At the border of the Land of Wind, Yellow Sand Post Station.
The wind here was not called wind. It was called a file. Every breath felt like swallowing sandpaper, the rough grit tirelessly gnawing at this lonely adobe building.
Hiruzen Sarutobi tightened his dust-covered windproof cloak and hid his weathered old face in the shadows. The three-legged wooden table before him creaked, while the cheap tea in his cup was murky as muddy soup.
Several Sealing Corps elites disguised as wandering merchants were scattered around the station. Their gazes seemed unfocused, but they were actually watching everyone entering and leaving.
The post station had long been packed to the brim.
War created refugees, and it created opportunists too. Unemployed wandering ninja and smugglers reeking of sheep crowded together, their sweat, foot odor, and cheap tobacco fermenting into a stench of despair.
"Did you hear? Things changed over in Konoha." At the next table, a wandering ninja missing half an ear lowered his voice and gestured mysteriously. "Even old farmers can take down Jonin now, as long as they can afford those things called 'guns.'"
"You only just realized things changed? Were you just released from prison?"
"Give me a break." His companion snorted and spat. "Weapons like that are privileges of the major powers. Do lowlifes like us deserve them?"
The fingers holding Hiruzen's teacup tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white.
This was the Shinobi World now. Naruto's "New Order" had not fully spread yet, but anxiety over the cheapening of power was already spreading through the lower classes like a plague.
Suddenly, the tea on the table shook violently, ripples spreading across its surface.
"An earthquake?" someone cried as he leapt to his feet.
Then a piercing metallic roar tore through the wind. It was accompanied by bizarre,