Sasori hardly moved, only his hands. Ten fingers meant ten threads for the greatest puppetry genius in history; that was enough.

In a single heartbeat, ten of his current finest creations slammed onto the field, each one built for a single purpose: slaughter.

Blades gleamed, hidden compartments clicked open, and the air filled with the hiss of poisoned needles and serrated wires.

Pakura’s chest heaved, poison burning in her veins, but fury propelled her body forward.

She snapped through seals, chakra condensing into searing orbs that hovered around her.

The orbs detonated in rapid succession.

Heat rippled out like a sunburst.

Puppets ignited, their lacquered wood and metal fittings warping and bursting under the impossible temperature.

In seconds, the entire wave of Sasori’s finest constructs collapsed into smoking heaps, their remains curling into ash.

Even Sasori paused, his eyes narrowing in mild surprise.

“To think you could still unleash that much power while poisoned… Impressive. But wasted.”

His hands moved again, slower this time, deliberate.

The ground itself seemed to shiver as a figure emerged from the void between puppets.

Its iron body clanked once, heavy and unnatural, and its face, horribly familiar, tilted upward in silence.

Pakura’s eyes widened, her breath catching.

Her chakra flared erratically, not from exhaustion this time, but from raw disbelief.

“That’s… the missing Third Kazekage.”

Her voice cracked on the name of the leader she once admired.

She understood instantly. All of it snapped into place.

“You…” her voice shook with rage, “You turned him into… this?”

Sasori’s lips curved faintly, not in joy, but in satisfaction.

His tone then shifted, losing even the thin veneer of serving orders.

His eyes gleamed with something colder, personal.

“Don’t mistake this for loyalty to Rasa. The only reason I agreed to this farce was because it aligned with my own goal.”

Pakura’s breath caught, her hands trembling as her chakra burned hotter around her. “Your goal?”

Sasori’s threads flexed, pulling the hulking puppet of the Third Kazekage closer, the iron husk looming like a mockery of life.

“Your body. Your bloodline. That Scorch Release of yours. I want it. A perfect addition to my art.”

Pakura’s eyes widened, fury and disbelief mixing into a single flame.

Sasori went on, almost conversational, as though explaining to a student.

“I was also a shadow ops operative for this village, for a long time, trusted, loyal, invisible. That’s how I managed to steal the Third Kazekage. I poisoned his environment, air, food, and water, little by little over days, until his body weakened without him even knowing. Then I struck and claimed him for myself. No one suspected a thing.”

He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “I intended to do the same to Rasa eventually. But the man is nothing, weak, uninspiring, not even worth preserving. You, Pakura… you shine brighter than anyone. And just when I planned to act, he gave me this mission. Convenient, isn’t it? All the better, I’ll take you now, and then I’ll leave this village behind entirely.”

Sasori long understood well why Scorch Release was so powerful and feared.

It wasn’t ordinary fire; fire burned, but heat consumed.

Scorch chakra reached temperatures far beyond flames, searing the air itself.

Whether unleashed as bolts, streams, or waves, the results were always fatal.

Flesh could ignite, bodies could rupture, or a victim could simply ‘mummify’ into a withered husk the moment they crossed it.

One touch was enough.

He had long set his eyes on Pakura for that reason.

In his view, Scorch Release was every bit as valuable as the Third Kazegake’s legendary application of magnetism.

For Sasori, this wasn’t about art for beauty’s sake.

His goal was to prove that human puppetry was the ultimate shinobi style, an art that could grow endlessly in power, a way to make himself eternal.

And to do that, he needed more than ordinary corpses.

He needed bloodline users, each one a new weapon, a new layer added to his arsenal.

He already had Magnet Release from the Kazekage.

Taking Rasa would be redundant.

Pakura, though, she was irreplaceable.

Sasori’s obsession had never been random.

When his parents died, the boy who once longed for their embrace was left with only silence.

He built their likeness out of wood and cloth, moving them with threads because it was the only way he could make them stay.

But puppets couldn’t smile.

They couldn’t hold him back.

They couldn’t whisper that everything would be fine.

That emptiness hardened into his belief.

If he couldn’t preserve people as they were, he would make them last another way.

Human puppets weren’t just weapons; they were his answer to loss.

A way to keep strength, bloodlines, and even shinobi legends from vanishing into dust.

What started as grief became his pursuit of eternity.

The words dropped like stones into the silence.

The nearby Suna shinobi, stationed as “guards,” froze.

Their faces turned pale as they realized what he was confessing.

Yet, none dared move, their bodies rigid, their minds reeling.

Pakura’s chakra surged again, blazing hotter even as the poison clawed at her insides.

“You… monster…”

Sasori. Rasa. Even her previous ‘comrades’ were turning away.

Everything she had built, every honor she had won, all trampled in an instant.

Her admiration for the Third Kazekage also died right there.

What faced her now was only a puppet wearing his face.

Heat swelled around her as she formed her seals.

Four reddish orbs of flame burst into existence, burning white-hot at their core, each one orbiting her like a tiny sun ready to consume anything that drew too close.

The air warped, ground sizzling beneath her feet.

“Scorch Style: Scorching Wave.”

The orbs shot forward in a tight arc, their heat so fierce that the closest sand turned to glass.

They streaked toward the Kazekage puppet with killing intent.

Sasori didn’t flinch.

His lips curved faintly as his fingers twitched.

The Kazekage puppet raised its arms, and black iron dust poured into the air like smoke.

The Iron Sand coiled and hardened in mid-air, blades and spears forming in an instant before ripping toward her in a storm.

Every grain was tipped with poison.

“Resistance is meaningless, Pakura,” Sasori’s voice carried cold across the field. “Your unique flames will be mine. You will be mine.”

The first clash hit like a furnace blast.

Her scorching orbs collided with the Iron Sand, heat slamming against magnetic force.

The black iron began to glow red, some chunks collapsing into molten drops, others still driving forward with stubborn momentum.

Pakura gritted her teeth, forcing more chakra into her flames.

The suns around her expanded, burning brighter, pushing the sand back.

The battlefield shimmered, heat haze twisting everything into a wavering mirage.

Some nearby shinobi scrambled back, shielding their faces.

Others stayed in position, still guarding Sasori’s betrayal, pretending this fight didn’t exist.

Sasori’s eyes narrowed.

He spread his hands, and ten more puppets leapt into the fray, raining weapons from above and lunging from the ground.

Blades, chains, hidden launchers, all laced with poison.

Pakura met them head-on, her orbs arcing wide to vaporize every puppet that strayed too close.

Wood blackened, steel warped, lacquer cracked.

But every move pulled more chakra out of her, and the poison gnawed at her strength with each breath.

Her vision blurred.

Sweat dripped down her face, sizzling away before it even reached her chin.

Still, she spat back at him.

“I’ll never be your puppet, Sasori. Not now, not ever.”

He only laughed softly, weaving more threads through the Iron Sand.

“You will. Strength that burns this brightly must be preserved. I’ll make you eternal.”

Pakura’s knees almost buckled, but her eyes burned hotter than her flames.

She raised her hands once more, pulling her orbs tighter, fusing them into a single searing mass.

Her last gamble, one strike meant to incinerate everything around her, even if it meant consuming herself in the blaze.

“Afraid, Sasori? Or is the great ‘artist’ so unsure of himself that he hides behind puppets because he knows he can’t face a real shinobi?”

Pakura’s voice rang sharp despite the poison dragging her down.

Her words weren’t random; they were aimed right at his pride, hoping to drag him lower, closer, close enough for her last strike.

She steadied her breath, pulling what chakra she had left into her core.

Her body trembled, skin pale and clammy, sweat stinging her eyes.

The orbs of heat around her flickered like dying stars, but she forced them steady, waiting for one mistake.

Above, now already riding on a magnetically controlled ‘cloud’ of iron, Sasori didn’t bite.

His laugh was soft, mocking, drifting down with the wind.

“You mistake patience for fear, Pakura. An artist rushes nothing. Each stroke, deliberate. Each placement, perfect. Why should I come down, when up here I can sculpt the whole battlefield?”

The Kazekage puppet lifted its arms, Iron Sand swirling again in a dark storm.

Pakura cursed under her breath. “Damn it…”

She had nothing to hit him at that height.

Scorch Release was brutal, but it was short-ranged.

She had trained it as far as it could go, pushed herself further than anyone thought possible, but no one had ever been there to guide her.

No clan, no mentors.

Just an orphan from the Suna orphanage who one day awakened a bloodline buried deep in her lineage, a remnant of some long-faded clan from the Land of Wind, an inheritance no one could guide her in mastering.

Her flames had made her a hero.

Her victories had turned her into the village’s hope.

She had believed their cheers, their respect, their praise.

She had been ready to give her life for them.

And yet, here she was, betrayed, discarded, no different than the shinobi before her who were used until they broke.

The realization hollowed her, but it also lit a fire that felt sharper than her Scorch Release itself.

“I won’t die a weapon,” she thought. “I won’t let them decide my worth.”

Her chakra flared wildly.

The orbs around her swelled larger than she had ever created before, heat so intense the battlefield warped like a mirage.

For a moment, even Sasori hesitated, his Iron Sand drooping under the sheer temperature.

But her body rebelled.

The poison surged, veins burning ice-cold against her fire.

Her vision doubled, her legs trembled.

The breakthrough she felt in her bloodline, the edge of something new and devastating, came at the cruelest moment.

Sasori saw it instantly.

His fingers blurred, and the Kazekage puppet unleashed a storm.

Iron projectiles ripped through the air, accelerated so fast that even her heat couldn’t melt them in time.

Her eyes widened.

“Is this really it? To die like this?”

The shards shrieked closer, black lines tearing through the heat haze.

Sasori’s voice cut through the storm, oddly reverent.

“Remarkable. You truly could have surpassed even the Kazekage one day. But as a puppet, you’ll be my greatest work.”

Pakura clenched her teeth.

She wouldn’t bow, even here.

If she was going to die, it would be with her eyes forward, flames blazing.

She braced herself, resolve and despair twisting together.

And just as the first shards were about to tear through her chest, a presence flashed behind her.

Hands seized her bare, delicate shoulders—

—and in the blink of an eye, she was gone from their path.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep