Sand Shinobi Village.
The desert night stretched endlessly, covering the entire land in a shroud of stillness. The moon, pale and cold, hung high above, its silver light spilling faintly across the dunes and narrow streets. Even under its glow, the village felt lifeless, almost as if the desert had swallowed its spirit long ago.
Peter crept quietly through the outer gates of Sand Shinobi Village, his steps measured and cautious. He was not afraid of discovery—his strength had long reached a level where ordinary shinobi were no real threat—but curiosity kept his senses sharp. This was one of the Five Great Shinobi Villages, a place he had long wanted to observe for himself. He had imagined a vibrant settlement, buzzing with life and perhaps even a degree of mystery.
But what greeted him was silence.
Every shop along the dusty commercial street was shut tight, their wooden doors bolted, their windows barred. The market stalls that should have been crowded with merchants, bakers, and craftsmen were empty skeletons of wood and cloth, shrouded in shadow. Only a handful of faintly glowing lanterns in the distance betrayed the existence of small inns that catered to travelers.
Peter paused, frowning slightly.
"What time is it now? Not even a single person on the street? Do people here all go to bed so early?"
He glanced at the sky, then at the watch strapped to his wrist. The time was around 10:30 at night—not exactly midnight, not late enough for the streets of such a large village to be deserted. Back home, or even in Konoha, the commercial districts would still be alive with activity. Here, however, the village looked as though it had been abandoned centuries ago.
Peter let out a quiet sigh, disappointment tugging at his chest. He had hoped to gain firsthand knowledge of the culture and way of life of the Sand Shinobi, but what he encountered was a village that seemed to have surrendered to fatigue long before the day had truly ended.
It wasn't just quiet. It was lifeless. Oppressive.
The villagers of the Sand Village seemed to live in near-primitive simplicity—rising with the sun, toiling under the harsh desert heat, then retreating to their homes once darkness fell. Their routines mirrored the merciless rhythm of the desert itself. There were no lively taverns spilling laughter into the streets, no theaters, no night markets filled with music and the scent of food. Entertainment was a luxury they simply could not afford.
For Peter, who had traveled across lands brimming with vitality, this silence gnawed at him. The dull and oppressive atmosphere pressed on his chest. The deeper he walked, the more he felt that even the sand carried exhaustion.
His gaze swept across the cracked walls and worn roofs. Many buildings looked as though they had been patched together from scraps, just barely holding against the desert winds. The commercial street—supposedly the beating heart of the village's economy—looked as though it had been drained dry decades ago.
"It seems that Sand Shinobi Village still has a long way to go before it can shake off its poverty," Peter murmured, brushing sand off his sleeve as he gazed at a shuttered shop with a weather-worn sign. "So this is what one of the Five Great Villages looks like…"
The harsh geography of the Land of Wind truly shackled its people. The endless desert made agriculture nearly impossible, and trade routes were treacherous. Even though the Sand Village had formidable shinobi, even though its military strength was feared, its economy was stagnant, unable to lift the village from its barren fate.
Peter shook his head. He had thought of walking around longer, but his disappointment only deepened. "Since I'm already here, I might as well stay the night. Tomorrow, I'll get a clearer picture."
He turned his eyes toward the shabby inn at the far end of the street, its flickering lantern beckoning like a lone star. He adjusted his cloak and began walking in its direction.
"Creak… creak…"
Peter froze mid-step.
The sound was faint, almost drowned by the whispering desert wind, yet distinct enough to make his skin crawl. It was the rhythmic groan of wood, the kind of sound made by an old swing swaying back and forth.
His heart skipped. The noise came from a nearby park, swallowed in darkness.
The sound itself wasn't frightening—at least, it shouldn't have been. But at this hour, in such silence, it was unnatural. Each creak scraped against his nerves like the squeal of rusted iron. For a moment, Peter felt as though the swing wasn't being pushed by the wind but by invisible hands.
The night was pitch-black, the park swallowed by shadows. Even with the faint moonlight, visibility was poor. Yet, in the middle of that darkness, the swing seemed to shimmer faintly, moving like a ghost swaying in rhythm to some unseen presence.
A chill ran down Peter's spine. His scalp tingled, and every hair on his body stood on end.
"What the hell… who would be swinging at this hour?" he muttered, his voice low, his throat dry. "It must be the wind. Just the wind."
Despite his power, he still carried that deeply human fear of the unknown. Strength did not erase instinct. Fear was hardwired into the soul. And nothing unsettled the human heart more than the mysterious and inexplicable.
Just as he was steadying his breathing, trying to convince himself, the swing creaked again—and this time, a sound pierced through the night.
A child's cry.
High-pitched, shrill, and raw, it sliced through the stillness like broken glass. The cry was no ordinary sob; it carried an eerie resonance, a wailing that seemed to echo from the depths of some hollow abyss. It was less the sound of sadness than it was despair, hopelessness, and something far darker.
Peter's legs trembled involuntarily. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs, his instincts screaming at him to turn and run.
"What the hell is that?!" His eyes darted toward the source—the swing swaying in the shadows.
The sound clawed at his sanity. This was supposed to be the world of shinobi, the world of the Hokage. How could such ghostly cries exist here? His rational mind rebelled against what he was hearing, but his body betrayed him, muscles stiff with dread.
"Shit. This world isn't supposed to have ghosts…" His teeth chattered, breath shallow, as confusion gnawed at him. "Do… do physical attacks even work on that kind of thing?"
A nervous laugh escaped his throat. "When I get back, I'm buying talisman papers. No question about it."
Almost as if mocking his thoughts, the crying abruptly stopped.
The silence that followed was worse. It was not the silence of peace, but the silence of anticipation, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Even the desert winds seemed to die, the air thick and unmoving.
Peter's skin prickled. His ears strained.
Then—footsteps.
Soft, deliberate, crunching against the sand.
Someone was approaching.
Peter's body tensed, every nerve alight. He held his breath, eyes wide, scanning the darkness, waiting for the figure to emerge.
Finally, the shape of a person stepped into the pale moonlight.
Peter blinked. His fear dissolved in an instant, replaced by disbelief.
It wasn't a specter. It wasn't some monstrous entity from the void.
It was a little boy.
Barely four or five years old, no taller than 1.2 meters.
Peter's lips twitched into a half-smile of exasperation. All that fear, the pounding heart, the trembling legs—caused by a child? If anyone had seen him like this, he'd never live it down.
"Damn it, kid," Peter muttered, running a hand over his face. "Why aren't you home in bed? Why come to a creepy place like this to swing in the middle of the night? Don't you know you nearly scared me to death?"
The boy didn't answer.
He was a frail-looking child with a shock of messy red hair, his clothes torn and patched, worn down by time and hardship. In his small hands, he clutched a tattered teddy bear, the kind of toy that had been hugged so long its fur was threadbare.
His face, pale under the dust and grime, was streaked with dried tears. His eyes, swollen and bloodshot, carried exhaustion far beyond his years. Heavy shadows lay under his eyes, proof of countless sleepless nights.
Peter's irritation faded. He stared at the boy, a strange feeling tugging at his memory.
This little one… he looked eerily familiar.
Like a character from the original story.
---
àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)