Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 38

Chapter 38

The forest was silent except for the faint rustle of leaves, the sound of fleeting lives too small to matter. Sasori walked through it without a sound, his steps unnaturally precise, every movement devoid of waste. The trees were tall, their rough bark etched by the passing years, but Sasori barely glanced at them. It wasn’t beauty—it was decay. A process of rot pretending to be majestic. He hated it.

“True beauty doesn’t rot,” he muttered, his voice soft but hollow. His puppet body moved with eerie fluidity, joints clicking faintly as his chakra threads propelled him forward. His scorpion-like tail shifted behind him, ready, always ready. "It doesn’t fade or crumble. It doesn’t die."

He reached the clearing, its open space unremarkable except for the faint scent of damp earth. This would do. Sasori came to a halt, his wooden frame utterly still, unnatural in its perfection. He folded his — Hiruko's—arms, the hollow sockets of his puppet face fixed on the edge of the clearing. He had promised Pain results, and he would deliver. The fool Tobi didn’t need to involve himself, nor did the grotesque Black Zetsu. This was Sasori’s task. He had made it clear: no one else would move. Leader-sama had approved. 

Kabuto had better have brought something worthwhile. 

A flicker of movement pricked Sasori’s senses, a chakra signature slicing through the forest with precision. He didn’t move. His stillness was unnerving, lifeless yet undeniably sentient. The signature grew stronger, and then Kabuto appeared, landing gracefully in the center of the clearing.

Kabuto bowed slightly, brushing the dirt from his robes. "Sasori-sama," he said, his tone smooth, deferential. His pale hand adjusted his glasses, but Sasori noticed the faint tension in his movements. He knew exactly how precarious his situation was.

Sasori grunted, a sound barely human. “You’re late.”

Kabuto smiled thinly. “It was... strange, remembering everything. But I am here now, ready to serve, Lord Sasori.”

“Perfect,” Sasori said, his tone devoid of any warmth, like wood scraping against stone. "Speak."

Kabuto’s expression shifted into something more calculated as he stepped forward. "Hiruzen Sarutobi killed Danzo Shimura in a battle—but not without consequence. Danzo managed to poison him before dying. The old Hokage is bluffing strength, pretending to be unshaken, even going so far as to spread rumors of reviving the dead through Edo Tensei. But it’s a lie. He’s dying. Slowly. He has only a few years left.”

Sasori’s fingers twitched slightly, a faint whir coming from his arm as a mechanism shifted. “And the rest?”

Kabuto’s eyes gleamed. “From Orochimaru—plans to invade the Hidden Leaf Village are already in motion. He will act with Sand during the chunin exams. The Snake has ambitions to tear the village apart from the inside, to destabilize its leadership. Hiruzen’s weakened state will make it easier.”

Sasori’s puppet face betrayed nothing as Kabuto gave him a paper detailing the report, but behind it, he allowed himself a small, cruel smile. This was better than expected. Hiruzen, the so-called God of Shinobi, clinging to life while his village withered around him. Orochimaru, a traitor and fool, unwittingly paving the way for the Akatsuki’s goals. When the time came to seize the Kyuubi, Konoha would be weak, and the fox-brat ripe for the taking. There would be no need for further investigation—the Hokage’s desperation was nothing more than the last act of a dying relic.

“You’ve done well,” Sasori said flatly, though his mind was already cataloging the information, calculating its worth. “Dismissed, Kabuto.”

Kabuto bowed again, but there was something uneasy in his movements as he turned and vanished into the forest. Sasori watched the clearing for a moment longer, his mind sharpening like the blades hidden within his body.

Konoha would fall in a few months — or Orochimaru would die. Whichever happened…It was ugliness. 

“True beauty,” he murmured again, his voice a whisper to the empty air. “It doesn’t crumble. It doesn’t beg for life.” And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, his form melding into the lifeless precision of the forest.

— — — 

Somewhere near the Border of Kiri

The heat rippled off Pakura’s Scorch Release as the orb of chakra slammed into the chest of the Kirigakure shinobi. His scream was guttural, desperate, but it died as his body convulsed, every drop of moisture in his veins ripped away. His flesh cracked, skin splitting like parched earth under the unforgiving sun, and his eyes boiled in their sockets. A second later, his head exploded, the steaming remnants scattering across the rocky ground in a grisly shower of blood and bone fragments. Pakura didn’t flinch. Her lips were tight, her breaths shallow, the adrenaline searing through her veins like liquid fire. She had no time to mourn, no space to grieve the monstrous necessity of her survival.

She ducked into the shabby fisher’s hut, slamming her back against the uneven wood of the wall. The structure smelled of rotting seaweed and salt, barely large enough to stand in. She exhaled sharply, pressing her palm to her ribs where blood seeped through the frayed edges of her green-and-yellow kimono. Her traditional garb had been shredded during the pursuit; the torn fabric exposed the taut muscles of her shoulders and the sweat-slicked skin of her midriff. The neckline of her outfit had been ripped lower, a testament to her frantic escape, revealing the bruises and scratches carved across her collarbone and chest. Her thighs, strong and bare through the long slit of her garment, bore streaks of blood, fresh trails mingling with the dirt and grime of the chase. Every breath made her body ache, a chorus of pain and exhaustion, and she fought the tremor that threatened to buckle her legs.

Pakura’s golden eyes, sharp as they were haunted, darted to the doorway, scanning for the shadows of her pursuers. Her face, streaked with dirt and blood, betrayed no weakness despite her desperate circumstances. Her jaw tightened as she shifted her weight, her legs braced for another fight. Yet beneath her exterior, her thoughts churned like a storm. She had been Sunagakure’s pride, the "Hero of the Sand." She had bled for them, killed for them, sacrificed everything to give her village hope amidst their poverty. And now… this. Sent on a routine diplomatic mission, ambushed by Kiri shinobi who were too prepared, too sure of themselves. It reeked of betrayal.

“Rasa,” she hissed under her breath, her voice sharp with hatred. Her Kazekage. Her Kage. The man who had called her a symbol of Sunagakure’s strength but had been quick to use her as a pawn. The council had surely known; they alone were privy to the details of her mission. “They sold me out,” she whispered, the realization cutting deeper than any blade. Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, she thought of Maki, her student, her legacy. Maki, you’ll carry the weight of what I couldn’t fix. Her teeth clenched. If she made it through this, she would burn Rasa’s name into the ashes of Sunagakure.

The air grew heavier. No…not the air.

The mist.

The mist thickened, curling through the gaps in the wooden planks of the hut, laced with chakra. Her heart sank. “They’ve found me,” she muttered, forcing herself upright. She grasped a kunai, the cold metal biting into her palm. Outside, the chakra signatures closed in—four of them. Middle-level jonin, their power radiating through the mist. They weren’t Kage-level, but neither was she — maybe if she had a few more years, but she was still only a high-level jonin, and her body was wearing down. She steadied her breathing. Her Scorch Release was lethal, but she had limits. They were closing in, and her reserves were running dry, exhausted by the previous fights. 

A shadow loomed at the doorway, and Pakura’s gaze snapped toward it. The man stepped into the fading light, his mask tilted upward to reveal a cruel smirk beneath his sharp features. His voice was cold and mocking. “So this is the mighty Pakura, the ‘Hero of the Sand.’ How far you’ve fallen.” He chuckled, his eyes glinting with malice. “Do you even know why you’re here? Your own Kage sold you to us. He couldn’t stand the sight of you anymore, stealing the glory he thought belonged to him. You were a threat. And now…” He gestured lazily at her disheveled state. “You’re nothing. A prize for Kirigakure. I will avenge my comrades, the one who fell at your hands, you dirty bitch.”

Pakura’s grip on her kunai tightened, her knuckles white. Her lips curled into a snarl, fury bubbling beneath the surface. She refused to let his words take root, even as the truth clawed at her like a festering wound. “You talk too much,” she growled, forcing her shaking legs into a ready stance.

She moved first, her chakra flaring as she hurled a Scorch Release orb at the taunting ninja. He dodged, the orb slamming into the wall and disintegrating part of the hut. The remaining three closed in from all sides, their attacks synchronized. Pakura twisted, parrying a blade aimed at her throat and slamming her heel into another’s chest, sending him sprawling. She spun, her Scorch Release forming a second orb that she flung at the ninja recovering from her kick. He screamed as the heat consumed him, his body collapsing into a withered husk.

A second blade found its mark, slicing across her side. Pakura hissed in pain, her free hand pressing against the wound as she staggered. One of the hunters pressed the advantage, his movements swift and calculated. He drove her backward, forcing her to block his relentless strikes. “You’re slipping, Pakura,” he sneered, his sword flashing as it nicked her shoulder. “All that pride—what good is it now?”

She ducked under a swing, releasing another orb that caught him mid-step. His body contorted, his screams echoing as he was reduced to ash. But before she could recover, the remaining two were upon her. One struck her knee, forcing her to collapse. The other grabbed her by the wrist, twisting her arm until her kunai fell to the ground. Pakura lasxhed out with her remaining strength, catching him in the jaw with a brutal kick, but it wasn’t enough.

Blood dripped onto the floor as she collapsed fully, her strength spent. She lay there, gasping for air, her golden eyes glaring up at the two remaining hunters. One grinned wickedly, his blade resting against her throat. “Look at you now,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “The great Pakura, hero of the Sand, on her knees like a dog. Rasa really did us a favor, didn’t he?”

Pakura’s head swam, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming her. But even as the world blurred, her defiance remained. “If I’m going down,” she rasped, her voice barely audible, “I’m taking you with me.”

She moved first, her chakra erupting in a burst of heat as she hurled a Scorch Release orb at the taunting ninja. He darted aside, the blazing projectile smashing into the wall and obliterating a chunk of the flimsy hut, splinters flying outward like shrapnel. The air crackled with residual heat, and before the dust could settle, the remaining three attackers closed in, their movements precise, their attacks weaving together in deadly harmony. Pakura twisted sharply, raising her kunai just in time to deflect a blade aimed for her throat. The clash of metal against metal was deafening in the small space, but she didn’t falter. Her other leg shot upward, slamming her heel into another ninja’s chest, sending him reeling backward into the mist.

She spun without hesitation, her hands forming seals in a blur, channeling what chakra she could muster into another Scorch Release orb. Her target, still recovering from her earlier strike, barely managed to raise his hands before the orb struck him squarely in the chest. He let out a guttural scream as the heat consumed him. His flesh shriveled, steam hissing from his body as his eyes melted and his limbs withered. He collapsed to the ground, reduced to little more than ash and charred bone. Pakura didn’t celebrate. There was no time. The other two were already pressing forward, and her body was beginning to falter.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her ribs screaming with every inhale. Blood seeped through the torn fabric at her side, staining the sand beneath her. Maki, she thought suddenly, the image of her young student flashing in her mind. Maki, full of hope, full of potential. Pakura had taught her to fight, to survive, to endure. And now Pakura wasn’t there to protect her. “Damn it,” she hissed under her breath, dodging another kunai aimed at her leg. I can’t die here. Not like this. Not for them. Her rage burned hotter than her jutsu as Rasa’s face came to mind, his cold, calculating eyes, his clipped tone as he sent her to this death. She would live. If only to make him pay.

Another ninja surged forward, his blade trailing water chakra that rippled and twisted like a serpent. He slashed at her with precision, each strike forcing her back step by step. She managed to block his attacks with her kunai, sparks flying, but the effort sent pain lancing through her already injured arm. Behind her, the fourth ninja began weaving hand seals, the mist growing thicker around them, saturating the air with chakra. Pakura’s breathing grew heavier, the suffocating dampness weighing her down as if she were drowning.

She counterattacked, dropping low and sweeping her leg across the ground. It connected, and the water-user staggered, his stance faltering just enough for her to thrust a kunai into his thigh. He roared in pain, staggering backward as blood gushed from the wound. But she couldn’t press the advantage. The fourth ninja completed his seals, and a torrent of water erupted from his mouth, a high-pressure stream that tore through the hut like a blade, cutting a clean path through the wall and out into the night. Pakura leapt to the side, her body screaming in protest as she narrowly avoided the jet.

The ninja with the injured thigh snarled, forming his own seals. A massive whip of water coiled into existence around him, snapping through the air as he sent it hurtling toward her. Pakura rolled across the ground, the whip missing her by inches and slicing into the floorboards with a wet crack. She rose to her knees, her hands moving instinctively as she formed another Scorch Release orb. With a cry, she hurled it at the whip-user. He tried to dodge, but the orb grazed his arm, and the moisture in his flesh evaporated instantly. He screamed as his arm blackened and twisted, the limb hanging uselessly at his side.

Pakura surged forward, slamming her elbow into his chest and driving him into the remnants of the wall. She grabbed his head and smashed it against the wooden beams until he slumped lifeless to the ground. But her triumph was short-lived. The final ninja took advantage of her distraction, sweeping in with a blade that sliced clean across her back. The pain was blinding, white-hot, and she stumbled forward, her knees giving way beneath her.

She collapsed onto the floor, blood pooling around her. Her vision blurred, the edges of the room smearing together as her strength drained away. The last two survivors loomed over her, their faces cruel and unyielding. “Look at you,” one said, his voice dripping with mockery as he crouched beside her. “The Hero of the Sand. What a pathetic sight.” His eyes roved over her torn clothing, his lips curling into a smirk. “I can see why your Kage sold you off. Didn’t want anyone too pretty or too dangerous stealing his spotlight.”

The second ninja sneered, leaning closer, his breath hot and humid against her ear. “How does it feel, Pakura? To know your precious village threw you away like garbage? You’re not a hero anymore. You’re just a corpse waiting to happen.” He pressed the flat of his blade against her neck, not cutting, but threatening. “Maybe we’ll take our time with you before we send your head back to Sunagakure.”

Pakura’s golden eyes glared up at them, defiance flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. She opened her mouth to spit back a retort, but the words caught in her throat as a sharp, whistling sound cut through the mist-laden air. For a moment, the two hunters froze, their expressions shifting to confusion. Then, in a flash, the head of the ninja closest to her was severed cleanly from his shoulders. Blood sprayed across the room as his body crumpled beside her, lifeless.

The second ninja spun around, his eyes wide, panic setting in as he scanned the mist for the source of the attack. Pakura blinked, her mind struggling to process what had just happened, but a faint hope stirred within her. 

Whoever—or whatever—had just intervened, it wasn’t over yet.