Chapter 77: Pakura's First Day at Work 6
Souta stood frozen in front of the old door made of solid sand, characteristic of the buildings in Sunagakure—its rough surface holding the sun's warmth like it held secrets.
The sound of footsteps behind Souta was faint, an empty echo from the long corridor they had just passed through.
But Souta's world seemed to shrink, narrowing down to that door alone. He gripped the string of his food pouch tighter, the skin of his fingers turning white from the pressure.
The only thing Souta could feel was a subtle pulse in his wrist—quick, thumping, like a small drum welcoming something unknown.
There was something behind there.
Not fear. Nor a bad omen looming.
But a pressure. It felt as if Souta stood at the edge of a stage, behind a thick curtain, with the future unfolding before him. Not just any future—but a future that stared back, waiting, testing, teasing.
When the door was pushed open, the creak of the door echoed like a breath held too long finally released. Light from within assaulted Souta's eyes, causing him to squint for a moment. Then the world opened up.
A room stretched as wide as the sky—its vastness was absurd, as if all its walls deceived perspective.
The floor of rough marble reflected the sound of footsteps and the clinking of metal. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly cut wood mixed with the sharp scent of lacquer and polish, merging into a distinctive fragrance that, for some reason, made Souta's chest feel full.
Above them, black steel support beams spanned like the spine of a giant, holding up a ceiling that hung high in the dim light.
But the most striking thing was not the architecture of this room.
It was its contents.
Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of wooden dolls in various conditions were scattered everywhere. Some stood stiff, unfinished, their bodies half-naked with strings dangling.
Some lay helpless on the floor—broken, shattered, gaping, faces cracked like old masks that once cried. Some were merely fragments: heads without bodies, hands missing fingers, torsos marred with black burn marks.
Wood shavings and small metal pieces littered the ground like ash after a battle.
This place was not just a workshop.
It was a battlefield. A museum. A graveyard. A birthplace and a burial site all at once.
Amidst the chaos, people were working. Some craftsmen lifted and examined pieces with sharp eyes, their fingers moving quickly and skillfully.
Some tested joint connections, twisting wooden wrists until a precise click was heard.
On the other side, a woman with her hair in a high bun appeared to be sewing small clothes—miniature costumes that would later be worn by the dolls on stage.
Souta stood transfixed. His chest rose and fell slowly, as if he were trying to swallow the entire scene with his breath.
Souta's eyes reflected thousands of shapes—hand movements, flashes of tools, silhouettes of dolls moving slowly through Kugutsu no Jutsu, as if rising from the dead momentarily to be tested again.
Souta's feelings seemed to boil. But not in a wild, angry way.
It was a slow, deep simmer—like embers lying beneath ash, ready to ignite at any moment.
Souta always knew why he accepted this job. Money, of course. Living as an orphan in Sunagakure was not easy. But more than that... far more than that...
It was where Souta wanted to learn.
Not learning from a teacher. But from the world. From this room. From the smallest details that others overlooked. From the movements of the craftsmen, from the shape of chakra threads, from the way each doll was controlled.
Where Souta knew the performances here were merely drama, not battles. But the techniques—the techniques were real. Kugutsu no Jutsu was here, hidden behind the stage.
If Souta could be quiet enough. Observant enough. Then he could learn it. Absorb it with his eyes and heart.
...
Chapter 78: Pakura's First Day at Work 7
The sound of someone's footsteps pulled Souta back into the real world.
"Our task is over there," said the old man in front of them. His voice was heavy, echoing softly yet surely.
He pointed to a corner of the room, where piles of wooden puppet bodies lay scattered like war casualties. "See? We need to sort that pile. The parts that can be salvaged will be set aside for repairs. The rest, throw into the bin."
Souta looked at the man's face. It was hard, sunburned, with narrow eyes that sparkled with intelligence, as if he had seen too many failures and continued to work despite knowing everything would break again.
Perhaps this old man was some sort of leader among the cleaners. Maybe a former puppet maker. Perhaps an art lover who had given up.
Souta didn't care. He simply nodded.
They began to move.
Their small steps filled the quiet room. In the corner, the rhythmic sound of metal being struck could be heard. Some puppets began to move slowly, being tested for performance, as if they were also watching Souta and his group.
In the designated area, piles of body parts awaited like a puzzle to be reassembled. Arms with missing fingers. Legs full of holes. Puppet heads with only one eye left. Some with fine carvings, others with black burn marks on their wooden faces.
Souta, Pakura, and the others began to work. Souta's hand reached out, touching the cold, rough wood. He lifted a puppet's head, its weight making his arm tremble slightly, staring into the empty eyes made of agate. Souta examined the cracks in the neck, calculating the chances of whether it could still be used.
The salvageable ones had to be placed on the right side, lined up neatly like troops ready for retraining. The severely damaged ones were thrown into a large bin that gaped like a giant's belly, swallowing failure after failure.
A thin layer of dust rose each time a body part was moved. The air felt heavy, yet full. Full of hope, full of possibilities.
And amidst it all, Souta knew:
Souta was not just cleaning.
He was also observing. Remembering. Learning.
In the silence, Souta began to write his own story. With fingers gripping the wood, with eyes stealing knowledge, with a heart that refused to accept an ordinary fate.
This was Souta's place of learning. And even though Souta did not yet have a wooden puppet—he knew one thing:
That Souta would have a wooden puppet and perhaps begin to learn Kugutsu no Jutsu. Sooner or later.
...
...
...
Time continued to pass, and finally, the work in the Multi-Purpose Production Room came to an end.
The sky of Sunagakure had turned a deep blackish blue, rippling with the faint light of stars shining behind the thin curtain of sand carried by the night wind.
The aroma of dry, scorched desert still lingered in the air, even as the temperature slowly dropped, replaced by a gentle breeze brushing against the skin like a quiet whisper.
Amidst the sounds of crickets and the hum of the night, the sound of worn sandals touching the sandy ground echoed softly, walking in unison through the narrow streets of the village.
Souta and Pakura walked side by side. Their small bodies contrasted sharply with the vast world they inhabited—a shinobi world, a harsh world that left no time for children to simply be children.
Their steps were calm, occasionally punctuated by small nods or silent glances, as if the unspoken conversation was more important than words. The light from hanging lanterns of tea shops and night food stalls flickered gently in the wind, casting their shadows on the tall, rough sand walls of the buildings.
"How was it, Pakura?" Souta finally spoke up, his tone light, as if trying to melt the overly quiet air between them. "What was it like on your first day working as a cleaner in the Puppet Arts Performance Theater?"
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