The six shinobi didn't remember being taken.
Not clearly.
Their memories ended in fragments mist thickening, pressure in the air, a strange heaviness in their limbs. No faces. No voices. No seals they could identify. Just a sudden absence of time and the faint sense of being watched from very far away.
That disturbed the medical corps more than any wound ever could.
Chōjūrō stood outside the infirmary while the medics worked, arms crossed tightly. "That shouldn't be possible. Even high-level genjutsu leaves residue. There's nothing."
Mei exhaled slowly. "Which means whoever did this wasn't sloppy."
"Or wasn't using techniques we understand," Chōjūrō muttered.
Kozan listened quietly from the corner of the room.
He could feel the faint echo on the recovered shinobi like fingerprints made of absence. Cleanly removed. Purposeful.
Not predators.
Observers.
"They weren't here to hurt anyone," Kozan said. "They wanted reaction."
Mei turned to him. "And you gave them calm."
"Yes."
"And that concerns me."
He met her gaze. "Why?"
"Because calm doesn't discourage people who want to measure you," Mei said. "It invites them to press harder."
Kozan said nothing.
She wasn't wrong.
Small Fractures
The rumors didn't explode.
They seeped.
Quiet conversations in training yards. Subtle glances in hallways. The way younger shinobi began hesitating before approaching Kozan for instruction. The way some veterans started watching him more carefully during joint drills.
Not hostility.
Distance.
Respect mixed with unease a far more unstable combination.
Kozan noticed every shift.
He simply didn't acknowledge them.
Until one of the academy instructors hesitated when he passed.
The man bowed slightly too formally. Too carefully.
Kozan paused.
"You're avoiding me," he said calmly.
The instructor stiffened. "N-no. Of course not."
"You changed your chakra flow when I approached," Kozan replied. "That's instinct, not choice."
The man swallowed. "People are… nervous. That's all."
"About me?"
The instructor hesitated too long.
Kozan inclined his head slightly. "Thank you for being honest."
He walked on.
The distance followed him.
Pressure from Outside
The second message arrived two days later.
Not from Fire Country.
From the Land of Lightning.
It wasn't polite.
It wasn't subtle.
It was a warning disguised as a courtesy.
Mei read it once and slammed it onto the table. "They're positioning patrols closer to our waters."
Chōjūrō frowned. "That's aggressive."
"It's cautious," Mei corrected. "Which is worse."
She looked at Kozan. "They're afraid you're destabilizing the balance."
"I haven't moved," Kozan replied.
"That's exactly what scares them."
Silence stretched.
Mei finally said what had been building behind her eyes for days.
"Your restraint is creating uncertainty."
Kozan turned slightly. "You want me to demonstrate force."
"I want the world to know where the line is."
Kozan studied her.
"When lines are drawn," he said quietly, "they eventually get crossed."
"And when they aren't?" Mei countered. "People walk closer to the edge."
They held each other's gaze two leaders shaped by very different scars.
Neither was wrong.
That was the problem.
The Broken Drill
The incident happened during a routine joint training exercise.
Nothing dramatic. No alarms. No intruders.
Just a sparring match between a Mist squad and visiting border shinobi rotating through joint patrol training.
Kozan observed from the platform above the field, arms relaxed at his sides.
One of the younger Mist shinobi overextended.
A visiting shinobi reacted faster than expected.
Steel flashed.
Too close.
Kozan moved without thinking.
Mist surged fast, precise intercepting the strike and redirecting the blade harmlessly into the ground.
No one was hurt.
But the field went silent.
Every eye turned toward him.
The visiting shinobi froze, eyes wide, breathing shallow.
Kozan realized too late what he'd done.
Not the action.
The presence.
The sheer finality of the way the mist had moved efficient, unstoppable, absolute.
The silence stretched.
One of the younger Mist shinobi whispered, "Did you feel that…?"
The visiting squad leader swallowed. "We… we didn't mean"
Kozan raised a hand. "Training continues."
But the atmosphere never recovered.
The rest of the exercise was stiff. Controlled. Fear threaded through every movement.
When it ended, the visiting squad left early.
Mei watched them go with a troubled expression.
"You saved a life," she said.
"And reminded everyone why they're afraid," Kozan replied.
"Yes."
Neither of them smiled.
That Night
Kozan stood again at the water's edge, mist drifting lazily around his feet.
The city slept behind him.
He flexed his fingers slowly.
He had chosen restraint.
He had chosen calm.
And still, the world leaned away from him.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe this is the price.
Not blood.Not violence.Not enemies.
Distance.
Loneliness sharpened by respect.
Footsteps approached softly behind him.
Chōjūrō stopped a few paces away. "They're scared," he said quietly.
Kozan didn't turn. "I know."
"But they still trust you," Chōjūrō added. "They just don't understand you."
Kozan opened his eyes slightly. "Neither do I."
Chōjūrō hesitated. "You don't have to carry everything alone."
Kozan didn't respond.
The mist shifted.
Somewhere far away, unseen hands continued testing the edges of the world.
And Kozan felt, for the first time, that restraint might not protect the people he cared about only delay what was coming.