"You'll live here for now. I've already purchased this apartment building. The original tenants have been relocated, and I'm hiring workers to renovate it. It'll take a bit of time—once it's done, pick whichever unit you like."
Tamura Hao placed Karura down gently, then unsealed a scroll with a poof, revealing a heap of damaged puppets. "These are some puppets I recovered from the ruins of the Hidden Tide Village—formerly part of Uzushiogakure's satellite settlements. There are a few decent parts left. Choose what you need and make yourself a set of legs."
Among the pile were even some remnants of Chiyo's Chikamatsu Collection of Ten Puppets, unmistakably cracked and battle-worn. Some bore markings linking them to the White Fang's incursion during Konoha's joint assault with the Land of Whirlpools.
"Even Lady Chiyo's Chikamatsu Ten got shattered..." Karura murmured, disheartened. She couldn't help but wonder what had become of Ye Cang and Rasa. Had they survived?
"You take care of yourself. I'm going to shower," Tamura Hao said, already walking off. "I've visited more corpse-strewn places today than I can count, and some of that smell's still stuck on me."
He washed for over ten minutes before emerging with damp hair and a clean yukata. Karura was already in the living room, wobbling awkwardly as she tested out a pair of rudimentary puppet legs, holding on to the wall for balance.
"These are yours—don't touch my stuff," he said bluntly, tossing her a full set of toiletries and neatly folded clothes. "I've got mild mysophobia."
"I've got mysophobia too!" Karura snapped, scowling at him, before stomping toward the bathroom, wobbling with a mixture of anger and imbalance.
She was fuming. This brat wasn't just evil—he was annoyingly smug about it. Where was that cheerful little weirdo from the Hidden Cloud Village she'd once found oddly charming?
Once inside, Karura rinsed the tub and let the water fill. She lingered at the mirror, hesitating. Finally, she began unwrapping the thick medicinal bandages, exposing blistered and healing skin—burns, surgical scars, patches of exposed muscle. Her reflection shattered the last of her remaining composure.
What's the point of surviving like this...?
Click.
The bathroom door opened. A shadow entered.
"Smile."
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Tamura Hao, holding a bulky camera, casually took several photos of her vulnerable state.
"In case you're tempted to harm yourself again—or destroy your body—I'll be keeping these. If anything happens, I'll send them to Rasa and the others."
"GET OUT!" Karura screamed, her voice trembling with rage and humiliation. "NOW!"
"Relax. You're not planning to die anymore, right?" Hao said smugly as he turned and exited, shutting the door behind him.
The so-called camera was an old relic—completely out of film. He didn't even bother loading it. But the threat had served its purpose.
In the Root Foundation, Danzo had trained him well. You didn't need to persuade—just control. In this world, desperation was often subdued by a greater fear.
He had no intention of traumatizing her forever. One day, when she realized the camera was empty, her hatred might soften into understanding—or even twisted gratitude. Such manipulations were a legacy of shinobi espionage and manipulation, much like how Danzo had "coerced" Yakushi Nono into returning to Root.
An hour passed. When Karura finally emerged, she looked more composed, wearing a simple linen dress. Her gait, supported by puppet limbs, was more fluid now.
"I collected this from the place you were found," Tamura Hao said, tossing her a glass bottle half-filled with sand. "It's got your chakra signature—your refined sand. You can integrate more sand later to reconstruct your appearance."
Karura opened the bottle and smiled faintly as she manipulated the sand, letting it envelop her body like a protective cloak. Her old form returned: smooth contours, soft lines, and a face she once recognized. A living armor, a mask for the world.
"How did you end up treating Uzumaki shinobi?" Tamura Hao asked, clearly curious. "From what I saw in your memories—extracted via genjutsu—you were dragging both allies and enemies alike off the battlefield without discrimination. That's not standard protocol."
Karura grew quiet. Then she finally answered, "Even if I couldn't stop the war, I knew what we were doing wasn't right."
It wasn't until she saw the terrified eyes of a wounded Uzumaki child that her worldview began to shatter. She had entered this war to protect Sunagakure—but here, she was part of a violent invasion, slaughtering civilians.
She had believed in the shinobi code: protect your village, obey the mission. But now she felt like a tool, a weapon forged for destruction.
"The children they sent to war… some couldn't even form hand seals," she murmured.
Tamura Hao gave her a crooked smile. "I knew you were too soft to be a real ninja."
Karura blinked. "Too soft?"
He nodded. "It's not an insult. Just an observation."
There was a long silence. Then Karura whispered, "What's the point of being a ninja anymore? Why do we even have shinobi villages if it just leads to endless war?"
Tamura Hao took a bite of an apple and spoke calmly.
"Ninja exist to secure power, for their daimyo, for their clans, for their villages. The strong start wars to dominate. The weak start wars to survive. The cycle continues, again and again. Right and wrong? Those are luxuries of the dead."
He didn't speak like a 12-year-old, and Karura noticed it again. His views were mature, cynical—like someone who had lived many lifetimes. Yet, despite herself, she couldn't look away.
"Is there any way to end war?" she asked softly. "Any at all?"
Tamura Hao looked out the window at the setting sun. Then he said something shocking:
"Yes—but it's not something the current world can accept."
Karura stared. "What do you mean?"
He took another bite of his apple. "To end war, you'd have to either control everyone—or change everything. Neither is easy. But maybe one day... someone will figure it out."
She didn't realize that the answer echoed the dream of Nagato, of Obito, and of Naruto himself—each pursuing peace through different means.
For now, she simply sat in silence, holding the bottle of sand close, as the light in the room slowly dimmed.