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The skirmish with the Iwagakure elite squad, though a technical victory, had exacted a harrowing toll on the "Sandstorm" unit. Captain Iryō was a shell of his former self, his breathing shallow from internal hemorrhaging and his chakra coils dangerously depleted. Lucado and Xu bore the physical marks of the struggle, but it was the psychological shock—the sudden, violent realization of their own mortality—that weighed heaviest.
They dared not remain in the riverbed. After a frantic tactical sweep for intelligence and a hasty cleanup of the bodies, they forced their aching limbs toward the horizon. After trekking for the better part of a day through the punishing heat of the Gobi, they finally spotted a small settlement nestled in the leeward hollow of a mountain.
The village was a skeletal collection of twenty or thirty earth-packed dwellings, low-slung and dilapidated, as if waiting to be reclaimed by the next sandstorm. At the entrance, several sallow, malnourished children saw the four shinobi—covered in blood, dust, and the jagged steel of their trade—and scurried back into their homes like frightened rabbits.
An old man, his skin like parched leather, trembled as he came out to meet them. His eyes were a haunted mixture of awe and a soul-deep numbness. He offered them an intact, if Spartan, room and brought what little the village could spare: clean water and a meager plate of hard, coarse wheat cakes accompanied by a few pickles.
"I apologize... esteemed shinobi," the Village Chief whispered, his voice as dry as the wind. "This is... all we have."
Iryō thanked him with a weary nod and closed the door. The four of them sat around a low earthen kang, silently gnawing on the tooth-breaking cakes. The room was thick with the sharp scent of medicinal ointment and a heavy, suffocating silence. The relief of survival was quickly being eroded by the grim reality of the land they served.
Sayo leaned against the wall, his gaze drifting through a crack in the door to survey the village.
He saw ragged villagers returning from the barren outskirts, their hands empty after a day of fruitlessly tilling the dust. He saw children wrestling over a single, shriveled sweet potato, their play fueled by desperation rather than joy. He saw an old woman sitting in the twilight, meticulously picking individual grains of sand out of a handful of wheat—her focus so absolute it was as if those grains were the world's last precious jewels.
The air was thick with the scent of poverty, thirst, and a numbness forged by generations of hardship.
This wasn't an isolated incident. During their search missions, they had traversed dozens of similar oases. Almost always, the blueprint was the same:
Barren Landscapes: The yellow sand was a living predator, devouring fertile fields and making water more valuable than gold.
Resource Scarcity: Food, medicine, and textiles were luxuries.
Systemic Oppression: Bandits, rogue ninja, and the pawns of smaller villages treated these people as a harvest to be reaped.
In his previous life as Liu Yu, he had been an engineer—a man who looked at a problem and sought a structural solution. In this life, he had focused on personal survival and the refinement of his craft. But seeing these people—the very foundation upon which Sunagakure was built—living in such wretchedness struck a chord deep within his soul.
What are we fighting to protect? he wondered. Is it merely a graveyard of sand where our own people cannot live in peace?
The silence of his father, Sharyu; the mounting worries of Elder Chiyo; the twisted hatred of Sasori—every tragedy of the Sand seemed rooted in the inherent cruelty of this land.
A vague yet firm resolve took root in Sayo's mind. It wasn't the impulsive boast of a child, but the cold, calculated intent of a master builder. He didn't just want to fix his own frail body. He wanted to fix the country.
His engineering mind began to whir, calculating the variables of a national-scale project.
Magnet Release can manipulate gold dust—but can it be used to restructure the silicon in the sand to create arable soil? Can my Puppet Technique be adapted to build massive irrigation networks or automated farming arrays? Can Medical Ninjutsu be industrialized to treat the masses? Can Sealing Jutsu be used to lock moisture into the atmosphere or create permanent water reservoirs?
Ideas sparked like short-circuiting wires. The "Great Spider" was a vehicle, but it could be a plow. The "Spider" scouts were spies, but they could be geological surveyors.
He looked out at the desolate land, now gilded in the blood-red light of the setting sun. His gaze was no longer just sympathetic; it was clinical. He was no longer just a shinobi on a mission; he was an architect surveying a site.
Repairing the Body Tempering Furnace was his immediate priority—the foundation of his own strength. But transforming the Land of Wind into a prosperous empire? That was the grand design.
The fatigue of battle remained, but Sayo's eyes were brighter than they had ever been. He had found a purpose that transcended the war.
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