[10] Three Years Later
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moshi moshi
Wrapped in a pale lavender cloth, the newborn girl slept soundlessly. Her breathing was steady. Her skin delicate and flushed. Hiashi stared at her in silence.
Then, the veins at his temples bulged. He activated the Byakugan.
What he saw was... acceptable. Her chakra flow was balanced. Her tenketsu nodes were all in order. There was the natural resonance of Hyūga heritage. But nothing exceptional.
Nothing like that child from the branch house. That boy. Neji.
Hiashi's gaze hardened.
You are supposed to be the light of the main house. Why are you only average?
Frustration flared within him. He felt cheated.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the past. The day he and Hizashi faced the clan's trial of succession. Hizashi, his twin, his equal in everything—perhaps his better. Hiashi had won by trickery, by maneuvering Hizashi into forfeiting honorably. He became head of the clan. And now, fate mocked him.
His daughter, destined to be heir, was weak. His brother's son, destined to be subservient, was a prodigy.
Hiashi turned away from the child. Without so much as a glance at his wife, he said coldly, "You can name her whatever you want."
He left.
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The silence he left behind was deeper than any kunai wound.
Hiashi's wife trembled. Not from the pain of childbirth. Not anymore. But from heartbreak. She lifted the child gently, bringing her close. Tears welled in her eyes.
"You will not be unloved," she whispered. "Even if the world weighs on your small shoulders."
She traced a finger over the baby's cheek. "Your eyes will bloom with warmth. Your hands will bring healing."
She looked out the open shoji panel toward the moonlit garden and softly declared, "Hinata. That will be your name. Hinata Hyūga."
Later that night, the news spread through the compound.
"A girl, named Hinata."
"Hiashi-sama seemed... disappointed."
"She carries the future of the clan. Whether he sees it or not."
In the branch compound, Hizashi received word of the birth. He looked at Neji, who lay asleep in his crib, the ghost of a blue glow still faintly dancing in his eyes. Hizashi's expression tightened.
"So, the heir is born," he said softly. "And the countdown begins."
He remembered the day he received his own Caged Bird Seal. The cold hands. The smell of incense. The pain. But most of all, he remembered the look in Hiashi's eyes—a mix of regret, fear, and necessity.
"I won't let that be Neji's fate," he vowed.
Meanwhile, Hiashi stood alone in his meditation chamber. He stared at a portrait of the Hyūga ancestors, their pale eyes painted with divine serenity.
"I must protect this clan," he whispered. "Even from weakness. Even from myself."
But deep down, a crack had formed in his resolve.
And the moon looked down on two children: one born under quiet torches, the other under a chorus of cheers. One bearing the seal of destiny, the other the chains of tradition.
Both bound to a legacy not of their choosing.
Neji Hyuga had turned Five.
It was an age when most children were still learning to run without tumbling and were coddled with toys and sweets. But for Neji, life was a series of careful steps along a razor's edge. The gentle, playful mornings of the Hyuga Branch compound had been replaced with the rhythmic snaps of wooden sandals across the dojo floor, the smell of sweat and pine-sap polish, and the quiet hum of chakra rising from beneath the skin.
The days had grown tenser. The distant drums of fate echoed closer—Hinata's third birthday was only a month away. And that meant the Caged Bird Seal would be branded onto Neji's forehead any time soon. A slow countdown had begun. The future carved in inked symbols and clan traditions.
But even fate, as Neji believed, was meant to be read, challenged, and if possible—rewritten.
He stood in the Hyuga training dojo beside his father, Hizashi, who had shifted fully into the role of mentor. Their stances were mirrored, legs spread evenly apart, knees bent, arms gracefully extended. The air vibrated faintly as chakra danced in small spirals around their fingertips.
"Not like that," Hizashi said sharply. "Your movement is too rigid. The Hyuga style flows like water—but strikes like lightning. Watch again."
He stepped forward, his footwork smooth and gliding, the kind perfected through decades of silent drills. Hizashi spun lightly on one foot, his body flowing like silk, and delivered a lightning-quick jab into the air. The invisible pulse cracked like a whip, slicing across the tatami with sheer force.
Neji observed everything with his Byakugan active, the veins near his eyes pulsing lightly. The world looked different through it—every tendon in his father's body, every chakra point, every minuscule change in breath and posture—it was all exposed. The divine eye saw everything.
"I understand," Neji replied in a soft but determined voice.
He mimicked the movement—this time fluid, controlled. His body shifted like a river changing course, then he struck—a palm forward, projecting chakra outward. The pulse didn't crack as hard, but it was clean. Clean enough to make Hizashi pause.
"Again," Hizashi said, this time his voice lacking sharpness. "And faster."
Neji obeyed, repeating the step-spin-strike, over and over until sweat pooled at his brow and his breath shortened. He didn't complain. He never did. Every step, every movement, was etched with silent purpose. The only thing louder than his footsteps was the sound of his will.
In the corner of the training yard, Neji's mother watched, her hands clasped nervously. She had always feared the intensity that came over Hizashi during training—but it had grown fiercer lately. The closer Hinata's birthday came, the more Hizashi's strikes became less like a father's and more like a soldier's.
During a pause, Hizashi looked down at his son, noting the fatigue in his shoulders, the sweat streaking his jaw. But there was no fear. Only resolve.
"You don't need to push so hard," Hizashi murmured, "You're still a child."
"I don't have time to be a child," Neji replied, meeting his father's eyes.
That sentence struck Hizashi deeper than any palm strike ever could.
Their sessions often ended in silence, but the silence was never empty. It was filled with what was left unsaid—the fear, the determination, the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, Neji could find a way out.
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Sayonara