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Konoha Year 43. Sunagakure remained a village gasping for air, pinned between the memory of defeat and the reality of dwindling resources. At the Academy, Sayo maintained his efficient, ghost-like routine, moving through the curriculum as though the world outside didn't exist. But a single report from the distant Land of Fire slammed into the village leadership like a meteor hitting the sand.
The message was brief, classified, and catastrophic: Kakashi Hatake, seven years old, had been promoted to Chūnin.
A seven-year-old Chūnin.
The shockwave in the Kazekage's office was absolute. The Third Kazekage stared at the scroll, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, heavy beat against the desk. His face was a mask of cold fury. Around him, advisors exchanged glances of deep-seated dread.
"Sakumo Hatake's son…" one elder whispered. That name—the White Fang—was still a fresh wound in the desert.
"Seven years old. Chūnin," another repeated, the words refusing to settle. "If Konoha can produce monsters like this, where does that leave the balance of power? This is a declaration of national strength for the next twenty years."
Panic and defeatism, the silent killers of a village's spirit, began to seep through the walls. The Third Kazekage rose, walking to the window to look out at the half-ruined streets. Konoha was using this "prodigy" as a psychological weapon, and the Sand's flagging morale couldn't take another blow.
He turned, his voice low and dangerous. "Konoha has their 'genius.' Does our Sand have none?"
Every eye snapped to him.
"Fetch Elder Chiyo at once."
Soon, Chiyo stood before him. Her aged face was a desert of wrinkles, unreadable, yet her eyes flickered with a complex light—pride in her grandson's gifts, and a grandmother's heavy misgivings. She knew the hollow loneliness that lived behind Sasori's eyes.
"Elder Chiyo," the Kazekage stated, brooking no argument. "We need a counter-voice to Konoha's propaganda. Sasori's gifts are the treasures of this village. It is time the Ninja World learns that the Wind also births unrivaled prodigies."
This was a command of state. Personal privacy and Sasori's isolation were sacrificed for national prestige.
And so, a propaganda campaign unfurled. Official channels began "leaking" Sasori's feats. Stories spread of the eleven-year-old who had mastered every puppet art and could craft high-grade combat units solo. His title, "Sasori of the Red Sand," was polished and projected until it echoed through the teahouses of the Land of Wind and beyond.
The villagers clung to it. They spoke of Sasori as the one who would wash away the taste of defeat and balance the terror of Konoha's seven-year-old Chūnin. In days, Sasori was sculpted into an emblem of hope.
In the Maintenance Squad, the artisans gossiped during their breaks. "Did you hear? Lord Sasori is incredible!" "Let's see Konoha act smug now!"
Sayo sat in his corner, polishing a tiny component, his black eyes calm. He had seen Sasori's work; he knew the brilliance was real, even if the propaganda was inflated. But to him, this forced glory felt wrong. It smelled of political desperation.
He thought of Kakashi Hatake. Seven years old and already a Chūnin. He visualized the skill required—the speed, the chakra capacity, the tactical mind. The world was indeed becoming a place of monsters.
Invisible pressure mounted. Konoha's prodigy had spurred the Sand, and the Sand's counter-move would undoubtedly prod the other Great Villages. A silent race for the future had begun.
Sayo lowered his head and kept filing. The uproar meant nothing to him. Kakashi and Sasori were both yardsticks on his road. His task was to keep learning, to keep refining his "Spider," and to keep building his "Internal Furnace."
His path didn't lie beneath the stage lights, but amid the silent seas of knowledge and the cold, gleaming metal of the forge.
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