Beuwulf
patreon
Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 112
🕑 Added 2026-01-06 18:32:27 +0000 UTCThere were many things Itachi had learned from his father over the years.
Techniques.
Sealing formulas.
Battlefield awareness.
How to read the flow of chakra like a second language.
But among all those lessons, one stood above the rest—engraved deeper than any jutsu or bloodline ability.
Never underestimate an enemy.
And never relax—no matter how weak the opponent seems.
Harry had drilled that lesson into him relentlessly.
“Power doesn’t kill,” his father had once said while correcting Itachi’s stance during training. “Complacency does. The deadliest shinobi are not always the strongest ones—but the ones who catch you when you believe you are safe.”
Itachi had taken those words to heart.
He lived by that code.
And because of that, he was still alive.
Now, as he moved silently across the barren stretches of land between nations, Itachi reminded himself of that lesson again.
Because the man he was hunting was not weak.
He was S-rank.
Sasori of the Red Sand.
A name that carried fear even decades after his disappearance from Sunagakure. A prodigy of the Puppet Corps. A butcher who turned shinobi into tools. A man who believed human bodies were nothing more than raw materials waiting to be refined.
Poisoner.
Manipulator.
Master of ambush warfare.
This is not a fight I rush, Itachi thought calmly as he moved. This is a fight I end cleanly.
Itachi did not hunt blindly.
He had studied Sasori extensively—long before today.
Scrolls from Konoha’s intelligence archives.
Sunagakure reports smuggled through political channels.
Old ANBU mission logs that described entire squads wiped out without ever seeing their attacker.
Sasori’s fighting style was brutally efficient.
He rarely fought directly.
He observed first.
Measured reactions.
Waited until his enemy felt confident—or desperate.
Then the poison came.
Invisible clouds.
Needles thinner than hair.
Scratches that killed hours later.
And worse—his puppets.
Human puppets.
Shinobi preserved in twisted mockeries of life, each one retaining fragments of their original chakra techniques.
Kazekage puppet, Itachi thought grimly. Magnet Release. Iron sand.
A single mistake against Sasori meant death.
A second mistake meant becoming part of his collection.
Tracking Sasori, however, was not difficult.
Like Orochimaru—and like many shinobi who had survived too long and grown too confident—Sasori did not erase his trail.
He did not believe he needed to.
Villages remembered him.
Bandits whispered his name.
Caravans burned where he passed.
Itachi passed through a ruined outpost as the sun dipped low, the scent of old blood lingering in the air. Bodies lay stiff and half-buried in sand—merchant guards, judging by their armor. Their faces were frozen in terror.
No defensive wounds.
Poison, Itachi concluded.
He knelt briefly, inspecting the marks—tiny punctures along the neck and wrists.
Senbon delivery system. Likely automated.
He rose and moved on.
Further ahead, a small settlement stood abandoned. Doors smashed inward. Walls scorched. A single puppet arm lay discarded in the street, shattered beyond repair.
Sasori had passed through recently.
And he had not been subtle.
He’s moving toward the border, Itachi thought. Still operating openly.
That arrogance would be his undoing.
Itachi slowed his pace.
From this point onward, every step was calculated.
He suppressed his chakra further, folding it inward until even sensor-types would struggle to distinguish him from the land itself. His breathing slowed. His mind sharpened.
Do not assume you know where he is, he reminded himself. Assume he knows where you are.
He began weaving countermeasures as he traveled—small, subtle preparations that would not reveal his presence:
Chakra threads buried beneath sand, waiting to disrupt puppet control
Heat-dispersal seals to counter poison gas ignition
Spatial anchors, should he need instant repositioning
Nothing flashy.
Nothing wasteful.
Just layers of caution.
Because even now—despite everything he had done, despite killing Orochimaru and planning the fall of a god—Itachi refused to believe himself untouchable.
That was the difference between him and men like Sasori.
As night fell, Itachi reached a narrow canyon—stone walls rising sharply on either side, wind howling softly through the gap.
He stopped.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Itachi did not step forward.
Instead, he closed his eyes and extended his senses fully.
There.
Faint chakra signatures—multiple, but synchronized.
Not living chakra.
Controlled chakra.
Puppets.
A faint smile touched Itachi’s lips—not of amusement, but of acknowledgment.
“So you’re nearby,” he murmured.
He reached up and adjusted his cloak, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.
The hunt was nearing its end.
And this time, Itachi would not underestimate the man waiting in the shadows.
Because his father’s voice echoed clearly in his mind:
“The moment you believe you are safe… is the moment you are already dead."
Itachi stepped forward into the canyon—
alert, composed, and ready to kill another legend.
Itachi stood atop the ridge overlooking the canyon, cloak fluttering softly in the dry night wind, eyes half-lidded as his senses mapped every contour of the terrain below. The canyon walls were narrow, jagged, and perfect for ambush—exactly the kind of place Sasori of the Red Sand would choose.
“Then this ends quickly,” Itachi murmured.
He stepped forward, no dramatic flourish, no warning.
His eyes opened fully.
The Rinnegan ignited—emerald rings spinning slowly, radiating silent authority.
Itachi raised one hand, palm facing the canyon.
“Shinra Tensei.”
The world screamed.
An invisible force detonated outward, crushing space itself. The canyon wall imploded as if struck by a god’s fist. Stone shattered, collapsed inward, and was then violently expelled outward in a cataclysmic blast.
The cave ceased to exist.
Rock fragments the size of houses were hurled into the night sky. Dust and debris consumed the canyon in a roaring cloud. Puppets—dozens of them—were pulverized instantly, reduced to splintered wood and twisted metal before they could even react.
The shockwave rolled outward for miles.
Itachi stood unmoving at the epicenter’s edge, cloak snapping violently as the dust storm raged.
He waited.
Because men like Sasori were never that easy to kill.
The dust slowly settled.
Then—
Something moved.
From the rubble, a small figure emerged, stepping lightly over shattered stone as if walking through a garden path.
Itachi’s eyes narrowed.
The figure looked… wrong.
It was shaped like a child—a strange, artificial baby boy with pale skin, delicate features, and vivid red hair. Its eyes blinked slowly, almost curiously, as it looked up at the destruction around it.
Then it looked at Itachi.
“…That was unexpected,” the figure said calmly.
Itachi felt no chakra pulse from lungs. No heartbeat.
A puppet.
But not an ordinary one.
Sasori tilted his head slightly, studying Itachi with interest.
“Itachi,” he said. “No… Itachi Pottaru, now, isn’t it?”
Itachi did not answer.
Sasori smiled faintly. “I remember you from the Bingo Book. You’re far more dangerous than most of the names listed there.”
The puppet’s eyes glinted with something like amusement.
“But I don’t recall being told you had those eyes.”
Itachi’s Rinnegan glowed steadily.
“Even if you were told,” Itachi replied calmly. “You wouldn't be able to do anything.”
Sasori chuckled softly.
“How fortunate,” he said. “I am hoping to add you to my collection.”
The ground behind Sasori shifted.
Iron-black sand poured upward like a living tide, forming blades, spikes, and massive floating constructs that hummed with deadly precision.
Sasori raised one small hand.
“Third Kazekage,” he said evenly. “My finest work.”
The puppet emerged fully from beneath the sand—tall, imposing, humanoid, its hollow eyes staring lifelessly forward. The iron sand swirled around it like a storm, responding instantly to Sasori’s will.
The air grew heavy with killing intent.
Without warning, the iron sand exploded outward.
Blades screamed through the air, faster than kunai, denser than steel rain. Entire volleys curved mid-flight, altering trajectory to track Itachi’s movement.
Itachi moved.
He vanished from where he stood as iron blades shredded the rock behind him into powder.
He reappeared mid-air, flipping backward as a spike the size of a tree trunk tore through the space his head had occupied a moment earlier.
The iron sand did not relent.
It formed spears, nets, drills—attacks layered upon attacks, each one precise, each one lethal.
Tch, Itachi thought, landing lightly. Relentless pressure. No opening.
Sasori’s control was flawless.
“You can dodge for a while,” Sasori said conversationally as the iron sand attacked without pause. “But eventually, you’ll tire. Flesh always does.”
Itachi did not answer.
Instead, he inhaled deeply.
“Fire Style: Great Fireball Jutsu.”
A massive sphere of flame erupted from his mouth, roaring across the canyon like a miniature sun. The heat distorted the air, turning sand to glass as it surged toward Sasori.
Sasori leapt back instantly, the Kazekage puppet moving in perfect sync, iron sand forming a shield that parted the flames.
The fire forced distance—but not victory.
The iron sand counterattacked immediately, slamming downward like a hammer.
Itachi raised his arm.
“Earth Style.”
The ground surged upward, forming a reinforced barrier just as the iron sand crashed into it with bone-rattling force. The impact split the earth, shockwaves racing outward.
The battle escalated instantly.
Fire met iron.
Earth met sand.
Speed met precision.
The canyon became a battlefield of destruction—walls collapsing, ground fracturing, air screaming with chakra and heat.
Yet despite everything—
Itachi could not close the distance.
The Third Kazekage puppet was too fast. Too adaptive. Every step forward was met with three counters.
Sasori observed calmly, analyzing.
“You’re powerful,” he admitted. “But you fight like a human.”
That was the opening.
Itachi’s eyes sharpened.
“Then let me stop,” he said quietly.
Emerald rings spun faster.
The Rinnegan flared.
Sasori’s smile faded.
“…Those eyes again,” he muttered.
Before Sasori could adjust—
Itachi moved.
Not with speed.
With space itself.
Three elongated kunai flashed through the air—not thrown, but placed. They distorted the space around them, anchoring reality.
Sasori reacted instantly, iron sand surging to intercept—
And Itachi was suddenly there.
Right in front of him.
Sasori’s eyes widened for the first time.
Itachi reached out.
His hand touched the puppet’s chest.
The Rinnegan blazed with terrifying intensity.
“Human Path.”
Sasori felt it then.
Not pain.
But a loss.
Something fundamental was being torn away.
A transparent, screaming shape—his soul, bound unnaturally to puppet flesh—was ripped free, dragged inexorably toward Itachi’s outstretched hand.
“No—!” Sasori hissed. “This body—this form—I perfected it—!”
The Third Kazekage puppet collapsed instantly, iron sand scattering lifelessly.
The canyon fell silent.
With a final surge of light, Sasori’s soul was consumed, sealed, erased.
The small puppet body dropped to the ground, empty.
Itachi released his breath slowly as the Rinnegan dimmed.
He looked down at the remains.
“Another legend,” he said softly. “Ended.”
The wind howled through the ruined canyon.
And far away—
In Amegakure—
A god would soon feel the loss.
The desert stretched endlessly before Itachi, a sea of gold and crimson beneath the rising sun.
Behind him lay the ruined canyon—silent now, emptied of chakra, emptied of menace. Sasori of the Red Sand, one of the most feared S-rank missing-nin in the world, was gone. His puppets, his core body, every trace of his existence had been carefully sealed away by Itachi into layered storage seals, reinforced with suppressors so dense that even a sensor-type would recoil from prying too closely.
Itachi adjusted the scroll at his side and resumed walking.
His destination was clear.
Sunagakure.
Unlike Konoha, Sunagakure’s bounty system was… practical.
Sasori had been their shame.
A prodigy born of the Sand, a master puppeteer who abandoned his village, murdered its shinobi, and turned its secrets into weapons. For years, Sunagakure had posted an enormous bounty on his head—not just for justice, but to finally close a wound that never healed.
And unlike Konoha’s internal policies, Sunagakure paid in full.
And Itachi intended to claim it—not out of greed, but strategy. Funds were resources. Resources meant freedom. And the war he was preparing for would require more than chakra.
Still, that was secondary.
More importantly, delivering Sasori’s remains personally would send a message.
He is gone. Completely.
The political landscape between nations had changed.
Ever since Naruto and Gaara had forged their unlikely friendship, the relationship between Konohagakure and Sunagakure had warmed considerably. Trade routes reopened. Joint missions became possible. Shinobi exchanges—once unthinkable—were now routine.
Borders that once bristled with hostility now stood guarded, but not closed.
Itachi felt the shift the moment he crossed into Sand territory.
The chakra signatures along the desert perimeter were alert—but not aggressive.
“Identify yourself,” a voice called out as a squad of Sand shinobi emerged from behind a dune, cloaks fluttering.
Itachi stopped calmly and raised his hands just enough to be non-threatening.
“Itachi Pottaru,” he said evenly. “Konohagakure shinobi.”
The Sand ninja stiffened.
“…Pottaru?” one of them repeated.
Another quickly formed a seal, scanning. His eyes widened slightly.
A brief silence followed.
Then the lead shinobi bowed his head respectfully.
“You may pass,” he said. “Welcome to Sunagakure.”
No interrogation.
Just… passage.
Itachi inclined his head in return and continued forward.
Things really have changed, he thought.
