The circle broke slowly, students peeling away in twos and threes, voices buzzing low like hornets.
The dirt bore the marks of violence: gouges from missteps, footprints overlapping in a frenzy, a smear of blood where Daimaru had fallen.
Shira's fists were raw, his knuckles dark with bruises and faintly glistening. Daimaru spat crimson into the dust, his breath ragged, his eyes still carrying the humiliated glaze of defeat. Even as they dispersed, the weight of the fight lingered, clinging to the yard like smoke refusing to rise.
Daiana moved first, her stride confident but unhurried, nudging Shira with her elbow as if to remind him the match was already behind them.
"You could've ended it faster.", she said, her voice teasing but edged with sincerity.
Shira huffed in response, his jaw clenched tight, too disciplined to complain yet too proud to admit her point. Isan's gaze flicked toward her, a faint curl at the corner of his lips betraying amusement.
Daiana laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained, spilling into the evening air. It carried with them as they left the yard, her laughter like a banner of triumph stretched above their heads, even if none of them claimed it aloud.
The academy walls rose cool and steady, their stone surface catching the flicker of lanterns that burned in steady rows. Shadows bent and stretched across the sand-packed floors, thinning into long streaks as though the walls themselves were listening.
Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone, each tap reminding them they were still alive, still walking forward, still together after another day that could have ended differently. Nothing stirred but the faint hiss of the evening wind slipping through the narrow passages.
Soon they separated, as Daiana tossed a few light remarks before excusing herself. Her stride was steady, head high, but a faint shine gathered at the corner of her eyes.
Only when the door closed behind her and the silence of the bathroom wrapped around her did the mask slip. Her steps faltered, dragging faintly against the floor. She braced herself against the cold wall, her left arm clutched tight against her chest as though she could hold herself together by force alone. Tears welled and broke, sliding free despite her struggle.
The room did not comfort her. The stone was indifferent, the dim glow harsh. For a long while she stood unmoving, eyes locked on the unyielding ground as her chest shuddered with each breath.
'I should have saved more… Why did they die while I'm still here?'
The thought rose sharp, bitter, and relentless. Faces surged through her memory, pale and broken, eyes wide in horror. She heard the voices again, high and desperate, their cries piercing through the fog of memory. The scents returned with them: blood sharp and metallic, pus sour and rotting, and the dry stinging grit of desert sand.
It all started after waking up in the hospital with her mind and body relaxed and healing. In that haze the first face appeared it was of the girl that died in the desert trial while staring at her.
Every time Daiana closed her eyes, that face surfaced again, etched with fear, panic, and despair. Her cries only deepened Daiana's own terror.
'... what should I do... they can't know... no one can know...', the thought repeated, frantic and desperate.Tears streamed freely and dripped down below, already forming a puddle, as she breathed to regain strength and compose herself.
The yard beyond the academy walls had emptied further, the air carrying the cool bite of night. Isan cut across the sand, his stride deliberate, lantern light brushing across his shoulders in fleeting passes. Each flame that lined the walls seemed weaker, as though night pressed harder than usual.
A sharp clatter made him pause, turning in search for the source of the sound he found him.
Kankurō stood alone, his shoulders rigid, fingers splayed. Thin threads of chakra stretched from his hands, catching the lantern light in faint glimmers.
At their ends a practice puppet dummy jerked upright, a silhouette of limbs and joints, movements stiff and uneven.
The puppet stumbled forward, swung too wide, then collapsed into the sand.
Kankurō cursed under his breath, dragging it up again, forcing its head to turn, arms to rise. Each movement strained, each correction snapped too hard, the threads straining like veins pulled too tight.
Isan lingered at the edge of the yard, watching.
Karasu twitched upright, its shadow stretching long across the sand. Kankurō's gaze snapped sideways, catching Isan in the dim. His lip curled faintly.
"What? Think it's funny?"
Isan met his stare, voice even.
"No. Just watching."
The silence stretched between them.
Kankurō scoffed, jerking the puppet's arm until it rattled.
"Why didn't you stick with it? I heard you were good with chakra threads.", his tone was flat, but the bite underneath was clear.
"Decided it wasn't worth your time?"
Isan let the question hang for a moment.
"... no. Just I didn't think it was for me.", outwardly calm, though his thoughts told a harsher truth.
'Unless I went down the rabbit hole that Sasori pursued. The difficulty in pursuing puppetry isn't worth it, after all, besides Sasori there are only two puppet masters that I remember, the old lady and this guy.'
Isan turned away, footsteps crunching soft across the sand until the yard swallowed him back into shadow. Behind him, the puppet shuddered upright again, limbs twitching, the sound of its joints rasping through the night.
'Not to mention that a puppet master' strength is mostly influenced by their puppets.'