Snowlight Valley - Sixth Week
They called him "The Quiet Seal." Not with kindness. With fear.
Daigo didn't argue. Let them name him what they wanted. The name gave him cover.
Every form he filed, every delay he requested, every clause he cited — it wasn't just paper. It was power. And he used it like a blade.
The pressure was building.
He wasn't the only one who felt it.
The Dominion Arbiter, Kuroji, had stopped smiling. The Black Quill patrols had doubled. Council scrolls arrived every two days instead of every week.
And the worst part? No one was saying anything directly.
That meant they were planning.
Daigo hit them first — not with open rebellion, but with paperwork.
He activated Article 9.4 — a clause buried so deep in the doctrine, most Councilmen didn't know it existed.
Legacy Integrity Audit.
It gave him legal access to everything: shrines, oral records, even old ritual books. Officially, it was to "evaluate cultural absorption of doctrine."
Unofficially, it gave him a reason to be everywhere.
He didn't ask permission. He just filed the scroll. Stamped. Signed.
He found a scroll hidden in a rice storage crate. A child's drawing of an old clan crest burned into a tree trunk. A smuggled pot of sealing ink used to mark a newborn's name — a name no longer in any official record.
He labeled them all: "Cultural Anomalies – Under Provisional Review."
Which meant?
No one could touch them. Not yet. Not until he cleared them.
And Daigo? He was very, very slow at clearing things.
Ichi met him by the overlook, eyes sharp.
"You're covering for them now," she said.
"No. I'm classifying them."
"You're shielding sedition."
"I'm following procedure."
She stared hard. "You think this will hold back what's coming?"
"No," Daigo said. "But it might keep it alive long enough to matter."
From outside, the storm gathered.
Konoha's jonin met with merchants. The next day, one refused Council ration subsidies. Small shift. Meant something.
Iwa leaked a letter. Accusing the Council's seal tech of rotting chakra fields. Unconfirmed. Burned before sunrise. But it spread.
Kumo bought ink. Not from Council stock. From the black market.
Everyone was preparing for something. Even if they didn't know what.
That night, Daigo stared at a map marked in red.
Seal zones. Resistance clusters. Places where numbers didn't add up.
Ichi leaned over his shoulder.
"It looks like a battlefield," she said.
"No," Daigo murmured. "It's a fault line. And it's cracking."
He sent three scrolls that night:
One to the Council — cold, official. One to Kuroji — clinical, careful. And one to a name the Council thought erased.
"Your people are not lost. I've kept the ink dry. Say the word."