Chapter 4: The Taste of Ash
Coming home should feel safe.
It didn't.
Daimaru stood outside the familiar two-story house, the scent of soap and sand clinging to the air. The laundry shop on the first floor hummed with the sound of wooden paddles beating against wet fabric.
This is where I grew up.
This is where I learned that being poor means working twice as hard for half the respect.
He pushed open the gate.
---
The hall was dim but functional. Clothes hung from every available hook—cheap cotton for civilians, reinforced fabrics for ninja. Only the wealthy could afford to pay someone else to wash their clothes in Suna.
And we're the ones doing the washing.
His mother's voice drifted from the back room.
"Welcome—oh! Daimaru? You're back?"
Goyō emerged from behind a pile of laundry, her hands red and raw from soap. She looked older than she should.
Forty-two. She looks fifty.
"Just had some free time," he said, forcing a smile. "Thought I'd visit."
"Perfect. Go see your grandfather. He was asking about you."
Asking about me? Or complaining about me?
"He never gives me a good look when I come back."
"He's old, Daimaru. His temper is hard. Just bear with it."
I've been bearing with it for sixteen years.
"Got it."
---
Two figures emerged from the back—both young, both female, both wearing forehead protectors.
Chiyo and Yome. Great.
"Daimaru! Have you finally been discharged?" Chiyo's voice was warm but edged with amusement.
The other one—Yome—barely reached his shoulder. "Daimaru, you're still as mean as ever."
He looked down at her. "Sorry, you're too short. I almost didn't see you."
Yome's face turned red. "I'm a ninja now! Don't call me short!"
Too easy.
Chiyo laughed. "She cried when she heard you died, you know. Be nice."
She cried?
"Did you cry too?" Daimaru asked.
"No."
Liar.
"Temari didn't cry either," Chiyo added quickly. "She was just disappointed there was one less idiot to mess with."
The idiot part is unnecessary.
"Speaking of Temari..." Chiyo's grin widened. "I heard you confessed yesterday. And got rejected. Tragically."
Word travels fast in this village.
"Do I look like someone who cries over rejection?"
"No. You look like someone who doesn't know when to quit."
"Exactly." Daimaru crossed his arms. "Sincerity moves mountains. Temari will come around."
She has to. I don't have a Plan B.
Chiyo and Yome exchanged a look—the kind that said "he's hopeless"—then gathered their cleaned clothes and left.
---
The moment they were gone, Goyō's smile faded.
"Daimaru... is it really okay?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your confession to Lady Temari. It's spreading through the village."
Of course it is.
"Our family is just commoners. The Kazekage's daughter... the difference is too great."
He heard the fear in her voice. Not for herself. For him.
She thinks I'm going to get myself killed.
"Mother. I have a sense of proportion."
I don't. But she doesn't need to know that.
"Daimaru—"
"I'm going upstairs."
He walked away before she could finish.
---
His grandfather's room smelled like medicine and regret.
Washu lay in bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The old man had been a ninja once—back when Suna still had hope. Now he was just bones wrapped in wrinkled skin.
He used to be strong.
Now he can't even lift a cup of water.
Daimaru stood in the doorway for a long moment.
He never approved of me. Never thought I was good enough.
Maybe he was right.
He closed the door without waking him.
---
His old room was exactly as he'd left it.
Clean. Sparse. A bed, a desk, a mirror.
His mother had kept it ready—like she was waiting for him to come back for good.
I'm not coming back.
Not until I've made something of myself.
He removed his forehead protector and ninja vest. The white athletic suit underneath clung to his frame—lean, muscular, built from years of desperate training.
Not enough. Never enough.
He looked at his reflection.
Brown hair, short and practical. Bronze skin from the desert sun. A face that wasn't ugly but wasn't memorable either.
Average height. Average build. Average everything.
Except my luck. That's below average.
He flexed his arm. The muscle was there—solid, defined. But compared to the monsters in this village?
Gaara could kill me without moving.
Temari could fold me in half with that fan.
Even Kankuro's puppets would tear me apart.
He clenched his fist.
So what?
I've survived everything this village has thrown at me.
The quicksand. The missions that should have killed me. The teammates who left me for dead.
I'm still here.
He looked deeper into the mirror—past the reflection, into the eyes of a man who remembered another life.
I know what's coming.
The Chunin Exams. The Konoha Crush. Orochimaru. The Sound and Sand invasion.
I know who lives. Who dies. Who betrays who.
And no one else does.
That was his edge.
Not strength. Not talent. Knowledge.
He just had to survive long enough to use it.
---
A knock on the door.
"Daimaru? Someone's here to see you."
His mother's voice was tight. Nervous.
Someone important.
He pulled his vest back on and walked downstairs.
A man in standard jonin uniform stood in the hall—no mask, no introduction. Just cold eyes and a harder face.
"Genin Daimaru."
"That's me."
"Your new team assignment has been finalized. Report to Training Ground Seven at 0600 tomorrow."
Finally.
"Who's my team captain?"
The jonin's expression didn't change.
"Baki."
Daimaru's stomach dropped.
Baki.
The Kazekage's right hand. The man who trained Gaara.
The one who—
"And your teammates?"
The jonin handed him a scroll.
"Read it yourself."
He turned and walked out.
---
Daimaru unrolled the scroll with shaking hands.
Team Composition:
Captain: Baki
Primary Members: Gaara, Kankuro, Temari
Support Member: Daimaru
Status: Effective Immediately.
No.
He read it again.
No, no, no.
Rasa put me on a team with his children.
His demon child.
The girl I just humiliated myself in front of.
The brother who thinks I'm contagious.
And Baki—the man who will do whatever the Kazekage says.
Including disposing of me if I become a problem.
His mother peeked over his shoulder. "Daimaru? What's wrong? You're pale."
He rolled the scroll back up.
"Nothing, Mother. Just... surprised."
Surprised they're giving me a chance to die before the exams even start.
He forced a smile.
"Good news. I'm on a strong team."
The strongest.
And the most dangerous.
She didn't look convinced. "Be careful, Daimaru."
Careful won't save me.
"I will."
He kissed her forehead and walked out the door.
---
The sun was setting over Sunagakure.
The sky burned orange and red—beautiful, if you didn't know the color came from sand and blood.
Daimaru stood at the edge of the village, staring at the desert.
Tomorrow, I meet them.
Tomorrow, I prove I belong.
Or I die trying.
He thought about his grandfather—asleep in that bed, fading away.
He never believed in me.
Maybe that's why I have to succeed.
Not to prove him wrong.
To prove myself right.
The wind picked up, carrying sand across his face.
Somewhere behind him, he heard footsteps.
Sandals. Soft. Deliberate.
He didn't turn around.
"You're the new one."
The voice was young. Flat. Empty.
Gaara.
Daimaru's heart stopped.
Then started again—faster, harder.
Don't show fear.
Don't. Show. Fear.
"I am."
Silence.
The footsteps came closer. Stopped three meters away.
Three meters. He could kill me from twenty.
"Father says you're interesting."
Interesting means dangerous.
Dangerous means expendable.
"Your father is generous with his compliments."
Another pause.
Then Gaara said something that made Daimaru's blood freeze:
"I don't think you'll last a week."
The footsteps retreated.
Daimaru stood frozen until the darkness swallowed them.
One week.
He thinks I have one week.
He looked at the scroll in his hand—still shaking.
We'll see.
We'll fucking see.
He walked home in the dark, the taste of ash on his tongue.
Tomorrow, the real nightmare begins.