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Haruto followed closely behind Orochimaru, the forward base now fading into the distance behind them. The terrain was rocky and barren, with the dry wind whipping across their path, carrying faint vibrations of the world around him. Orochimaru moved ahead with his characteristic fluidity, the green Leaf vest he wore blending into the muted tones of the terrain. Haruto's senses tracked him easily, each shift in Orochimaru's weight, each ripple of displaced air painting a vivid picture of his movements.

Haruto's mind drifted back to the moments before they had left the Leaf Village.

"This is my sign language," Orochimaru had said, his voice smooth but laced with intrigue. "You'll learn it before we leave."

Without handing him a scroll, Orochimaru had begun demonstrating, his pale hands moving in intricate patterns. Haruto didn't need sight to understand. Each gesture sent vibrations through the air, subtle ripples that bounced off walls and surfaces, revealing the shape and rhythm of Orochimaru's movements.

At first, Orochimaru's instructions were deliberate, each gesture clean and precise. Haruto mirrored them perfectly, his hands moving with the same fluidity as his teacher's. But Orochimaru quickly shifted his approach. The rhythm of the signs changed—faster, sharper, with feints and misdirections meant to throw Haruto off.

Haruto adapted, filtering through the unnecessary flourishes to find the core of each movement. He could sense the faint shifts in Orochimaru's stance, the way the vibrations altered with each purposeful motion. His hands kept pace, the signs flowing smoothly despite the increasing complexity.

Orochimaru was testing him. The sharpness in his movements, the subtle pauses, the way he watched Haruto intently—it was all deliberate. Haruto didn't falter. He wasn't just learning; he was showing Orochimaru exactly how clearly he could see.

When Orochimaru finally stopped, the air seemed to settle. Haruto couldn't see the expression on Orochimaru's face, but he didn't need to. The Sannin's weight shifted evenly, the vibrations around him steadying in a way that told Haruto he was pleased.

"Good," Orochimaru had murmured, his tone neutral but carrying a faint trace of approval. "You'll need it."

Now, as they moved closer to the Land of Wind's border, Haruto focused on the mission ahead. Their target was a rogue puppet master—a former shinobi of the Hidden Sand who had taken his deadly craft to new heights. His weapon, a grotesque Buddha-like puppet, was infamous for its ability to ensnare and drain the chakra and life force of its victims. The puppet master's paralytic fog made it nearly impossible to resist once captured, and his Earth Release techniques allowed him to vanish into the ground, erasing his chakra signature entirely.

The mission was clear: eliminate him before he could further disrupt the region. But Haruto knew Orochimaru had his own agenda. The Sannin's probing attention hadn't left him since they departed the Leaf, his quiet scrutiny pressing in the way only someone like Orochimaru could manage.

As they searched for their target as the days passed, Haruto's senses became attuned not just to the physical devastation around him, but to the lingering echoes of the people who had fought and fallen. His unique abilities allowed him to feel the remnants of their presence in ways others couldn't comprehend.

As Haruto walked through the remnants of battlefields, the world around him unfolded in vivid, brutal detail. His senses stretched out like an invisible net, pulling in the raw essence of what had transpired. He could hear it all—the rapid, panicked breaths of those who had fought and fallen, the fading echoes of hearts that had beat their last. The air carried the lingering vibrations of conflict, etched into the ground and the remains left behind.

A short distance away, his senses caught something striking: an older Jonin, kneeling amidst the rubble, his breathing ragged and uneven. Haruto could feel the trembling in the man's hands, the slight hitch in his chest as he knelt over the lifeless form of a young Genin. The boy's chakra was gone, extinguished like a snuffed flame, his body limp in the Jonin's arms. Haruto didn't need sight to see the man's grief—it radiated from him, a raw, agonizing pulse that hung in the air, louder than words ever could be. The Jonin's heartbeat faltered, unsteady, as though the weight of his failure was enough to crush him entirely.

Further on, a fierce vibration pierced Haruto's awareness—movement, desperate and erratic. His senses locked onto it: a girl, no more than twelve years old, dragging herself across the broken ground. Her breaths came in short, gasping bursts, each one a battle against the pain coursing through her body. Blood seeped from a wound in her side, its sticky warmth clinging to her tattered clothing. Her chakra flickered like a candle in a storm, faint but still fighting to keep her alive.

She wasn't running—she couldn't. Instead, she clawed forward with trembling arms, her fingers digging into the dirt as she tried to escape whatever had left her in this state. Her heartbeat pounded erratically in Haruto's ears, each beat laced with fear and determination. She wasn't his comrade, and this wasn't his fight. He couldn't assist.

Orochimaru continued forward without pause, his movements fluid and purposeful, and Haruto followed, his attention shifting reluctantly away from the girl. The mission was clear: they had a target, and deviating from their path was not an option.

The battlefield was littered with moments like these, each one a snapshot of war's relentless brutality. The air was thick with the echoes of life clinging on or fading away, the ground stained with the blood of those who had fought with everything they had. Haruto's senses painted the picture vividly: the sharp crack of kunai clashing in distant skirmishes, the faint hum of chakra unraveling in death, and the quiet, desperate gasps of those who had yet to succumb.

Each heartbeat, each labored breath, told a story of struggle, of survival, or of loss. Yet none of it could distract them from their mission. These people weren't his comrades, and this battlefield wasn't his to claim. He moved forward, his senses pulling in every detail, every lingering vibration, leaving nothing hidden from his awareness—except the choice to intervene.

Eventually, their search brought them to the edge of a desolate clearing, and the signs of their target's presence were unmistakable. The air felt heavier, clinging with a faint, unnatural stillness. Haruto's senses sharpened as they stepped closer, and what came into focus was grotesque.

The first body lay crumpled near a jagged rock, its form barely recognizable. The skin was shriveled and sunken, pulled tight over brittle bones. The lifeless eyes were wide, staring into nothing, frozen in the terror of their final moments. The chakra that had once flowed through this shinobi, the energy that defined their life, was completely gone.

As they moved deeper into the clearing, more husks appeared, each one a horrifying echo of the last. The twisted remains of shinobi were scattered like discarded puppets, their bodies unnaturally bent and contorted. Some clutched at their throats, others at their chests, as though trying to resist whatever had drained them so completely. The air was filled with the faint metallic tang of dried blood and decay, though even decomposition seemed to have been accelerated, leaving little more than brittle shells.

Haruto crouched near one of the corpses, his senses stretching out to try to grasp the remnants of chakra, but there was nothing—only an eerie void where life had once pulsed. The marks left behind were unmistakable. The rogue puppet master's grotesque technique had been here, feeding off these shinobi like a parasite.

Even for someone like Haruto, who had trained himself to stay detached, there was something unsettling about the precision of the devastation. This wasn't the chaos of battle or the randomness of war—it was deliberate, methodical, almost clinical in its execution.

Orochimaru, standing nearby, tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes scanning the scene. His presence was calm, almost detached, as though he were studying an experiment rather than the aftermath of death.

"This is his work," signed ochimmaru, Haruto could detect from his echo sense ochimaru was a bit of fascinated "He's close."

Haruto rose, his senses on high alert, the grotesque scene etched into his mind. There was no doubt anymore.

Haruto grinned behind his mask, hopefully there would be some kind of challenge.