The days after Nidoka's birth passed in a quiet blur. Snow still fell, winds still howled, but inside the Yuki household, a warmth bloomed that even the Mist's eternal winter could not touch. For the first time since Kumio could remember, in either of his lives, he felt something close to peace.
Each morning, his mother nursed Nidoka beside the hearth, humming the same soft lullabies she had once sung to him. Kumio would sit near them, small hands tracing patterns in the frost on the floor, watching his sister sleep. Her tiny face was a mirror of their mother's, pale and serene, crowned with wisps of white-blond hair. Occasionally, her hand would twitch, and the faintest shard of bone would peek from her baby-soft knuckles before retreating beneath her skin.
"She's like you," Rinazomi said one night as they watched Nidoka doze. She cradled the baby against her chest, dark circles under her eyes but a smile lingering on her lips. "She'll be strong. But I hope she will never have to fight."
Kumio hesitated, glancing from Nidoka's sleeping face to his mother's tired gaze. He wanted to promise that he'd make sure of it, that Nidoka would never have to see the horrors he knew were coming. But the words caught in his throat, heavy with the burden of foreknowledge.
Instead, he laid a small hand on Nidoka's blanket and whispered, "I'll protect you."
As the weeks turned to months, Kumio's days fell into a new rhythm. Dawn training with his father. Breakfast with his mother and Nidoka, where she would share stories of her Kaguya ancestors, fierce warriors who once roamed the lands unchecked, feared for their bone-shaping jutsu. Then evenings spent cradling his sister by the fire, humming half-remembered songs from his past life.
He grew quickly, his body filling out with lean muscle from relentless training. His chakra control sharpened like a blade honed daily on whetstone. By the time he was five and a half, he could shape frost into blades and shields with the ease of a seasoned genin.
But comfort was a fragile thing in Kirigakure, and peace was always a thin illusion.
It began with hushed conversations behind closed doors.
Whispers of skirmishes breaking out between Hidden Villages. Reports of Suna shinobi clashing with Iwa patrols along disputed borders. Rumors of the Land of Fire stirring, its forces mobilizing under a Hokage eager to assert power. The Mist was far from these conflicts, an island shrouded in fog, content to let the mainland tear itself apart, but the tension in the village was a living thing, coiling tighter with each day.
Kumio sensed it first in the way his father's retainer, Kuroba, stood guard outside the compound, eyes scanning the mist with restless intensity. Then in the brittle politeness of the clan elders when they visited, their small talk laced with anxiety. And finally in the late-night arguments that seeped through the paper walls of his parents' room, their voices hushed but urgent.
One evening, as heavy snow drifted outside and Nidoka slept in his lap, Kumio looked up to see his father watching him from the doorway. Yoritada's face was a careful mask, but his eyes held a storm.
"It's time," he said quietly.
Kumio blinked. "Time for what?"
"For you to join the academy."
The announcement sent a ripple through the household. His mother paled, clutching Nidoka closer. "He's still so young," she protested. "Let him stay home a little longer."
Yoritada's voice was gentle but firm. "He must learn what it means to live as a shinobi. The world outside will not wait for him to grow."
Kumio felt torn. He loved these mornings of snowball fights with Kuroba, evenings spent listening to his mother's stories, and afternoons napping beside Nidoka while snow whispered against the windows. But he knew he couldn't stay a child forever. The academy was the first step toward power, and power was what he needed to protect them.
The morning he left for his first day at the academy, the compound was silent. His mother helped him dress in a thick blue jacket with the Yuki clan crest embroidered on the back, an icy snowflake ringed in white bones. She knelt to tie his sandals, lingering over the task as if trying to memorize every line of his face.
"Remember," she said softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "you are strong enough to choose your own path."
His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "And never forget," he added, eyes hard as frozen steel, "strength is meaningless if you do not use it to protect those you love."
Kumio nodded. He looked to Nidoka, bundled up in his mother's arms, and raised a small hand in a silent promise. Then he stepped into the snow and set out for the academy.
Kirigakure's Ninja Academy sat at the heart of the village, a squat stone building wreathed in perpetual mist. Its wide courtyard was lined with training dummies and weapons racks, all covered in a fine layer of frost that glistened like glass. Other children clustered near the gates, some older, some his age. A few had the same pale hair and eyes that marked them as distant Yuki relatives. Most looked nervous, glancing around warily, clutching kunai too big for their small hands.
Kumio walked calmly to the gates, feeling the cold air wrap around him like a familiar cloak. Some children shivered, but he felt nothing but focus. The world seemed to sharpen at the academy's threshold, each sound and shadow more vivid.
The academy instructors were veteran shinobi, men and women whose bodies bore scars older than the children they taught. Their eyes were sharp, voices clipped and cold as they called names and directed students into lines.
When Kumio's name was called, "Yuki Kumio!", a murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads turned, some with curiosity, others with envy or fear. He kept his chin up as he stepped forward, feeling the weight of every gaze.
He was the prodigy everyone had heard of.
Lessons began immediately. The first day was filled with lectures on chakra basics, the shinobi code, and the geography of the Five Great Nations. Kumio sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the instructor, mind processing every word. He already knew most of it, his past life and his father's teachings had given him knowledge far beyond a five-year-old's, but he carefully maintained a facade of mild interest. He could not afford to show just how much he knew.
At breaks, groups of children formed cliques. Some boasted about their parents' jutsu, others compared wooden practice kunai. A few tried to size Kumio up, staring openly. He ignored them, choosing instead to sit quietly beneath the academy's lone withered pine tree, feeling the rough bark beneath his fingers as he watched snow swirl in the mist.
By the end of the week, instructors began pairing students for basic sparring drills. Kumio found himself standing opposite a boy a year older, eyes narrowed in challenge.
"Don't go easy on me, Yuki," the boy spat, stance wide and sloppy.
Kumio tilted his head. He didn't need to, but he decided to oblige. With practiced ease, he stepped forward, ducked under the boy's clumsy punch, and tapped his chest with two fingers. A thin crackle of frost spread across the boy's shirt, freezing him in place.
The instructor, a tall shinobi with a jagged scar over one eye, barked, "Enough!" His gaze flicked to Kumio, unreadable. "Impressive control."
A murmur spread through the students. Some looked at Kumio with awe. Others with fear.
The days turned into weeks. Kumio's skills drew attention from instructors and jealousy from older students. Yet he kept his head down, practicing diligently each morning before class, each evening after returning home. His father drilled him in advanced techniques at night, pushing him beyond the academy curriculum. His mother balanced it with kindness, feeding him hearty meals and stories from the Kaguya clan's bloody history, cautioning him not to follow their path of mindless destruction.
Nidoka grew stronger too, cooing and giggling as Kumio practiced near her. At night, he would sit by her crib, whispering stories of a future where she could laugh freely in a village without fear.
Then one evening, after a long day at the academy, Kumio stepped into the entryway of their compound to find his father and Kuroba speaking in low, tense voices.
"…Fire Country forces moving near the border," Kuroba was saying. "And Sunagakure's scouts sighted in Land of Rivers."
His father's expression was grim. "It's beginning," he murmured.
A chill deeper than any winter wind sank into Kumio's heart. He had read the signs. The rumors were no longer rumors, the Second Great Ninja War was coming.
That night, Kumio found Nidoka awake, wide-eyed and babbling. He picked her up, holding her close as he stepped onto the compound's outer walkway. Snow drifted around them, the night sky hidden by swirling mist. He looked out over the village lights glinting through the fog, and felt the weight of a thousand possible futures pressing on his shoulders.
"I won't let the world hurt you," he whispered into Nidoka's soft hair. "I swear."
The cold wind ruffled his hair, but he stood unflinching, eyes narrowed on the dark horizon where war loomed unseen.