Naruto: Legacy of the Byakugan Chapter 9

Training Days, Training Nights

March 13, 35 bNb

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The walk to the Academy was supposed to be a quick one.

It wasn’t.

Not because they were slow—Hina was doing that little half-skip walk to keep up—but because apparently half of Konoha had decided today was the perfect day to clog the roads with their carts, their wares, their drama, and their children. 

Hiroto weaved through it all with his sleeves tucked neatly, Hina trailing beside him with quick steps, her hand hovering just close enough to grab his if needed.

The market was louder than usual, considering that there were more people in the streets than the norm, it was of little surprise to Hiroto. Yet it was far from the usual lazy noise of a village at peace. 

They passed a stall where two old women were arguing over bundles of herbs.

Hiroto caught snatches of conversations as they moved.

“Double? Are you mad—?”

“You think I'm running a charity? Prices are up—supply’s tight! Another merchant swings by next week, bargain with them.”

He didn’t slow down, but he still managed to pick up on the woes of the emptors.

It wasn’t just food, Hiroto learned.

The prices on weapons, armor, even basic supplies—everything was climbing.

Which, y’know, didn’t exactly scream normal, healthy economy.

Further down, a weapons dealer was being accosted by a man in courier robes—shinobi-issued, Hiroto noted.

"My son just graduated," the man said, almost pleading. "I just need the basics. Kunai, shuriken—hell, I'll take used. Just something, please."

The smith, an older man with soot-streaked hands, didn’t even look up from hammering a blade. "Out," he said flatly.

The courier blinked. "Out? You’re a forge."

"Yeah," the smith grunted, jamming a blade back into the forge. Steam hissed out. "And the clans emptied me three days ago. Sarutobi, Uchiha, even the Nara cleaned me out. Every last decent batch got bought up before the metal cooled—you want kunai? Get in line."

"How long?" the courier asked.

"Four days. Maybe longer," he shrugged. 

The courier swore under his breath and stalked off.

Buying weapons in bulk.

Clans tightening their grip on supplies.

All the kinds of things you did when you thought tomorrow might not look like today.

Yeah, nothing suspicious about that—not at all.

Hiroto didn’t slow, but he didn’t miss the way Hina’s steps faltered for half a second.

Yeah. She’d heard it too.

Hiroto stuffed his hands a little deeper into his sleeves and picked up the pace.

The Academy loomed ahead of them.

Kids were crowding the entrance, half excited, half exhausted, and a few were just full-on crying. 

Hiroto sent those ones a mental salute.

But even at a glance, he could tell there were fewer kids than before.

In fact, attendance had been slowly trickling down. By now, most of those who came from clans only bothered showing up for half the week.

He knew why.

"Academy training" was starting to sound a lot more like "prepping to be cannon fodder." As such, clans began preparing their members more seriously than they ever did before.

Even Hina and he went through drills with Hinako every day after the academy, and they weren’t basic observation drills either. They were constantly pushed to their limits and expected to exceed them the next day.

It was hell—it was amazing. 

Coming from…a more civilized era, Hiroto had thought it would take him time to adjust to the constant fighting in this world. How wrong was he?

He loved it.

God help him, but he loved it.

For all the shit he'd thrown at the Hyuga, for all the bitterness that still churned in his gut whenever he thought about the branch families, about the cursed seals, about everything that was broken in this clan—there was no denying it.

Growing stronger felt good. And growing stronger as a Hyuga felt even better.

There was a certain thrill to it—every night after the academy, when he got to train with Hinako until Hina and his arms shook and their legs turned to mush, that was when he got to savour it.

His body, despite burning like hell, was rebuilding itself. His mind, despite being thoroughly spent, was getting used to thinking on the fly. And his eyes—his cursed, flawed, beautiful Byakugan—seeing further. Clearer. Brighter.

It was intoxicating.

Every session ended with him panting on the floor, heart battering against his ribs, vision swimming. And every time he staggered back to his feet, he found he could move a little faster. Strike a little harder. See a little further.

And how beautiful was that? In his old life, it didn’t matter. Hadn’t mattered how hard he worked.

No amount of overtime shifts, no amount of studying until dawn, no amount of praying or hoping or struggling had ever changed anything.

No matter how much he scraped and bled and begged, the world stayed the same: a dingy apartment with two rooms and parents, who were drowned so far deep in alcohol and misery that they barely cared if Emma and he lived or died.

But here—

Here, he trained, and the next day he was more.

Sure, he had to fight for every inch of progress, but the world actually gave it to him.

Maybe he should have been horrified, sickened at how this place rewarded violence, how it tied worth to strength.

But he wasn’t.

Maybe that made him a bad person. He could live with that.

Tell someone to do everything in their power to change their little sister's life, and yet, watch as none of it mattered—see how long they clung to their precious morals after that. 

He wasn’t here to build a monument to virtue. And if the world thought less of him for it?

Good.

Let them.

It wasn’t just strength that he chased: it was freedom, not for himself, rather his younger sister. 

It was funny—in a bitter and sardonic way—when he thought about it, even having lived two completely different lives in two different worlds, residing in two different bodies, his goals and his situation remained so uncannily similar. Parallels almost.

But in this life, there were possibilities that there weren’t in his last. In fact, they were endless if his late-night studying sessions had told him anything.

The night he heard that the Grand Elder’s chakra had been sealed away—the man who had thoroughly trounced him—something in him came to, an admittedly belated, realization.

He hadn’t wasted a second.

He'd thrown himself into every scrap of sealing theory he could find. Scoured old scrolls. Sat through endless lectures meant for scholars, not clan heirs.

Because if the Grand Elder could be bound, then maybe, just maybe, so could the curse that sat on his sister’s forehead.

Hina shifted beside him, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve again, snapping Hiroto from his thoughts.

He tapped her lightly on the back of the head.

She jumped, and then shot him a weak glare with her cheeks puffed.

“Stop worrying so much—everything will be fine.”

.

Click.

No flame.

Again.

Click.

Still nothing. 

Click—the flint caught on the third try and was promptly followed by a cough, barely audible over the rustle of papers.

The end of the cigarette bloomed orange, and Sasuke exhaled slowly and long, the smoke drifting upward. 

Tobirama didn’t look up from the report.

"You're going to set the file on fire," he said.

Sasuke grinned. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to trim the academy roster.”

Tobirama didn’t bother responding—his brush sliding across the page with long strokes. He was used to Sasuke’s antics, and so his focus did not shift from approving the mission in front of him.

Across from him, Sasuke Sarutobi took another long drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and spoke. "So what do you think about the new batch of brats?”

Tobirama hummed noncommittally.

Sasuke gently tapped his cigarette against the edge of the windowsill, watching the ash fall. Seeing as Tobirama had yet to deign him with a real response, he took that as his cue to continue. "They're awful.”

Tobirama flipped a page.

"Like, genuinely awful," Sasuke repeated, as if afraid the Hokage hadn't heard him the first time. "Kaito’s in that class, and he was telling me about one kid who tripped over a rock during warm-ups, and another who almost managed to stab another student with a kunai.”

Tobirama turned another page.

Sasuke squinted at him through a puff of smoke. "This isn’t me being dramatic—it’s a public service announcement. In fact, you should thank me if the paper burns: it’ll save Konoha money training so many useless brats.”

Tobirama tapped his brush clean against the inkstone and finally set it aside. He steepled his fingers and let his elbow rest on the desk. "They aren't all bad."

Sasuke raised an eyebrow.

Tobirama nodded toward the files stacked at the side of the desk. "The Hyuga heir: Hiroto."

Smoke flew past Tobirama as Sasuke let out another lazy exhale.

"That kid?" Sasuke chuckled. "Yeah, I heard. Already has the Byakugan, and wins every sparring match with ease. Even Kaito got thoroughly drounced by him in one of their sparring matches,” he paused, leaning in, as if he were whispering a secret. “I’ve heard he kicks all the other kids’ teeth in every fight.”

"Not the teeth," Tobirama said, in the same chiding tone a teacher would use with a wayward student. "Pressure points. Very precise."

Sasuke snorted, waving off Tobirama with a gesture of his hands. "Pressure points, teeth—same difference at their age. Hit either one, and they end up on the ground with tears pooling from their eyes."

Tobirama didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Instead, he picked up another file from the pile—this one thinner than the rest. "And his sister, Hina Hyuga. Not as advanced as Hiroto, but promising regardless."

Another curl of smoke drifted up, framing Sasuke’s amused expression.

"I heard the Hyuga elders are losing their damn minds over those two," Sasuke said. "Especially the boy. Word is, he's already getting compared to Orochimaru, Sakumo, and Tsunade." His lips twisted upward. "Gotta say, being lumped in with that lot’s either a blessing or a curse."

Tobirama made a noncommittal noise and flicked his gaze back down to the file.

It was true, though.

The Hyuga heir wasn’t like most Academy students.

Most were still fumbling over their first jutsu, struggling to hold a solid transformation, or falling into bad stances like drunkards in a bar fight. 

Right now, their view of the Shinobi world was still coloured with rose-tinted lenses. They possessed unerring faith toward the Hokage, and by extension, the Shinobi system. It was those thoughts that allowed for the development of obedient, loyal Shinobi.

Their driving factor was the belief that they were bound to be like the heroes found in fictitious children’s books—his goal was to stamp that belief out. While it was fine to be naive to the more… inner workings of a Shinobi’s job, it was not fine to be so optimistic about the world either.

He knew it was unfair to the children, losing their innocent perspective and instead being burdened by the heavy task that was being a Shiobi, but ultimately it was necessary. Their perspective had to be different, to be—and, more importantly, to live as a Shinobi.

And Hiroto had that. He was by no means perfect, but he wasn’t scrambling to find his footing either. Based on the reports he had heard, he actively looked for and tried to understand things that other students didn’t.

Any other time, he would have cared for his talent little, aside from the knowledge that his village still had promising young ninja, but after the sealing incident within his clan, Tobirama had changed his mind.

Others were not privy to the same information as he; hence, they knew little about the incident. However, he was aware that the child possessed a drive he had only seen in those who lived during the Warring States—that was where his high hopes stemmed from.

Children his age were more concerned about playing Shinobi—Hiroto was focused on growing stronger. Whatever naivety about the world he had harbored had been thoroughly dismantled following the sealing incident. 

The rose-coloured lenses that had, metaphorically, sat atop his eyes had been snatched, crushed, stomped, and spit on. 

"He’s different," Tobirama said finally, shutting the file with a soft snap.

Sasuke arched a brow. "A good different? ‘Cause, I’m pretty sure different in our line of work means dead by 10."

Tobirama allowed a rare smile. “Hiro will not allow him to die,” he paused, before shaking his head. “At least not while he can help it.”

.

The grass was wet.

Not with dew—it hadn’t rained in days—but with sweat, kicked-up dirt, and the occasional scuffed heelprint where someone had stumbled too far back.

Hina stood near the edge of the clearing, and Hiroto stood beside her, arms loose at his sides, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. 

His legs ached. His fingertips burned. His ribs were sore from the last set of strikes, and he was fairly certain Hinako had broken a pressure point on his left arm earlier, just for good measure.

Standard practice.

"You’re doing well," Hinako said, standing with her hands folded neatly behind her back, her tone neither warm nor cold. 

Hina’s brows furrowed, arms held rigid at her sides, as if still debating whether it was the right moment to ask. Eventually, she caved.

"Father’s not training with us again today?" she asked, voice quiet.

Hinako nodded once. "No. He’s currently on a training assignment with several elite Jonin. It will be some time before he returns."

Which, in Hyuga terms, meant no one would be seeing him for at least another week. Possibly more.

Hina looked down. She didn’t say anything.

They didn’t speak of it often—of Hiro’s absence—but that didn’t make it any less present, or in this case, any more present. 

Hinako stepped back onto the field and clapped once. “Hina, with me. We’ll go through another round of visualization and breath control.”

"And you," Hinako added, turning to Hiroto. "Back to defending the blind spot."

He sighed. Loudly. But he stepped into position.

Hina obeyed, falling into position across from her. Hiroto watched her from a few paces away, arms folded.

Byakugan unlocking training, at its core, was deceptively simple. No lightning bolts. Just breathing, kneeling, waiting—and the occasional attempt not to pass out.

Hinako guided Hina through it with the same patience she always had. Still, there was a firmness to her tone, a discipline that never let up.

“You’re trying too hard again,” she said. “You’re thinking about seeing instead of learning how to see. Let it come. Don’t chase it.”

Hina’s lips twitched in frustration, but she nodded.

Hiroto returned to his own spot a few meters away, rolled his shoulders, and dropped into stance.

His training was... less meditative.

Today’s focus: defending the Byakugan’s blind spot.

The exercise was simple in theory: guard the blind spot of the Byakugan. Impossible in practice, of course, because the point of a blind spot is that it’s blind. A chink in the armour of something meant to be flawless. Something Hinako very clearly did not seem to understand. 

Hinako didn’t go easy. She didn’t let him slack. He had to see every shift in the air, every shift in her step, and adjust accordingly. Not just move—feel.

And wasn’t that some Batman Tibetan monk bullshit.

“Begin,” Hinako said, and without preamble, threw the first strike in the form of a wooden senbon.

He caught it mid-air and turned, lining his body into the posture she’d drilled into him a hundred times. Palm open, arm loose, one step off the ideal angle—a blind spot.

She stepped behind him.

Then came the softest breath of motion—a flick.

He caught it.

Barely.

The second one grazed his ear.

The goal wasn’t to win. It wasn’t even to hit back.

It was not to get hit at all.

The Byakugan’s blind spot was small, sure, but it was there. Every Hyuga knew it. Every enemy worth their weight would know it, too. And Hiroto was sick of knowing it was there and being able to do jack-all about it.

So, they drilled.

Every day, until the back of his gi was soaked and the muscles along his spine screamed for mercy.

Hiroto didn’t complain. He welcomed it.

Their rotations followed a rhythm now—Hinako moved with the efficiency of someone who had drilled the style into her bones decades ago, and Hiroto adapted with the hunger of someone who hadn’t had decades to waste.

His foot slipped once. Just a fraction.

It earned him a senbon to the chest that knocked him back three steps.

“Again,” Hinako said, not unkindly.

He coughed, caught his breath, and dropped back into position.

He respected her.

Even before the sealing incident, when the other elders had dismissed him as a curious, overly observant child, Hinako had always treated him—and Hina—with courtesy.

It had stuck with him.

He’d asked himself, more than once, why that was. Why she bowed so deeply to Hiro, even when he wasn’t in the room? Why she never raised her voice? Why she never looked at them with the same sort of restrained disdain the other elders had?

She never offered a reason. And he’d never asked.

But he’d remembered it.

Another strike came—this one sharper, faster—and he caught it on the edge of his forearm, then turned and side-stepped the next.

The senbon missed.

He grinned.

Progress.

That frustration—that helplessness he felt every time he looked at the seal on Hina’s forehead—it didn’t disappear. But it dulled.

Because he couldn’t do a damn thing about their parents. Couldn’t take back the day Hina was branded. Couldn’t undo the silence that filled the Hyuga halls after the Grand Elder’s fall.

But, with enough training, with enough work, he could protect her.

Maybe, just maybe, even free her.

And wasn’t that worth everything?