Chapter 13: Toxic Alchemy and Taboo Deals
I held the small pouch of blue-violet powder like it was a holy relic. In the Hidden Sand Village, being a hero didn't put food on the table, but being a chemist just might.
The earnings from my last Rank C mission had barely kept the debt collectors from my door. Missions were a scam. A Rank C assignment could take half a month of desert trekking and intelligence gathering, and by the time you factored in gear maintenance, you were basically working for scraps.
If I wanted to live, I had to innovate. If I wanted to thrive, I had to sell something lethal.
"This is the purest batch I've ever refined," I said, rubbing my hands together as a greasy smile stretched across my face. "It was a nightmare to purify. If you weren't my best customer, I wouldn't even show you the bag."
Kankuro, the second son of the Kazekage himself, squinted at the powder. He dipped a finger toward it.
"Watch it!" I hissed, pulling the bag back. "Get that on your tongue and I'm not responsible for your funeral costs."
Kankuro flinched, quickly pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his hand. "It smells... sharp. But the price is ridiculous, Daimaru."
"Quality isn't cheap, Kankuro. You want the garbage refined from fruit pits and incinerated waste? Go to the back-alley stalls. You want something that drops a Jonin before they can finish a hand sign? You buy from me."
(Internal Monologue: He's hooked. I can see it in the way his eyes keep darting back to the pouch. He's spent his allowance on those wooden dolls of his and he's desperate for a trump card. Time to turn the screws.)
"Let me think about it," Kankuro muttered, looking pained.
"Think away. But I've got a line at the door. That girl Saya from next door? She's a Puppet Master too, and her family is loaded. She'd give an arm for a toxin that causes immediate respiratory failure."
I wasn't lying. My "folk alchemy" was light-years ahead of the village's traditional decoctions. I wasn't just boiling herbs; I was targeting the core of the nervous system. Cyanide wasn't the most complex poison in the world, but in the hands of a Puppet Master, it was a god-tier weapon. One scratch from a hidden needle, and the target suffocates in seconds.
"Fine! You win!" Kankuro growled. "I'll take the lot. But I'm short on cash. Put it on my tab."
"A tab? For the son of the Kazekage?" I laughed, shaking my head. "This isn't a charity. No cash, no poison."
"Then what do you want?"
"Barter," I said, my voice dropping. "I want your high-grade puppet materials. Joints, reinforced plating, chakra-conductive wiring. No second-hand junk."
Kankuro looked like I'd asked for his kidney. "You've been planning this since we sat down, haven't you?"
"We're going to be family sooner or later, brother-in-law," I winked. "Why wouldn't I look out for you?"
"Who's your family?!" Kankuro snapped, his face reddening. "I should warn you, Temari's fan is back from the shop. She replaced the wooden ribs with reinforced steel. If you try that 'family' line on her, she'll bisect you."
"A detail for another time," I waved him off. "Do we have a deal?"
By evening, my small apartment was a treasure trove.
I sat on the floor, surrounded by piles of rare woods, tempered steel joints, and rolls of expensive chakra thread. I had sunk every cent of my savings into the chemicals for that batch, and the return on investment was staggering.
(Internal Monologue: It's a start. This 'alchemy' gig is risky—if the Elders or Lady Chiyo find out I'm refining high-grade toxins outside village oversight, they'll have my head. But until then, I'm the only supplier of the 'Blue Death.')
I picked up a piece of ironwood, feeling its weight. With these materials, I could finally build something that didn't shatter the moment a Genin looked at it funny. My "Sand Clay Puppets" were fine for diversions, but I needed a masterpiece.
Ding-dong.
I groaned, looking at the clock. "Which scoundrel is it now? If this isn't about money or murder, I'm not interested!"
I wrenched the door open.
Standing there was Saya. She was dressed in her usual Puppet Master attire—exaggerated eyeshadow and dark lip gloss that served as a rank indicator to other puppeteers. She looked annoyed, her arms crossed over her chest.
"It's too noisy in here," she snapped. "I'm trying to rest, and all I hear is you clanking around like a blacksmith."
Her eyes drifted past me to the floor, where the mountain of puppet materials sat in plain sight. Her pupils dilated.
"Where did you get all this?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. "You're a failure of a Genin. You shouldn't have enough credits for a single one of those joints, let alone a pile."
"I have my ways, Miss Saya," I said, leaning against the doorframe to block her view. "Maybe I'm just more talented than I look."
"Talented? You're a scavenger," she sneered, though she didn't look away from the pile. "You've been 'picking up trash' again. Do you even know how to use high-density ironwood? You'll probably just turn it into a paperweight."
"Watch your mouth," I said, my smile fading. "This 'trash' is going to be the reason I survive the Chunin Exams. Can you say the same for your dolls?"
Saya stepped closer, her nose inches from mine. The scent of wood lacquer and oil wafted off her. "The village is talking about you, Daimaru. They say you're getting arrogant. They say you've been seen with Kankuro. If you're selling something you shouldn't be..."
"Are you threatening me, or are you jealous?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked me dead in the eye, her expression shifting from annoyance to a cold, calculating curiosity.
"The Kazekage's office issued a summons for a 'Special Assessment' tomorrow," she whispered. "I'm on the list. And so are you. Whatever you're building with that 'trash,' you'd better finish it tonight."
I felt a jolt of electricity run down my spine. A Special Assessment? Usually, that was code for a high-fatality-rate screening.
"Who else is on the list?" I asked.
"Everyone who matters," she said, turning to walk away. "And a few people who don't. Try not to die, neighbor. It would be a waste of good wood."
I watched her disappear into her own apartment.
(Internal Monologue: A summons. Tomorrow. I haven't even started the assembly.)
I looked back at the piles of materials. My hands were already twitching. Multitasking wasn't just a skill for controlling puppets—it was the only way I was going to finish a combat-ready unit in six hours.
I grabbed the chakra-conductive wiring and the ironwood core.
Tonight, the "Red Sand" wasn't just a nickname. It was going to be the color of the sawdust on my floor.
I began to carve, the rhythm of the blade against the wood matching the frantic beat of my heart. I wasn't just building a puppet. I was building a cage for my soul.
And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the desert horizon, the puppet sat up. It had no face, only two glowing red orbs where eyes should be.
It looked at me, and for a second, I thought it was going to speak.
"One more thing," I whispered to the empty room, "if I'm going to the Kazekage, I'm not going alone."
Suddenly, a massive shadow fell over my window. A silhouette of a man with a giant gourd was standing on the roof of the building opposite mine.
Gaara.
He was looking directly at my apartment. His sand was already swirling, his eyes filled with a terrifying, hollow hunger.
He hadn't come for an assessment. He had come for blood.
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[End of Chapter 13]```
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