TPMITWON Chapter 70: Getting Ready to Start Working

The dry morning air tickled the boy's nose, causing him to sneeze lightly.

Then the boy slowly opened both of his eyes. His vision was still blurry for a few seconds before finally focusing on the sandy ceiling above him.

Where the boy took a deep breath, the distinctive aroma of dust, sweat, and a hint of metal from the old nails in the wall filled his lungs.

The boy was Souta.

Yesterday was Souta's first day working at the Puppet Arts Performance Theater, an ancient building with sandy pillars adorned with desert puppet ornaments, standing majestically near the Ninja Academy.

Souta worked as a cleaner—a job that may seem small, but in a village like Sunagakure, it was a luxury. A stable income, even if it was just pocket change.

Today, Souta would return to work. But this time, there was something new. Pakura, a sharp-eyed little girl, would be joining Souta.

Yesterday, Pakura passed the selection and was accepted to work at the same place. Like Souta, she would also sweep the dusty floors and clean the old performance puppets that smelled of wood from the past.

Souta slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his still-sleepy face, then looked out the small window that had no glass—just wooden slats as a barrier.

The dry desert wind entered uninvited, bringing with it distant sounds from the market that was coming to life. The creaking of cart wheels, hurried footsteps, and faint shouts of vegetable vendors calling out to customers.

Souta got up. His feet touched the cold floor. A few grains of sand stuck to the soles of his feet. He walked out of the room, passing through the narrow, suffocating walls. The living space was no more than a corridor with a table and two mismatched wooden chairs. To the right, there was a bathroom and a kitchen.

Souta stopped in front of the bathroom door. Holding the doorknob, he glanced to the left. The kitchen—if it could be called a kitchen—consisted only of a rickety wooden shelf and a single clay stove. There were no storage cabinets. No decent cooking utensils. Just a dented pot and a rusty iron spoon.

Souta looked at the kitchen with a blank stare. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, not a happy smile, but a bitter one—a wry twist of the lips.

All this time, the kitchen had hardly been touched. Not because Souta didn’t know how to cook—he was used to eating out in his previous life. Home was just a place to return to, not a place to live.

Even when he thought about buying groceries, that intention faded because there was no refrigerator, no proper storage space. As a result, the kitchen remained quiet, like a forgotten corner of the house.

But now, with Souta's new job, a small hope began to grow. Maybe in two years, or three years if Souta was frugal, he could save enough to buy a metal storage cabinet that could keep food from spoiling quickly. Maybe he could even buy rice in bulk, not in small packages that were gone in a day.

That thought made Souta sigh—softly, yet deeply. He lowered his head for a moment, rubbed his face once more, then entered the bathroom.

The water in the clay bucket was still cold. Souta quickly poured water over himself. The sound of water splashing broke the silence, and its droplets echoed in the cramped space. Souta shivered a little, but he was used to it. The half-used bar of soap was still kept in a small rusty can.

A few minutes later, Souta emerged from the bathroom with his hair still dripping wet, and a worn towel wrapped around his waist.