The sea air carried salt and damp across Kirigakure's docks. For the first time in months, the fog thinned enough to reveal distant sails approaching dark banners stitched with the cloud symbol of Kumogakure. Word had spread quickly: the new Mizukage's first foreign visitors had arrived.
Kozan stood beside Mei on the pier, her auburn hair lifted by the wind, her expression poised but unreadable. Behind them, a formation of Mist shinobi stood at quiet attention, their armor polished, their posture rigid. The Bloody Mist may have been ending, but appearances still mattered.
The Kumo shinobi disembarked in measured steps, armored and confident, their leader a tall man with a bald head and sharp eyes. He introduced himself simply: "Tsubaki, envoy of the Raikage."
His gaze flicked to Kozan, lingering just long enough to imply he already knew the boy's name.
Mei's smile was polite, her voice silk and steel. "Welcome to the Mist. I trust the sea treated you well?"
Tsubaki's lips curved faintly. "Rough waters are nothing to Kumogakure. We came to see if your village has steadied itself after… turbulence."
The air tightened. Kozan felt it immediately the way the envoy's words probed, testing for weakness.
Mei tilted her head, her smile widening. "We have steadied, yes. Though turbulence has a way of washing out old stains. The Bloody Mist is gone."
"And replaced by what?" Tsubaki asked, voice deceptively casual. "Rebellion breeds instability. And instability breeds enemies."
For a moment, Mei didn't answer. She let silence draw tight, until even the waves seemed to hush. Then she gestured lightly toward Kozan.
"Strength does not always come from killing," she said. "This is Kozan. The Mist's shadow, and my right hand. You'll find us neither unstable nor unprepared."
Kozan's pale blue eyes met Tsubaki's without flinching. He didn't speak words weren't needed. His stillness was answer enough.
The envoy's smile thinned.
Later, in the Mizukage's tower, Mei poured herself tea while Kozan leaned silently against the wall. The envoy had departed with promises of "further communication," which meant little and promised less.
"They came to measure us," Mei said softly, swirling the tea. "Not to make friends."
"They'll return," Kozan murmured. His voice carried a low certainty. "With more questions. Or sharper blades."
Mei studied him. He was only thirteen, yet the way he carried himself unsettled even seasoned shinobi. He spoke like someone who had already seen the shape of wars to come.
"You noticed how he looked at you," she said.
Kozan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
That night, Kozan didn't sleep. The tower's upper balcony overlooked the sprawling rooftops, mist curling like restless spirits around the eaves. He breathed deeply, listening to the silence between waves.
Something was wrong.
The mist shifted unnaturally along the western quarter, curling too tightly, too purposeful to be mere weather. Kozan closed his eyes, reaching outward with his chakra, delicate and patient. The fog carried whispers shadows moving where no Mist shinobi were meant to patrol.
Spies.
He didn't need to guess the village. The movements were cautious, deliberate, like hands testing stone for cracks. Iwa.
Kozan opened his eyes. He did not raise an alarm. Not yet. Instead, he slipped back into the corridors of the tower, steps silent.
He needed to see how far they'd come.
Hours later, Kozan knelt on a rooftop, the mist swirling protectively around him. Below, three figures crept along the narrow alleys: light armed, their clothes dull, their chakra signatures faint. Trained infiltrators.
One whispered, "The academy is no longer soaked in blood. They really did stop it."
Another hissed, "Careful. Gather information, don't gossip."
The third paused, looking toward the rooftops as if sensing something. Kozan's mist thickened, cloaking him from view. He could end them here, easily. A single pulse of chakra and they'd drown in illusions until their minds tore apart.
But Mei's words echoed in his mind: Strength does not always come from killing.
So he watched instead. Listened. Learned.
When the Iwa shinobi vanished back into the night, Kozan let the mist unravel. His pale eyes tracked their path. He didn't move to stop them. Not yet.
Knowledge was a weapon sharper than kunai.
By dawn, Mei found him still on the balcony, the horizon glowing faintly pink. She studied his expression for a long time before speaking.
"You felt them."
Kozan nodded.
"Iwa."
"Yes."
"And you didn't strike?"
He turned his gaze to her, steady and unflinching. "If I cut off one hand, another will reach. Better to know how far the arms extend."
Mei's lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained serious. "You're learning politics faster than some twice your age."
"I'm learning survival," Kozan corrected.
Mei sipped her tea in silence. Then, finally: "Good. Because survival is all the Mist has ever known. But perhaps, Kozan… with you, it might learn more."
The day resumed with the dull rhythm of rebuilding bridges repaired, streets cleared, civilians reassured. But beneath the surface, the village felt taut, like a bowstring drawn too far.
Kumo had tested them. Iwa had already slipped inside their walls.
And Kozan knew this was only the beginning.
He looked out across the mist, the fog curling like fingers around the rooftops, and felt the weight of what was coming.
The Mist had survived its own blood.
Now it would have to survive the world.