The desert floor burned like a forge beneath their sandals, heat seeping upward until it felt as though it had sunk into their bones. The sun above hammered down without mercy, flattening the air against the earth, smothering every breath.
Even the wind brought no relief, only a rasping, dry exhalation that smelled of scorched stone and dust. Sweat crawled in slow, itchy rivulets down their backs, soaking into fabric already heavy with the day's heat.
Shira's footsteps crunched steadily through the sand, his pace even but burdened by the weight of the temperature. Daiana followed a step behind, her hood drawn low against the glare, one hand resting protectively over the strap of her water gourd. Out here, water wasn't just a resource, it was life, and they all knew it.
They had parted ways with Temari's team earlier that morning. Already, the wind had erased any sign of their passing, smoothing each footprint into perfect, unbroken waves of gold. For hours, nothing broke the silence except the hiss of shifting sand and the low, distant groan of wind curling around the ridges.
Then it came, the sound that didn't belong.
A sharp thunk, the heavy bite of metal sinking deep into sand. A kunai jutted from the ground less than a meter from their left flank, the blade still quivering from the force of the throw. Grit puffed up in a lazy spiral around it, drifting into the hot air.
None of them flinched.
"Position.", Isan said, his voice low and clipped.
Shira was already in motion, breaking forward like a released arrow to meet the threat. Daiana slowly shifted back, her fingers brushing over the fletching of her shuriken, eyes narrowing as they searched the horizon. Isan's hand slipped into his pouch, finding the familiar, balanced weight of three kunai, cool to the touch despite the heat.
Shapes broke against the glare atop the nearest ridge. Five masked figures, their faces hidden, clothes bleached in places by sun and grit. No headbands. No insignia. But their spacing, their posture, this was no rabble. Professionals.
The sand softened their approach, their steps almost soundless until they were nearly within range.
The lead attacker surged forward low, blade drawn in a fast and lethal arc. Isan pivoted, catching the strike against his kunai with a ringing scrape that jarred through his bones. The weapon slid past his hip, and in the same heartbeat, he flicked one of his own kunais outward, not toward the enemy in front of him, but past him.
Mid-flight, the kunai veered sharply, tugged on an almost invisible shimmer of a chakra thread. It buried itself deep into the side of another masked man advancing from Shira's flank.
The effect was instant. The man's steps faltered, knees dipping. His sword arm sagged, breath rasping as sudden sweat broke across his skin. He swayed once, then crumpled to the sand, retching. The toxin, on the kunai, was already at work.
Shira hit his own opponent like a boulder rolling downhill, raw momentum slamming the man back in a spray of sand. The collision staggered him long enough for Shira's hands and elbows to blur in a flurry of strikes. Without hesitation, he tore away and drove toward another masked figure circling from the left.
Isan's fight tightened to a brutal rhythm, strike, deflect, step and pivot. Each clash of kunai and short sword spat sparks in the glaring light, every meeting of steel a momentary flash against the washed-out sand. His opponent pressed with speed, but Isan's balance and precision forced him back, inch by inch.
The fifth enemy had fallen to one knee beside the poisoned man, arm braced around his shoulders. His gaze kept darting between the others, measuring whether the fight was worth the risk.
Daiana's support was constant and coldly precise. Shuriken and kunai cut the air in a measured tempo, each throw angled not just to wound, but to control. Her weapons shifted mid-flight with sudden, unnatural jerks, chakra threads snapping them into new paths with viper-like precision.
One shuriken hissed toward the side of Isan's opponent. He caught it in the corner of his vision and shifted to avoid it, only for it to whip upward, grazing past his guard toward his eye. He flinched, just enough for Isan to crash his opponent's wrist aside and drive a kunai toward his throat, forcing him into a desperate retreat.
The fight rolled on in bursts. One enemy would press, then peel away as another slipped in. Sand churned under Shira's relentless charges, his breathing ragged but his pace unbroken. Daiana's throws came without pause, her wrist sheath delivering steel to her fingers in smooth, practiced motions.
When one masked figure lunged at her, thinking she was open, a kunai curved in from an impossible angle, chakra thread humming faintly as it struck the sand at his feet. He hesitated, half a heartbeat too long, before Shira slammed into him and sent him tumbling.
Then the formation cracked. Without signal or shout, the masked fighters withdrew in perfect unison, fading over the nearest dune. The heat shimmer swallowed them whole. Their tracks were already blurring into nothing under the restless sand.
Silence returned, broken only by Shira's harsh breathing, the faint whistle of wind through fractured rock, and the slow patter of sweat hitting the ground.
Daiana straightened, brushing grit from her knees. She lowered her hood but kept her eyes moving, still scanning the dunes.
"They weren't trying to kill us.", she said flatly.
Isan's gaze lingered on the churned ground, the faint blood trail from the poisoned man, the near-invisible signs of a controlled retreat. His expression didn't shift.
"Forget it.", he said at last. His voice was level, but his eyes were still cold and searching.
"See what we can salvage from the battle. We need to move or the heat will do the rest if we waste time."