Chapter 3: The Kazekage's Calculus
The Kazekage didn't remember his name.
Daimaru realized this the moment the audience chamber doors closed behind him.
He had to check my file. I'm just another dead soldier's kid who got lucky.
The thought should have stung. Instead, it felt like fuel.
Good. Let them underestimate me.
He hurried down the corridor, past the stone-faced guards who didn't bother hiding their disdain. A genin with no team, no reputation, and a joke of a nickname.
"Red Sand Dust."
They probably laughed about it over drinks.
Let them.
Daimaru's footsteps echoed off the walls. He was almost to the exit when a familiar chill ran down his spine.
Don't look. Keep walking.
But his eyes betrayed him.
Gaara stood in the shadow of the archway—short, pale, with sandy hair that hadn't moved an inch in the wind. The gourd on his back seemed heavier than before.
Those eyes.
Empty. Hollow. Like staring into a well and realizing something was staring back.
"You were in Father's office."
Not a question.
Say something. Anything. Don't show fear.
"I was."
The word came out steady. Good.
Gaara tilted his head. The sand at his feet stirred—a subtle shift, like a predator testing its prey.
"He doesn't help people for free."
I know.
"Why did he help you?"
Because I'm useful. Because he doesn't care. Because I'm a tool he might need.
None of those answers would keep him alive.
Daimaru forced his shoulders to relax. Forced a small, easy smile.
"Maybe because I remind him of someone he used to know."
The lie tasted like sand and ashes.
Gaara stared.
Three heartbeats.
Four.
Then he walked past—close enough that Daimaru could feel the cold radiating off his skin. The sand retreated back into the gourd, but the threat lingered in the air like smoke.
He could have killed me. Right here. Right now. And no one would have said a word.
Daimaru didn't breathe until the footsteps faded.
What the hell was that?
He wiped sweat from his brow and pushed through the exit.
Rasa's test? Or Gaara's curiosity?
Either way, the message was carved into his bones:
You're being watched.
---
Meanwhile, in the Kazekage's office.
Rasa didn't look up from the window. The desert stretched before him—endless, merciless, empty.
"Yura."
The jonin materialized from the shadows like he'd always been there. "Yes, Lord Fourth."
"That boy. Daimaru. What do you know?"
Yura pulled a folder from his vest—not magic, just preparation. He'd learned long ago that Rasa didn't ask questions he didn't already know half the answer to.
"Genin Daimaru. Sixteen. Orphaned. Grandfather retired. Mother civilian."
Standard. Unremarkable.
"His record?"
Yura flipped a page. "Good physical conditioning. Above-average ninjutsu aptitude. Chakra with a rare 'seal-breaking' attribute—weak, but present."
Rasa turned. "Seal-breaking?"
That got his attention.
"Yes. Naturally occurring. Not inherited—at least, not from any documented line. Possibly a mutation."
The Kazekage's fingers tapped the windowsill. Tap. Tap. Tap.
That attribute... in the wrong hands...
"Mental energy?"
"Exceptionally strong for his rank. Gives him unusual genjutsu potential. But—" Yura hesitated.
"But?"
"We have no experience cultivating that combination. Sand Manipulation. Puppetry. Wind Release. Seal-breaking. Genjutsu. He's been learning from scraps—old scrolls, family fragments, self-teaching."
Scraps.
Rasa's jaw tightened. Suna had always been the poorest of the great villages. No bloodline clans. No legendary teachers. Just sand, desperation, and whatever they could scavenge.
And this boy might have been a real asset if he'd been born in Konoha.
"A chicken rib," Rasa muttered. "Tasteless to eat, but a pity to discard."
Yura nodded. "His current team leader is Satetsu. The jonin reports that Daimaru has developed some original techniques. Nothing forbidden. Nothing approaching human puppet experiments."
"Has he touched taboo research?"
"Not according to surveillance."
Rasa relaxed slightly. Good. I don't need another monster.
"What about his luck?"
Yura's lips twitched—the closest he ever came to a smile. "Abysmal. His squad encounters danger at three times the average rate. Ambushes. Environmental disasters. Mission parameters changing mid-execution."
Bad luck.
"But he survives," Rasa noted.
"He survives. Every time. Barely."
The Kazekage turned back to the window.
Bad luck that kills everyone else. Good luck that keeps him breathing. Which is it?
"Sand Ninja don't rely on luck," Rasa said finally. "But survival instinct... that's something else."
"Should we consider his luck when reassigning teams?"
"No. Let the chips fall."
Yura bowed slightly. "Understood."
A pause.
Then Yura added, almost reluctantly: "There's... one more thing, Lord Fourth. Personal."
"Speak."
"Daimaru appears to be pursuing your eldest daughter. Temari."
Rasa's hand stopped tapping.
Temari.
"She's at that age," he said quietly. "Noticing boys. Testing boundaries."
"Should we interfere?"
"No."
The word came out sharper than intended.
Let her be.
Suna wasn't Konoha. They didn't have noble clans or political marriages. The village had been founded by outcasts—wanderers who stumbled into the desert and decided to stay.
Only the strong survive here. Only the survivors matter.
"If he lives long enough to become something," Rasa said, "we'll talk. Until then..."
He waved his hand.
Yura bowed and retreated into the shadows.
---
Daimaru reached his apartment without being murdered.
New record.
He locked the door—not that it would stop Gaara—and leaned against the wood, letting his heart slow down.
I met the Kazekage. I survived his creepy son. Now I wait.
The ceiling had a water stain shaped like a cloud. He'd stared at it a hundred times.
What's Rasa thinking right now?
He imagined the conversation:
"Daimaru? Oh, the unlucky one. Seal-breaking chakra, huh? That's rare. Shame we don't know what to do with it."
"He likes my daughter? Cute. If he's still alive in a few years, maybe I'll care."
Daimaru laughed—a short, bitter sound.
That's exactly what he's thinking.
He sat up and pulled a worn scroll from under his bed.
Seal-breaking.
The attribute had appeared when he was twelve—chakra suddenly developing a strange edge that could weaken barriers, disrupt seals, slip through defenses.
Useless against most enemies. Priceless against the right ones.
If he could strengthen it...
If I could break through Gaara's sand...
He shook his head.
Too far. Focus on the Chunin Exams. Focus on Temari.
But a darker thought crept in:
What if Rasa assigns me to Gaara's team?
The idea froze his blood.
No. He wouldn't. That's suicide.
Then again, Rasa didn't seem like the sentimental type.
"If he lives long enough..."
Daimaru rolled the scroll back up and shoved it under the bed.
I need to get stronger. Faster. Smarter.
Before the Kazekage decides I'm more useful as a test subject than a soldier.
He lay back down.
Outside, the wind began to howl.
And somewhere in the village, sand shifted in the darkness—waiting. Watching.
The Chunin Exams are coming.
But first... I need to survive the night.
---
The next morning, a knock came at his door.
Daimaru opened it to find a masked ANBU.
"Genin Daimaru. Your new team assignment."
A scroll changed hands.
The ANBU vanished.
Daimaru closed the door, unrolled the paper, and read the names.
His blood ran cold.
Team composition:
Captain: Baki
Members: Gaara, Kankuro, Temari.
Additional member: Daimaru.
"You will serve as support and backup. Report to Training Ground Seven at 0600 tomorrow."
Support.
Backup.
The fourth wheel on a team of monsters.
Daimaru read the scroll three times.
Rasa put me with his children.
His demon child.
His fan-wielding daughter I confessed to yesterday.
His puppet-master son who thinks I'm an idiot.
He sat down heavily on his bed.
This isn't a promotion.
This is a death sentence.
Or...
He looked at the scroll again.
...an opportunity.
The Kazekage wanted to see if he'd sink or swim.
Fine.
I'll show him.
I'll show all of them.
He crumpled the scroll and threw it across the room.
Tomorrow, I meet the Sand Siblings.
Tomorrow, my real training begins.
Tonight...
He looked out the window at the setting sun.
Tonight, I prepare for war.