The Land of Wind was a furnace.

  Even after sunset, the air shimmered with heat and fine particles of dust that clung to your throat like a warning.

  Ken’s cloak billowed lightly in the hot breeze as he stood at the edge of Shiromura, the capital of the Land of Wind. Not the Hidden Sand itself, but the civilian heart of the country—where trade, politics, and power collided in a grid of sandstone buildings, noble estates, and guarded walkways.

  He wore no headband. No cn crest.

  Just a worn traveler’s robe, a merchant’s ledger, and a sealed pouch of forged documents.

  Name: TazuroOrigin: Western desert routeTrade: “Exotic goods and chakra-infused paper”

  A perfect cover.

  Enough to expin his chakra control. Enough to move between high and low circles. Enough to give him time to do what he was sent here to do.

  Destabilize. Quietly.

  Ken’s first week in the capital was quiet.

  He set up a stall in the outer markets, selling “chakra-stabilizing scroll paper” imported from “Lightning Country.” Business was steady. He kept the guise casual—always tired, always polite. He listened more than he sold.

  And what he heard confirmed what Hiruzen feared.

  The Wind Daimyō had already cut a quarter of Sunagakure’s funding. The military budget had been funneled toward raising private militia forces loyal to the Daimyō himself. Less chakra. More steel.

  The elders in the Hidden Sand were livid.

  But diplomacy kept them leashed—for now.

  Ken watched the cracks spread like hairline fractures through sandstone. He mapped the patterns:

  House Nobunari, the Daimyō’s cousin and strongest militia advocate, had gained rapid influence.

  Lord Fushō, a former liaison to Suna, was now barred from the court.

  Chancellor Ryuda, an old schor, remained the only voice calling for reintegration with the shinobi vilge—but he was too soft to matter.

  The structure was fragile.

  All it needed was a nudge.

  On the eighth day, Ken received a dead-drop message through a paper-wrapped scroll embedded in his shipment of spices.

  Target: Lord NobunariObjective: Eliminate. Frame. Destabilize.Cover: Use Suna colors. No Leaf traces.

  Ken didn’t question the order.

  He had already studied Nobunari’s estate—fortified, with personal guards trained by the new militia but no real shinobi security. Nobunari trusted his wealth and position to protect him.

  Ken would use that arrogance to slit his throat.

  Two nights ter, the desert wind howled across the high walls of Nobunari’s estate.

  Ken moved like sand over stone—silent, untraceable. His garb had been changed to match a low-ranking Suna operative: beige fk jacket, faded red sash, chakra mask with scratched gss over one eye.

  He carried no sword.

  Just three tags, a kunai, and a throat full of silence.

  He breached the outer perimeter using a stolen guard schedule he’d memorized after weeks of observation. The inside was minimal—designed for intimidation, not resistance.

  When Ken entered the main quarters, Nobunari was drinking from a shallow cup of cold sake.

  He didn’t look up in time.

  Ken struck once—pressure point, paralyzing.

  Then he stepped around him, looked the noble in the eye, and whispered:

  “This is what it feels like… to be ignored by your own bde.”

  Then he slid the kunai across the man’s throat and left him to bleed.

  Before he exited, Ken painted a Suna falcon emblem across the door in stolen blood.

  The symbol of the Hidden Sand’s elite infiltration corps.

  He left through the roof—gone before the scream.

  By sunrise, Shiromura was chaos.

  Guards swarmed the markets. The merchant quarter was sealed. Interrogations began immediately. Rumors exploded through the streets.

  “The Hidden Sand has decred war.”“It’s retaliation for the funding cuts.”“The Daimyō’s cousin? Sughtered by shinobi in his own home?”

  And the Daimyō?

  He responded with rage.

  A full contingent of elite militia was deployed to “protect the capital.” An envoy was dispatched to Sunagakure immediately—demanding answers.

  But the Kazekage—still newly instated, still rebuilding his political ground—denied everything.

  No operatives were in the capital.

  No kill orders had been authorized.

  No faction bore the falcon insignia anymore—it had been retired years ago.

  The assassination was a setup.

  The Daimyō didn’t believe them.

  Not entirely.

  But the real purpose of Ken’s act was not to convince—only to unbance.

  Now, the Daimyō no longer trusted his ninja.

  And the vilge, in turn, would begin doubting the capital’s intentions.

  Ken’s mission had succeeded.

  Without a war.

  Without a decration.

  Just one body.

  One name erased.

  That evening, Ken returned to the small stone inn he’d rented under his merchant alias. He sat at the back room’s writing desk, lit a single candle, and unrolled a fresh scroll.

  He didn’t report the kill.

  He didn’t expin the blood.

  He just wrote one phrase in invisible ink, triggered by chakra:

  “The roots are exposed. The sand has no foundation.”

  He sealed it in a small bird scroll, marked it for “Old Pine,” and let it fly.

  It would find its way back to the Fire Country.

  To Hiruzen.

  As Ken leaned back, tired, a knock tapped softly at the outer door.

  He rose, cautious, fingers brushing the hilt of his hidden bde.

  When he opened it—

  A figure in Hidden Sand jonin robes stood there, face shadowed by the sash across their brow, arms crossed.

  “Merchant,” the figure said slowly. “You’ve been here long. You watch more than you sell.”

  Ken narrowed his eyes. “You want paper or poison?”

  The jonin didn’t smile.

  “I want to know what you're really here for.”

  Ken said nothing.

  The figure tilted their head.

  “Because whatever it is… I think we’re on the same side.”

  Then they vanished.

  Ken closed the door.

  Locked it.

  And whispered into the candlelight:

  “Then we’ll see who breaks first.”