The night was colder than most. A restless fog drifted low over the canals of Kirigakure, pale tendrils curling around the narrow bridges and wooden walkways. Even the lanterns seemed smothered by it, their light bleeding weakly into the haze.
Kozan moved like water through the streets, his sandals barely whispering against the planks. The village slept, or pretended to, but Kozan's senses were alert. He had felt them again the faint chakra signatures that didn't belong. Subtle, careful, but not invisible.
Iwa shinobi.
They had entered the village days ago, and tonight, they moved deeper than before. Mei had given no order to hunt them, not yet. She trusted Kozan's judgment, and Kozan trusted the mist to carry him unseen.
He slipped across a rooftop and crouched, eyes narrowing. Three shapes emerged from the fog below, little more than silhouettes: cloaked figures, light-footed, their heads turning in sharp, practiced angles. They paused often, listening, as if they knew the Mist itself might betray them.
Kozan's hand brushed the hilt of his kunai. He didn't draw it.
Not yet.
The spies moved toward the old academy grounds, the one shuttered after Mei's coup. Kozan followed from above, his chakra masking his presence. He knew these alleys better than they did the angles of sight, the hollowed beams, the patches of wood that creaked if stepped on. Every detail was etched into his memory from years of hiding, observing, surviving.
When the Iwa shinobi reached the academy gate, one of them knelt and pressed a hand against the ground. Chakra flared faintly, probing. Kozan's breath slowed. He recognized the technique: earth-sensing.
He shifted back a fraction, pressing his chakra lower, blending with the mist until he was nothing but vapor in their perception.
The kneeling shinobi frowned. "I felt something," he whispered.
"Too many voices in this village," the leader muttered. He was taller, older, his voice gruff but controlled. "Focus. We're here for information, not ghosts."
Still, his gaze swept the rooftops once. Kozan held still until it passed.
The trio slipped into the academy's yard. The place stank of mildew and rusted iron, relics of Yagura's rule. The training posts were stained dark, not with paint, but with old blood.
One of the younger spies whispered, "They really stopped it. No more graduation killings. The people weren't lying."
"Quiet," the leader hissed. "We confirm and leave."
But Kozan felt the shift the young one's voice held something dangerous. Curiosity. Sympathy. The kind of emotions that weakened men on missions.
He dropped lower, almost gliding across the roof, until he was crouched above the academy's yard. His pale eyes tracked them as they fanned out, scanning, noting details, writing into memory.
The younger shinobi paused near the training posts, running a finger over the grooves carved into the wood. He swallowed hard. "How many children…"
"Enough," the leader snapped.
Kozan's chest tightened. He remembered his own trial here, remembered the girl he spared, remembered the crowd's jeers. This place wasn't just history it was a wound.
The Iwa shinobi didn't belong here.
For over an hour, Kozan followed as they mapped the academy, noted patrol routes, and traced their way deeper into the heart of the village. Their movements were efficient, disciplined. These weren't careless spies they were the kind of shinobi who survived long wars, who carved secrets from stone.
Kozan weighed his options. He could kill them now, and Mei would be safer, but the act might trigger retaliation. If he let them go, they would return with intelligence, sharpened blades.
There was a third path.
Kozan smiled faintly beneath the fog.
He slipped ahead of them, weaving through alleys until he perched above their exit route. When they passed beneath, Kozan released a whisper of chakra into the mist. It coiled down like smoke, invisible, a gentle caress against their senses.
The youngest faltered. His eyes flicked toward a side street, frowning.
"What is it?" the leader asked sharply.
"I… thought I saw"
"There is nothing."
But the seed had been planted. Kozan tugged at the mist again, subtle as a breath. The young shinobi shivered. "No, I'm telling you, something's here"
The leader grabbed him by the collar. "Hold your tongue. Fear gets us killed faster than enemies."
Kozan let them go, trailing just long enough to confirm their exit route toward the sea cliffs. He watched until they vanished into the haze beyond the gates.
He could have stopped them. He could have ended them. But now, he knew more. The youngest was uncertain, the leader cautious but dismissive, the third silent and disciplined. Weakness, strengths, patterns.
And now, Kozan had marked them with his chakra. Wherever they went, the mist would remember their scent.
By dawn, Kozan returned to the tower. Mei was already awake, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders as she studied a spread of reports. She didn't look surprised when Kozan entered.
"You followed them," she said.
"Yes."
"And?"
"They came for the academy. To confirm if we've truly abandoned the killings."
Mei's lips curved faintly, though there was little warmth in her smile. "So the world doubts us."
"They doubt you," Kozan corrected softly. "Not me."
Mei set the report aside and looked at him fully. "Then perhaps that's why I need you. They'll expect my words to be politics. But you, Kozan… you're the shadow they don't understand."
Kozan inclined his head. "I didn't kill them."
"Good." Mei's eyes softened, briefly. "We can't start a war before we've healed from the last. Sometimes shadows must linger rather than strike."
Kozan thought of the young Iwa shinobi, the fear in his voice, the sympathy in his touch on the academy posts. He thought of how easily he could have ended him.
But he hadn't.
And maybe, just maybe, mercy could be a weapon too.
That night, Kozan sat again on the balcony, the mist swirling tighter around him. His body was still, but his mind ran restless. For every spy he spared, another would come. For every envoy Mei welcomed, another would test their strength.
Konoha, Kumo, Iwa all of them circling like sharks.
The Mist was rising, but it was still fragile.
Kozan clenched his fists, pale eyes cutting through the fog.
If the world wanted to press against their walls, then he would become the fog itself everywhere, unseen, drowning intruders before they ever reached the heart.
The Bloody Mist had ended.
But a new Mist had been born, and Kozan intended to shape it.