“They found the stone?” Temari’s tone sharpened a fraction.

“Yep. Handed it over the instant they hit town,” Kankurō said. “Gaara’s already quarantined it in a joint vault till we can seal it properly back home.”

“And Kurome?”

“Maximum-security cell, reinforced seals, round-the-clock.” Kankurō’s smile faded. “They’re not taking chances.”

Temari drummed her fingers on the blanket. “And Shikamaru?”

“Probably still buried under paperwork in the Hokage’s office,” Kankurō replied. “He and Sasuke gave the full report to Kakashi right after they landed. Guy hasn’t slept much—looks like he’s carrying half the desert on his shoulders.”

Temari lowered her gaze, processing that. “What about Jinbei?”

Kankurō’s eyes flicked away for a second. “Dead. Shikamaru killed him.”

The words hung between them. Outside, a bird chirped twice, as though in mild objection.

Temari folded her arms, feeling a dull ache in her chest. “Why am I hearing this from you and not him?”

“He’ll tell you.” Kankurō’s voice softened. “Just… give him space. Whatever happened down there, it wasn’t a clean fight.”

“Nothing about this mission was clean,” she murmured.

“True.” Kankurō exhaled, staring out at the children again. “But we’re alive. That counts for something.”

Temari followed his gaze: sunlight bouncing off windows, green leaves shimmering, small footprints in dust where the kids played tag. Life went on, heedless of poisoned blades and ancient stones.

She let out a slow breath. “Yeah. It does.”

For a while they said nothing—just listened to the birds, the distant chatter of nurses, and the lazy spin of the ceiling fan. Healing wasn’t as dramatic as battle, but it was its own kind of war. They would fight it together, in silence if necessary, until the weight of recent days felt lighter.

Chapter Text

The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light through the window of Temari’s hospital room. The warm rays pooled across her blanket and stretched long across the floor.

Sakura stood at her bedside, gently removing the stethoscope from her ears. She made a few quick notes on the chart, then glanced up with a reassuring smile.

“Vitals are steady. No fever. Your breathing sounds clearer than yesterday.”

Temari sat up slightly, leaning against the pillows. “That’s good.”

Sakura tilted her head. “Still dizzy?”

“Less than before,” Temari said. She hesitated. “But… I had strange dream.”

Sakura’s pen paused over the page.

“It felt real,” Temari continued. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were tight at the corners. “Too real. Like I lived it.”

Sakura didn’t respond right away. She closed the chart and stepped closer.

“What kind of dream?”

Temari exhaled. “Different scenes. Different places. But in all of them… I wasn’t sure if I was awake or still dreaming. I even felt pain. Smelled things. Saw people that—” She shook her head. “It’s hard to explain.”

Sakura nodded slowly. “You’re not the first. Others exposed to the same toxin reported similar experiences. Hallucinations. Memory distortion. Blurred perception.”

“So… it’s from the poison?”

“Likely, yes.” Sakura sat on the edge of the bed now, her voice gentle. “We found residual traces of the neurotoxin still in your system. Small amounts—but it can take time to fully flush out.”

Temari frowned. “How long?”

“A few days. Maybe a week or two, depending on how your chakra adjusts during recovery.”

Temari looked out the window. The sky was turning orange at the edges. A few leaves fluttered in the breeze.

“If the dreams don’t stop?” she asked.

“Then we look deeper,” Sakura said. “When you’re strong enough, I’d recommend a session with a shinobi-trained psychologist. Just to be safe.”

Temari’s mouth tugged into a reluctant half-smile. “You think I’m going crazy?”

“No,” Sakura said firmly. “I think you’ve been through hell. Your mind’s just trying to find its way back.”

There was silence between them for a moment.

Temari finally nodded. “Alright. If they keep coming, I’ll talk to someone.”

Sakura stood. “Good. That’s all I ask.”

She adjusted the blanket, fussed with the IV line, then gave a light pat to Temari’s arm.

“Rest. Let your body catch up to your spirit.”

Temari smirked faintly. “Poetic.”

“I try,” Sakura said with a wink. She moved toward the door. “I’ll check on you again tonight.”

“Thanks, Sakura.”

The door closed softly behind her.

Temari sank back into the pillows. Her body felt heavier now, exhaustion catching up. The light outside was softer, almost golden-pink. Shadows stretched across the ceiling, slow and long.

She let her eyes close.

The room was quiet, save for the hush of the wind and the distant murmur of nurses beyond the wall.

And in the silence, Temari drifted—unsure if she would fall into sleep, or into something else entirely.

Chapter Text

A soft chirping filtered through the silence.

Temari could hear birds. The kind that sang when the air was warm and the skies were open. She felt a breeze too—gentle, as if the world around her had taken a long exhale.

She blinked.

Wooden beams stretched above her. Tatami mats beneath her knees. The smell of cedar and old incense lingered faintly in the air. She was seated in a traditional hall—wide, sunlit, silent. Every edge was smooth, every shadow precise.

Across from her sat a man.

His black kimono rippled like still water, thick and formal, embroidered faintly along the sleeves and hem with pine and fan motifs in dark thread. The inner layer peeked white near his collarbone. His posture was calm. One hand rested on his knee, the other loose in his lap.

His hair was half-up, tied back with a traditional string, the rest loose and brushing his shoulders. A few strands framed his face.

Shikamaru.

He turned his head slightly toward her, eyes catching hers.

They didn’t smile. They didn’t need to. His gaze was focused, unwavering. A calm storm behind those dark eyes—soft, but ready. Always thinking. Always watching.

Temari inhaled slowly. Something flickered in her chest. Not alarm. Something else. Something warmer.

She followed his gaze forward.

The hall was lined with people. Seated in seiza, dressed in soft hues. Their voices were quiet murmurs—gentle, reverent. A few were smiling. A few looked emotional. But no one moved.

And yet—Temari could feel it.

Something shifted beneath her skin.

A flicker in her ribs. A tremor behind her sternum.

Then—

Her stomach dropped.

The world twisted.

Like she was falling through her own body—dragged downward with no gravity, no ground.

The hall blurred.

And then:

Color. Sound. Music.

She gasped softly. Laughter spilled around her, bright and joyous.

She was standing in the heart of Sunagakure.

The wind carried the scent of spices and warm sand. Lanterns floated above the streets, bobbing with every gust. Streamers fluttered. Children ran between adults, giggling.

Temari stood in the middle of it all.

Gaara was beside her, arms folded. His expression was calm, his presence grounding.

Kankuro grinned wide from the banquet table, chewing something he probably wasn’t supposed to talk around. He waved at her with a drink in hand.

Everyone was happy.

A hand slipped into hers.

She turned, breath catching.

Before she could see the face—before she could speak—

The tug came again.

Stronger this time.

Her stomach turned.

Everything blacked out.

Silence.

Darkness.

Then—

A warm room, dimly lit. The only glow came from a flickering candle on a low shelf. Crickets sang softly outside. Trees rustled in the night breeze.

Temari exhaled shakily. Her skin was damp.

She was on a bed. The sheets soft and thin, tangled around her thighs. Her body buzzed—heat pooled in her stomach, and her chest rose and fell as if she’d been running.

She was not alone.

A weight hovered over her, holding her gently. A warm hand braced the mattress beside her head. Another pressed lightly to her hip.

Then a forehead pressed to hers.

“Temari…”

Her name was barely a whisper. More breath than sound.

Shikamaru.

His voice was hoarse. His eyes half-lidded. Sweat clung to his temple. His hair, undone, fell around his face in soft, wild strands.

He looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world.

Her heart fluttered. Her spine arched.

He moved again—slowly, carefully. His lips brushed her jaw. Then her neck.

Her breath hitched.

His fingers skimmed along her ribs, memorizing her like a map.

She gasped—then the sensation overwhelmed her. A rush of something heady and too big to name.

Temari cried out and—

Woke up.

Gasping.

“Whoa—!”

She sat upright in her hospital bed, chest heaving, skin clammy.

The room was dark now. The monitor beeped steadily beside her. A breeze slipped through the half-open window. Outside, Konoha’s night sky was velvet blue.

She blinked hard.

Reality settled back in.

Then—

“Temari?”

The voice was low, surprised.

She turned her head.

Shikamaru sat at the edge of her bed, body half-shadowed by the dim lighting. His brows were slightly drawn, a faint crease between them. He looked tired—his uniform jacket loose at the collar, a few smudges on his sleeves.

Temari flinched. Just slightly. A half-inch lean backward.

Shikamaru noticed. He didn’t move.

“Sorry,” he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Temari looked at him, her breath still uneven.

His eyes stayed on hers, steady.

A beat passed.

“…Bad dream?” he asked.

She hesitated.

Then slowly shook her head.

“No…” she whispered. “Not a bad dream.”

She gripped the blanket on her lap. Her heart still thundered in her chest—but not from fear.

She looked at Shikamaru again.

He hadn’t stopped watching her.

His presence didn’t make her nervous—it made the buzzing settle. The warmth linger. Like he’d followed her out of the dream just to make sure she was okay.

Temari inhaled deeply.

It wasn’t a bad dream.

It was too vivid. Too much. Too real.

But not bad.

And part of her—maybe a big part—didn’t want to forget it.

Chapter Text

Mid-afternoon sunlight poured through the tall hospital window, splashing warm gold across the floor. Temari fastened the last button of a sand-colored blouse, then tugged her sleeve down to hide the fresh gauze where the IV had been. Home—finally.

The door slid open.

“Hey,” Shikamaru said, stepping in.

“Hey yourself.” She mustered a small smile.

He held out a thick envelope. “Full medical report. Bring it to your follow-up so the nurses don’t hunt you down.”

Temari took it with a nod. “Roger that.”

“Oh—and your fan’s fixed,” he added. “One of Gaara’s guards dropped it at my office this morning. It’s safe at my place till you want it.”

She arched a brow. “Why not send it straight to your apartment?”

“Yeah, right,” he snorted.

Temari smirked. “I already told them I’ll be staying at your apartment for a week.”

Shikamaru’s eyes widened. “You did?”

“Of course not.” She laughed.

“Troublesome woman,” he muttered—then leaned in to steal a quick kiss, lips brushing hers before she could dodge.

They started down the corridor together.

“You’re really spending your birthday here?” he asked.

She nodded. “If I go back to Suna, I’ll bury myself in paperwork. I need the last week of August to breathe—and finish healing.”

“Wise,” he agreed.

“Kankurō?”

“Out front,” Shikamaru said. “Looks annoyingly healthy—Sakura’s intensive care worked wonders.”

“She’s one of the best,” Temari said, sincere.

“No doubt.”

They reached the lobby doors.

“Still having weird dreams?” he asked quietly.

Temari hesitated. “Not lately.”

“You haven’t told me what it was about.”

A flicker of images flashed behind her eyes: Konoha crumbling, a dark-haired child calling Mom, lanterns over Suna, Shikamaru in formal black, candlelit heat.

She inhaled, shook her head just enough to clear it. “I will—once it makes sense.”

“Take your time,” he said.

The doors slid open onto sun-washed steps. Kankurō waved from a wheelchair, grinning; Gaara stood beside him, arms folded, while Sakura chatted with a nurse.

Shikamaru tipped his head toward them. “Come on—let’s get your favorite brother home.”

Temari rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied plenty.”

“Still counts.” He smiled.

Despite herself, Temari smiled back. Her brothers—healthy, waiting—were everything. She stepped into the bright late-summer light, ready for a quieter kind of healing.

But even as the sun warmed her face, a thought tugged quietly at the back of her mind.

She still didn’t know what truly happened in the monastery.

Not the full picture.

Shikamaru hadn't told her much—yet. And something in her gut told her that what happened down there changed him. She would find the time. A quiet hour, the right moment, when their shoulders weren’t so heavy. She’d ask.

And he would tell her. Eventually.