The final day of December, Year Eleven of the Shinobi Era, arrived with a bitter desert chill.
Inside his stone house, Sengoku slowly opened his eyes. He didn't immediately rise from his bed; instead, he lay staring at the dark ceiling, mentally mapping out the day ahead.
It was New Year's Eve. The Academy was closed for the holidays, and the village training grounds would be largely deserted. However, Sengoku had no intention of slacking off. Yet, his primary focus today wasn't physical exhaustion or weapon refinement. His mind was fixed on the translucent panel buried deep within his consciousness.
He remembered exactly what had happened at the start of the year. Without warning, a single attribute point had materialized on the interface. That singular point had lubricated the brutal friction of his cultivation, accelerating his progress by leaps and bounds. Tonight marked the transition from the old year to the new. If the pattern held, midnight would bring another point.
Determined to pass the hours productively, Sengoku ran through a simple physical warm-up before transitioning into precise chakra control exercises. By the afternoon, he was seated at his workbench, his carving knife moving with practiced, rhythmic precision. He worked through his remaining scrap sandstone until a fresh batch of intricate crafts sat neatly in his delivery box. With his daily quota fulfilled, he set the knife down.
Needing to clear his head, he decided to head to the training grounds. A light session of basic taijutsu and shuriken throwing would keep his muscle memory sharp while easing the restless anticipation building in his chest.
As expected, the training grounds were desolate, save for a few older students practicing taijutsu in the far distance. Sengoku claimed an isolated target post and fell into his routine, the rhythmic thwack of kunai biting into wood filling the quiet afternoon.
He trained until the sun began to dip below the high sandstone walls, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange. Feeling sufficiently limber, he collected his weapons and prepared to leave.
"Yo! Sengoku!"
He paused, turning to see Yotaka Arashi and Araki Ryo approaching, with the quiet Akasuna Yumi trailing slightly behind them.
Ryo still carried his usual surplus of aggressive energy. He eyed Sengoku up and down, crossing his arms. "Still working yourself to the bone on a holiday? Why do you always train out here alone? Is that why your taijutsu is improving so fast?" His tone was fiercely competitive, tinged with a lingering, bitter unwillingness to accept his previous, effortless defeat.
Sengoku met his gaze impassively. "It's just basic practice," he replied, his voice completely devoid of inflection.
Sensing the tension, Arashi cheerfully intervened. His bright demeanor was always a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom of Sunagakure. "Come on, it's the last day of the year! You work too hard, Sengoku. There's a huge festival at the central plaza tonight. I heard the village actually spent good money importing premium fireworks from the Land of Fire. They're supposed to be way bigger than last year's! You should come with us."
From a few paces back, Yumi nodded timidly. "Um... it's a very rare sight..." she added in a soft murmur.
He considered the offer. 'The central plaza?' It didn't matter where he waited for midnight to strike. Being in a crowd might actually make the time pass faster. Giving a slow nod, he said, "I'll be there."
"Awesome, it's a promise!" Arashi clapped his hands together. "See you at the plaza later! Maybe we'll run into the others."
The brief exchange ended there. They weren't close friends—merely classmates brought together by proximity. Ryo looked like he wanted to demand a sparring match, but Arashi practically dragged him away by the collar. Yumi offered a quiet "See you tonight," before hurrying after them.
Sengoku watched them walk away. The faint, socially acceptable smile he had offered them vanished instantly, leaving his face an unreadable mask.
'Camaraderie?' In this brutal, meat-grinder of a world, such things were fragile illusions. The only truth he could rely on was the lethal force he held in his own hands.
He turned away and headed back to his cold, empty house.
---
Dinner was his usual bland, military-style rations. As he forced the tasteless food down, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: 'Maybe I should start spending some of my earnings on decent meals.' Once he finished, he unrolled the Basic Puppet Construction and Maintenance scroll, spending the next few hours drafting minor structural optimizations for The Pursuer.
When the sky outside finally turned pitch black, the village began to light up. The distant, swelling murmur of a massive crowd drifted through his window. It was time.
Sengoku threw on a heavy windbreaker against the biting desert night and stepped out into the bustling streets, merging with the flow of foot traffic heading toward the central plaza.
It was a rare sight for Sunagakure to be this lively. Civilians, merchants, and shinobi alike wore uncharacteristically relaxed expressions. The air buzzed with a noisy, vibrant festival energy that momentarily pushed back the village's usual austere atmosphere. Specially designed windproof lanterns bathed the massive plaza in a warm, flickering glow, illuminating the dense crowds of people wandering between food stalls and open spaces.
Instead of pushing into the thickest part of the crowd, Sengoku navigated toward the edge of the plaza. He found a relatively quiet corner, pressing his back against the cold sandstone wall of a nearby building. From here, he had an unobstructed view of the dark sky directly above the village center.
He settled in, waiting in absolute silence.
A short distance away, he spotted Arashi, Ryo, and Yumi. They were pointing excitedly toward the center of the plaza, chatting animatedly about the impending firework display. Sengoku made no move to join them. He simply watched the sky, waiting for the stroke of midnight.