By the end of the third day, the hollow smelled of old blood, of sweat and smoke, of survival stretched to its thinnest thread.
They knew they could not stay.
The water, though precious, was too meager to last, and so, with the slow deliberation of the condemned, they began to prepare for the march back to Sunagakure.
At dawn of the fourth day of recovery, but the tenth and final day of the test and journey from the Ninja Academy; they lifted the injured. The strongest paired with the weakest, dragging bodies in makeshift slings, arms slung across shoulders, steps uneven but resolute.
Isan bent low, hauling Shira across his back. The boy's weight was deadened by fever, his breath shallow, but Isan bore it without a word. He staggered, sweat dripping down his neck, but he never loosened his grip. Daiana walked beside them, her hand hovering near Shira's chest, her chakra flickering faintly against the pulse of his heart to keep it steady.
Temari took the lead, her eyes scanning the horizon, her body tense, as she was ready to engage in battle at any moment
The march stretched endlessly.
The sun blazed high, and they staggered beneath it.
Blood crusted black on their clothes, flies gathering where wounds had not been covered well enough.
Thirst gnawed at them even with rationed sips of water, and still they pressed forward.
When Sunagakure's walls finally rose from the shimmering haze, it felt unreal, like a mirage born of exhaustion.
The gates yawned open as they approached, figures waiting in sharp silhouettes against the sand-bright stone.
The instructors stood in a line, hard-eyed, silent. At their front, Baki stepped forward, his expression unreadable.
"You did well.", he said simply.
The words fell like stones into the silence. Some of the trainees nearly collapsed with relief.
Temari flinched.
"Well... well? We lost... we lost half of them..."
Baki's eyes didn't waver.
"Losses were expected. It's always bad to lose good suna blood, but without sacrifices Sunagakure wouldn't be standing today.", his voice was flat, but his gaze cut across them like blades.
Isan and Daiana exchanged a glance. The same thought flashed in their tired minds, it had all been orchestrated. The instructors were aware of everything that happened.
The first ambush they suffered, the bandits, and that deathly scorpion.
Smiling a little to himself, Isan was about to shake that ridiculous thought away, when he felt a burning gaze on him. That was when he caught the glare of one instructor, pure hatred, sharp and venomous.
Temari bit her lip until she tasted blood, shoulders trembling.
Daiana lowered her gaze, hands still trembling with phantom movements of healing.
Shira, pale but breathing, leaned against Isan's shoulder and stared, blankly, at the sand, silent.
The gates loomed wide, swallowing them back into the village that had sent them out to bleed.
Far away, near the desert's edge, a lone figure stumbled across the dunes.
It was the scarred bandit, the one that had guided Isan and the others to the saand bandit camp, that was his home, till now.
His skin, once darkened by sun and fire, now peeled in ragged strips. His lips had split to the gums, every breath a wheeze that rattled in his chest.
His clothes hung from him like torn banners, stiff with dried blood and salt. Flies clung stubbornly to the wounds across his shoulders, feeding on him as though he were already carrion.
The scarred bandit who had led them to the camp cursed with every breath.
"Damn that leader… damn this desert… damn those brats…"
Each word was spat between coughs, each step dragging furrows through the sand. His knees buckled, throwing him forward into the ground.
He clawed himself back up, spitting blood into the dunes, staining them black under the sunlight.
"Especially… that boy.", his throat hitched, rage clawing past weakness.
"That cursed boy…"
A image flickered in his mind, the image of Isan. His cold and indifferent eyes looking at him, it sent a chill down his back, especially when he remembered the devious and brutal plan that same boy devised.
He laughed then, broken and jagged, the sound carrying only as far as the next gust of wind before it died. His laughter turned into a cough, spattering his chin red.
He wiped it away with a trembling hand, smearing blood down to his collar.
"Thought you were smart, huh? Thought you were strong? You'll die out here. Everyone dies out here… "
A shadow flickered behind him.
A cold blade drew across his throat, and he collapsed, choking, blood soaking into sand. As his vision faded, he looked up and saw a very tall man. He had two distinctive, red markings on the right side of his face, the only visible part of his head, with the rest being covered by his turban-like head gear and by a sheet hanging from it on the left side of his face. He was donning the standard attire of a Suna-nin, complete with a forehead protector and flak jacket. It was Baki.
But then, as his last breath rattled out, the figure dissolved into smoke.
Only the corpse in desert remained.