While the elders debated survival in a sealed chamber of ice and memory, the rest of the compound moved as it always did—quietly, carefully, deliberately small.
Shigen noticed it only because he was watching.
From the narrow window of the recovery hall, he could see the lower terraces where the children trained. There were no shouted commands. No sparring circles. No proud demonstrations of technique.
In fact, at first glance, it didn't look like training at all.
A group of children—some no older than six or seven—moved through the snow in single file. Their steps were light, uneven on purpose. Every so often, one would pause, press a hand to the ground, and wait.
An instructor watched from a distance, arms folded.
No one corrected posture.
No one praised success.
"What are they doing?" Shigen asked quietly.
A medic adjusting his bandages followed his gaze. "Learning to disappear."
Shigen frowned. "That's not combat."
The medic gave a thin smile. "Exactly."
He watched more closely.
One child slipped—just a little. The snow beneath her foot hardened instinctively, a reflexive surge of Ice Release. The surface glazed over, catching the light.
The instructor's hand snapped up.
The child froze.
Not the ice—the girl.
She lowered her head immediately and scraped the frozen patch away with her glove until the snow looked natural again. Only then did the instructor lower his hand.
No punishment.
No encouragement.
Just a correction.
"They're taught to suppress it," Shigen said slowly.
"Yes," the medic replied. "Ice draws eyes."
Another group trained nearby—older children this time. They practiced chakra control exercises that deliberately avoided their affinity. Water walking without freezing the surface. Tree climbing with heat maintained in the soles of their feet.
One boy failed. The bark frosted beneath him, cracking.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight.
"Again," the instructor said flatly.
No pride.
No admiration.
Just containment.
Shigen felt something settle uncomfortably in his chest.
In Konoha, bloodlines were assets. Symbols. Strategic advantages. Children with kekkei genkai were praised, monitored, and cultivated.
Here?
"They don't call it a gift," Shigen said.
The medic shook his head. "They call it a burden."
A pause.
"Some call it a curse."
Shigen watched as a younger child whispered something to another. The second child's eyes widened—not in excitement, but fear—and he glanced around quickly before nodding.
"What did he say?" Shigen asked.
The medic hesitated. Then answered anyway.
"He reminded him not to use it. That it was evil. That it brings death."
Shigen closed his eyes briefly.
Evil.
Not dangerous.
Not rare.
Evil.
The implication cut deeper than any blade.
This wasn't a clan that glorified power. This was a clan that had been taught—by the world, by survival—that existing as they were was a provocation.
No wonder Mist hunter-nin found them so easily.
No wonder they scattered.
Shigen exhaled slowly.
All his life, he'd believed bloodlines were just tools—neutral until wielded. Something nations fought over because they were useful.
But watching the Yuki children erase themselves from the snow, he understood the truth he'd never been forced to confront.
Bloodlines weren't just power.
They were verdicts.
And some people were born already condemned.
The doors to the council chamber remained closed.
Inside, elders argued strategy.
Outside, children learned how not to be seen.
And Shigen Nara sat very still, realizing that the board he thought he understood had been missing pieces all along.