Mist District

[Fox]

As the smoke gradually dissipated, it revealed something unexpected—the missing half of the Hiramekarei lying amidst the settling dust. A faint chuckle echoed from somewhere in the distance, drawing the crowd's attention toward the astonishing sight. "It worked," he whispered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "That giant never severed the contract I have with the blade." Stepping forward, he extended his hand toward the handle, and the lost half of the sword flew to meet his grasp. As his fingers closed around it, a familiar surge of chakra pulsed through his arm—the chakra sealed within the Hiramekarei. It felt... eager. Almost as if the blade itself was excited to be whole again.


Without hesitation, he uttered a single command: "Hiramekarei: Unleashing."

The blade responded instantly, releasing a portion of the stored chakra in a controlled burst. Though he could have unleashed it all, he was wise—deliberate. He chose to absorb only a fraction of it, channeling the essence back into himself through the Hydrification Technique. Within that chakra lay more than just power. There were remnants—echoes—of memory. Images flickered across his mind like disjointed visions: voices, places, and half-formed conversations. “Mm... Shadow Realm…a separate dimension” he murmured, narrowing his eyes as the fragments took shape. He saw glimpses of another dimension—otherworldly, shifting, distant. “There were others... comrades… the thief wasn’t acting alone.” His brow furrowed, straining to piece together the memories imprinted on the chakra. "Shade Organization... led by an unknown being...revered as a god" he muttered, the words falling from his lips like puzzle pieces not yet fully connected.

"Konohagakure, Sunagakure... and Uzushiogakure are next."

His head tilted slightly, eyes distant as fragments of foreign memories filtered in—rearranging themselves like scattered scrolls drawn into order. It was akin to the Shadow Clone Technique: a mental relay, recalling information gathered through wherever Hiramekarei had ventured.

"They desires chakra... so things like the people and even the Tailed Beasts..."

That was all the blade could give him—for now.

As he positioned both halves of himself toward the gathered shinobi—almost as if seeking their counsel or alliance—his voice carried a weight rarely heard. "As you all know, our blades and their potential define us as swordsmen. But that alone isn't enough anymore. Greater cooperation among us is not just wise—it's overdue." He paused, his gaze shifting toward the younger shinobi in the group. "Would it not be better for the fledglings as well as us seasoned ones to begin training—truly training—in the usage of these blades? Not just in wielding them... but in understanding them. Their nature, their limits, their will. To improve upon what our predecessors couldn't.." The Hozuki continued, his words tapering off as his thoughts settled into quiet resolve. He was beginning to understand—storing only his chakra, or even just water nature chakra, was no longer enough. That path had reached its ceiling. He needed to be wiser. Sharper. More than just a swordsman bound by old limits. As the wielder of Hiramekarei, he couldn’t afford to remain in the shadow of its former masters. He had to surpass them—reshape the legacy of the blade in his own image. To do that, he would need to push his limits, not only in technique but in adaptability. He would learn to store not just one element—but many. To weave and shift elemental chakra within the blade itself, transforming its nature and form mid-battle in response to his enemies.

That was the future he saw. The only way forward.

Location: Mist Mansion​

Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Aōi Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro → Umirama → Momo
Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll

 

[Davon]

He wasn’t impressed by everyone in the room, but he lent his attention just enough to follow the discourse. Filtering what may or may not have been relevant, he took note of individual mannerisms—a natural consequence of his skill as a hunter-ninja. His emerald eyes shifted toward Aoi as the man rose to speak. He made some valid points, but they would prove short-lived, given what followed. Higetsu’s frustration was evident in the sharp tsk that escaped his lips, a reaction to the shame and embarrassment that lingered. No one allowed him to live it down—not even his partner, the one who wielded the sentient blade, Samehada.

Higetsu’s annoyance and determination drove him to act on impulse, disregarding any potential consequences. He performed the summoning technique, calling forth the remaining remnants of his blade. Yumaro’s emerald eyes watched with interest—now, Higetsu was restored to full capacity. A worthy partner, it seemed. Throughout their time together, Higetsu had continued to surprise the Kaguya, gradually earning more of his respect. Unexpectedly, the room was disturbed by a guttural rumble—low and coarse—emanating from the loosely wrapped lips of Samehada. Was it the excitement stirred by the return of its comrade, Hiramekarei, now in Higetsu’s possession? Or was it something else—something unseen by everyone in the room? Yumaro had a feeling it was the latter. Acting on instinct, he reached out and gently caressed the bandaged scales wrapped around the weapon, trying to ease its agitation.

"I wonder... what’s got you so eager... were you able to feel the chakra?" he mused silently. He continued to listen as those in the room muttered and spoke, remaining silent until the meeting finally came to an end. He absorbed all the relevant information, letting it settle in his mind. Meanwhile, Samehada was growing restless. The blade craved a meal, and Yumaro could feel its hunger pulsing beneath the wrappings. He knew it was time to train—to sharpen both his skill and his bond with his new partner. Samehada wasn’t just a weapon; it was a living tool, one capable of brutal innovation when wielded properly.

The time had come. He gave a subtle nod to Higetsu and locked eyes with Kuro. Respect for the Mizukage would have to be earned—and as for Higetsu, redemption was still required.

"Those who claim the right to lead beside me must first face me. I alone have remained unwavering—I am the constant that holds the Mist together. So I say this now: if you dare to call yourselves wielders of the blades, then prove it. I am your judge."

His voice cut through the room with sharp authority—arrogant, unapologetic, and unwavering. He didn’t speak to flatter, only to declare truth as he saw it. Kuro still had to earn the respect of a man who commanded it without question, and Higetsu needed to confront himself, to rediscover the strength he once carried with pride. As for the King himself—he held no doubts, no cracks in his belief. Only the quiet ache of one regret: that he hadn’t been able to protect more. He vanished using the body flicker heading to the training grounds of the mist. Anticipating Higetsu and Kuro to meet him there.
View attachment samehada withj shadow.png
Location: Mist Mansion - > Mist Training Compound
Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro →
Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll​

 

[Dante]

The training field lay quiet under a silver blanket of early morning mist, the ground still bearing the chill of the night before. A faint wind stirred, carrying with it delicate flakes of snow that danced lazily in the air. The serenity was almost undisturbed—almost. Before either Yumaro or Higetsu could arrive, a sudden stir in the drifting snowflakes disrupted the stillness. From the slow spiral of descending frost, a shape began to coalesce—grains of snow swirling unnaturally inward, the moisture in the air responding to an unseen command. The flurry grew denser, and then, without flourish or sound, the figure of Kuro Yuki emerged from within.

He stood tall at the center of the field, his arms folded calmly across his chest. Resting across the back of his neck, balanced with familiar ease, was the formidable Kabutowari—its dual components gleaming coldly in the diffused light. His snowy-white hair ruffled only slightly with the breeze, nearly blending into the gentle snowfall that continued to cascade around him. For a moment, it was unclear whether he had simply arrived early or manifested from the snowfall itself.

Kuro’s cold, piercing gaze fixated unwaveringly toward the entrance to the training field—the place from which his two swordsmen would soon appear. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him carried weight. Not tension, but gravity—like standing beneath an avalanche that hadn’t yet fallen. Yumaro, expecting to be the first, would no doubt be met with surprise. For Kuro had not only beaten them to the field… he had become part of it, just as silent, just as inevitable. The snow continued to fall gently—soft on the ground, cold on the skin—but it avoided Kuro’s form, drifting around him in a respectful arc, as though nature itself acknowledged his presence. He dared to prove a point with even a little instruction, the inevitability of one's action would cause great destruction. Though the pinnacle of one’s heart would be tested, his heart laid its way to testimonial match between three. He already knew of each sword and their abilities to him, they had the best weapons but how good or capable were they against the might of the atmospheric pressure of a three-way.

Anywhere the Yuki went, snow followed. It was not summoned through chakra, nor crafted by design—it simply was. An extension of his existence. Where others stirred dust or wind in their passing, Kuro Yuki brought the cold breath of winter with him. The air seemed to grow heavier, the skies dimmer, and the world quieter in his presence. He was the bringer of snow. Like a silent omen, frost clung to the ground moments after his footsteps passed. Snowflakes would begin to fall where none had before, drifting down as if drawn to him—loyal, reverent. Even the clouds responded to his presence, rolling in with chilled intent, veiling the sun behind soft grays. To the villagers, it became a whispered truth: “When the Demon of Snow walks, the storm follows.” And so it was on the training field this day—without effort or intent, the snowfall began the moment he appeared. He halted and stood confident without a word, just a simple pause or delay.

Location: Mist Training Ground

Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro

Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll​

 

[Fox]

The potential of the Hiramekarei haunted him more than ever, especially now that he had the time to devise a strict regimen to train—not just the limits of his blade, but also the limits of himself. He knew that simply mastering the sword wouldn’t be enough. To truly wield Hiramekarei as it was meant to be used, he had to become stronger in every aspect—mind, body, and spirit. His training would have to be relentless, pushing past exhaustion and self-doubt. There were techniques buried within the blade’s memory, dormant powers that would only respond to a worthy wielder. And he was determined to become that wielder. Each swing of the sword would not just be practice, but a declaration: that he would rise, not only as a swordsman, but as someone worthy of commanding the legacy Hiramekarei carried. The arrival of a particular Hozuki was anything but normal, for he was floating—almost as if flying—by manipulating the surrounding moisture as a means of travel. With practiced control, he glided effortlessly from the Meeting Place to the Training Ground, his body fluid and weightless like mist on the wind. It was a silent, eerie display of the man's mastery over water, and it left a trail of condensation in his wake. He touched down gently, his feet barely making a sound against the ground, eyes fixed on the field ahead. This was not just a casual visit—he came with purpose. Here, in the Training Ground, he intended to push himself beyond his current limits, refining his techniques and testing the full extent of his abilities. The moisture in the air bent to his will, and he was ready to use every drop to his advantage.


The Hozuki was blessed with the touch of moisture—an essence that clung to him, more visible as his skin began to dissipate, merging with the air seamlessly, as if he were part of nature itself. It was almost as if the subtle shift in his comrades' presence awakened something within him—his will responding in kind, ready to train, or kill, if necessary. Years as a swordsman had sharpened more than his blade; he had developed a taste for murder. A habit forged under the shadow of his older brother—the previous wielder of Hiramekarei—whom he ultimately slew. His path was one of blood, shaped by betrayal and soaked in the mist he called home.​

"Sounds like we'll have a good time,"
he murmured, his voice low and tinged with anticipation.

With deliberate grace, he shifted his stance, each movement honed by years of relentless training—Higetsu could sense the tension rising, like a coil winding tight, as he and his opponents found themselves locked in a pyramid formation at each end of the arena—He inhaled slowly, eyes scanning for the slightest twitch of movement, knowing the first to break formation could tip the tide. His posture now perfectly complemented the dual blades of Hiramekarei, which gleamed with renewed vigor, fully restored to its rightful position. A subtle mist began to rise around him, the air thickening as if responding to his awakening intent. It was as though the very environment acknowledged his readiness, aligning itself with his resolve. His eyes, cold and unyielding, scanned the surroundings, noting the slightest shifts in his comrades' behavior and action as a swordsman always will read his opponent and act before it was too late. Their presence alone was a motivation, stirring a dormant beast within him. He was not merely preparing for battle; he was embracing it, allowing the thrill of impending combat to permeate his being. Memories of his past surfaced—years spent mastering the sword under the tutelage of his elder brother, the former wielder of Hiramekarei. His betrayal had not haunted him; instead, he embraced it wholly as a inheritor of the often-resurfacing Bloody Mist legacy. Now, as the mist thickened and the weight of his swords became an extension of his will, he stood poised on the precipice of action. Every fiber of his being was attuned to the moment, ready to expend whatever was necessary—energy, time, even lives—to achieve his objective.

The silence before the storm was palpable, and he welcomed it, knowing that soon, the dance of blades would commence, and he would once again affirm his place in this world as a swordsman.

Location: Mist Training Ground
Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro
Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll

 

[Davon]

His feet landed softly atop the damp, saturated grass, the ground giving slightly beneath his weight with a quiet squelch. Mist clung thick to the terrain of the training compound, curling around the bases of the trees and drifting low across the open field like a living veil. The moisture in the air clung to his cloak and hair, beading upon the fabric as if even the weather bowed to his presence.

The King had arrived.

He stepped forward through one of the compound’s worn stone archways, a narrow entrance partially overgrown with creeping vines and moss. This particular gate had been chosen with purpose — it granted his fellow swordsmen a clear view of his approach. He did not sneak, nor did he conceal his chakra. There was no need for subtlety. His silhouette had first appeared through a swift blur — the sharp crack of the Body Flicker Technique leaving behind a residual hush as he reformed in motion, striding deeper into the heart of the field. The haze parted for him, as if the land itself acknowledged his authority.

Ahead, a figure awaited.

Kuro Yuki — the current Mizukage — stood with the poise of a man long familiar with the weight of blood on his hands. His name was inked in several bingo books, marked not merely by his title, but by the notoriety that trailed him like a funeral procession. The most infamous son of the Yuki clan — known not for loyalty, but for betrayal. He had slain his kin with a cold precision, perhaps out of necessity, perhaps not. Whether this marked his strength or revealed the clan’s weakness was open to debate. Either way, it had earned him a reputation that reeked of both fear and respect. The King’s eyes moved. He was not here to speak. He was here to judge. And if necessary, to execute.

His right hand remained firmly wrapped around the hilt of Samehada. Thus far, the bond forming between them seemed to satisfy the sentient blade. With his opposite hand—covered in a black glove—Yumaro slowly slid his fingers along the length of Samehada’s rough, scale-like body. The sword emitted a low, guttural growl in response, a primal sound that echoed faintly across the mist-laden field. It was awakening. It understood, with each slow, deliberate unwrapping of its bandages, that today it might feed. Samehada was a weapon of legend in the Land of Water—feared, revered, and, by some, hailed as the strongest of the Seven Ninja Swords. Yumaro, however, never subscribed to such narrow claims. Each blade held a unique value, a distinct soul. He had already mastered the thread-fine lethality of Nuibari, and now, he sought to truly unify with Samehada. As the last of the cloth bindings peeled away, revealing the pulsating, scale-covered body of the blade, Yumaro’s fingertips tightened around the hilt. His motions were precise—each stroke across the weapon’s hide intentional, reverent. But beneath the surface of these gestures, something more was occurring. With each pass of his fingers, something invisible was being woven into the blade.

It was chakra through a refined method, Yumaro began to embed a unique imprint within the blade: a thread born from his kekkei genkai. This technique bound weapon and wielder through resonance—an exchange not only of chakra, but of nature, of intent. It was not simply about taming Samehada, but having control over it—entwining his will with its hunger, in a silent pact forged through skill. Executed was the seal to summon this fearsome weapon, with an added supplemental component.

As the bandages slipped free, they fell like shedding skin, littering the ground in a scattered trail behind him with each step he took. The path he walked was quiet, but every movement was deliberate—charged with weight and purpose. Samehada, now bare and fully unwrapped, pulsed with anticipation at his side, its coarse, sharkskin-like surface twitching as if breathing. Yumaro continued his approach toward Kuro Yuki, but movement in the mist signaled the presence of another. Higetsu. The man flowed through the air with the elegance and fluidity of the element he commanded. Higetsu Hōzuki was seldom grounded—his style was aerial, acrobatic, unpredictable. As a shinobi of the Hōzuki clan, his command over water was formidable—perhaps even unmatched among his kin. His form glided through the fog-laced sky, the faint glimmer of moisture collecting around him as though the atmosphere bent to his will. Watching from a distance, emerald eyes narrowed with focused intensity. The Kaguya blood in Yumaro boiled not with envy, but with unwavering pride. His connection to water was not born of clan inheritance, but of discipline, evolution, and necessity. To some, Higetsu might be the finest wielder of the element in the village.

But the King bowed to no one. Not to Higetsu. Not to Kuro. Especially not when it came to his natural affinity—his dominion over water would not be eclipsed, regardless of reputation or lineage. He was still in the midst of his entrance. So was Samehada. The sentient blade, now fully exposed to the air, writhed subtly at his side, sensing chakra signatures ahead like a beast inhaling the scent of prey.

Its scales glistened faintly under the mist-filtered light, hunger stirring in its core. It could sense combat on the horizon. It craved it. And so did Yumaro. The atmosphere, once bent in reverence to Kuro's presence, had shifted. Now, with all three figures present, the air stilled into a rare and neutral state. It was a phenomenon like no other—a silent recognition among forces too great to be subdued by nature alone. The mist returned. Thick, familiar, and ever-watchful, it crept back across the field, reclaiming the terrain as its own. The light snowfall that had once accompanied the Mizukage’s arrival quietly dissipated, vanishing as if the legend that summoned it had faded into the background.

Yumaro’s stride came to its end, his boots resting firmly on the soaked earth as the last of the blade's bandages curled to a stop behind him. The King raised his gaze, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes burned with anticipation. His silence was not out of hesitation, but of study. These were not mere shinobi. These were men shaped by bloodlines and decisions. Respect would not be given. And the King had come to see who, if either, was worthy of it.

Higetsu stood to his left, Kuro to his right—only twelve feet of misty terrain separating them. A triangle of tension formed between the three, each figure silent, waiting. The question lingered in the charged air: who would make the first move?Yumaro had his theories—on how the clash would begin, who would falter first, and how quickly it would spiral into something far more brutal. But in truth, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to predict. He was here to dominate. Win or lose wasn’t in the equation. He wouldn’t lose. Not now. Not while Samehada pulsed eagerly in his hand, resonating with the rising chakra and the bloodlust coiling beneath the surface. He had much to gain from this—more strength, more precision, more control over the blade he now called his partner. His senses were razor-sharp, his breathing slow, and the sentient sword in his grasp vibrated with a shared anticipation. Yumaro didn’t flinch. He was ready. Let them decide who struck first.

He would be the one to finish it.

Location: Mist Training Ground
Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro
Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll​

 

[Dante]

The air was thick with moisture and memory, but Kuro stood unmoving—arms folded behind his back, the faint scent of frost lingering in his wake. He feared no soul, not even one who processed himself as being on equal footing with him. Before Yumaro’s chakra even touched the field, Kuro had already seen enough. His gaze shifted slowly to Higetsu, the Hōzuki wrapped in water and bloodline—floating, reforming, nearly ghostlike in presence. A blade reborn, honed by betrayal, forged in the memory of fratricide. He chuckled and within the moment knew it was time, a threeway was about to commence, as Yumaro arrived.

“You’ve inherited more than a sword,” Kuro said at last, voice as steady and cold as the mist itself. “You’ve embraced the weight that comes with it then?”

His tone held no praise—only observation. Measured and Calculative. He took a single step forward, breaking the triangle which was ten meters away. the sound of his sandal pressing against dew-soaked stone swallowed by the silence of the training ground. Snowflakes gathered faintly around his cloak’s hem, though none dared settle on him directly. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, met Higetsu without flinching. The aura of impending conflict pulsed faintly between them, though neither moved to draw. They understood one another—not through words, but through the cold bond of shinobi shaped by steel. Little did Higetsu know, this whole battlefield was doomed in his wake especially due to the atmospheric change and even abundant moisture within the air. Tense air would suddenly be a weapon or tool of war fully utilized by the Mizukage.

Kuro’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, then drifted to the empty field to his left—toward where he knew Yumaro would arrive. The mist had already begun to stir there, like an animal anticipating the scent of a rival. “And you—” he murmured toward the distant voice low. “You chase mastery like a starving beast hunts prey. Samehada is not impressed by hunger. It respects only strength. The kind that bleeds for its purpose.” His presence, silent yet suffocating, thickened as chakra flickered just beneath the surface of his skin—controlled, lethal, still as a frozen lake. The depth of his touch and course was unknown as the flexing of chakra by his opponents brought nothing but amusement. The one who called himself King seemingly last to have arrived spoke about himself to highly probably stood as the first target, but it was not likely to be shown as intent was of a killer.

A breath, barely audible. Then—movement without motion.The mist that blanketed the training ground was no longer natural. It thickened unnaturally—dense, suffocating. It clung to flesh, slipped down throats, and swallowed sound. The once-visible terrain vanished within moments, as if the entire world had drowned in fog. What had once been soft tendrils of moisture now coiled like serpents. Kuro's chakra pulsed once—a subtle, restrained beat—and the temperature dropped instantly. It wasn’t cold in the way frost announces itself. It was insidious, creeping in between layers of clothing, coiling around muscle, tightening joints. Breathing became noticeable. Movement created sound. And vision... ceased to matter.

From within the thickening shroud, the chakra-infused mist shimmered faintly, laced with his Kekkei Genkai—Hyōton. No snowfall followed. No fanfare. Just silence with extra thick mist. The type not even with great instincts you could see through. The distance between them wasn't as far, but with Mist which was simply aided by the Mizukage and the environment itself was a daring task to handle even with sensory input. Not for the Mizukage who sought through all his own hindrances through thermal means. Higetsu was wrong for aiding him as well. Did he acknowledge one's power over Water and Wind? A mastery which was keenly utilized by members of Yuki Clan.

To Higetsu and Yumaro, the familiar terrain had become unrecognizable. Trees once nearby seemed distant. Footsteps—if heard at all—echoed from the wrong direction. The chakra signatures they once sensed clearly were now scattered, distorted by the refracting cold and chakra-fused mist. Then the pressure began, A weight upon the senses—an invisible threat that crawled just beneath the skin. The kind of sensation honed killers understood too well. One of them had already moved. But which one?

The ground beneath them had frosted. Not visibly—but the texture had changed, slightly slicker, quieter underfoot. A battlefield designed for him. One where no amount of brute strength or flashy displays would matter. Only perception. And Kuro had just taken it from them. Samehada might twitch and taste, and Higetsu might flow and feel—but neither could see what was coming. And that was the point.

The faintest twitch of his jaw betrayed it. He remembered the mockery, by Higetsu and lastly Yumaro. Even submerged in the creeping fog, Kuro's senses sharpened. Beneath the silence, beneath the still air, Kabutowari had already materialized from around his neck—its unyielding mass cradled in both of Kuro’s hands. No dominant hand. No wasted movement. Only execution. The triangle of tension that once anchored them in that mist-laden arena shattered the instant he moved. Kuro was first. Not a flicker of chakra betrayed his direction—only the disruption of the atmosphere. Like a faultline cracking open, his presence broke the balance of nature itself. He saw the heat that came from their humanoid bodies, which collective he sensed and knew their directions. His knowledge of the swords were verse, but they would understand how verse.

He descended, and Kuro's body collapsed low to the earth, his silhouette all but vanishing into the thick mist as if swallowed whole. But it did not retreat. It was the foundation, And then—the land screamed in terror. It was from the might of Kabutowari which made a pulse rang out—not with sound, but with force. A beat of chakra, buried within the earth, like a war drum echoing from below. The frozen terrain beneath their feet answered his call. With a matter of a second, the earth shifted. Ice erupted, It can from everywhere, and all angles to his opposers. Jagged lances of ice surged from the frostbitten ground with no warning. Each shard was honed to a razor’s edge, dense with chakra and intent, their velocity unnatural—meant to pierce, not merely wound. Spikes launched upward beneath Yumaro’s heels, others arced inward from the left and right—angled to corner, to restrict, to impale.

From Higetsu’s flank, three sudden strikes curved through the fog, seemingly predicting where he would move next. This wasn’t just a barrage—it was a net of death. And each thread of it was ice-cold. The dance had begun, but it was not their dance. This was the will of the Mist’s Executioner. A Mizukage not born of ceremony, but of blood. The scattered chakra in the air—once dismissed as ambient—now converged. Each particle guided his strikes. His precision wasn’t instinctual—it was engineered. Let Samehada taste. Let the mist conceal. Let blood answer. Kuro remained a blur amidst it all—his frame barely a phantom among the chaos, the blunt weight of Kabutowari ready to fall next. But even as ice shot toward their vitals, he knew—This was only the beginning.

The ice did not simply pierce—it shaped. What began as an eruption of shards evolved into architecture, formed not by chaos but by calculated fury. The ground beneath them had become a forge, and Kuro Yuki was its blacksmith. Ice was simply even higher than most forestry, dense and reluctantly sharp. A dome now rose, jagged and jaggedly magnificent, encasing the triangle and beyond the radius of twelve feet in diameter and more. They once stood upon a frozen prison. The walls were uneven, serrated like fangs. Each spike jutted outward as if to ward off retreat, while others curved inward, sealing them into a crystalline cage of glacial death. What didn’t cut through them would kill them, encasing them in their own death presumably. Who was going to respond to him?

Kuro stood poised within the midst of the triangle, but on simple snow. He held the Axe proportion of the weapon to his chest as he looked onwards ready for the first person to attack him but they had to get within this Ice like structure and probably escape the death of the ice which sprung out towards them. What was next for this threeway? What was going on in the head of the Mizukage? Was he utilizing too much force? The Mizukage was not a prisoner for so long he wanted to flex his energy. The whole battlefield stood a reflect of his being now, only a selective few would understand. He knew about the swords because he once tried to steal them all.

Location: Mist Training Ground

Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro

Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll​

 

[GraveBarghest]

"Aw.....how anti-climatic," Momo pouts as she sighs. The appearance of the rest of the blade was completely appreciated and she was absolutely grateful for it. But something else could have shown up too, maybe like the enemy who took it or someone who had it now. But no, it has to be that easy....unless something had been left in the blade. Unless that was the point, let it be returned and now a spy is within the Mist. Maybe there's a stowaway, like how Kisame hid in Samhada all those decades ago.

But that's not my problem.

Momo listens to the others talk and then watches them disappear one by one. She stands, crosses the room, and picks up Shibuki. Momo weighs the heavy blade in her hand. It felt good, it felt right. She had trained for so long with the replica, now she finally had the real thing. A grin splits her face, thinking of how she would holster the weapon. Thinking of how she would look with it.

The blade was stained by its past, covered in blood that had since been washed clean. The history the metal had etched into it, the stories it could tell if it could speak. The songs it would sing...the music Momo would make with it.

Blasts, canon fire, the pounding of drums, the overwhelming cacophony of hearing ones own heartbeat.

With the sound of the Blast Sword, everyone would know Momo's presence. It's song would herald her arrival. And she would leaving nothing but Ash in her wake.

"Just tell me when it's time to leave," she says, going back to grab her ōdachi. "I'll be ready to go when you are. Oh...how long is the boat ride? I'll need to bring snacks."

Momo slings her ōdachi over her shoulder with Shibuki over the other, balancing the bigger blade on the thinner one. Oh, what a good day.

Location: Mist Mansion
Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Aōi Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro → Umirama → Momo
Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll

 

[LordSnxw]

It wouldn't be before long that the esteemed Chuunin ninja had reached home to collect his supplies for yet another short journey—only this time across the ocean to visit the Sea Salt Country. He was already a well-traveled ninja, having already visited the Earth Country and the Land of Iron respectively, he was always confident about leaving the village and exploring new territory. Although the circumstances surrounding the reasons for his new absence away from home are for a simple escorting mission, he felt guilty as he wasn't there to defend the village from the attacks prior. This was something he took personally, and swore to himself that he would be there to defend the village at any cost when the time arises.

Upon re-entering his home, he found everything as he left it—neat. Living alone had its advantages as well as its disadvantages; the perks however outweighed the negatives. For him, purely out of the convenience and location of where it was located best suited his direct needs. He wasted little time finding his travel knapsack, placing it down on his kitchen counter and filed through the various cupboards and drawers, rummaging through his closets and contained storage units, collecting spare sets of kunai, shuriken, scrolls and much more. He prepared all the scrolls, even finding his Tsurukame shield and loading it with various of the previously mentioned armaments before also sealing it within its own paper confines for safe keeping. Walking around his home now, he looked around to find anything he may be missing, a small detail he might have overlooked.

After doing a full three-sixty turn in his living room, he unironically stopped as his eyes met with his resting Kiba blades on his couch. Each one wrapped in bandages, hiding their true nature to those who were unaware of their true nature. He picked them up, and studied them, remembering back to the thing that Higetsu foolishly did in the middle of the meeting, recalling the blade back to him that was allegedly missing. Despite the recklessness and danger it could have placed those within the room aside, It sparked a rather interesting idea as now that he too was a swordsman, he would need to put safety measures in place for his own weapon in order to protect the secrets of the Land of Water.

He went over to his knapsack and sifted through it to get blank scrolls, then created a single shadow clone, utilizing as little chakra as he could to produce it, as it would not be fighting but hold a specific yet more important function and instructed it to watch as he sat down to begin concocting multiple sealing formulas, drafting them first before properly applying his theories. Having studied greatly in sealing techniques, including his own mastery in producing summoning formulas, this was a walk in the park as he reworked them multiple times before finally deciding on a strategy of approach that would be not only strong, but highly durable and even receiving some criticism from himself seemed to also be useful in approaching this task as when one would think of things that the original hadn’t. It was now time however, to begin.

He allowed his chakra to swell, making the tiger seal and then separated his hands, using them while directing his chakra to lift the very written characters off of the scroll he just had scribbled on as the kanji would float and glow in a light blue outline as he directed it telepathically towards the hilts of his Thuderswords. The kanji would then seemingly engrave itself along the edge of the crossguards, slowly burning itself into the bronze with a slight high-pitched noise emanating from the ritual as the metal itself was now being altered. During this, he noticed another strong yet elaborate presence on the blades, the chakra signature matched that of his cousin, the Mizukage, Kuro. “Hmmm. Should have seen this coming…But, nothing that I can't handle.” he thought, then reworking his chakra to match his cousins, which was easy considering that they were close in blood ties and had spent considerable time around each other. After conducting minor configurations with his inner energies, he would manage to fool the seal into thinking that the frigid chakra he possessed belonged to Kuro, allowing him access to complete what he originally set out to do, creating a seal that functioned like an empty jar waiting for a lid.

While he did this, he also was layering his own chakra carefully on top of the previous fuin inscription, stroke-for-stroke leaving no gaps or hesitation in his movements so as not to screw up the process or result. “This wont break his seal, but it now no longer holds more priority over my own.” he mused to himself. By this simple action, he was able to successfully rewrite and reroute the priority of the person who would recall the blade from remote locations. The Mizukage would still be able to call it with his own seal, however, should that happen, the fuin placed on top of it by Aōi would activate first and ultimately stay within his specific chakra signature, similar to that of how Samehada siphons chakra from its user, the Kiba blades now were, in a manner of speaking, magnetized to its user, that being the Turtle Hermit himself. This would lie dormant within the sword's new secrets, meaning any fluctuation he could notice during this process was mitigated as Aōi mimicked his chakra signature as though it were Kuro himself who were altering the formula, and all the while weaving in his own.

He would then go on and repeat the process, placing a form of contract seal on both blades, he then turned to his shadow clone and nodded as it knew what would be following next, nodding back in approval. They were linked telepathically, the need for speaking about the details was unnecessary. “Good luck, may we see eachother again, and if not then you know what to do.” was all he said. The clone knelt down, placing his own hand on the hilt in the same spot as the previous inscription, while the original Aōi weaved more hand seals, ending in the ram sign as the clone would dissipate into a white mist that would ominous display as it shrouded the swords for but a mere moment before fully vanishing from all sight, leaving no trace, with the lid effectively being shut. The clone was then placed into a sort of stasis within the swords, separated in its own time-space chamber that would keep it alive long after the Chunin’s death.

The sword was now safeguarded from theft and existing within it now was a clone of Aōi serving as its spiritual "guardian", given specific instructions for when certain things take place. It was now safe to say, the Kiba blades were now “alive”, more than they had ever been, and they would be bound to the ice avatar. He picked them back up, flipping them in each hand as he tossed them in the air expertly and catching them with just as equal grace. When they would land back into his hands, a current of electricity charged from his hands to the middle of the swords, involuntarily. “...That wasn’t me…was it?” he asked himself, keeping his thoughts within his mind almost out of instinct for fear of others learning of his own discovery. He flickered outside of his home and into the open yard behind it. Releasing a minimal amount of chakra, he charged a stronger current of lightning, freeing the swords from their previous bondages in a vibrant display, pointing both blades towards the air as a streak of lightning could be found fired into the air, visible for all within Kirigakure outside to see, dispersing into the cloud patterns above. Although he had only wielded the blades for a short time, his chakra was beginning to attune to the twin fangs—beginning to transform and take on the next step in not just mastering the fangs themselves, but the storm that they commanded.

The sounds of thunder would soon roll in some seconds later, with dark clouds forming from the eastern half of the village. It would appear that he would be leaving the village with a parting gift of bad weather conditions. Uncaring however of the unnatural phenomena he created, firing more lightning bolts in the air and then performing a series of sword forms, going through at least eight, with all being executed with perfect poise, footwork and proficiency and discharging considerable levels of electricity. Even in these small times of reprieve, this was another example of Aōi’s desire to master and hone his effectiveness with the thunderswords. He was already set to leave, but he figured a few extra minutes to train wouldn't hurt while he was sure his team would be lingering somewhat on their way towards the docks. He could only imagine Umirama’s excitement in particular, as a born student of his particular sword he was made to fulfill this role. Aōi however, were given them as a gift for his years of service and splendid adherence to the Shinobi code. He intended to prove equal to this challenge, to learn the secrets of the swords by himself and from the moment these swords came into his possession, he would dedicate his life to mastering and learning of the hidden secrets of the Kiba swords of Kirigakure.

He would once again throw the blades into the air familiarly as he had before, then quickly weaving together Ox → Dragon → Monkey → Ram and the swords would quickly stop their pattern of twirling downward from mid air, stopping with a sudden but controlled halt, holding still yet stagnant in the air floating behind him with grace. He then would look behind him seeing that they were under his command, smiling in glee that he was quickly getting the hang of this particular jutsu. “They are quickly becoming an extension of me…this is great progress.” he thought. He would continue on for another several minutes trying to squeeze out every last second he had of personal time before he had to leave, he was hoping he would have enough time to train and hone the lightning further.

“Alright, time is up. The others are probably there by now. If I end up being late then that wouldn’t look good, heh..” he said aloud, walking back to his house. He grabbed his knapsack and all the other supplies he needed for the trip, now properly equipped for the mission ahead of him. “And now…to the Salt Sea Country.” he said to himself, as he walked out of his home stepping out onto his porch breathing in the native air of his country as these would be the last few breaths he would take on this soil for the next little while. He’d take about a dozen steps down his path leading towards the Kirigakure docks, the final few steps he’d expect to take in his neighborhood for the next little while, flickering away into the misty distance.

---

Location: Aōi's Home travelling to Kirigakure Docks
Posting Order: Aōi Yuki → Momo → Umirama
Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll

---

 

[Davon]

Before the temperature had the chance to be dropped, before the frost claimed the terrain, before the mist thickened into something unnatural Yumaro already knew. He didn’t need to see it as he sensed it within Kuro. The first spike of ice did not yet rupture the earth, as before the frost could grip hold of the air, and well before the terrain could be turned into a glacial arenas Yumaro was readied. He did not move in panic as he didn’t need to when sensed Kuros chakra movement. And so, as the mist thickened unnaturally, he didn’t impulsively react—he simply existed, already ahead of the tide. His eyes remained still, emerald irises barely flickering beneath the natural curl of his lashes. Kuro chakra pulsed and manipulated the cold like a painter with ice-woven brushstrokes, expertly weaving chakra into mist, attempting of sealing heat away from the field, and lacing some droplets of air with the threat of death. The field was beginning of turning hostile, oppressive, cloaked in supposed suffocating fog. To most shinobi, it would feel like the terrain itself had become a predator.

But Yumaro was born in worse, far worse. To the King of the Dead Sea, this battlefield would feel nostalgic. It reminded him of the pressure trenches beneath the blackened ocean where he had trained, meditated, hunted, and killed. Of swimming through thermal vents surrounded by crushing water columns, feeling his ribs flex under oceanic weight strong enough to implode battleships. It reminded him of when his body had adapted—when the steel-dense bones of the Kaguya lineage fused with the monstrous cardiovascular fortitude of the Hoshigaki bloodline. Where others froze in fear… Yumaro thrived. It was precision—refined through years of hunting, this shinobi who grew beneath the ocean floor, where light did not exist, and the only thing that mattered was pressure. The kind that crushed submarines. The kind that warped steel. The kind that never hesitated. Yumaro had lived inside that pressure, and so when Kuro Yuki began molding the environment to his advantage, shifting the moisture and chill into something lethal, the King of the Dead Sea was already prepared. He was the pressure that made things implode. The first thing he did was stop breathing before he could inhale any subjugated air.

His sensory, honed to a level bordering preternatural, locked onto Kuro. He didn’t need external pulses. His mind filtered the distortion in chakra concentration, tracked the tension in the air, and followed the cold's invisible dance across the land. In that moment, he wasn’t just watching a battlefield change—he was feeling it reshape around him like a beast curling in on its prey. Kuro wasn’t just obscuring vision—he was building a prison of ice and mist, by Hyōton and predatory control. But Yumaro wasn’t prey. His mind descended deeper, slipping past the surface tension of ambient chakra. What he sought was not energy—but bone. Even through the unnatural mist and icy pressure, Yumaro's skeletal sensory swept outward like sonar from a predator deep in the ocean’s blackest trench. Every living being within his radius that bore a spine, a ribcage, or even a fragmented finger bone registered in his awareness. Like ghostly outlines etched into darkness, the skeletal signatures flared to life in his perception. The King of the Dead Sea didn’t need to see Kuro’s face to know where he would go next. As the mist attempted to blind, and Kuro’s chakra tried to scatter perception, Yumaro remained locked on. He moved not toward where Kuro had been, but where his skeletal blueprint whispered he would be. For while the mist could deceive the eyes and suppress chakra, it could not hide the bones of a man from the one who hunted the marrow beneath the skin.

No panic. No gasp. Just a long, final inhale through his nose before the chakra infused mist could influence him. Then, silence. His ribcage froze in place, locked, but not rigid. His body, adapted to endure weeks beneath ocean tides, would not require another breath for minutes, maybe hours if he chose. The frost in the air couldn’t reach him now. The chakra-infused cold—meant to slip into the lungs and cripple—was no more threatening to Yumaro than a breeze on the surface of the water. His bones, more durable than any alloy known to man, didn't shiver. The pressure didn’t weigh him down. It awakened him. Samehada shivered in his grip—not in fear, but in anticipation. The chakra-rich mist excited it. So much sustenance. So many flavors. Yumaro’s left hand steadied the blade gently, his touch smooth across its scales, and Samehada responded with a pulse—eager, but obedient. This was not the unrefined bond of a blade barely tamed. It was the synchronization of two predators sharing a hunt.

Samehada pulsed once in his grip—hungry, yes, but also curious. The living sword was reacting not with violence, but with interest. The chakra density in the field excited it, stirred the beast within. Its scales twitched, tasting the fog like a serpent flicking its tongue toward prey. Yumaro’s grip shifted—firm, commanding, but calm. “Not yet,” he whispered within his mind. And that was when the ground cracked. His sensory flared—not by choice, but by reflex. The signals didn’t need to be broadcasted. His body was already listening. From beneath the terrain, concentrated converging angles of energy erupted like predator fangs.

The earth groaned in a near-silent snap—mist blinding, but energy and vibrations unmistakable. He moved. But not like a man. Like a torpedo. With a single, compressed burst of Water Release from his feet—refined to a pinpoint angle—Yumaro launched sideways, creating a brief aftershock of mist and steam where the force ruptured frost. The compressed water exploded beneath his boots, not in violence, but in propulsion. It was clean, precise and perfect. Ice spears erupted where he had just stood, slicing upward. But he was gone—already several meters out, streaking through the mist with no more resistance than a bullet through air. His speed was not merely fast—it was horrifying as he escaped the assault and that which were in his direction. Years of resistance swimming against the strongest of currents, contending with predator-class marine life, and outpacing barracudas beneath water had trained Yumaro’s body to move in environments hostile to motion. The moment gravity and friction were lessened, and the drag coefficient shifted in his favor—even the most sensor-skilled shinobi could barely follow his movements. His foot skimmed the ground again—just once and brief —and he redirected.

The mist parted briefly in a curved arc as he spun mid-air, rotating his body around a central axis using torque from his hips and water pressure bleeding out from his ankles. This wasn’t acrobatics. It was hydraulic martial precision. His foot struck the ground like an anchor, stopping his momentum, kneeling low into a three-point crouch. Samehada drooped from his shoulder, vibrating with anticipation. The blade drank. Even as it hovered, not striking, it fed on the chakra in the mist—pulling connections from Kuro’s domain into itself, creating little paths of visibility where fog thinned and chakra shaved. Yumaro closed his eyes for a breathless heartbeat. Then he launched again. This time, his motion was forward. With compression chambers pre-loaded through his hamstrings, shoulders, and calves, Yumaro ignited a multi-point burst of water release that detonated inward—not to disorient, but to drive. He didn’t move like a shinobi but shot like a weapon.

The mist behind him exploded outward, torn by the vacuum of his sudden movement. He didn’t bother avoiding debris. Ice, dust, frost, nothing touched him. His body moved in a perfect forward line—spine straight, chin low, eyes fixed on the concentration of bone that was Kuro. Then meters in a fraction of a second. Then the strike. Samehada was already lifted, its scales flexing outward like the gills of a beast ready to feed. Water coiled into Yumaro’s elbow and shoulder socket. With a hard twist of his hips, followed by a timed explosion of water release in his triceps and lower back, he brought the blade down in a massive diagonal slash from his right hip to his left shoulder.

The swing was monstrous. Not wild but surgical. A strike augmented by internal hydraulics, weight displacement, bone torque, and monstrous physical strength. The air itself screamed as the blade tore through it, samehada’s wide mouth and form absorbing chakra from the concentrated mist. The slash didn't cut through the environment. It dismantled it by shaving it away. The force alone—before blade or impact—was so immense that the mist spiraled behind him in a helix, splitting momentarily. The shockwave traveled forward in a cone of pure pressure. Ice cracked. The ground convulsed. And Kuro—despite his supremacy over the field—was going to be forced to make a decision. He had no choice.

Yumaro was completing the swing, leaving Kuro a split second to respond before he may be crushed and cleaved through. Yumaro landing on his lead leg, and grounded the motion by shifting weight into a wide, rearward stance. Another microburst from his knee created just enough outward pressure to prime a pivot or second strike. He was not overextended. Not exposed. He was coiled—again. And then, without speaking or moving further, Yumaro extended his left arm. A bone-hatch peeled open from his forearm, and from within it, something moved. The zombie worms. Dozens of translucent, eel-like entities with bone-colored cores and chakra-sensitive nerves slithered out. They plunged into the ice-laced ground beneath him, moving independently, yet in coordination. They spread through the mist-infested terrain, seeking the structural roots of the ice and frost that had begun forming around the field.

They didn’t eat just bone or flesh. They fed on chakra as they did with Kagaya. Yumaro rolled his shoulders back slowly. He still hadn’t taken another breath. He tilted Samehada’s edge toward the ice with one arm, letting it drag slightly against the ground. Mist began to thin around him—not because the technique was completely undone, but because the concentrated chakra holding it was now being fed on by Samehada and eroded by zombie worms tunneling through. The battlefield wasn’t just compromised.

It was collapsing under the weight of a man who had lived under worse. “You lace your mist in fear, Kuro,” Yumaro murmured again. Yumaro’s bones flexed beneath his skin—unseen, but present. His Shikotsumyaku armor adjusted beneath his musculature, reinforcing key muscle groups for impact and retraction. He was a walking fortress—but faster than any wall had a right to be. Still holding his breath, still in composure, he raised his chin and spoke once more. “I am not like your prey, Mizukage. I do not run from frost. I do not blink in mist.” His foot slid forward. “But I have lived where light cannot reach. Where heat and sound die. Where monsters sleep beneath pressure no man can survive.” And with that, he vanished again, already channeling pressure through his thighs for the next hydraulic burst—ready to strike again, to shatter, and to remind the battlefield why he was feared as Monster of the Sea. He positioned himself to respond to and react to whatever Higetsu or Kuro may do.

Location: Mist Training Ground

Posting Order: Kuro Yuki → Higetsu → Yumaro

Post Time Limit (PTL): 3 Days.
Skip Points: lll

 

[Fox]

The control over one’s environment is determined by willpower — the unyielding drive to push beyond one’s limits. Higetsu embodies this fully, having honed his Hydrification Technique to an artform. Among the greatest wielders of it — perhaps even the greatest — he stands resolute. The mist, once simply a tool, has become an extension of his living will. As it spreads, so too does his presence. Moisture, mist, ice — none are exceptions. They are all a part of the ecosystem to which he belongs. In truth, he is the ecosystem. Whether rooted in the forest, the land, or the atmosphere, Higetsu is an extension of water itself — a force of nature whose mastery eclipses even that of his ancestors. He pushed himself to the very brink, sacrificing comfort and restraint in pursuit of absolute control. His willpower borders on madness, a hunger that consumes and transforms. He doesn’t just use water — he becomes it, wielding it with such depth and fury that even Kuro and Yumaro’s mastery of water bends before him. For as long as it exists in a state of water, it is his to command. He is the antithesis — the sworn enemy of all who believe they dominate water. Against him, no tide is safe, no current free, and no frost beyond reach.

There was no secret that the man before them was nothing more than an extension of the everlasting ocean—submerging the trio in moisture, snow, and mist, all governed by the ruthless Hozuki. He was a being seemingly blessed by every form of water. Whether it be liquid, frost, vapor, or snow, it all bent to his will. Even if Kuro dared to command the mist or sought to dominate the battlefield with snow and ice, it was futile. If its essence was water, then Higetsu could control it—on a level that defied comprehension. For he was water itself, in form and spirit. This truth became undeniable as the mist began to intertwine with the snow, both inside and outside the dome. Had they paid closer attention, they might have realized that his arrival had never been natural. He had already merged with the moisture clinging to every surface of the environment. The man they faced had never truly solidified. His body was vaporous—wispy—melting into the very air. A phantom of the sea, not quite real, yet all too powerful. And so, it became clear: the Mizukage had not struck down a man. He had merely lashed out at an illusion—no more than a shifting ghost born of the Mist itself.

Though he possessed the power to destroy Kuro and Yumaro from the inside out—his essence already mingling with the water within their bodies, flowing with every breath they took—he refrained. A grimace tugged at his face, not born of effort, but of recognition. They had never dismissed, nor dared to defy, the subtle force he wielded. “To think they underestimated me this much.” The thought echoed coldly in his mind as he observed the duo with calculating eyes. He was no fool who would wade blindly into a pond full of piranhas—especially when one of them, he knew, far too well. Every step he took was measured. Every action, part of a broader scheme—crafted precisely to counter even their Water Release. If they hoped to overwhelm Higetsu, it would not be through any source of water. About ten miles north of the arena, the Hozuki quietly tended to himself, lost in thought over what had just transpired, finding himself sitting on a branch of a sturdy tree. His finger slowly dissolved into mist, revealing that it had been a clone all along—controlled from a distance. Some say it was simply boredom that led him to study their fighting styles from afar. Others say... it’s just the way he is. His head rested against his right palm, his back is pressed against the actual Hiramekarei.​

"Did they think I would train with the annoyin’ Yumaro?" he said, a scoff echoing through the environment.

​