"Why should you get to choose?"
Teizawa repeated Sasori's words softly, the cold smile on his lips deepening.
His eyes swept over Sasori's body, over the puppet fragments scattered across the ruins.
At last, his gaze settled on "Father" and "Mother," still locked in place under Chiyo's control.
"Because as far as I'm concerned…"
He paused, then said it slowly, word by word:
"Your art is cheap junk."
The air froze.
The oppressive weight in the atmosphere was even heavier than it had been during the puppet duel.
Sasori, who had already gone quiet, who had all but accepted death, jolted hard.
The eyes peering through the seams of his puppet body flared with razor-sharp killing intent.
"What did you say?"
His voice turned ugly.
Hoarse, twisted with fury he couldn't hold back.
Art.
Those two words were his entire reason for existing.
The reason he threw everything away, defected, joined the Akatsuki, and turned himself into a human puppet.
And now someone was saying, to his face, that it was junk?
"What, you don't like it?"
Teizawa ignored the killing intent like it wasn't even there. He only lifted his chin slightly.
His fingers moved, almost casually.
An unseen force tugged.
In the corner of the ruins, a broken puppet wobbled, then floated toward them.
It was one of the puppets destroyed earlier in the fight.
Wooden frame. Damaged in multiple places.
Limbs hanging off at wrong angles. Pitiful.
Teizawa pointed at it and explained to Sasori in a flat, almost instructional tone:
"Wooden puppets. Lighter, more agile, easier to control."
"That's why puppeteers choose wood, right?"
Sasori didn't answer.
But his eyes stayed locked on Teizawa, unblinking, tracking every movement.
"But…"
Teizawa reached out and squeezed lightly.
Crack.
The wooden puppet's arm snapped off cleanly.
Splinters burst out. Fibers tore.
The hollow interior was exposed.
"And this isn't cheap junk?"
Teizawa looked up at Sasori, open contempt in his eyes.
"You call this… eternal art?"
He let go. The severed arm dropped with a dull thud.
"Wood doesn't rot?"
"Bugs don't chew through it?"
"Give it enough time, and it won't crack, warp, lose strength?"
Sasori's body went rigid.
His mouth opened, ready to spit out a rebuttal, ready to roar, ready to drown Teizawa in every theory he'd ever built…
But not a single word came.
Because Teizawa was right.
Wood rotted.
Insects burrowed in.
Time eroded everything.
His art, his eternity, his pride, his puppets…
In the end, they still broke.
Chiyo stood to the side, lips parting as if she wanted to say something.
In the end, she didn't say a word.
As a puppeteer herself, she understood better than anyone that Teizawa was stating simple fact.
She'd devoted her whole life to puppetry.
She'd created legends like Chikamatsu's Ten Puppets.
And she also knew those puppets needed constant upkeep, regular replacement parts, careful maintenance…
She suddenly remembered thinking about this when she was young.
If puppets never broke, how wonderful would that be?
She just never believed the world could actually offer an answer.
Kankuro was just as speechless.
He looked down at the puppet scroll at his waist.
The collection he was so proud of…
Karasu, Kuroari, Sanshōuo, all of them wood.
He maintained them every day, wiped them down, checked them piece by piece.
Even so, he knew it.
Someday they would break.
Break for good.
Get eaten by time.
End up thrown onto a junk heap.
The thought left him strangely hollow.
Sakura stood off to the side.
She had no idea what was happening.
A moment ago they'd been trying to kill each other, and now they were… talking?
She looked at Teizawa, then at Sasori.
Then at Chiyo and Kankuro, completely lost.
No one paid her any attention.
Everyone's eyes were on Teizawa.
Teizawa didn't care about the complicated looks.
He simply raised his hand.
Pitch-black satetsu (iron sand) poured out from his sleeve.
It moved like a living thing, flowing through the air, condensing, shaping itself.
In the blink of an eye, a humanoid puppet identical to Sasori's Hiruko appeared before them.
Not wood.
Not any traditional material.
A puppet made purely of satetsu (iron sand), black and gleaming with cold metallic light.
Teizawa pointed at it, voice calm but absolute.
"This is what eternity actually looks like."
He paused.
"Hard. Powerful. It won't decay."
Then his fingers twitched.
The scattered puppet fragments around them rose as if pulled by invisible strings.
They slammed into the satetsu (iron sand) puppet.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Again and again.
Wood splintered. Debris exploded outward.
The puppets that puppeteers had built with care, maintained with care, treasured for years…
Shattered against the satetsu (iron sand) puppet like eggs thrown at stone.
When the dust settled…
The satetsu (iron sand) puppet stood exactly where it had been.
Untouched.
Its black surface didn't even have a scratch.
Chiyo fell silent.
Kankuro fell silent.
Even Sasori fell silent.
Three generations of puppeteers stood there, staring at three puppets.
Watching.
And none of them could find words.
Their art. Their craft. Their life's work.
In front of that black satetsu (iron sand)…
It was all so laughably fragile.
Teizawa withdrew his hand. The satetsu (iron sand) puppet dissolved, flowing back into the ground as liquid metal.
He looked at Sasori again.
This time there was no mockery in his eyes.
Only a calm certainty, like he was waiting for the inevitable answer.
"Now answer my question."
He paused.
"Come back to the village?"
Or…
Teizawa bared his teeth in a grin, white and cold.
"I kill you right now."
"And then I tell the entire shinobi world…"
He dragged it out on purpose, word by word:
"That Sasori of the Red Sand's puppetry is garbage."
Sasori's body jolted hard.
In his eyes, emotion exploded into a storm.
Fury. Humiliation. Defiance.
And a sliver of something he didn't want to admit existed at all…
Doubt.
"You…"
He wanted to argue, wanted to prove himself, wanted to tear those words apart.
But what could he say?
That satetsu (iron sand) puppet had stood right there.
Those shattered fragments were still scattered across the ground.
What could he possibly say?
Garbage.
The word was a thorn, driven deep into his chest.
"You'd dare?"
His voice shook, hoarse and trembling. It was hard to tell whether it was rage or fear.
Teizawa didn't move.
He only looked at Sasori, calm as a man staring at a trapped beast.
"Try me."
(End of Chapter)
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