Naruto: Legacy of the Byakugan Chapter 3

Two Steps Forward

January 2, 36 bNb

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She crawled before he did.

It was only a few clumsy shuffles across the mat, a wobbly slide more than anything dignified—but she did it. 

Hina.

She grinned like she'd just invented a new jutsu, drool dripping from the corner of her mouth, eyes shining like she’d won something important.

Kiku gasped in delight and clapped her hands. “Ohhh! Look at you, my lady!”

Then came the reward: a dollop of sweet fruit paste on a spoon.

Hiroto, still propped awkwardly against a cushion like a lump of decorative mochi, watched the scene unfold with a strange warmth in his chest. His arms were still useless flippers, and his legs served more for decoration than function. 

But Hina—his tiny, giggling twin—had just crawled.

It wasn’t elegant. She flopped halfway through it and wobbled dangerously before reaching Kiku’s outstretched hands.

But she did it.

And he felt... proud.

Weirdly proud.

He hadn’t taught her anything. Hell, he could barely keep his head from lolling to the side when he tried to look around. And yet, watching her scoot across the mat made him want to laugh.

Then she turned around—face full of victory, mouth still sticky with plum paste—and crawled right back to him.

She patted his cheek with her tiny hand.

Sticky. 

Right on the face.

He blinked. Slowly.

She giggled, delighted by her own brilliance.

He tried to scowl.

Or at least, that’s what he intended to do.

It came out more like a confused blink and a huff.

She looked at him like he was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.

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A week later, he walked.

It wasn’t graceful. It was barely upright.

But it was walking.

Three teetering steps—feet slapping softly against the bamboo flooring as Kiku shrieked in disbelief and a nearby servant scrambled out the door yelling something about "Lord Hiro!"

Hina was sitting a few feet away, babbling to a decorative New Year’s rice display. She turned just in time to see him make his final step—then promptly lose his balance and fall right onto her.

They collapsed together, and yet somehow, she caught him.

She squealed, wrapping her tiny arms around him like a gnat. He tried to speak, but it sounded more like a labored wheeze that might have doubled as a giggle.

Their father arrived a few moments later, his robes rustling, his face stoic as always.

His white eyes drifted from the servants, who were now bowing deeply, to the pair of babies on the floor—his heir and the branch family’s heir—collapsed in one another’s arms, grinning like fools.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, something in his face cracked.

Hiroto’s eyes followed the man’s entrance. It had been a week since he’d last seen him outside of breakfast. Even that was formal, nothing more than a routine. 

His black hair was swept back into a high knot. His Byakugan eyes, pale and unblinking, didn’t betray a hint of emotion. 

[A/N: The father looks like Ozai from Avatar the Last Airbender, but with the Hyuga eyes.]

The room held its breath as he stepped closer.

Then, much to his surprise, Hiro knelt.

He lowered himself stiffly to the floor beside them and sat cross-legged. With both hands outstretched, Hiro grabbed both Hina’s and Hiroto’s hands. 

Hina, delighted by the attention, latched onto his sleeve. Hiroto glanced at her, watching the smile spread across her face.

He felt glad for her. 

Then, without pause, she crawled into their father’s lap.

She was clumsy but managed to find her way up. She nuzzled against his chest, babbling something only she understood, and giggled again when she managed to get both hands on the edge of his robe.

Hiro didn’t stop her.

He let her climb until she grew tired and settled in his lap.

Then, he lifted her right up to his face.

For a moment—just one—Hiroto thought he saw something shift in his father’s expression: a ghost of a crease in his brow. 

Then, Hiro closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

When he opened them, his face was set into a blank mask again.

He lowered Hina gently, placing her beside Hiroto without a word.

And stood.

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He left as quickly as he came, robes trailing behind him, footsteps too light to make a noise.

Kiku, who had been watching from the doorway, gave a small, sad smile as she stepped into the room.

“Still can’t bring himself to hold her for long,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Branch child or not…”

He turned his head to look at Hina, who was now sitting upright beside him, blinking at the empty doorway.

Her smile had faded.

Hiroto let her lean her head against his shoulder.

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One Year Old

Lessons began soon after.

Each morning, he and Hina were brought to the family dojo. It was a spacious room with air that smelled faintly of sandalwood. 

At the far end of the room, the elders waited, their figures illuminated by the sunlight that poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Not many, two, sometimes three, and they would take turns giving quiet commands.

They watched his and Hina’s every move like hawks. How long they could sit still for, how long they went without crying, and how well they followed small instructions: touch this, walk there, arrange that.

Every success was followed by nods of approval and modest compliments—Hina, on the other hand, wasn’t even afforded that. 

They acknowledged her efforts, but no praise was given for her accomplishments—at best, a nod.

She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t care, but it gnawed at Hiroto; how could they be so callous to one so young? 

He tried to make up for it as much as he could with the body of a toddler. A hug here and there and small applause. 

“Young lord, young lady,” one of the elders, Homoro, called, his voice gravelly with age. His hairline had long receded, and his skin sagged unhealthily, highlighted only by the web of veins that ran up his arms.

Hiroto had once spent a good five full minutes just staring at the back of his hand, quietly wondering if that many wrinkles were even biologically possible.

Hina, as always, offered a little wave in return.

Another one of the elders, Hinako, pushed blocks in front of them. It reminded Hiroto of the toys he once fiddled with in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. 

Simple circles, squares, and triangles. 

Yet they were presented not as toys, but as a task to be completed.

He, of course, obliged.

Going off nothing more than the urge to create something that fit, he began arranging them in different patterns. He settled for a design with the circle smack-dab in the center, with triangles pointed outward like petals. And below it all, the squares—all four of them—were arranged in a line akin to a stem.

Satisfied with his flower—or target, it really was dependent on how you looked at it—he turned to Hina.

Beside him, she had stacked every triangle into a proud little tower, with the square sat on top like a crown jewel.

He stared at it.

She beamed at him like she had invented modern architecture.

He clapped.

She bowed.

Homoro sighed

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Eighteen Months

They began to talk.

It happened in the garden, of all places—the air warm from the afternoon sun. Plum blossoms drifted across the walkway.

Hiroto sat cross-legged on a flat stone, stacking pebbles with careful, steady hands. Hina was beside him, less focused, more fascinated with throwing flower petals into the shallow fountain nearby. 

Kiku was sweeping slowly at the edge of the path, humming a tune.

Their father stood just beyond the garden arch, arms folded as always.

He didn’t visit often.

Hiroto had stopped expecting anything from those visits.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there—long enough for Hina to grow bored of her petals and start stealing his stones instead.

She giggled as she took them, stacking them haphazardly near her cup of juice. Then, out of nowhere—no pause, no buildup—she looked straight at him, grinned, and said:

“Brother.”

Hiroto froze.

His hand stayed where it was, hovering over the next stone, but something inside him just… stilled.

She said it again. “Brother!” Louder this time, accompanied with laughter.

Kiku gasped softly behind him, her hand rising to her mouth. “Her first real word…”

Hiroto turned to look at Hina.

She was beaming at him. 

That word shouldn’t have hit so hard.

But it did.

It wasn’t just the word. It was the way she said it. 

For a split second, it felt like something had split in his chest.

He had been called that before.

Brother.

The last time that word had carried real meaning, it had come from someone whose voice still echoed in the corners of his mind.

Emma.

He could still remember staying with her until she fell asleep. The way her arms wrapped around his waist when she was scared. The way she clung to him when their parents screamed at the television, at each other, or at them. The way he promised her things would get better. That he’d work harder. That he’d come home in time for dinner. That she didn’t need to be afraid.

But she had been.

And in the end, he hadn’t come home at all.

Hina was still looking at him.

Still, calling him something he wasn’t sure he deserved to be called again.

And yet—

Even if he didn’t deserve it, the sound of it tugged at his heart.

He swallowed hard.

At that moment, he chose to carry both past and present.

He would never forget Emma.

He would pray for her every day—for her safety and her peace. 

But he wouldn't run from Hina anymore. Wouldn’t keep her at a distance just because his heart was still bruised.

She was his sister now.

And he would get it right this time.

She giggled again and leaned against his shoulder.

He let her.

When he glanced up, their father hadn’t moved.

Still standing in the same place. 

But Hiroto caught something.

His father’s hand had twitched.

And for the briefest moment, his eyes softened.

Then, just like that, their father turned and walked back down the stone path. 

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Two Years Old

Hiroto had been promised something exciting.

Kiku had said it with that infuriating cheerfulness that only caregivers and people who didn’t have to sit through two-hour family events possessed.

“Your father is taking you both to observe the clan’s youth training today! Isn’t that wonderful?”

No. No, it was not.

He had imagined something worthwhile. Some elite demonstrations. Graceful palm strikes.

Glorious Byakugan sparring. Maybe a cool kata or two.

Instead, he got a rotating cast of sweaty adolescents trading bruises under a midmorning sun that had no mercy.

He sat beneath a sakura tree with Hina beside him, their little mats laid out like royal viewing thrones. She was busy gnawing on a rice cracker shaped vaguely like a frog. Hiroto was busy revising his entire opinion of the Hyuga clan's prestige.

The training field was divided into three rings, each filled with pairs of Hyuga youths ranging from around eight to fifteen.

“Each fights someone close to their own age,” Kiku had explained earlier. “Helps keep things even.”

Even was generous.

In the center ring, the youngest cohort sparred in simple stances—linear, focused, a little slow, but organized. Their palm strikes were measured, knees bent with the Byakugan veins pulsing.

The outer ring, though?

That was where the chaos lived.

These were the ones training specifically to fight while covering their blind spot. Not offensively, but defensively—strategies designed for the worst-case scenario. For the moment, an enemy slipped behind them and exploited what even the great Byakugan couldn’t see.

It was important work.

It also looked like a disaster in motion.

One boy pivoted too late and got tapped on the neck for the fourth time in a row. Another had completely abandoned the traditional form in favor of wild, flailing elbow swings, trying to cover a 360° radius like a human windmill.

It wasn’t elegant.

But it was intentional.

“You have to admit,” Hiroto muttered to himself, “they’re not bad. Just... unfortunate.”

In the main ring, things picked up.

Two older teens moved in a blur, palms cracking against each other’s forearms in a rhythm that bordered on hypnotic. One slipped low and jabbed for the abdomen—but the other spun, twisted midair, and retaliated with a short, sharp strike aimed squarely at his opponent’s ribs.

Nice.

Hiroto watched carefully, noting how the second boy adjusted his footing after each block—left knee, right pivot, push off the toes. Efficient. Balanced.

But in the next exchange, the boy hesitated—just for a moment—before going in for the finish.

Too slow.

The first opponent seized it immediately and landed a clean counterstrike to his solar plexus.

The boy stumbled back, winded.

Hiroto tilted his head. “He should’ve gone for the shoulder feint instead of stepping in from center. Would’ve opened the angle.”

He hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

But beside him, his father stirred.

Hiro Hyuga stood a few paces back, arms folded. His eyes shifted toward Hiroto. 

“He hesitated,” Hiro said after a moment. “A feint would’ve worked—if he hadn’t already committed to his stance. But his rear foot was weighted.”

Hiroto blinked.

That made sense.

His father said no more. But he didn’t look away right away, either.

For a moment, Hiroto thought maybe—just maybe—he’d offer something else. A nod. A comment. The tiniest flicker of pride.

Instead, Hiro’s gaze held him a second too long.

Is he just annoyed that I talk too much? Hiroto mused.

The last six months had been exhausting.

Hiroto had studied etiquette, language, calligraphy, and all the other performative nonsense expected of a Hyuga heir. His posture had been corrected more times than he could count, and he now bowed so precisely that even the elders could not find fault.

In the beginning, he’d tried to hide his maturity. Slurred a few words, drooled when appropriate, occasionally feigned confusion about basic objects.

But honestly?

It was exhausting.

He gave it up after a few months.

Let the clan elders assume he was a prodigy. Let them make their own stories. At least then, he didn’t have to pretend that clapping at rice balls was a highlight of his day.

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A sharp crack brought his attention back to the field.

One of the younger kids—maybe ten—had just landed a clean spinning palm strike against a training dummy mid-step, the blow echoing across the yard.

Hiroto tilted his head slightly. “That one knows what they’re doing.”

Beside him, Hina clapped.

Then, without missing a beat, she leaned toward him and whispered, “I could beat that dummy too.”

He looked at her.

She had rice cracker crumbs on her chin.

He sighed. “Yes. I’m sure you could.”

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A sudden shout came from the far end of the field. Another pair in the blind spot ring—older this time—were sparring at full speed. One managed to deflect a feint from behind by ducking low and spinning into an upper palm thrust.

Not bad.

Still not perfect.

But better.

Hiroto found himself sitting forward, just slightly..

A sudden shout rang out from the far end of the field.

Another pair in the blind spot ring—older, probably teens—had begun sparring at full speed. Blurs. That’s all Hiroto really saw. Pale robes, fast feet, the occasional crack of palm against palm echoing through the air.

One of them ducked. The other spun. Something happened that looked vaguely impressive.

Probably.

Hiroto squinted hard like that would help. “I think that was good,” he muttered.

Next to him, Hina blinked and said, “Fast.”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “Very fast.”

He sat forward anyway because sitting forward made him look smarter and because he was pretty sure something cool had just happened—even if his baby vision couldn’t exactly keep up.

These two were built differently—each movement was precise, each strike accompanied with a loud thwack, and neither was able to take advantage of the other’s blind spot.

It was amazing.

Or at least… he hoped it was.

Because if it wasn’t, then all he’d really witnessed was a dramatic game of tag.

The match ended with both teens landing simultaneous strikes. A draw.

The nearby elders clapped once.

Hiroto nodded to himself as if he understood what had just happened.

He didn’t.

But it looked cool. That was enough for now.

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[A/N: Hey everyone, I hope you’ve been enjoying the story so far. I know the pace has been a bit slow, but rest assured, this is the last chapter of that—the previous three chapters were the groundwork, and the next chapter is when the story truly begins.

Also, lmk if you want me to make an auxiliary chapter of the timeline I’m using. There’s nothing official, so it's just an amalgamation of different sites and dates that I found fitting for the story.]