Sunagakure, entrance.
It was not a gate, but a canyon. Wind-eroded rock walls rose on both sides, covered in holes—not natural holes, but ones dug by ninjas. Hidden Sand's ninjas lived within the rock walls, not because they dwelled in caves, but for defense. Defense against sandstorms, against enemies, against anyone who wanted to charge in from the front. But today's enemy had not come from the front.
The village lay utterly silent.
It was not the silence of night, but the silence of ruins. The streets were covered in rubble, and people lay sprawled across it—not corpses, but unconscious ninjas. Hidden Sand ninjas had fallen everywhere, some still clutching kunai, some with half their faces buried in sand, some slumped against the rock walls with their heads lowered and dried blood at the corners of their mouths. They were not dead. Their chakra had been drained dry. This was not an attack, but suppression. Someone had used a bird from the sky to press all of Hidden Sand to the ground. It was not a metaphor. It was fact. High above, a massive white bird circled through the air. A person stood on its back—blond-haired, dressed in a long robe, with a tongue that was not flesh, but clay. The clay was rolled into balls atop that tongue, and the balls fell from the bird's back. They were not bombs. They were art.
"Shukaku is no longer your Kazekage. He's my art!"
Deidara's voice drifted down from the sky. He was not shouting. He was laughing. Laughing at Hidden Sand's weak defenses, at its weak Kazekage, at how all its ninjas could not even stand before C1 Spiders. C1 Spiders were miniature bombs. They did not explode; they infiltrated. They infiltrated every corner of Hidden Sand, every rock cave,