I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

The black line is getting longer and longer.

The main force of the supply team came over from behind the sand dunes—not just a few people, but dozens.

Camels, horse-drawn carriages, and ninjas escorting the ninjas.

The cargo boxes on the wagon were covered with sand-proof cloth, and underneath the cloth were bulging, it was unclear whether they contained grain, kunai (a type of Japanese magic weapon), or explosive tags.

A person rode on the back of a camel, carrying a knife on their back. The scabbard was wrapped with a red cloth strip from the Sand Village, which fluttered in the wind.

There was a sedan chair in the middle of the procession.

It wasn't an ordinary sedan chair; it was made of solidified sand, translucent, like a piece of amber.

There was a person sitting in the sedan chair. His face was not visible, only his outline could be seen—thin, hunchbacked, with long fingers.

Chiyo.

An advisor to Sunagakure and the progenitor of puppeteers.

Her hands were on her knees, her fingers moving rhythmically, not unconsciously, but as if she were playing a piano.

Chakra threads extended from her fingertips, connecting to the two puppets outside the palanquin.

One figure in human form and one figure in animal form walked on either side of the sedan chair, like two dogs.

Shuoge stopped breathing.

It wasn't out of fear, but because of the eyes of those two puppets—carved from wood, painted black, reflecting the sunlight.

Those two eyes swept from left to right, from the sand ridge to the sand valley, overlapping with the gazes of the two Jonin.

Sakumo's fingers twitched again.

This time, it wasn't raising the index finger, but making a fist.

Clench, then release.

It means—don't move.

Shuoge did not move.

He removed his fingers from the hilt of the knife and plunged them into the sand.

The sand was hot, but his hands were cold.

Chiyo's puppet walked past the sand dune where they were hiding, so close that Sakugo could see the metallic sheen at the puppet's joints and hear the sound of gears turning inside.

Chakra threads swept across his head, thin and transparent like spider silk, shimmering briefly in the sunlight.

The three-tomoe Sharingan saw the thread, and also the other end of the thread—Chiyo's finger.

The finger twitched slightly, very lightly, like plucking a string. The puppet's head turned halfway around, its two dark eyes facing the direction where Shuoge was hiding.

Shuoge was not breathing.

His heart stopped beating, his blood stopped flowing, and his body, like a stone, was buried in the sand, becoming one with the desert.

The wind blew across the dunes, erasing the last traces he left behind.

The puppet's head turned back.

Chiyo's fingers stopped.

The sedan chair glided beneath the sand dunes, its sand walls shimmering in the sunlight like a flowing mirror.

The procession walked for a long time.

From the setting sun, the sky turned reddish, then purple, then gray. The last camel walked across the hollow, its hooves leaving deep imprints on the sand, which were then filled in by the wind.

The desert returned to silence.

There was only wind, only sand, and the distant cry of a bird, one cry after another, like a sob.

Shuoge sat up from the sand.

His face was white, his lips were white, his fingers were white. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth; he had bitten it, not out of fear, but out of endurance. He endured it for two hours, until his blood had gone cold.

Sakumo stood beside him, looking down at him.

The white knife was already in his hand.

He didn't speak, but just looked at Shuoge, at that bloodless face, at those Sharingan pupils that hadn't yet closed.

Then he reached out his hand.

Shuoge looked at the hand and grasped it. Shuomao pulled him out of the sand.

The two men stood on the sand dune, watching the direction in which the group had disappeared. Only a dark red hue remained on the horizon, like an unhealed wound.

"Tonight," Sakumo said.

Shuo Ge nodded.

tonight.

Wait until they set up camp, wait until they lower their guard, wait until Chiyo's fingers stop "playing the piano".

Then, in the darkest night, in the deepest sandy valley, he drew his sword.

He shook the sand out of his clothes, took the knife from behind his back, and re-tied the belt.

The strips of cloth wrapped around the hilt of the knife were soaked with sweat and blood, but he didn't care. He just gripped it tightly until his knuckles turned white.

Night falls quickly in the desert. As soon as the sun sets, the temperature drops, becoming as cold as a knife.

Shogo stood on the sand dune, looking at the distant firelight—the Sand Village's camp, lit in the hollow like an open eye. He took his sword from behind his back and gripped it in his hand.

The wind flows silently over the blade.

Sakumo stood beside him, his white sword already drawn. Moonlight shone on the blade, giving it a cold gleam.

"Stay close to me," Sakumo said.

Shuoge did not speak.

Tonight is sure to be a big battle!

-

The desert night wind is like a knife.

Shuoge lay on the back of the dune, his body pressed against the cold sand, his eyes fixed on the small fire in the hollow.

The Sand Village's temporary camp was set up between two sand dunes, with a dozen tents arranged in a semicircle, and supply boxes piled in the middle, covered with sand-proof cloth.

The camels lay on the outskirts, and the sound of them ruminating carried far through the night.

There were three campfires, arranged in a triangle, illuminating every corner of the camp. The patrolling Sand Ninjas walked in pairs, circling the camp at a steady pace, with even intervals, like pendulums.

The support team has not yet arrived.

Chiyo is still in the camp.

The two puppets stood outside her tent, one on the left and one on the right, their wooden eyes reflecting the firelight like two crouching dogs.

Shuoge's fingers were stuck in the sand; it was cold.

His breathing was very slow, so slow that his chest barely moved.

His three-tomoe Sharingan had been withdrawn, and now his eyes were black, blending into the night.

He glanced at Sakumo beside him.

The man lay prone three meters away, a white knife held horizontally in front of him, its scabbard buried in the sand, only the hilt visible.

His eyes were half-closed, but his pupils were constricted, like a cat lying in the grass.

But Shuoge noticed the bloodshot veins in his eyes—very fine, very dense, like a spider web. He hadn't slept well for many days.

The two men had been lying there for half an hour. Silent and motionless, like two stones. The wind blew across the dunes, erasing their footprints and carrying away their scent.

"Two choices."

Sakumo's voice was very soft, as soft as sand slipping through his fingers. "Make your move now before the backup arrives. Or wait until Chiyo finishes the handover and leaves with her men."

Smart people know how to choose.

Chiyo was the strongest puppeteer in Sunagakure; the title of the Chikamatsu Ten was well-deserved.

Her chakra threads can sever the throats of a squad in an instant, and her puppets can silently reap lives in the darkness.

It's not that I can't win against her head-on, it's just that there's no need to.

Once the backup team arrived, Chiyo handed the person over to them and then left.

At that time, only the escorting troops remained in the camp; there was no Chiyo, no advisors, only supplies and escorts.

That's when it's time to take action.

"Wait," said Shuoge.

Sakumo neither nodded nor shook his head. He stared at the firelight in the camp for a while.

"You rest first. I'll call you when the backup arrives."

Shuoge did not move.

He looked at Sakumo's profile—the firelight flickered in the distance, casting a dim glow on his weary face.

He had deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a patch of bluish stubble on his chin.

Those eyes were bloodshot, but there was something else. It wasn't alertness, it was sheer willpower. The kind of willpower that pushes the body to its limits.

"You should really adjust your state," Shuoge said calmly. "The way you are, it's really worrying."

Sakumo's fingers paused for a moment.

He turned his head and looked at Shuoge. The child's face was expressionless, and his black eyes were like two stones in the night, hard and cold.

But what he said wasn't cold.

Silence spread between the two. The wind blew from the dunes, carrying the scent of sand and the distant campfire.

Sakumo looked into those eyes for a few seconds.

Then he closed his eyes.

"Half an hour." His voice was even lower than before. "Call me when you've reached the backup."

He didn't wait for Shuoge's reply; his breathing had already become shallow.

It wasn't that I was asleep; it was the kind of light sleep that comes from training on the battlefield, where I could wake up at any moment.

His heartbeat slowed down, his breathing became even, but his ears were still perked up and his skin was still alert; any unusual sound would make him open his eyes instantly.

Shuoge didn't look at him.

He turned his head and stared at the firelight in the camp.

The Sand Ninja patrol had completed another round, and the person changing shifts came out of the tent, stretched, and yawned.

The camel shifted its position, mooed once, and then fell silent again. The campfire crackled and popped, sparks leaping from the flames, flying into the air, and then going out.

Everything is normal.

No one knew that two knives were lying in wait on the sand dune a hundred meters away.

One is white, the other is old.

Shuoge took the knife from behind his back and held it across his knees.

The wind flows silently over the blade.

He looked up at the sky.

The moon was obscured by clouds, with only a few of the brightest stars visible, gleaming coldly.

-

As the first hint of gray appeared on the horizon, a dark shadow appeared in the distance.

Shuoge narrowed his eyes, and his three-tomoe Sharingan silently began to turn.

The distant scene is zoomed in—in front is Chiyo's palanquin, its sand walls gleaming dimly in the morning light.

Followed by dozens of escorting ninjas, camels, and horse-drawn carriages.

The column rolled over from behind the sand dunes, like a black snake, winding its way into the depression.

The support team was already waiting there.

There were about twenty people, all wearing Jonin vests. The leader was a man in his forties with an old scar running from his forehead to his chin and a deep look in his eyes.

Kato, the frontline commander, is the highest-ranking officer of Sunagakure on this front.

He stood in the middle of the camp, motionless, watching Chiyo's group approach.

The two exchanged no pleasantries or formalities.

Chiyo's palanquin stopped next to the pile of supplies. The curtain was lifted slightly, and a thin, bony hand reached out and tapped on the edge of the palanquin.

The escorts began unloading the goods, and the receivers began counting them. The whole process was as quiet as a silent film, with only the sound of wooden crates clattering and the occasional moo of camels.

Shuoge lay on the sand dune, his breathing as low as possible.

His fingers were stuck in the sand; it was cold.

Shuo Mao lay beside him, his eyes already open, pupils contracted, like a cat lying in the grass.

He didn't really fall asleep most of the time, and his actual sleep time was less than an hour, but the bloodshot in his eyes had faded a bit, and he was much more energetic.

The white knife had been pulled from the sand and was held horizontally in front of him.

The handover lasted about half an hour.

The cargo boxes were unloaded from the wagons and then loaded onto the camels of the receiving team.

Chiyo's men withdrew from the camp, and their replacements took over the defensive line. Chiyo's palanquin turned around and headed back the way it came.

The support team didn't move; they were waiting for full daylight.

Shuo Mao did not move.

Shuoge did not move.

The two lay on the sand dune, watching Chiyo's group walk further and further away, from a black line to a black dot, from a black dot to a shadow on the top of the dune, and then disappear.

"Wait a little longer," Sakumo said softly.

Shuo Ge nodded.

He knew why he was waiting.

Chiyo had just left, and the people who were supposed to be there to meet her were still on high alert. They waited until they relaxed, until it got a little brighter, and until the people changing shifts started yawning.

Rushing in now would be the stupidest thing to do.

Another half hour passed. Daylight broke, and the sun peeked out from behind the eastern sand dunes, turning the desert a ghastly white.

The people in the camp began to move around; some started fires to cook, some were organizing supplies, and some were smoking next to the camels.

The patrolmen changed shifts, and the two new ones walked very slowly, their steps dragging as if they hadn't woken up yet.

Sakumo tapped his finger on the sand.

It happened very lightly. Shuoge saw it.

The two people slid down the sand dune silently.

The sand flowed beneath their feet, smoothing out their footprints.

The wind blew in from the west, carrying the smell of sand and gunpowder, and also taking away their scent.

The camp drew closer, so close that Sakugo could see the expressions on the faces of the Sand Ninja—some were laughing, some were yawning, some were rubbing their eyes. No one was looking up at the sand dunes.

Sakumo drew his sword.

There was no sound. The white blade flashed briefly in the morning light, like a shimmering spot on the water, and then disappeared.

His figure disappeared from Shuoge's sight, not through teleportation, but through sheer speed.

It's so fast that the human eye can't keep up, so fast that even the wind can't react.

White light cut in from the edge of the camp, like a knife slicing into butter.

When the first Sand Ninja fell, the second one hadn't even reacted yet.

Sakumo's knife slashed from left to right, splitting both throats open simultaneously, spurting out blood that appeared black in the morning light.

He turned around a third time to shout, but the knife had already pierced through his back.

The fourth, the fifth.

White light danced across the camp, and with each flash, a life was taken.

The camp was blown up.

Some people were shouting, some were running, and some were grabbing kunai but didn't know where to throw them.

Kato rushed out of the tent, already holding a knife in his hand.

His eyes swept across the camp, ignoring the fallen corpses, and locked onto the white light. He didn't charge, but stepped back, sword held horizontally in front of him, and shouted—"Form ranks!"

The remaining Jonin gathered together, back to back, forming a circle.

A dozen or so people, a dozen or so knives, pointing outwards.

Their formation was very dense, with their blades pointing outwards, like a curled-up hedgehog.

Sakumo's sword hovered in mid-air, not striking. It wasn't that it couldn't cut through, but that it wouldn't be worth the effort. One strike might kill two at most, but the remaining dozen or so swords would simultaneously stab at him.

He took a step back. Then he heard the sound of the wind.

It's not the wind of the desert, it's the wind on a knife's edge.

"Danger!"