Chapter 1 — Where the Mist Hides Needles
The Mist never slept.
It merely changed its shape.
Sometimes it was thick and silent, swallowing entire streets. Other times it was thin, almost invisible—yet it still carried the metallic scent of old blood, soaked into the stones, the alleys, the memory of the village.
Hoshigaki Jūen walked in silence.
He was eight years old, but his steps were not those of a child. They were calculated, light, trained not to draw attention. One year at the Mist Academy had already taught a single, unmistakable lesson:
Those who draw attention die early.
He had already seen it happen.
Classmates who stood out too much. Others who were too weak. Some who were simply in the wrong place.
The Bloody Mist did not forgive.
Jūen had survived the first year not because he was the strongest, nor the most talented—but because he learned quickly when to stay quiet, when to yield, and when to endure.
His body was no longer the same as before.
Poorly healed cuts. Muscles denser than they should have been for his age. Breathing kept under control, even after hours of forced training.
Nothing eye‑catching. Nothing extraordinary.
Just… resilient.
The mist was never the same.
Sometimes too dense, swallowing faces just a few meters away. Sometimes too thin—revealing tense expressions no one could truly hide.
Hoshigaki Jūen walked through the center of the Village of the Mist with calm, attentive steps. His hood low, posture neutral. Neither hurried nor relaxed.
The kind of walk that draws no attention.
Even so, eyes followed him.
Shopkeepers watched from behind thick wooden counters, hands lingering too close to knives, cash boxes, or seals hidden beneath cloth.
In the Bloody Mist, no one trusted anyone. Not even children.
Jūen felt it when he stepped out of a small side shop, holding a simple gray cloth bundle.
Inside it—needles.
Longer needles, standard ones, others thicker and heavier—different weights, lengths, and diameters, each meant for a specific purpose. Some for absolute precision. Others for durability, impact, or situations where failure was not an option.
Thin when they needed to be. Denser when efficiency demanded it.
They weren't flashy weapons—but they were silent, versatile, and lethal in the right hands.
Perfect for someone trained to measure force, angle, and intent. Hands that wasted no movement. Hands that understood efficiency came from the right choice… at the right moment.
He didn't look back when he felt the shopkeeper's suspicious stare sink into his spine.
Constant fear creates monsters, he thought. One day… this will end.
But not today.
Today, he was still just an Academy student. Eight years old. One year of brutal training, silent humiliations, and nights when his body hurt more than it should.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just someone who endured.
Jūen left the village center, avoiding patrols and main roads. As he moved farther away, the sounds faded. The buildings grew poorer. More forgotten.
Until he turned into an alley.
There, the mist felt heavier.
He stopped.
He heard it first.
The low sound of someone chewing too fast.
Between broken crates and piles of trash stood a child smaller than him. Thin. Shoulders hunched. Dirty light‑colored hair. Eyes lowered, avoiding direct contact.
Haku.
He ate scraps pulled from a torn bag, his movements small and careful—as if taking too much was dangerous.
Jūen watched in silence.
Haku didn't look aggressive. He looked… used to disappearing.
"Hey," Jūen said quietly.
Haku flinched immediately. His body went rigid, but there was no attack. Only fear.
Slowly, his eyes lifted.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Jūen continued, raising his hands calmly. "Not today. Not ever."
Haku didn't answer.
The mist drifted between them.
"You shouldn't stay here," Jūen said. "This place forgives no one."
Silence.
"I know a safe place," he added. "Far from the village. No one will look for you there."
Haku hesitated.
"…why?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Jūen studied him for a few seconds before answering.
"Because staying here will kill you. Slowly or quickly… it doesn't matter."
The mist shifted between them.
"I can take you away," he continued. "I can give you direction. Purpose. Something beyond surviving day by day."
Haku swallowed.
"And what do you get from that…?" he asked, his voice weak.
Jūen didn't look away.
"Your time," he replied. "Your effort. Your obedience while you're with me."
He stepped aside, opening space.
"I won't use you as a disposable tool. I won't send you to die for nothing. But if you stay… you train with me. Walk with me. Learn with me."
Silence.
"Your life is still yours," Jūen finished. "What you do with it will be your choice. But while you're at my side, you won't live without purpose."
He formed simple hand seals.
Earth Release: Silent Passage.
The ground beside them shifted slightly, opening a discreet path.
"If you want to leave, you can," Jūen said. "I won't force you. Never."
Haku pressed his hands against his chest, his body trembling faintly.
His gaze dropped. Then slowly rose again.
"…o‑okay."
The mountain lay far enough away that the sounds of the village could not reach it.
There, Jūen had shaped the land with patience and far too much time.
False entrances. Simple but effective traps. Narrow, winding paths only he truly knew.
The main shelter was hidden among natural rock formations, reinforced with Earth Release. It wasn't large, nor comfortable—but it was functional.
And above all, it was safe.
Around it, the area had been turned into an improvised training ground.
Walls of compacted earth rose at different angles: One straight, meant for direct impact and repetition. Another inclined, used for climbing, propulsion, and abrupt changes in direction. Sections cracked and scarred, clear signs of constant use.
Scattered across the ground were tools that didn't match—but worked.
Shuriken of various types and conditions. Bent kunai. Improvised weights made from stones tied with rope. Ropes stretched between stakes for agility training.
Leaning against the rock face—swords.
Some good. Others far too old, blades stained, hilts worn, rust advancing along the edges. None decorative. All used.
Farther down, partially hidden by vegetation and mist, lay a small artificial pond.
The water was shallow in some places and deep in others, dug by hand and shaped with chakra. It was used for balance training, endurance, chakra control on the feet—and learning how to move without disturbing the surface.
Nothing there had been built all at once.
Everything was the result of trial, error, pain… and adaptation.
Inside the shelter, the same logic applied.
Simple. Organized. No excess.
Clean water drawn from a filtered well. Food grown gradually, protected from cold and mist. Controlled fire, stones around it marked by constant use.
Jūen let Haku sit.
"You won't go hungry here," he said plainly. "And you won't train without purpose."
Haku watched everything in silence, his eyes moving slowly, absorbing every detail.
It wasn't a home.
It was a place built to survive… and to grow stronger.
The Mist was still bleeding.
But far from it, two shadows were beginning to harden.