Snow fell relentlessly in Kirigakure, muffling the world in cold silence. For the Yuki compound perched on a craggy cliff above the endless mist, it was as if the storms never truly ceased. Even inside, the chill clung to every surface, and the fires burned day and night to comfort the clan members who lacked the Yuki bloodline's gifts.
But to Kumio, the cold was no burden at all. The frosty air felt like home, wrapping around him with a quiet familiarity that soothed him rather than stung. The snow's delicate touch on his cheeks was a promise of his birthright, an inheritance older than the village itself. Even in infancy, the cold never made him shiver; it only made him feel alive.
His earliest memories were of that snow, of sitting on a tatami mat while his mother brushed his dark hair and sang low lullabies that seemed to come from a world warmer than this one. Her voice was soft, almost mournful, yet it carried a strength that wrapped around him like a second blanket. He remembered the feel of her hand on his cheek, the way she smiled through eyes that looked carved from ice.
But as he grew past infancy, the gentle cocoon of his mother's care gave way to the stern discipline of his father's tutelage. By the time he was barely three, Yoritada was bringing him to the courtyard at dawn, forcing him to stand barefoot in the snow, not as punishment, but to teach him to commune with the frozen world he was born to master. The cold air gusted around him, whistling through the stone courtyard, but Kumio stood serene, breath steady and misting only faintly.
"Even the coldest storm can be your ally," his father told him, tall and unyielding as the ice that surrounded them. "Feel the frost. Let it flow through you. The world's cruelty will never touch you if you learn to shape its chill."
So Kumio listened, inhaled the frozen air, and kept his eyes locked on his father's unwavering gaze.
Each morning began the same, breathing exercises to build chakra control, standing meditation as the snow blanketed the compound, then short but intense drills in basic footwork. His father's voice would cut through the howling wind like a blade. "Balance. Focus. Your chakra is your life, learn it, or you will die."
The Kumio's small feet left patterns in the snow as he practiced, his breath forming only the faintest wisps of vapor. Though his body was still that of a child, his mind burned with the memories of his past life. He remembered the comforts of soft beds and warm meals, of a world where death wasn't always waiting behind the next corner. But that world was gone, and every sunrise here reminded him how fragile life truly was.
Kumio's mother, Rinazomi, often watched from the shadows beyond the courtyard, worry etched into her pale features. When the sessions ended, she would scoop him up, wrapping him in thick furs more for her peace of mind than his comfort. Her kisses were warm, her hands gentle, but Kumio didn't need warmth to feel safe. He only needed her.
Yet even she could not shield him from what was to come.
Because the elders were watching.
They came one by one at first, draped in ceremonial robes adorned with frost-crusted patterns. Their eyes gleamed with equal parts curiosity and calculation. Kumio could feel their gazes prickling his skin like icy needles as he demonstrated the basic techniques his father had taught him, controlling water vapor in the air, forming delicate frost patterns, condensing snowflakes with his chakra.
But it was not enough. They wanted more.
When he was three and a half, Kumio discovered the first hints of his second birthright.
During an evening training session, his father stood opposite him in the courtyard. The sky above was heavy with gray clouds, the snow swirling lazily around them. Kumio's breath came in calm, measured puffs; he had been running laps through the knee-deep drifts for what felt like hours, but the cold never tired him, only the effort of maintaining perfect chakra control.
"Again!" Yoritada barked.
Kumio's eyes burned with quiet determination. He formed the hand seals his father had drilled into him, the same ones he had seen Haku use in his old life, though Haku would not be born for decades yet. He channeled his chakra, feeling it swirl and condense, until a thin mist formed around his small frame.
Suddenly, something inside him shifted, not a break, but an awakening. A surge of chakra unlike any he had felt before roared through his body. A strange tingling radiated through his bones. Pain lanced up his arms as small protrusions burst through his skin: white, razor-sharp splinters extending from his wrists.
Yoritada's eyes widened, and for the first time since Kumio had known him, his father stepped back. "Shikotsumyaku…" he breathed.
Blood dripped onto the snow, each crimson drop hissing faintly where it touched the frost. Kumio's breath quickened, but he felt no fear of the cold, only the shock and unfamiliar ache of bones shifting beneath his skin. The mist around him thickened until it obscured his hunched figure.
He thought he might pass out, but then his mother was there, sweeping him into her arms, holding him tightly as he breathed raggedly into her shoulder. Her voice shook as she whispered, "It's all right, Kumio. You're safe. You're safe."
But he was not safe. He would never be truly safe again.
The next day, the elders returned, this time as a group. They sat in a semicircle on the courtyard's far side, their faces impassive masks. Kumio felt their gazes like a weight pressing down on him, heavier than any storm. His father stood by his side, hand resting firmly on his shoulder.
"Show them," Yoritada commanded.
Kumio swallowed hard. He drew a deep breath, centered his chakra, and let the cold flood his limbs. The mist responded instantly, coiling around him like a living thing. He shaped it with his mind, freezing it until slender icicles formed in the air. Then he focused on the strange energy that pulsed in his bones, forcing it to the surface. A single white spike erupted from the back of his hand, gleaming with a sheen of frost as he channeled both bloodlines into one display.
The courtyard fell silent.
A low hum of power emanated from the ice-clad bone, a sensation so foreign yet so familiar it sent shivers of wonder through him. The elders whispered among themselves, voices sharp and excited.
"He has both," one said.
"He is the child who will change our fate," said another.
Or doom it, Kumio thought bitterly.
After the demonstration, he was not allowed to rest. The elders pulled his father aside for a meeting that stretched into the night. Kumio sat alone in his room, exhausted and aching, the scent of blood and frost lingering on his skin. He stared into the flickering candlelight, thoughts whirling faster than the swirling snow outside.
He understood the truth, he was no longer just a child. He was an asset. A weapon. And he hated it.
The next weeks blurred together in a haze of training and inspections. His father pushed him harder than ever, chakra control, hand seals, weapon drills, and meditation so deep it left his small body trembling with fatigue. Each time Kumio mastered a new exercise, the elders' expectations grew. Each time he fell short, their cold eyes grew colder.
One night, after a particularly brutal day of training, Kumio lay awake in his futon, eyes fixed on the dark beams of his ceiling. His mother slipped into the room, kneeling beside him.
"Kumio," she whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead, "you do not have to be what they want you to be."
He turned his head slightly to look at her. Even at five, his eyes were too old for his face, eyes that had seen a world beyond this one, filled with skyscrapers and screens. But those memories were fading, replaced by this life of snow and blood.
"I want to protect you," he murmured hoarsely, voice small but fierce.
Her breath caught. Tears welled in her eyes, shining in the moonlight streaming through the window. She hugged him tightly. "My brave boy…"
In that fragile moment, Kumio made a silent promise: he would find a way to end the cycle of death that ruled the Mist. He would stop the purges before they began. He would save his mother, and the countless children yet to come.
But he knew he could not do it alone.
The first snows of his fifth winter arrived early. The sky was iron gray, the air so cold ordinary men struggled to draw breath, but Kumio felt only a calm, familiar embrace in the frigid wind. He stood in the courtyard alone, training as dawn broke. He spun, sliding across the ice-slick stone with effortless grace, a thin blade of frozen bone extending from his palm. Each motion was precise, fluid, deadly, and yet he moved with a quiet, almost desperate determination.
As the sun crested the horizon, casting pale light across the compound, he heard hurried footsteps crunching through the snow. His father's retainer, a man with sharp eyes and an even sharper voice, appeared at the courtyard's edge.
"It's happening," he announced, barely masking his excitement. "Lady Rinazomi has gone into labor."
Kumio's heart thundered. He lowered his blade, letting it dissolve into a swirl of frost. Without a word, he bolted for the main hall.
He arrived at his mother's room breathless, ice clinging to his hair and lashes like a crown. His father stood just outside, expression taut with worry. The muffled sounds of pained breathing drifted through the paper walls.
Hours passed as Kumio waited beside his father. The seconds stretched into eternities, each marked by his mother's ragged cries. Snow fell silently outside, the storm intensifying until the world beyond the windows was a white void.
Then, just as the wind began to die, a single high-pitched cry split the air.
The midwife stepped out moments later, face flushed but smiling. "She's here," she said softly. "Your daughter is strong."
Kumio's chest tightened with an emotion he could not name, a fragile, fierce love that burned brighter than any jutsu. When his father led him inside, he found his mother pale but smiling weakly, cradling a tiny bundle swaddled in white cloth. His baby sister's eyes were closed, but her small hand twitched, and Kumio swore he saw a glint of something hard and white just beneath her delicate skin.
"Yuki Nidoka," his mother whispered, eyes meeting his. "Your sister."
Kumio reached out a trembling hand, letting Nidoka's tiny fingers curl around his. In that moment, he knew there was no turning back. For her, for his family, he would change the future.
He would not fail.