The desert had not loosened its grip on them, even after three weeks. The trial still clung to their skin like grit that refused to be washed away, ground into every pore and scar. The memories lingered just as stubbornly: the searing heat, the endless dunes, the cruel choices that had to be made.
Three weeks, and now the Academy loomed again. Its sun-bleached walls offered no comfort, no acknowledgement of what they had endured. The great doors opened, and the students filed inside as though nothing had changed.
Inside, the routine continued unbroken. The instructor droned at the front of the room, his voice as flat as ever, urging the children to perfect their calligraphy strokes. The students dipped their brushes, shoulders hunched, repeating the same loops and lines they had been forced to draw for months.
Daiana lowered herself onto the bench with a hiss of disbelief.
"After everything that happened… this? How can the routine stay the same", her lip curled as she dragged the ink across the paper.
Shira sat rigidly, his knuckles pale against the desk. His gaze swept the room, familiar faces alive, others missing forever. His chest rose and fell, stiff, controlled.
"It's the same.", he muttered, voice tight.
Isan's eyes tracked the chalkboard, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
Temari had returned earlier than them, already present in the class. She sat near the window, posture relaxed but gaze sharp, her fan folded neatly across her lap. She didn't wave when they entered. She never did, not in front of others.
But when her eyes caught Isan's, her chin dipped in the barest acknowledgment, so faint only someone watching for it would notice.
Two girls flanked her sides, each carrying a presence that contrasted yet complemented the other.
They were Sen and Yome.
Sen sat closest, her back straight, posture firm as if she were carved from stone. Her hair was a light brown curtain tied into a neat braid, not a strand out of place, her expression composed and quietly severe. Her eyes, sharp and brown that seemed to be carrying weight of someone who had already seen too much for her age.
There was nothing careless about her; even the way her hands rested on the desk seemed deliberate, disciplined, as though she was always prepared to rise at a moment's notice.
Yome, by contrast, appeared lighter in form and air, her frame lean and wiry. Her hair, darker and fine, was tied into a twin ponytail. Her gaze, however, was never idle. Orange eyes flicked constantly from detail to detail, sharp and restless, like an animal alert for predators.
Together, the three girls formed an odd triad: Temari, brash and commanding, the daughter of power; Sen, composed, a shield of steel; and Yome, light and quick.
The lesson dragged on as if time itself had been caught in the ink strokes. The instructor's voice droned, chalk scraping across the board, the same old rhythm they had all endured for years now. For those who had been through the desert, it was almost insulting, to return alive only to be treated as though nothing had changed.
When the class ended, benches scraped against stone and sandals shuffled toward the courtyard. Temari rose first, snapping her fan shut against her palm with a practiced motion. Sen and Yome moved with her, the trio threading through the departing students with an ease that spoke of familiarity and habit.
Isan, Daiana, and Shira found themselves walking near them without words exchanged, pulled together by the silent bond only survivors could understand. The air outside was sharp with heat, the glare of the sun bouncing off sand and pale stone until it felt like walking through fire.
The training yard was alive with the thud of fists striking padded posts, the ring of wooden weapons clashing, and the dry scuff of sandals kicking up dust. Instructors barked commands from shaded perches, but most of the work was repetition from kata and drills to formations.
The kind of training that dulled the mind through sheer monotony.
Daiana exhaled sharply, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
"Ten days in hell and three weeks fighting for our lives, and they welcome us back with this circus.", her voice dripped with disdain.
Shira's fists clenched at his sides. He said nothing, but his jaw was set tight, his silence speaking for him.
Isan walked at their center, listening to the exchange without breaking stride. He had no illusions. This indifference, this refusal of the world to acknowledge suffering, was not a mistake.
It was the system itself. And it was that same system that would decide which of them lived long enough to be remembered.
After all, Naruto's history was filled to the brim with suffering, pain and death.
The circle they formed wasn't planned, but neither was it coincidence. Survivors always recognized each other, even when nothing was spoken. The silence stretched for a breath too long before Daiana broke it, shifting her weight onto one hip and folding her arms.
"So,", she said, her tone halfway between curiosity and a challenge, "you two made it back."
Sen's eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable.
"Obviously."
The single word carried weight, but not arrogance, more like a wall being raised.
Daiana smirked faintly.
"Good."
Yome glanced between them, her lips parting as though to speak, then closing again. When she finally did, her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
"Our teammate didn't."
The words came flat, without flourish, but the silence that followed pressed heavier than any boast.
Shira looked down, his fists tightening at his sides. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his throat working against words he couldn't find.
Finally, he muttered, "A lot of ours didn't either."
That, at least, drew Yome's gaze to him. Something softened in her sharp eyes.
Sen shifted slightly, her posture relaxing just enough to suggest acceptance.
Isan had been silent through it all, his expression unreadable, until Temari turned toward him, raising one brow, he gave the faintest shrug.
"It's sad but to survive we need to be stronger."
Temari's lips quirked, sharp and amused.
"Or the ones too stubborn to die."
The moment, fragile and brief, passed. Temari flicked her fan open with a snap, the steel edges catching the sun.
"Enough talk. We're not here to mope."
Her gaze locked on Isan, a spark hidden deep in her green eyes.
"Isan. Spar with me."