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The workshop buzzed with focused enthusiasm. Elder Chiyo was explaining an ancient rune-coupling trick to Sayo—a tiny refinement to the energy circuit of the Mirage. Sayo listened intently, his pen flying across his notes as he visualized the magnetic flux shifting.
Chiyo's words faltered. Her gaze drifted to a mission report half-buried under puppet parts on the desk. One line snagged her eye:
[Two days ago, the "Fangs of Sand" bandits holed up in the western desert's "Ghost-Weep Ravine"—all fifty-three—confirmed wiped out. No survivors.]
The sentence carried a cold magic; it drained the light of puppetry from her eyes. Her fingers trembled, the commanding air she'd worn moments ago crumbling into grief and exhaustion. She straightened slowly, left the Mirage, and carried the report to Sayo with aged hands, her voice husky: "…Look."
Puzzled, Sayo skimmed the page. Eradicating a bandit cell was hardly shocking in the chaotic Land of Wind. He glanced up, not understanding the weight of the paper.
"Who… do you think did it?" Chiyo whispered, as though afraid of the answer.
Sayo reread the details: "…copious poison residue… victims paralyzed in seconds, then killed with surgical strikes… some bodies sliced or pierced by unknown blades… almost no sign of prolonged combat—more a one-sided, high-efficiency massacre…"
A chill rose; a lone, lethal figure loomed in his mind.
"This style—precise, efficient, poisonous, and fond of turning victims into…" Sayo's head snapped up, horror flashing. "Senior Sasori?!"
Chiyo shut her eyes and nodded heavily; the lines on her face deepened. She sank back into her chair, her strength gone. "It's him… Only he 'cleanses' targets this way." Pain laced her voice. "That child… he's chosen the path. Utterly… betrayed the Village."
Silence swallowed the workshop, broken only by the soft, rhythmic hum of the Mirage's Natural Energy Core.
Seeing Chiyo's suddenly haggard profile, Sayo felt a storm of emotions. Sasori—the eccentric genius who'd tutored him in puppetry and gifted him the Salamander data—was now an S-rank rogue, brutal and unbound. And the elder, torn between her runaway grandson and the Village's survival, still soldiered on.
A thought sprouted in Sayo: Sasori's miraculous craft, especially the embryonic idea of a Regeneration Core, represented the pinnacle of puppet engineering. If Sayo could find him, perhaps he could bridge the gap between his own mechanical innovations and Sasori's biological mastery.
Sayo inhaled, his resolve hardening. "Elder Chiyo."
She opened her eyes slowly.
"I… want to try finding him." His voice was calm, clear.
"What?!" Chiyo jerked as if struck. "Do you know what you're saying? Sasori isn't who he was! He's lethal! Seeking him is suicide!"
"I know the danger." Sayo's gaze never wavered. "But I have reasons I must go. First, Sasori's core puppetry may hold keys to perfecting the Mirage. Second, as an independent operative, he might possess unique intelligence on the other Great Nations. Third—" he gestured toward the hovering Mirage "—with its mobility and my Magnet Release, I can scout from the air. I won't rush a fight; I'll observe."
Chiyo stared, searching for hesitation and finding none. She knew this youth: a gentle surface covering an iron will. She opened her mouth to forbid him, but only a long, powerless sigh escaped.
"If you must go," she said, her voice raw with worry, "promise me: never face him directly. At the first sign of danger, flee! Your life outweighs any intel. Swear it."
"I swear." Sayo nodded firmly.
Leaving Chiyo's home, Sayo felt the weight of dusk stretching his shadow. The joy of the Mirage's success ebbed under the sudden gravity of his new mission. Hunting Sasori meant walking into a tiger's lair, but to change the Land of Wind, he had to confront the ghosts of its past.
He lifted his gaze toward the western desert, as though his sight could cross the endless dunes. Sasori, where are you… and what have you become?
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