After an absence of over a year, Sunagakure hadn't changed much—still that same monotonous, bland appearance.
Wind carrying fine sand swept through the streets, blowing through the undulating yellow-brown buildings, producing sounds like breathing, or like whimpering.
Hii Kōri, still bearing the travel dust not yet shaken off, first followed the familiar passages to the Kazekage Building. He made a brief report to the Third Kazekage—the man he always called "Vegeta"—and fulfilled the most basic village return procedures.
The process was unexpectedly brief. Rather than listening to his lengthy mission report, the Third Kazekage seemed more interested in simply confirming that this "treasure" of Sunagakure had returned completely intact.
Before Hii Kōri could elaborate on the negotiation details from the Country of Rain, his contact with Hanzō, or the aftermath of capturing Tsunade, the Kazekage had already approved a considerable mission bonus for him, and swiped three large bags from his snack reserve, and then dismissed him like shooing away a fly.
The Third Kazekage's attitude was clearly telling Hii Kōri to hurry up and deal with his family matters—reports like this would eventually be written for him to read anyway, so don't waste time in his office.
Very considerate. Very humanized. And very much in line with Vegeta's nature—cold and hard on the outside, but actually protective of his own.
Only then did Hii Kōri head back to his workshop on the outskirts of Sunagakure.
Pushing open the door, everything inside was just as he'd left it—only a thin layer of sand dust had accumulated.
He found three empty rooms for Yahiko and the others, letting them rest first and familiarize themselves with this environment where they'd be living for a long time. From the cabinet, he dug out several spare sets of bedding, expertly using Water Release to wash away the stale dust smell, then Scorch Release to dry out the moisture, ensuring they were fluffy and comfortable before delivering them.
These three children had followed him on a long journey, suddenly stepping from the damp, cold Country of Rain into the scorching desert. They were physically and mentally exhausted and truly needed time to buffer.
Besides, what he was about to do next wasn't suitable for bringing them along.
Actually, Hii Kōri could have first taken all three directly back to the workshop to settle in before reporting to the Kazekage Building. But since they'd already endured the rush with him for quite a while, this short while longer wouldn't make much difference.
Truth be told, the Third Kazekage had always been unconcerned about such things. Hii Kōri's accumulated achievements and irreplaceable technical ability made him a genuine "privileged class" in Sunagakure—many things could be brushed off, or even acted upon first and reported later, and it would all slide.
But precisely because of this, Hii Kōri felt it was all the more important to follow the explicit rules as much as possible within bounds.
Being favored was no reason to be unscrupulous or act with impunity. Sunagakure was ultimately a military organization; if breaking rules became habitual, major trouble would eventually arise.
As a teacher, he had to set an example with his own conduct. On matters involving principles and bottom line, he couldn't set a bad precedent for his newly arrived disciples, letting them think Sunagakure was a place where one could act arbitrarily.
Of course, this sense of propriety was also one of the reasons the Third Kazekage liked him so much.
No matter how much he messed around in that underground office, he never slipped up on formal business—that was the mark of an outstanding member of society.
In any case, after briefly explaining a few things—telling them where to access food and water, and instructing them not to casually open the workshop's other doors—Hii Kōri, without even taking time to carefully dust the sand from his clothes, turned around once more. With a determination far purer than when heading to the battlefield, he hurriedly walked toward the place he must face at this moment—
Chiyo's residence.
Pushing open that same familiar door, which seemed somehow heavier than in memory, the courtyard was silent—more desolate than ever before. The setting sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, painting its last rays across the garden, dyeing it a mournful gold-red.
Sasori sat beneath the eaves, his back turned to the living room door. His reddish-brown short hair, backlit by the setting sun, appeared exceptionally soft—and exceptionally lonely.
This small figure was bowed, fully concentrated on fiddling with a puppet doll of somewhat unique modeling in his hands.
It was a gift Hii Kōri had given Sasori years ago—made with a lot of effort to imitate a robot image from his previous life's memories. Sasori had always loved it, treasured it greatly.
Hearing the sound of pushing the door and gradually approaching footsteps, the The red-haired child looked up, instinctively glaring over.
The moment he saw clearly who it was, those eyes—often teased for resembling Hii Kōri's, carying a calm beyond his years—suddenly lit up with a clear gleam.
He first carefully placed the doll beside him in a clean spot, then stood up, pattered quickly forward, and finally stopped properly in front of Hii Kōri, looking up at him.
For this child, who usually had an almost unsociably calm nature, this was the most outwardly displayed happiness and way of greeting he could manage.
"Uncle." Sasori's voice remained flat, but on that upturned little face, there was a heartfelt, subtly perceptible hint of pleasure.
Since childhood, when his parents frequently went out on missions, it was mostly Hii Kōri—who didn't go on field missions—who took care of him.
Eating together, studying puppet parts together, listening to him explain all kinds of interesting knowledge... Because of this, Sasori had always been very close to this uncle, who was only ten years older yet seemed to know everything.
Hii Kōri reached out, habitually wanting to ruffle Sasori's hair. But when his gaze touched Sasori's clear eyes, his movement paused slightly in mid-air.
Then, his hand still fell, somewhat hastily grabbing at Sasori's hair.
"Is the war over?"
Sasori didn't notice Hii Kōri's hesitation. He stood on tiptoe, rubbing his head against his palm, then asked the question he cared about most.
He remembered that everyone in the family had to leave because they had to participate in that hateful war.
"Ah... it's over." Hii Kōri's voice was somewhat deep.
Sasori's eyes seemed to brighten even more at this news. He immediately asked, "Then... are Mom and Dad, and Grandma, coming back soon?"
The war being over meant the family should reunite.
But this time, he received no answer.
It was hard to say what was wrong with this plain, almost as it should be understanding. But if everything in this world followed what was "correct," there would be no such word as " counterproductive."
The courtyard once again returned to the silence that had prevailed when only Sasori was there—it even seemed as if the wind had disappeared, leaving only a suffocating stillness.
The gleam on Sasori's face, under Hii Kōri's silent gaze, flickered like a candle flame in the wind—
And dimmed.
He watched his uncle gradually squat down until their eyes were level, and from those familiar light gray eyes, he saw a dark gloom.
He still couldn't fully comprehend the weight of it, but he could instinctively sense the desolate haze within.
Suddenly, Sasori remembered how, since a certain point in time, whenever he asked the uncles and aunts who took turns came to care for him about the war, about his parents, he no longer received any clear answers. Instead, they were replaced by vague comfort, or even more awkward subject changes.
Thinking of this, he seemed vaguely to realize something.
Hii Kōri took a deep breath. The long-unfamiliar dry air filled his lungs, carrying a strange stinging sensation.
He knew that what his foster mother Chiyo couldn't easily say, he must say.
"Sasori."
His voice was very gentle, as if afraid of disturbing something, yet exceptionally clear—each word like a heavy stone dropped into a silent deep pool. "Big Brother and Shūko-nee, your parents... they sacrificed themselves in the war."
He didn't use ambiguous, comforting words like "left" or "went far away," but rather "sacrificed"—a word that would crush all unrealistic fantasies.
Sasori blinked, stunned in place.
He didn't cry and make a fuss like a normal kid would. There was no confusion, no loud questioning. He didn't make a single sound, didn't even show the slightest expression change. He just stared straight at Hii Kōri with those clear eyes, as if digesting the meaning combined by these few words.
A long time passed.
So long that the sunset's afterglow was almost completely swallowed by the horizon, stretching their shadows long and distorted, projecting distortedly onto the wall behind them and the tatami inside the room.
Then, in this stillness that seemed almost suffocating, Sasori spoke in a voice nearly detached, as if inquiring into something: "Uncle... what exactly is death?"
As a child born and raised in a ninja village, even though Sasori was only seven years old, he had long understood the meaning of "sacrifice" from the atmosphere, from education, from conversations around him. Precisely because of this, his rhetorical question carried a purer doubt.
What he wanted to know wasn't any lengthy effects brought by the word "sacrifice," but the essence of "death" itself.
"Hmm—"
Hii Kōri thought for a moment, not answering immediately. He took Sasori's slightly cold little hand and led him to sit shoulder to shoulder with him under the eaves, away from the deepening shadows.
He tried to construct an answer using every level description he could think of: "Complete cessation of life functions, the end of all circulation and metabolism in the body, consciousness dissipates... In some beliefs, the soul leaves the body for the so-called Pure Land, or merges into some kind of great cycle..."
He enumerated some common definitions from the medical field, or those with philosophical or religious overtones.
"But to you, those definitions probably mean nothing."
Then, Hii Kōri suddenly sighed gently. He reached out and patted Sasori's somewhat thin, slender shoulder, then completely negated his own previous answer.
He felt certain he could develop a technique to resurrect his eldest brother and sister-in-law. But giving a child a distant and unrealistic hope at this moment would undoubtedly be the wrong choice.
What Sasori needed wasn't this kind of definition recited from a book, nor an unreachable hope. He needed something more sensual—a stroke that could simply and cleanly sketch the vast chasm between life and death.
A description that would enable him, experiencing all this at such an age, to establish a correct concept of life and death, without going astray due to psychological issues or overly extreme talent.
"Listen, Sasori."
Hii Kōri looked up, no longer glazing at the child beside him. Instead, he gazed into the distance at the desert skyline, where the last red glow was burning fiercely—as if staring at the remains of his previous life—and pouring out the most realistic, most cruel "definition" he could think of, as if talking to himself.
"So-called 'death'..."
He paused, letting the weight of the word settle in the dusk.
"Is a parting with no next meeting."
Dying miserably, dying gloriously, dying sadly, dying heroically... People often add all kinds of words before death, as if this could give death more meaning, extending life into death.
But death is simply severity.
Beyond that, nothing else.
"Like a broken puppet?"
"Not the same."
Hii Kōri denied softly. "Even if a puppet breaks, as long as you replace the damaged parts, it can function again. But the end of life isn't that convenient. It's a simple multiple-choice question."
"Alive, or dead. Those are the only two options."
"There's no way... to fix them? Like fixing a puppet?" Sasori looked up, his eyes showing, for the first time, a trace of the confusion and hope belonging to his age.
"Fix them like a puppet..."
Without simply denying Sasori's question, without lecturing him on philosophical issues like the Ship of Theseus, Hii Kōri simply gave a steady reply: "I'll find a way."
"...Mm."
Sasori nodded. In the spreading chill of the desert night, he slowly leaned against Hii Kōri's chest and said no more.
Later, they talked intermittently about many things. Most of the time, Sasori asked, and Hii Kōri answered.
Perhaps due to the impact of his parents' death, Sasori's logic wasn't as coherent as usual. Instead, it had more of the jumps typical of his age—from death to puppet structures, to why stars don't fall, to whether anything eternal and unchanging exists in this world. Hii Kōri Answer and respond patiently.
He knew Sasori was building his own understanding of "death" and "loss" in his own way.
Night deepened. The cold grew heavier.
Sasori's questions gradually decreased, his voice growing softer. Finally, leaning against Hii Kōri's leg, his little head nodding, his breathing became even and long.
He had fallen asleep.
Hii Kōri looked down at his nephew's slightly furrowed brow, even in sleep, and sighed softly.
He carefully lifted Sasori, carried him inside, placed him on the bed, and covered him with quilt.
Then he lay on his side by the bed, until dawn.
***
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