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Konoha Year 47. The sandstorms of Sunagakure still raged, yet the air carried a tension unlike any other. Rumors of war circled like vultures overhead, impossible to dispel. Reports of border skirmishes arrived daily; the mission board now overflowed with patrol and reconnaissance assignments, their priority levels climbing as the world held its collective breath.
Elder Chiyo stood at her window, gazing down the austere street, her aged eyes heavy with tactical foresight. As one of the Village's top decision-makers, she felt more acutely than anyone that the Shinobi World was sliding toward total chaos. In such times, Sunagakure needed more than just students; it needed warriors who could be deployed directly into the meat grinder.
Her gaze settled on Sayo in the courtyard below. The boy's growth over these past two years had been a statistical anomaly—puppetry, high-level Ninjutsu, advanced toxicology, and Fūinjutsu; in both theoretical depth and execution speed, he had outstripped his peers. Most outstanding were his exquisite chakra control and the fledgling Jiton (Magnet Release) he had awakened—omens of a future without limit.
Yet Chiyo knew: theoretical genius does not equal battlefield lethality. A shinobi is forged only through the crucible of blood and fire. Without real combat—untested by slaughter and sacrifice—the richest knowledge can shatter at the first true crisis. Sayo was now eleven, his physique set, his chakra stable at Chūnin-level; it was time he left this sanctuary and looked the reality of the Ninja World in the eye.
That day, as Sayo finished a rotation of sharpening his wind-nature chakra, an Anbu messenger materialized in a swirl of sand and handed him a scroll sealed in crimson wax.
"Genin Sayo, report to the Fourth Mission Hall at once. You are assigned to temporary 'Sandstorm' squad for border-reconnaissance."
Sayo took the scroll, his heart tightening as his analytical mind shifted into mission-prep mode. He felt no fear—only a cold, engineering eagerness. He needed a live environment to stress-test his inventions.
Back in his hut, he performed a final diagnostic on his gear: the improved "Spider" scout unit, several custom-engineered smoke canisters, high-explosive trap tags, a field medical kit, and the heavy, vital storage scroll containing the Ōgumo transport puppet. Ready, he hurried to the Fourth Mission Hall.
The hall buzzed with grim purpose. Sayo quickly identified his teammates.
Their leader was a lean, business-like man of twenty-eight, his face etched with the stern lines of survival. Two longswords were crossed on his back in the standard Suna combat configuration. Simply standing there, he exuded the honed edge of a veteran. Noticing Sayo, his eyes paused on the boy's young face, his brows flicking with a hint of professional skepticism.
"Special Jōnin, Iryō. Wind specialist, squad captain." The introduction was terse. "You're Sayo? Fall in."
"Yes, Captain Iryō. Genin Sayo—specialties: puppetry and Earth Release." Sayo answered evenly, scanning the other two.
One was a girl about his age, Xu. She was visibly trembling, her fingers twisting her sleeve. She was the portrait of a rookie untouched by the carnage of the front lines. The other was a stocky boy, Lucado, whose chin was lifted with the misplaced pride of a clan-born ninja. His eyes flicked to the puppet scroll on Sayo's back, his disdain for "toy-users" plain.
Iryō took in the dynamic: a fractured squad—himself as the anchor, a timid novice, an arrogant clan kid, and a young puppeteer shoehorned in by the Elders.
"Mission details en route," Iryō barked, his voice like a whetted blade. "From this moment, we are a single tactical unit. My orders are absolute. Any deviation can result in a total squad wipe. Clear?"
"Clear!" the three answered, though their conviction varied wildly.
"Move out!"
At Iryō's word, the four shot from the hall like arrows, racing into the vast, unforgiving sea of sand beyond the Village walls.
Sayo ran at the rear, the coarse wind stinging his face. His eyes remained calm, calculating the distance and wind resistance. The age of theory was over. The true path of the shinobi—thorned, bloodied, and covered in the dust of the Land of Wind—now stretched out beneath his feet.
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