Dawn found the streets of Kirigakure unusually crowded. Dark-robed figures made their way to the center of the village, while ANBU patrols moved silently across the rooftops, their white masks glowing in the morning mist.
"The borders will remain closed until the election of the new Mizukage," an ANBU had announced that morning. "No one enters, no one leaves without special permission."
Ren walked beside his mother toward the ceremony. His attentive gaze took in the small details: twice the number of ANBU than usual, the strategic positions they occupied, the way they seemed to communicate through almost imperceptible gestures.
The central plaza had been transformed. A stage had been erected, where the Third's body rested in an elaborate casket. White flowers decorated the scene, their scent mingling with the dampness of the mist.
"Ren!" A whisper made him turn. Jun'ko, Aoi, and Yukiko stood nearby. He joined them as the ceremony began.
"I saw some of the council members enter the headquarters at dawn," Jun'ko whispered.
"Technically," Aoi murmured, "the succession procedure requires at least three days of deliberation before..."
"Silence," Yukiko interrupted gently. "It's starting."
The ceremony was solemn, as befitted a ninja village. No excessive tears, no wailing - just silent respect for a fallen leader. The mist seemed to join in the mourning, enveloping the square in a gray embrace that muffled all sound.
The first to speak was the oldest of the councilors, his voice firm despite his age. "The Third fought in three wars," he said. "He saw our village through storms that would have broken weaker nations. As a ninja, he shed his blood for Kirigakure. As Mizukage, he shed his soul."
More speakers followed. "He led our village through some of its darkest moments, upholding Kirigakure's reputation as one of the great ninja powers."; "He watched our village grow from a mist-filled outpost to one of the great ninja powers," added another, each recalling a different aspect. The commander of the special forces spoke of his tactical prowess in war, an old teammate recounted impossible missions he had completed, the chief medic recalled how he had modernized the village hospital.
It was during the intelligence chief's speech that Ren noticed movement among the jonin present.
Ao had shifted slightly, his uncovered eye scanning the crowd with professional focus. The other, hidden beneath the blindfold, pulsed faintly with chakra.
Their eyes met briefly. "We always meet on these occasions, young Mizutani," he said softly as Ren passed by. His tone was controlled, but there was a note of genuine regret. "Let's hope this is the last one for a while."
As the ceremony continued, Ren began to recognize other faces in the crowd. The Terumi clan was gathered in a tight group: Shiro maintained an unusually composed expression, and next to him Ren noticed a young brown-haired kunoichi - Mei Terumi. Her eyes followed the ceremony with an intensity that seemed to go beyond simple respect for a fallen leader.
Not far away, several members of the Karatachi clan watched the scene with controlled expressions. Ren recognized Shinji's father, his resemblance to his son evident despite his age.
The climax of the ceremony came when the Third's body was prepared for his final journey.
It was tradition in Kirigakure for the most powerful ninja, upon their deaths, to be transformed into pure water - thus returning to the element that had defined their lives.
The process was heartbreakingly beautiful.
The Third's body began to glow faintly, then dissolved into myriads of crystalline droplets that dispersed into the mist like shooting stars in a gray sky. In a matter of moments, the mighty ninja who had led Kirigakure became one with the very essence of the village.
'Perhaps this is why,' Ren thought as he watched the last drops dissolve into the mist, 'neither he nor the First Mizukage were revived during the Fourth Shinobi War.'
The ceremony ended in a silence full of meaning, as the mist continued to envelop the village in its eternal embrace.
In the afternoon, after the ceremony was over, Ren retreated to his room. Tatsumi's scrolls were scattered across the floor in a precise order: those on the theory of chakra flow closest, followed by those on elemental interactions, and finally the texts on the principles of stabilization. Next to these, dozens of attempted protection seals, some completely failed, others promising but unstable.
'The key is the basic structure,' he thought as he prepared the ink with the precision Tatsumi had taught him. The concentration had to be perfect—too thick and the chakra wouldn't flow properly, too thin and the seal would dissolve. 'It doesn't have to be strong, it has to be subtle. Like the fog itself—present but almost invisible.'
The first attempt that afternoon was a failure—the lines were technically correct, but the flow of chakra was too aggressive, causing immediate destabilization. The second lasted a few seconds longer, but that too ended up dissolving into a small cloud of vaporized ink.
'The problem,' he mused as he studied the failed patterns, 'is that I'm trying to create something new from traditional principles. Standard protection seals are designed to be obvious, to show their presence. I need the opposite.'
He drew a new pattern, this time incorporating elements he'd observed in the tracking sigils. If he could combine detection with passive containment… Lines flowed from his brush, each stroke guided not only by theory but also by the instinct he was developing.
Hours passed as he experimented with different variations. Some attempts dissolved immediately, the lines writhing like snakes before vanishing. Others lasted a few seconds, showing promising signs of stability before destabilizing in unpredictable ways. One particular one exploded into a small fountain of blue sparks—interesting, but far too flashy for his purposes.
But each failure taught him something new: how chakra flowed through certain patterns, how lines affected each other, how a sigil's stability depended as much on the pace at which it was drawn as on its final form. He took meticulous notes, cataloging every reaction, every variation, every small success and failure.
'It's like a puzzle,' he thought as he began another attempt. 'I need more time, more practice, more tests...' As Ren continued to experiment with his attempts at protective seals, his mind couldn't help but wander back to what was happening in the village.
'The Third Mizukage's death,' he thought, 'is only the beginning of a period of great change for Kirigakure.'
Far from his room, in a hidden cave, two figures sat in the darkness. The older one, his body now scarred by decades of surviving beyond the natural, turned to the younger man in the orange mask.
"My time is running out, Obito," Madara's voice was barely above a whisper. "Soon you will have to continue the plan alone. Kirigakure will be your first real test."
Madara shifted his gaze to the exit of the cave, where the mist of Kirigakure seemed to be swaying like a living entity.
"In the fog of that village," he continued, an eerie smile curling his lips, "the fates of many are decided. And soon, my successor will take his place in command."
Obito nodded silently, his Sharingan glowing in the darkness. "I will not disappoint you, Madara-sensei. I will carry out your plan."
A sarcastic grin formed on Madara's face. "I know. After all..." His gaze narrowed, the shadows playing across his face making him seem even older and more sinister. "...you are Madara Uchiha."
As Madara's form faded into the darkness, the fog outside seemed to grow even thicker, as if setting the stage for the events that were about to unfold in the Hidden Mist Village.