Published at 18th of September 2024 12:39 pm

Chapter 125 Shadows of the Sand: 3 The Silent Puppet Master

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The air around the Akatsuki’s hideout was still, heavy with the weight of unfinished business. As Sasori and Deidara returned, dragging the sealed form of Utakata behind them, the eerie silence of the cave did little to comfort either of them. Deidara, always the talker, tried to break the tension with his usual banter.

“Not bad, un. We took down the jinchūriki faster than I thought. You didn’t even let him use his full power! What, worried your ‘eternal art’ might get blown away?” Deidara grinned as he landed his clay bird and stretched his arms.

Sasori ignored him, his mind already elsewhere. The mission had been successful—another jinchūriki captured—but Sasori felt no sense of accomplishment. His thoughts were occupied with something far deeper, far more personal.

Deidara walked ahead, taking Utakata’s sealed body to the rest of the Akatsuki, but Sasori lingered at the entrance of the hideout. The shadows clung to him like old memories, whispering of things long forgotten.

As he stood there, the images of his past began to surface again. His grandmother, Chiyo; the village of Sunagakure; the puppets that he had so carefully crafted out of people’s lives. It had been years since he had turned his back on those memories, and yet, they refused to let him go.

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Decades earlier, Sasori had stood in the same place, though back then he had been much younger. A boy of talent, praised by the village for his skills in puppetry. But even then, the praise had felt hollow, as empty as the wooden figures he controlled.

The loss of his parents had left a void within him—one that no amount of recognition could fill. Puppets, he had decided, were the answer. They could be controlled, shaped, made into perfect replicas of life itself. Unlike people, they didn’t age, they didn’t change, they didn’t die.

His first true experiment had been his parents. He had carefully preserved their bodies, turning them into puppets that he could control. In doing so, he believed he could bring them back—make them eternal. But no matter how masterful his work was, they remained empty shells, devoid of the warmth he remembered from his childhood.

That was when Sasori realized something fundamental about himself. Life was fleeting, unreliable, and fragile. True art—the only art that mattered—was something that could never be destroyed, never be taken away by time or fate.

And so, he had left behind his village, his grandmother, and everything that had once been important to him. He had joined the Akatsuki, not for power or wealth, but to further his art. To find a way to achieve perfection.

But now, even as he stood among the most dangerous shinobi in the world, even as his hands controlled the most powerful puppets ever created, that sense of fulfillment continued to elude him.

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“Sasori, what’s keeping you?” Deidara’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We’ve got more work to do.”

Sasori turned his head slightly, his voice as calm and cold as ever. “I’m coming.”

Together, they descended into the hideout, where the rest of the Akatsuki were waiting. Pain, the leader, stood at the center of the room, his Rinnegan eyes piercing through the dim light. Behind him, Konan watched silently, her expression unreadable.

“You’ve succeeded in capturing the Six-Tails,” Pain said, his voice calm but commanding. “Good. The extraction will begin soon.”

Deidara dropped the scroll containing Utakata’s body on the floor with a grin. “Piece of cake, un. No explosions necessary this time.”

Sasori remained silent, stepping away from the group as the conversation continued. His work here was done. The Six-Tails was of no interest to him; it was just another piece in the Akatsuki’s grand plan—a plan Sasori followed out of necessity, not conviction.

As the other members discussed their next move, Sasori retreated to his own quarters, where he could be alone with his thoughts. The walls of his room were lined with scrolls—each one containing a different puppet, each one representing a masterpiece of his craft. But as he looked at them, he felt nothing.

Sasori sat down at his workbench, his fingers idly tracing the lines of a half-finished puppet. This one had been a shinobi from Kirigakure, skilled in water jutsu. Now, he was little more than a collection of wooden parts, waiting to be assembled.

As he worked, Sasori’s thoughts drifted back to his grandmother, Chiyo. She had always tried to pull him away from this path, always tried to remind him of the value of life. But she had been wrong. Life was weak, temporary, and filled with pain. The only thing worth pursuing was immortality—the perfection of art.

But even now, after years of perfecting his craft, something gnawed at him. It wasn’t doubt—he had no doubts about his choices—but there was a hollowness that he couldn’t shake. No matter how many puppets he created, no matter how many battles he won, that feeling of emptiness remained.

He had turned his own body into a puppet, stripping away the frailties of flesh and bone in favor of something eternal. And yet, he felt no closer to true perfection.

As his fingers moved mechanically, assembling the puppet piece by piece, a thought crept into his mind—one he had tried to suppress for years.

What if Chiyo had been right?

What if the true value of life wasn’t in its longevity, but in its fleeting nature? What if the reason he could never find satisfaction was because he had abandoned the very thing that made life meaningful?

Sasori’s hand paused, the puppet’s arm half-attached. He stared down at the lifeless figure in front of him, and for the first time in years, he felt something other than cold indifference.

Doubt.

But it was gone as quickly as it had come. Sasori’s eyes hardened, and he resumed his work. This was the only path he knew. The only path that mattered.

The puppet was nearly complete now. All that was left was to insert the chakra threads, to bring it to life, in the way only Sasori could.

But even as he worked, the doubt lingered in the back of his mind, like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

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In the main hall of the Akatsuki’s hideout, the other members continued their discussions, unaware of the silent struggle playing out in Sasori’s mind.

The Six-Tails would soon be extracted, and another step would be taken toward their ultimate goal. But for Sasori, the mission meant little. His true purpose lay elsewhere, in the pursuit of an art that could transcend the limitations of mortality.

And yet, as he worked in silence, the question remained: Was this truly the path to perfection?

Or had he been chasing an illusion all along?

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