The mountains of the Land of Earth rose jagged and unyielding, their peaks capped with snow that glistened beneath the afternoon sun. Below, Iwagakure nestled in its valley fortress, carved from rock as if the very land had been sculpted into a weapon.
In the Tsuchikage's office, scrolls and reports littered the wide desk. Ōnoki, Third Tsuchikage, floated several inches above his chair, his back aching as always, though he refused to let the pain slow him in front of his subordinates. His sharp eyes flicked across the latest intelligence, his brow furrowed.
"Yagura is gone," he muttered, more to himself than to the shinobi waiting before him. His voice was gravelly, like the grind of stone. "And already the Mist dresses its wounds."
Akatsuchi shifted uneasily, his large frame dwarfing the room. "Doesn't sound like much of a wound, Lord Tsuchikage. If they're already rallying behind this Mei woman"
"Mei Terumī," corrected Kurotsuchi, her tone clipped. She stood with arms crossed, black eyes sharp beneath her fringe. "Fifth Mizukage. And from what the scouts say, she's not ruling alone. There's someone else. This Kozan."
Ōnoki's gaze snapped to her. "You've read the same reports as I, girl. Rumors, whispers, nothing more."
"But rumors that travel this far, this fast…" Kurotsuchi leaned forward. "That's more than whispers, Grandfather. It's momentum."
Akatsuchi scratched his head. "Still, we're talking about the Mist. They kill their own just for failing exams. Maybe this Kozan's just another killer with a lucky streak."
Kurotsuchi shot him a glare. "Then why does every witness say he doesn't kill?"
The room went quiet. Even Ōnoki stilled.
Finally, the old Tsuchikage exhaled, long and weary. "Mercy in Kirigakure. That's a contradiction sharp enough to cut stone.
Ōnoki floated higher, drifting toward the wide window that overlooked Iwagakure. The village below bustled with activity: smiths hammering in the forges, shinobi training in the yards, merchants shouting across the market squares. A hard, disciplined rhythm, born of years of war and harder peace.
"We must tread carefully," he said at last. "The Mist has always been a wild card. Their brutality kept them isolated, predictable. But if this Mei has truly united them with ideals rather than fear… and if this Kozan is more than a rumor…"
He trailed off. The weight of his words settled on the room like falling boulders.
"Then the balance shifts," Kurotsuchi finished quietly.
Ōnoki nodded once. "Exactly."
That evening, the Tsuchikage summoned his senior council: a half-dozen veteran shinobi, scarred and wary, who had lived through too many battles against Konoha, Kumo, and Suna. They gathered in the stone chamber deep beneath the Tsuchikage Tower, lit by torches that hissed against the cool air.
"The Mist has changed," Ōnoki began without ceremony. "And with change comes danger."
One of the councilors, a man named Ibara with a jagged scar down his cheek, scoffed. "Danger? From the Mist? They've barely recovered from Yagura's madness. Even if this Mei rules, they'll turn on themselves again soon enough."
Another, older shinobi shook her head. "Don't be so sure. My contacts in the Land of Water say the executions have stopped. The academy no longer bleeds its children. The people whisper of hope."
"Hope?" Ibara spat. "In that cesspit? I'll believe it when I see it."
Ōnoki cut through their bickering with a raised hand. "Enough. Whether hope or delusion, perception is power. If the Mist believes itself reborn, then the other nations must treat it as such."
He let his gaze sweep the chamber, hard as granite. "The question is do we watch? Or do we act?"
The council fractured along old lines. Some argued for caution, warning that Iwa had enemies enough without stirring the Mist. Others urged preemptive strikes, subtle or otherwise, to ensure Kiri's weakness remained permanent.
Akatsuchi, standing at the edge, looked increasingly uneasy. "Lord Tsuchikage, if I may… maybe we should just let them fix themselves. A strong Mist keeps Kumo and Konoha busy. Less trouble for us."
Ibara snarled. "You think letting them grow strong helps us? Fool. Every village that rises is another stone pressing down on Iwa."
Kurotsuchi cut him off sharply. "And every war we start is another grave we dig for our shinobi. Haven't we buried enough?"
The words hung in the chamber. Even Ibara faltered.
Ōnoki watched them all with eyes older than the mountains. His back ached fiercely, but his mind was sharp. He remembered the wars, the rivers of blood, the way power had shifted like sand. And he remembered the lesson that had carried him through decades: never trust the kindness of other nations.
But… never underestimate them either.
When the council dispersed, Ōnoki lingered in the chamber, Kurotsuchi beside him. The torches sputtered low.
"You argued well," he said at last.
Kurotsuchi tilted her head. "And?"
"And you're wrong," Ōnoki said, though his voice lacked its usual sting. "Hope is not harmless. Hope sharpens dull blades and lifts broken backs. If this Kozan has given them that, then the Mist is dangerous indeed."
Kurotsuchi folded her arms. "So what do we do?"
Ōnoki's gaze hardened. "We watch. We listen. We send spies to the Land of Water. And if Mei Terumī or her boy threaten Iwagakure, we remind them: stone grinds mist to nothing."
Weeks later, a small team of Iwa shinobi departed quietly under false banners. Their mission was simple: infiltrate the Land of Water, confirm the truth of Kozan, and measure the strength of Kirigakure's rebirth.
But as they vanished into the wilderness, Kurotsuchi couldn't shake the unease in her chest.
Because if even half the rumors were true, then the Mist was no longer a broken village drowning in blood.
It was a village rising.
And rising villages had a way of shaking the world.
Ōnoki, alone in his office that night, stared long at the map of the Five Great Nations spread before him. His finger hovered over the Land of Water, tracing its jagged shores.
"Another generation," he muttered, his voice almost a whisper. "Another shift in the stones."
His back cracked as he straightened, pain shooting through him. He did not wince.
"Let them rise, if they can," he said. "But I will not see Iwa buried beneath their tide."
Outside, the mountains loomed eternal, unmoved by storms or mist. Yet even stone could feel the tremor of change.