The fog never lifted, not even at dawn.
Kiri's early light didn't spill golden over rooftops or wash streets in morning warmth. Instead, it glowed faintly behind the mist, like a distant lamp through wet cloth. Pale, indifferent, silent.
I walked behind Kisame, hooded and silent. My new uniform clung to my shoulders: deep gray, the color of unpolished steel, with the crest of the Hidden Mist sewn into the shoulder. No forehead protector. No name. Not yet.
"You are not a genin," Kisame had said earlier that morning, voice low, boots thudding along damp stone. "You are of the Mist. And you'll remain so until I say otherwise."
I hadn't argued. This was no ceremony. This was function.
He led me to the mission hall—a domed chamber shaped like a sea urchin, its interior bristling with scroll tubes and slate boards. In the center, shinobi came and went like shifting tides. Some masked. Some bloodied. All quiet.
At the far end stood three other figures. They didn't speak, didn't even glance in our direction at first. One had alabaster skin, three scarlet dots on his forehead, a composed stance that reminded me of something dangerous coiled and waiting. Another stood upright, hair tied back tightly, calm and focused, exuding silence like breath. The last leaned lazily against the wall, silver-haired and chewing something, a wide grin that didn't reach his eyes.
I said nothing. I didn't know their names. And I didn't ask.
Kisame strode past me and grabbed a scroll from the board.
"Patrol detail. You four. Southern outskirts. We've had sightings of foreign scouts. Could be Uzushio. Could be hired eyes. Doesn't matter. You find them, you remove them."
He handed the scroll to the pale-skinned one. "You lead. Let's see how sharp your discipline is."
The one with the scroll gave a nod. No salute. Just a glance at the others. They began moving, and I followed.
We descended toward the lower districts of Kiri, where the fog turned heavy and thick like soaked wool, swallowing sound and light. Here, buildings leaned with age, and algae climbed walls as if trying to escape the sea below. Roads were narrow, more suggestion than structure, and footsteps vanished quickly into the hush.
No one spoke. Not the silver-haired boy with the chewing habit. Not the quiet one who moved without a trace. Not the pale one with eyes like iron. And not me.
Eventually, the leader spoke in a low tone.
"Two targets. On foot. Standard pace. Not shinobi-grade stealth. Foreign. One armed. One sensing."
We crept along cliffs, slipping through dense foliage that tasted of iron and salt. A narrow ridge overlooked a drop into frothing water. And just below, three figures moved through the shallows of the coastal path. Cloaks. Chalk markings on stone. Surveying.
"Engage silently," the leader said. "I'll take the left. Ice—center. Teeth and new—right."
I guessed Ice was the calm one. Teeth, the grinning one. That made me the new.
The ambush was swift.
The silent one blurred into motion, mirrors of ice erupting around the center scout, who didn't have time to scream. The pale one descended in a controlled dive, a glint of bone flashing like moonlight. The scout on the left crumpled, neck pierced.
Teeth moved like water—literally. His form shimmered into liquid, reforming behind the last scout mid-spin. But before he struck, I was already moving.
No flashy jutsu. No chakra outbursts.
I slipped low, letting mist and terrain veil my approach. The scout turned, kunai raised. I ducked under the swing and gripped his wrist.
My chakra surged—not like a strike, but like the weight of the deep pressing inward. He gasped. Stumbled.
I shifted my stance, driving pressure through his muscles, locking joints with subtle movement. He fell—alive but unable to move. Paralyzed by targeted pressure.
Behind me, Teeth gave a low whistle. "Well, well. That's a trick."
"We may need answers," I said.
The pale one looked at me once, as if evaluating. The silent one gave a faint nod.
We bound the survivor with sealing tags and carried him back.
Kisame waited near the tower complex. He eyed the captive only once before focusing on us.
"You followed orders. You adapted. You kept one breathing. Smart."
He looked directly at me.
"Next time, you lead."
The others didn't react. No protest. No complaint. Just silence.
"Let's see if you've got what it takes," Kisame said.
Teeth grinned wider. "Pressure test, huh?"
Kisame clapped my shoulder, heavy and cold like deep water.
"Pearls or corpses," he muttered.
That night, I lay on a damp cot within the training complex's lower barracks. Sleep came slowly.
I didn't dream of battle. Or of drowning.
I dreamed of descending—deeper, always deeper. Into water that didn't end. Where light bent strangely and pressure wrapped me like a second skin.
The Sanbi stirred faintly inside, not with fury or hunger, but something else.
Expectation.
The kind you feel when the silence is too long. When even the ocean is holding its breath.
And I breathed in that silence. I let it fill my chest.
Not as a genin.
But as someone becoming of the Mist.