The heavy gates of the Gin household opened to receive a guest of steel and silence. Lady Shiryū arrived in a lacquered carriage drawn by white horses, surrounded by solemn retainers. Though small in stature, her bearing bore the weight of generations. Servants stopped what they were doing. Maeko, heavily pregnant and adorned in formal robes, stood with visible restraint at the entrance.
Lady Shiryū dismounted in silence, her steps crisp in the snow. Her presence chilled the courtyard more than the frost ever could.
"Lady Shiryū," Maeko greeted with a bow.
Shiryū gave her only a nod. Her eyes scanned the surroundings and then fell upon Hinata.
She studied the girl—pale eyes, steady posture, expression composed. Hinata bowed, every movement refined. No flourish, only exactness.
Shiryū's voice was cool. "Adequate. You've trained her well, Maeko."
Though the words were measured, Maeko felt a wave of relief wash through her. Her back straightened, her shoulders eased ever so slightly. Coming from her former teacher and the matriarch of the Gin line, even a word like 'adequate' held the weight of rare praise. For the first time in days, Maeko allowed herself a small, quiet breath.
Later, in private, Shiryū's words cut deeper. "I am here not only for the birth of my grandson, but to observe what remains of this noble house's future."
From that day on, Hinata's lessons with Shiryū began. The older woman corrected her with a glance, taught with silence more than words. Each movement in tea preparation became sacred, unforgiving.
Hinata once thought Maeko's lessons were difficult—stern corrections, repetitions of posture, tone, and silence. But only now, under Shiryū's scrutiny, did she realize there was always a sky above the sky. The standards of the matriarch were mercilessly high, and her gaze carved through pretension like a blade. Maeko had guided her with firmness and warmth, but Shiryū trained as if forging steel, expecting no less than transformation.
During one such session, as steam rose from the kettle and silence reigned, Hinata felt it—a pulse. Not chakra, but something older. The wind whispered through the steam, and for a breathless moment, she felt herself dissolve into it. The world around her deepened. When her eyes refocused, Shiryū was watching.
"Do not chase it," she said, calm but firm. "Let it pass through you. That was well done."
The servants and samurai took note. Whispers spread like fire in a pine forest. They began calling her "the young priestess," not just in hushed tones but with a growing reverence. The symbol on her forehead—once an oddity—was now seen as sacred by many. Some samurai began to tie blue ribbons marked with that same symbol onto their belts or arms, quiet tokens of respect. The servants, watching all this, found themselves bowing a little deeper, speaking her name with care. Something was changing, and they could feel it in the air.
<<<< o >>>>>
In the Silver World, Hinata had spent several days welcoming and organizing the influx of warriors into the Silver World, as the silver lady that commanded respect and as her own self that gives care and understanding. She devised routines, formed training circles, and assigned senior samurai to oversee the younger ones. Despite her outward calm, she often found herself overwhelmed by the sheer responsibility. At night, she would sit beside the mirror-lake and whisper silent prayers to the moon realm, praying for the wellbeing of her growing family and her people, unsure if anyone—or anything—was listening.
Over time, something began to change. The landscape—once misty and undefined—started to take on clearer form. Trees developed distinct shapes, their branches reflecting species from the forests of the Land of Iron. The soil beneath their feet felt firmer, the air held the subtle scent of pine and snow. Even the village structures began to resemble those of Takama's ancestral estate.
It was not only Hinata's will shaping the world now. The thoughts, memories, and desires of its growing inhabitants began to give weight to its reality. The Silver World was no longer a dreamscape—it was evolving, slowly, into a world of its own.
It was during one of those nights that Goro joined her, quietly laying a blanket over her shoulders. "The wind here has changed," he said. "It feels like spring is arriving, but through willpower, not weather."
Hinata smiled faintly. "I want it to become a real world. Not just a reflection. A place where sorrow can rest."
Takama entered through the veil expecting quiet. Instead, he found movement—dozens of warriors and children training, sparring, meditating. Laughter and discipline echoed in an exact representation of his family's ancestral village.
He found Hinata by the reflecting pool. "I see you've built a temple of blades in my absence," he said, half amused.
Hinata bowed. "I only opened the gates. They came of their own will."
But growth came with challenges. One morning, a young samurai fractured his arm during sparring. There was no panic, only a hush of concern that fell over the group. Accidents were part of training—but the pain and weight of responsibility still reached Hinata. She moved quickly, composed, and ensured the boy was taken care of. Later, she sat in quiet reflection, thinking not only of how to prevent such harm, but how to make the Silver World kinder to those still learning.
Hinata withdrew to meditate. When she returned, she addressed the gathering.
"By the will of the Silver Lady, The High Priestess" she proclaimed, "every six hours, all who reside here shall return to their original physical state. Let no injury in this world follow you home."
Cheers erupted. The Silver World had just become sacred. And under Hinata's will, the laws of the realm had shifted—reshaped not by divine command alone, but by her desire to protect those under her care. It was a quiet truth: that the priestess's heart now spoke, and the world listened.
Yet all was not calm. Gorō approached her one evening with concern.
"One of the boys has been speaking. Sharing tales of this world in the village."
Hinata's chest tightened. In the quiet of the tower, she sought Michel.
"We could ban him," Michel suggested. "Or… give him a taste of punishment—something ceremonial, symbolic, to remind others of the importance of silence. Or… erase what he remembers." He said it lightly, almost teasing, knowing Hinata well enough to be certain she would never choose the harsh path—but offering the extremes to help her find her own center.
Hinata stood in silence. Then whispered: "No. Let him remain. But his other self, the one in the waking world, will forget. Until he proves himself again, this place will be a dream. A sweet fog—just like it was for me when I was a child, before I awoke to what was hidden. Let him walk the same quiet path, until his heart is ready to see."
Michel raised a brow, then smiled. "A clever balance. It might just work."
Hinata paused. "If that's possible… Could ordinary people come here too? Not just warriors?"
"Perhaps," Michel said. "But not all dreams are meant to be remembered. Let's see how the boy fares first."
The idea of bringing not just warriors, but ordinary people into this realm stirred something deep within Hinata. The possibility of making this world not only a sanctuary, but a place of joy—where even those without blades could find peace—made her heart flutter with quiet hope. To share warmth, healing, and meaning with villagers, children, and the weary souls of the world... It was more than ambition. It was a dream of kindness made tangible.
Even so, amidst the storm of new experiences that so many new arrivals brought. Training resumed. Hinata rotated between different masters. A stocky samurai taught her close-range countering. A lean one showed her evasive circling forms. Takama, ever watchful, began to share advanced forms from the Gin lineage.
She moved like water, but now struck like flame. Her style was beginning to form—not a copy, but a song made manifest by her blade.
<<<< o >>>>
In the Capital of Iron, Takama bowed before his cousin, Daimyō Akihiko Gin. Their conversation was brief, measured.
"I see you negotiated favorable grain shipments from the Land of Rice," Akihiko said, glancing over the parchment.
Takama nodded. "Their Otokage is cunning. But the Daimyō of the Land of Rice does nothing without their approval. They hunger for legitimacy, but make no move without the sanction of Otogakure. That makes them pliable—for now."
"You arrived with a Sound ninja," Akihiko said. "That has drawn eyes."
Takama met his gaze without flinching. "My daughter's condition is beyond conventional help. If Orochimaru's people have knowledge we lack, I will use it."
Akihiko said nothing further, but the silence stretched long. He finally exhaled through his nose. "You always did walk toward storms when others sought cover," he muttered. "Very well. But if trouble follows you, make sure it doesn't reach our gates."
Takama inclined his head. "I understand. I will carry it myself if I must."
Before departing, Takama visited the forge of Masamune, the most revered smith in the capital.
The man unveiled the sakabatō. Its reverse blade gleamed with restrained power, elegant but weighty.
"Forged from the mountain's heart," Masamune explained. "She will not kill. But she will speak. This iron is among the finest we have—sturdy, clean, attuned to channel a little chakra to those adept to it. It will allow her to find her own balance."
Takama ran a thumb gently along the spine of the blade. "And the other metal?"
Masamune shook his head. "Chakra-conductive alloys of the quality you mentioned… cannot be used safely unless forged specifically for the individual that will wield them. They amplify what lives within, for better or worse. For her, that would be dangerous until I can meet her."
He placed the blade back into its sheath with reverence. "When the snow melts, bring her. Only then will I forge her true sword—an instrument crafted for her alone, one that can walk beside her for a long time."
Takama bowed deeply. With Kabuto behind him like a shadow, he turned his steps toward home.
The snow fell softer now. But the road ahead had never been more uncertain.