In Konoha's interrogation room, Deidara—bound tightly with five-flower restraints—sat next to Sasori of the Red Sand, who had been fixed to a crude iron chair.
Deidara glanced sideways at him and sighed.
"Huh… I can't believe you got caught too, Sasori."
"...The strength of that man is not something I could resist."
Sasori's voice was rough and metallic. His previous human puppet body had been destroyed by Ryoma, and to continue functioning, Ryoma had forcibly attached him to a mismatched temporary puppet frame.
If anyone had dared do something so humiliating to him in the past, Sasori would have already cursed them to hell a hundred times over and sworn to reduce them to dust.
But now… that rage simply wouldn't come.
After witnessing Ryoma's power firsthand, the will to oppose him had been completely shattered.
"Don't hang your head like that, bastard!" Deidara snapped.
Unlike Sasori's quiet despair, Deidara was the kind who only grew more defiant under pressure. Even in defeat, he refused to give up chasing his ideal of true art. He was already thinking of how to challenge his opponent again.
A respectful voice called from outside the door:
"My lord."
A moment later, Ryoma stepped inside.
Deidara glared at him with fierce, burning resentment.
"It seems you're still full of energy," Ryoma said as he approached. "Good. That makes my job easier."
The cold indifference in his tone sent a chill up Deidara's spine.
"You—! What are you planning to—"
Before he could finish, Ryoma's hand clamped down on his head.
"Let me see what's inside."
A flood of information surged into Ryoma's perception the moment his palm made contact.
Mind Reading Technique.
With the ocular power he possessed—akin to the Rinnegan's Human Path—Ryoma could directly read and extract memories and fragments of the soul.
Images rewound rapidly before his eyes like a film playing in reverse.
If Deidara's human brain weren't so fragile, Ryoma could have absorbed everything in a single instant.
Deidara, feeling the invasive force pierce into his mind, thrashed violently.
"Ryoma! Get out of my head!"
"Aaaah! I'll kill you!"
His voice cracked with fury. Bloodshot veins spread across Deidara's eyes, his features twisting into something feral—like a cornered wolf. Chakra surged through his body as he tried to form a technique, any technique.
Ryoma didn't even blink.
"Be quiet."
A precise stream of chakra flowed from his hand, slipping into Deidara's network and effortlessly disrupting the explosive, chaotic chakra he was trying to muster.
"Aaaah!"
Ryoma ignored his screaming and continued the extraction—fast enough to bypass resistance, slow enough not to turn Deidara's brain to mush. Ten years of memories unfolded before him like a dancer stripping away veils—down to even the memories buried deepest, ones Deidara himself had long forgotten.
His childhood.
His apprenticeship under Ōnoki.
His obsession with Explosion Release and the pursuit of true art.
Every battle.
Every spark of inspiration.
And then—an ominous shadow.
Black Zetsu.
This memory was from a year ago.
In a hidden cave, illuminated only by the faint oppressive glow of the Gedo Statue, Black Zetsu stood beside Deidara.
"Don't you want to witness true art?" Black Zetsu whispered.
The memory froze there.
"I have a plan you might be interested in," Black Zetsu had said.
"If it succeeds, you will witness the true god of this world—the true form of art."
His voice echoed in the cavern, eerie and seductive.
"Well? Are you interested?"
And there the memory ended abruptly.
It was only the fragment showing how Black Zetsu had drawn Deidara into Akatsuki—followed by scattered intelligence about various members and missions carried out alongside Sasori of the Red Sand.
Ryoma withdrew from the memory stream.
"A pity. Even with this, I still can't pinpoint Black Zetsu's true location."
His gaze returned to Deidara. Despite everything, Ryoma held a certain respect for talented shinobi.
"You have two choices: die… or serve me."
Deidara spat back immediately, "I'll never be your dog—never become like the others—"
He didn't finish.
Ryoma's hand moved.
The Six Paths' force burst outward.
Deidara's body disintegrated into dust-like particles, scattered into nothingness.
"In that case," Ryoma said coldly, "die."
He had always been warm as spring to those he cared for, and mercilessly cold as winter to his enemies. This was simply his nature.
He turned toward Sasori, who had witnessed everything.
"And you?"
Sasori's puppet body trembled—an action he should no longer be capable of. That instinctive fear came not from his wooden limbs but from the depths of the soul he kept anchored within his puppet core.
Ryoma had intentionally let him see Deidara's end.
Sasori believed art should be eternal. True beauty was that which lasted forever. That's why he crafted human puppets, preserving bodies and moments in time. He had even remade himself for the sake of "eternity."
Death, to him, was the antithesis of art—total negation. No eternity. No meaning.
Thus, he understood Ryoma's message perfectly.
"…I am willing to serve you," Sasori said at last.
Ryoma nodded. "A wise choice."
He stepped closer. His hands formed seals in an instant, gathering a pitch-black chakra in his palm before pressing it onto Sasori's puppet chest.
"Urgh—!"
Sasori gasped. The chakra coiled itself around his regenerative core, latching on like an unbreakable brand.
"This chakra is fused to your core," Ryoma explained. "Even if you change shells, it will follow the core."
He casually released Sasori's restraints and stepped back.
"You understand what that means."
Sasori dropped to one knee.
He understood clearly—his life now hung entirely on Ryoma's will. If he ever showed signs of betrayal, that foreign chakra would crush his core and erase him.
"Your next task is to accompany me," Ryoma said. "We're going to track down the remaining Akatsuki members."
He paused, then added:
"I've extracted everything useful from Deidara, but his knowledge was limited. You'll fill in the gaps while we travel."
Unlike Deidara—who had a normal human brain—Sasori was barely human anymore. His body was a puppet, and even his soul had long since been twisted into something halfway unnatural.
Extracting his memories directly would require far more time and effort—and would risk damaging the very information Ryoma needed.
Better to move, gather intel on the go, and confirm Sasori's words through the chakra brand he had planted.
Even if Sasori lied, Ryoma would know instantly.