On the fifteenth day of the break before the finals, late at night.
Konoha Hospital.
The door to the rooftop opened with a soft creak, and Gaara stepped out.
His bare feet touched the concrete, a chill shooting up from the soles of his feet—but it still wasn't enough to cool the heat boiling in his chest.
The scene from the prelims kept replaying in his mind on an endless loop. Shinju's figure had become a thorn he couldn't pull out, lodged deep in the very bottom of his heart.
By day, he played the role of a normal examinee, living quietly in the lodgings provided by Konoha, silently waiting for the next stage of the exam.
But once night fell, the thing inside his body began to howl.
The One-Tail, Shukaku, couldn't be contained anymore. Its murmurs never stopped, scraping against his nerves until he felt like he was about to split apart.
The urge to kill had never been this clear. It felt like it was on the verge of breaking loose.
His heart was restless. He wanted to fight. More than that, he wanted to see blood—wanted to use the terror in other people's eyes to confirm that he was still here, still "alive."
And lying in a special ward just below him… was the perfect target.
Rock Lee.
The man who had almost shattered his "absolute defense" with nothing but pure taijutsu.
If he killed that man, this hollow, drifting sense of confusion would disappear.
That was the thought running through Gaara's head as he unconsciously made his way up to the rooftop.
He walked to the edge of the roof.
The stopper on the gourd at his back loosened on its own. Sand gushed out, racing to gather under his feet. It rose and formed a shifting platform, ready to carry him down to the lit window below.
"Hey. Up this late and not sleeping—are you out here to enjoy the view? Or…"
"Are you planning to make a move on someone? Fighting is bad, you know."
A voice he would never forget for as long as he lived sounded behind him.
Gaara's movements stopped.
Every muscle in his body snapped taut, his entire being switching into battle mode in an instant.
He turned around.
Of all people to meet here, it had to be him.
Shinju stood in the doorway to the rooftop, hands stuffed casually in his pockets. There wasn't a single weapon visible on him—or perhaps he had simply reached the point where he no longer needed any.
A suffocating wave of killing intent poured out from Gaara's body, making the air around them feel heavy and viscous.
The sand beneath his feet stopped forming a platform. It split into several thick whips, their tips condensing into razor-sharp spikes aimed straight at the uninvited guest.
"You're trying to stop me?" Gaara asked.
"Stop you?" Shinju shook his head. "The only reason I stopped you before was because that was an official match. I couldn't let you break the rules."
"Whether you kill him or not doesn't affect me in the slightest. I'm just curious—after you kill him, what do you plan to do? What exactly do you think you'll get out of it?"
A twisted smile tugged at Gaara's lips. "I'll get pleasure. I can prove that I'm alive."
"No."
Shinju denied him without even a pause.
"Gaara, you don't attack people because it makes you happy. You do it because you're afraid."
It was like he'd thrown a stone into a still pond.
The sand whips, which had been coiled and ready to strike at any second, stuttered for a brief moment.
"You're afraid you're not needed. Afraid your existence has no value. So you need other people's fear to prove to yourself that you're really here."
Shinju took a few steps toward him, each one making the tips of the sand whips grow even sharper.
"But that kind of proof is just like the sand under your feet. One gust of wind… and it's gone. Everything blows away."
"You kill one Rock Lee, and there'll just be another. You'll repeat the same thing over and over—using other people's pain to confirm your worth."
"Until you've killed everyone else… or someone finally kills you."
Gaara's breathing grew ragged.
The boy in front of him had laid out his deepest motives—things he himself had never truly examined—out in the open, naked and effortless.
In front of this person, he felt completely transparent. Every shell and armor he used to hide himself had already been seen through.
"Shut up!"
He let out a low roar. The sand whips lunged forward, then stopped dead in midair as he forcibly reined them in.
Shinju also stopped, leaving a not-too-far, not-too-close distance between them.
"True strength isn't about making everyone else afraid of you."
"It's about finding someone who's willing to die for you… and then living on for their sake."
Gaara's mind went blank.
His tongue felt numb. Even his words came out in broken pieces.
Someone… willing to die… for me…
A scene he'd sealed away with countless killings and oceans of blood shattered the lock on his memory and burst out.
The man who had always smiled at him.
His uncle—Yashamaru.
The man who, in the end, had covered himself in explosive tags, glared at him with eyes full of hate, and told him he had always loathed him.
Gaara's body started trembling. He couldn't tell if it was from rage or from pain.
"Love?" His voice had turned into a beastlike growl. "That thing doesn't exist! The only person who ever loved me tried to kill me in the end! He hated me! Everyone hates me!"
"Is that so?"
Shinju's tone didn't ripple in the slightest.
"Would someone who truly hated you stay up all night at your bedside when you were sick, changing the cloth on your forehead every time it cooled down?"
"Would someone who truly hated you rush over in a panic when your own sand cut you, then teach you which herbs to use to treat the wound?"
The trembling grew out of control.
Because those were all things Yashamaru had done.
They were the only memories in Gaara's brief life that could be called warm.
"He was just a pitiful man who received an order he couldn't refuse."
Shinju's next words tore away the last veil and exposed the most brutal truth.
"Gaara, your real enemy has never been the world."
"And it wasn't Yashamaru either."
"It's the one who gave that merciless command in order to 'test your capacity'—your father. The Fourth Kazekage… Rasa."
The truth was laid bare, just like that.
And Gaara didn't doubt it for a second.
There was no need. No one went out of their way to corner him on a rooftop in the middle of the night and preach a story like this just to trick him.
The "betrayal" he'd clung to all this time… had been nothing but an "order."
The "hatred" he needed to justify his existence… had been nothing but a "test."
His reason to exist, all the pain he'd endured, and every person he'd killed along the way… all of it traced back to a scam from beginning to end.
"Ah…"
Gaara wanted to scream, but it felt like his throat was clogged. Only broken groans forced their way out.
The sand under his feet lost every shred of killing intent and power in an instant, turning into ordinary grains that rattled down around him in a soft cascade.
He clutched his head. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the rooftop.
His body shook violently, like someone had ripped all the bones out of him.
Fragments of memory crashed through his mind—Yashamaru's gentle smile, and that final expression covered in explosive tags, filled with cold resolve—switching back and forth again and again, tearing at his nerves.
So… that's how it was…
Shinju watched Gaara's psyche completely fall apart, then said nothing more.
He turned his back and walked through the door leading downstairs.
The door to the rooftop closed behind him with a soft click, sealing off the space.
Only Gaara remained—curled up on the freezing concrete, alone with a past that had been shattered beyond repair, a past that could never go back to what it once was.
(End of Chapter)
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