Shikaku Nara did not move pieces unless he understood the board.
That morning, the village council chamber was quiet in the way only dangerous rooms ever were. Sunlight filtered through high windows, illuminating a long table already marked by the faint grooves of decades of arguments. Shikaku sat at his usual place—not at the center, not at the edge. Close enough to influence. Far enough to observe.
A shogi board lay in front of him.
Not for show.
Across the table, a pair of elders spoke in low voices about border security, about reconstruction priorities, about how many resources could be spared for "lingering war remnants."
Shikaku listened.
And counted.
"How many reports of Ice Release have we had since the ceasefire?" one elder asked, fingers steepled.
"Three," another replied. "All unconfirmed."
"Unconfirmed," the first repeated. "That's generous."
Shikaku placed a pawn forward.
"One," he said calmly.
The room paused.
The elders turned toward him, some annoyed, some wary.
"One confirmed case," Shikaku continued. "The others were misidentified weather chakra and a rogue Mist medic with an affinity for cold climates."
"That's your assessment?" an elder asked.
"It's the report I submitted," Shikaku replied. "If Intelligence has conflicting data, I haven't seen it."
That was true.
Because he'd made sure they wouldn't.
Danzo Shimura sat in the shadows near the far wall, arms folded, his single visible eye unreadable. He said nothing—but Shikaku could feel his attention like a knife pressed just shy of skin.
Containment began with a narrowing focus.
"Regardless," another councilor said, "if a Yuki survivor exists—"
"If," Shikaku interrupted mildly, "then they're already aware of how to stay hidden. Pursuit would only expose our methods."
"A potential bloodline—"
"Is not a weapon if it's dead," Shikaku said flatly. "And not an asset if it refuses to be used."
Silence followed.
The shogi board sat between them like a quiet threat.
Hiruzen Sarutobi, seated at the head of the table, watched Shikaku over steepled fingers. Smoke from his pipe curled lazily upward.
"Your recommendation?" the Third Hokage asked.
Shikaku didn't hesitate. "We close the matter. Classify Ice Release sightings as residual war anomalies. No formal investigation."
"And if you're wrong?" Danzo finally spoke.
Shikaku met his gaze without flinching. "Then we've avoided provoking an enemy who survives by remaining unseen."
Danzo's eye narrowed slightly.
"A wasted opportunity," he said.
Shikaku allowed himself a thin smile. "Or a prevented catastrophe."
Hiruzen exhaled smoke. "Very well. The reports will be sealed. No Root involvement."
Danzo's fingers tightened against his sleeve—but he inclined his head.
For now.
Later that day, Shikaku stood alone in the Nara forest, shadows stretching long between the trees. He knelt, pressing his hand to the ground.
A sealing array flared briefly—subtle, layered, meant not to bind but to blur.
Information suppression.
Movement dampening.
Observation distortion.
Not barriers.
Filters.
He was not protecting a person.
He was protecting negative space.
"Stay moving," he murmured, more to the forest than to anyone else. "And don't make me lie too often."
The seal faded.
Somewhere beyond Fire Country's borders, a woman who would not stay put felt the faintest resistance—as if the world itself had shifted to make pursuit just a little more inconvenient.
Shikaku straightened.
The lines were drawn.
And the game would proceed quietly—
as all the most dangerous ones did.