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The Land of Wind's dry, sandy wind—mingled with the scent of sun-scorched rock—swept over him. Unlike the moist greenery of the Land of Rivers or the Land of Fire, this endless golden sea of sand now felt both intimately familiar and… oppressive to Sayo.
The escort team slowly passed through Hidden Sand's colossal stone gate. The guards recognized them; when their eyes fell on the stretcher-borne comrades—broken, bleeding, some missing limbs—they showed a mixture of pity, grimness, and the weary resignation of routine.
Sayo had no time for sympathy. He directed the escorts to hand over the wounded—Captain Iryō among them—to the waiting medical squad. More than ten critical cases were transferred onto specialized stretchers and rushed to Hidden Sand Hospital for long-term care. Watching Iryō's vacant, exhausted gaze as he was carried away, Sayo felt a boulder settle in his chest.
When the tedious debriefing ended, dusk was falling. Sayo stood alone outside the quiet mission office, watching the Village painted gold and crimson by the setting sun.
It was the forty-eighth year of Konoha. In the blink of an eye, half a year had passed since he'd left for the Land of Rivers front. Those months felt longer than entire years. He had seen too much, lost too much… changed too much.
He drew a deep breath and started toward home. The streets felt emptier than memory, the villagers' smiles scarcer, their faces shadowed by war. After Fourth Kazekage Rasa's audience with the daimyō, budget cuts had rippled through every corner of the Village.
At the familiar doorway he paused, then knocked.
The door opened quickly. His father, Sharyu, stood there—grayer at the temples, older, dressed in plain house clothes instead of the standard Chūnin vest. What struck Sayo most was the absence of the sharp, busy glint that once marked the veteran Puppeteer; in its place lay a calm, almost lonely leisure.
"Father, I'm back," Sayo said softly.
Sharyu stared, startled, then broke into radiant joy. "Sayo! You're home—good, good!" He stepped aside, studying his son head to toe, incredulous. "Taller, stronger—excellent!"
Inside, nothing had changed, yet the rooms felt hollow. In the corner, his father's well-kept puppet-maintenance tools wore a thin layer of dust.
They sat at the table; Sharyu poured water at once, eager for news from the front.
Sayo cupped the glass, hesitated, then began. He held nothing back: first battlefield nerves, skirmishes with Rock ninja, the terror of Kumogakure's AB combo, the life-and-death clash with Sasori, the crushing despair of the Uchiha's Sharingan, Lucado's brutal death, the Ino–Shika–Chō ambush, final days in the field hospital… His tone stayed level, but the cruelty, the grief, the brush with death rang clear.
Sharyu listened in silence, smile gone, brows locked, fingers trembling around his cup. When he heard his son had fought the traitor Sasori, met the legendary Uchiha, watched comrades die, his face paled, eyes filling with dread and heartache.
"…Captain Iryō's hand is crippled. Lucado… fell. Xu chose to stay at the field hospital and study Medical Ninjutsu." Sayo finished, voice low.
A long hush fell. Sunset stretched their shadows across the floor.
At last Sharyu sighed, hoarse. "You've suffered, child… I never imagined it was so grim." He studied the eyes that had lost all boyishness and gained a deep, steady strength, and felt a rush of pride and pain: his son had grown into a true, formidable Ninja far sooner than any father would wish.
"I… have retired," Sharyu added, voice tinged with resignation and relief.
Sayo looked at him; though he'd suspected it, hearing it still jolted him.
"After Lord Rasa became Kazekage, funds ran tight. To keep the front lines supplied, veterans with old wounds—like me—were let go." Sharyu gave a wry smile, part bitter, part freed. "Well, these old bones can rest. The future belongs to you youngsters now."
He met Sayo's gaze, pride shining through a flicker of worry. "You've outgrown me, son. But remember—come back alive. Nothing else matters."
Sayo nodded firmly. Home was still sanctuary; amid the storms outside, even with his father retired, it offered precious calm and warmth.
He gazed out: lamps flickered to life across Hidden Sand as dusk deepened. The war went on, his road stretched far, but for now he savored this fleeting peace.
He knew his father's understanding would be one strength driving him forward. Next, he had vital work awaiting—concerning a blueprint the size of a wristwatch.
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