The mist had not yet lifted, but the screaming had stopped.
For the first time in years, the streets of Kirigakure were quiet not from fear—but from exhaustion. Smoke curled above rooftops. The tower stood scarred, but standing. And at its center, Mei Terumī walked through ash and blood toward a broken throne.
Behind her, Kozan limped.
His hands were raw, chakra frayed to the edge. But his eyes—those cold, clear eyes—remained steady.
"Is it done?" Mei asked.
Kozan looked out over the village.
"It's begun."
---
Word spread faster than flame.
Yagura was dead.
The Mizukage was dead.
Rebels held the tower.
No new executions. No purges.
And somehow, children were not being rounded up.
Civilians crept out from their hiding places. Not to celebrate, not yet. But to see—to confirm that the silence meant something different this time.
---
Chōjūrō stood in the courtyard, blade resting across his shoulders. Blood stained his uniform, but not his resolve. He watched Kozan descend the stairs beside Mei, and nodded once.
Respect.
Recognition.
---
Ao organized the rebel forces into recovery squads. Medical-nin treated wounded loyalists without question. It shocked some of them into silence.
A child approached Mei with a flower. Her mother held her back. But Mei knelt anyway, accepted the bloom, and smiled.
The woman began to cry.
---
By sunset, the village held its breath.
Mei stood atop the broken balcony of the Mizukage's tower. Kozan and Chōjūrō stood behind her.
She looked out over the people.
And spoke:
"The war is over. The Bloody Mist has ended. We will not kill our children to prove our strength. We will not fear bloodlines. We will rebuild—together."
There was no cheer.
But there was silence.
A silence that meant listening.
And for Kirigakure… that was louder than any applause.
---