They searched the way Mist always searched.
Quietly.
Patiently.
With the certainty that ice, eventually, would betray itself.
Hunter-nin spread out in layered patterns—outer sensors first, then trackers, then watchers meant to watch the watchers. Valleys were mapped and remapped. Trade roads were questioned without being disturbed. Border villages were observed from far enough away that no one felt eyes on them.
Nothing screamed Yuki Clan.
Which made everything suspicious.
In one ravine, a team found frost on stone in early morning—too delicate to be a jutsu, too precise to be weather. By midday, it was gone. Logged. Filed. Dismissed.
In another region, a river ran colder than it should have in summer. No bodies. No seals. Just clean water and fish that lived.
"Environmental anomaly," the report read.
The Mist hated anomalies.
Weeks passed. Then months.
The hunter-nin assigned to the search began to notice something unsettling: the further inland they went, the less resistance they encountered. No defensive traps. No false trails. Only panicked villagers.
It was as if the Yuki had learned how to exist without leaving fingerprints.
That was not something a hunted clan learned alone.
Far from the search lines, the settlement continued its quiet rhythm.
Aoi noticed the birds first.
They did not scatter when she passed. They did not fall silent.
She adjusted nothing.
Shigen noticed the trade patterns—merchants passing nearby without slowing, without curiosity. He adjusted nothing.
The elders noticed that no one was watching from the ridges anymore.
They said nothing.
One evening, as mist rolled gently through the low ground, a child asked Aoi a simple question.
"Are they still looking for us?"
Aoi knelt, meeting the child's eyes.
"Yes," she said truthfully.
The child thought about that. "Will they find us?"
Aoi glanced toward the trees, where Shigen stood speaking softly with two elders, hands relaxed, posture open.
"No," she said.
The answer surprised even her.
In Kirigakure, another report was crossed out.
No confirmation. No escalation. Nothing found. Still searching.
The Mizukage read it without expression.
"They've gone quiet," an advisor said. "Or they've learned how not to be seen."
The Mizukage stared at the map long enough that the room stilled.
"Then adjust," he said. "Stop looking for ice."
The advisor frowned. "Then what do we look for?"
The Mizukage's voice was calm. Certain.
"Warmth," he said.
"Something that doesn't belong."
Because ice that learned to hide was dangerous.
But ice that learned when not to be ice.
This was something entirely new.
And somewhere beyond Mist's reach, beneath trees that had never known snow-heavy silence, a child laughed as frost briefly kissed water and vanished again.
Unafraid.