[Konoha Year 40 – The Height of the Second Shinobi World War]
Sayo's third year in Sunagakure was defined by the rhythmic clink-clink of the repair bay. Though his body remained small and his complexion pale, the lethargy of infancy had begun to recede, replaced by a quiet, unnerving intensity. From his designated "safe zone," his obsidian eyes—filled with the analytical weight of a man three decades his senior—tracked every gear, every seal, and every drop of oil.
The atmosphere in the workshop was a barometer for the war. When the air was thick with the scent of ozone and charred wood, it meant the Suna front was holding. But today, the workshop felt like a tomb.
The puppets arriving from the Land of Rain were no longer just broken; they were mutilated. Some were covered in a viscous, purple-black sludge that hissed as it ate through reinforced oak. Others were fused together by heat so intense the internal mechanisms had melted into useless lumps of slag.
Sharyu sat at his bench, his face a mask of grease and exhaustion. He was painstakingly extracting poisoned senbon from the chest cavity of a Karasu-model puppet, his movements trembling with fatigue.
"News from the Rain..." a young courier whispered to a nearby mechanic, his voice cracking. "It's a massacre. They say the vanguard met the 'Demi-God.'"
"The Demi-God?" The mechanic's file stopped mid-stroke, leaving a harsh, grating silence.
"Hanzo of the Salamander," the courier breathed, looking around as if the name itself carried a curse. "He moved through our lines like a ghost. Suna and Konoha... we're both being bled dry."
Sayo's ears twitched. Hanzo. The name resonated within his memories of the "plot" like a heavy bass note. In this era, Hanzo was the ceiling of shinobi power—a man whose breath was a death sentence.
A few days later, the rumors were codified into history.
Elder Chiyo entered the workshop. She walked with a measured stride, her face an unreadable mask, but there was a flicker of something rare in her eyes: a blend of professional apprehension and genuine, soldierly respect.
She gathered the squad leaders near Sayo's corner. She ignored the toddler fiddling with a pile of sanded, harmless wooden joints; to her, a three-year-old was a blank slate. She didn't realize the "blank slate" was currently mental-mapping a more efficient hydraulic system for a puppet's legs.
"The reports from the Land of Rain have been verified," Chiyo announced. "Hanzo is as formidable as the legends suggest."
The workshop fell silent. Tools were lowered.
"He single-handedly dismantled Konoha's primary assault force," she continued. "Specifically, he broke the trio they've pinned their hopes on: Jiraiya, Orochimaru, and Tsunade."
A ripple of gasps went through the room. Even in the isolation of the desert, Suna's engineers knew those names. They were the rising suns of the Leaf—the next generation of monsters.
"The battle was an atrocity," Chiyo recounted, her voice clinical. "Hanzo's salamander, Ibuse, flooded the valley with a neurotoxic fog. Even with Tsunade's renowned medical expertise and custom antidotes, they couldn't find a gap in Hanzo's defense. Jiraiya's summons and Orochimaru's hidden strikes were... insufficient."
Sayo's heart hammered against his ribs. This is it. This is the moment.
"And the outcome?" Sharyu asked, his voice low.
Chiyo looked at the ceiling of the cavern. "Hanzo acknowledged them. With their lives in his palm and victory certain, he chose to stay his hand."
The workshop went still. In the brutal logic of the Hidden Sand, mercy was a defect.
"Why?" a squad leader asked.
"Because Hanzo is a sovereign, not just a soldier," Chiyo replied with a hint of admiration. "He saw the geopolitical board. If he killed them, Konoha would have leveled his entire country in retribution. He chose the path that preserved the Rain. He showed his power, then offered them an exit."
She paused, delivering the line that would define the next thirty years of history: "He granted those three the highest accolade a warrior can receive from an enemy. He christened them 'The Sannin'—The Three Legendary Ninja."
"The Sannin..." Sharyu whispered, the weight of the title sinking in.
"From this day forward, the prestige of the Sannin will swell Konoha's influence," Chiyo concluded. "For Sunagakure, this is a dark omen. It means our rivals have found their icons."
As Chiyo departed, the room remained heavy with the realization that they were living in an age of giants.
In his corner, Sayo slowly set down a wooden puppet finger.
The Sannin were born of survival, not just victory. In this world, the "Gundam" he dreamed of building wasn't just a toy or a feat of engineering—it was a necessity. Without power, you were just a witness to someone else's legend.
He looked at the cold, mechanical parts scattered around him. He saw the limits of current Suna technology: it was too reliant on the user's individual chakra capacity and lacked independent processing.
If I want to survive Hanzo, or the Sannin, or the wars to come, Sayo thought, his engineer's mind catching fire, I can't just be a puppeteer. I have to be an architect of a new era.
He gripped a small, chakra-conductive gear. He couldn't mold chakra yet, but he understood the physics of the world better than anyone in this village.
The era of the 'Nin' is at its peak, he mused. It's time for the era of the 'Machine' to begin.