Naruto: Legacy of the Byakugan Chapter 2

Cradles and Coffins

December 13, 37 bNb 

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The twins shared a room—a quiet, sunlit space with bamboo flooring, warm paper lanterns, and morning air that always smelled faintly of incense. It was nice—the kind of room you’d expect from a respected clan in a hidden village.

It was also, unfortunately, not a dream.

Hiroto had held out hope in the beginning: maybe the storm, the lightning, and the screaming were all some strange fever dream.

Maybe he'd wake up in a hospital bed with an IV drip and a scolding nurse telling him not to binge anime before sleeping.

But then Tobirama Senju showed up.

One look at that white hair, red eyes, and permanent scowl that screamed: "I hate everyone".

He was in Naruto.

And not just any part of Naruto.

He was in the past.

And five months in, that hope was well and truly dead.

Worse still, if he had to be born into a clan with a severe power trip, parenting issues and so many screws loose you could conduct a psychological case study, the least he could’ve gotten was a Sharingan.

But no—he got the Byakugan: a glorified 360° security camera—and go figure, it couldn’t even do that right—because it had one glaring blind spot, right at the back of the neck. The kind of design flaw that would get a real engineer fired. Or sued. Or both.

All-seeing eye, my ass. Put him up against any half-competent ninja with smoke bombs and a stick, and he'd be dead faster than you could say "gentle fist."

Heck, even one long-range fireball jutsu and it was wraps for him and his 360° field of view.

He could see chakra ten miles away, sure. But could he do anything about it?

Not unless the enemy politely waited for him to crawl over and poke their tenketsu.

At this rate, his best bet in a fight would be to activate his Byakugan and scream something like, “I am the young master of the Hyuga clan!” and hope his opponent died laughing before he got vaporized.

It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t part of a system built on centuries of rigid hierarchy and quiet cruelty.

They were a clan so obsessed with bloodlines and order that they basically invented magical eye-based feudalism. And they enslaved their own family to do it.

Literal chakra-powered aristocracy.

He didn’t remember much from his past life—just flashes, it was akin to sunlight through dirty glass—but he remembered enough to know the Hyuga weren’t good people. Or at least, not to each other.

The main family branded the branch family with curse marks. Curse marks. That wasn’t just unethical. It was straight-up slavery.

And it disgusted him.

And now?

He was their precious firstborn son.

Which meant he was part of it—worse, he was expected to uphold it.

For the simple reason he was the heir.

Cradled in silk. Fed on a schedule. Guarded by servants and praised by pale-eyed elders who bowed when they spoke his name like it meant something divine.

Which, frankly, was hilarious. He could barely keep his own head upright without it flopping sideways like a sad vegetable. Apparently, being chosen by the heavens came with wobbly neck muscles and zero bladder control.

But none of that mattered when he saw her.

Hina.

She was small, with tufts of soft black hair and wide, searching eyes the same lavender shade as his. But where his eyes held memory, trauma, and knowledge that had no place in the mind of a child, hers held only wonder. 

She stared at everything like it was the first miracle she’d ever seen. Her fingers wiggled toward the hanging paper lanterns. She squealed when a ray of sun warmed the side of her crib. And when she looked at him, she would laugh.

Every time he blinked too fast or made a funny face, she’d burst into fits of nonsensical giggles. Her little hands would reach for his cheeks, his hair, anything she could grab, like he was the most fascinating thing in the world.

He’d never admit it, but he looked forward to those moments.

And that terrified him.

Because even though the rest of his memories were hazy, one was not.

He’d been sixteen.

Trying to raise his little sister on his own because their parents were too drunk—always too drunk—to be anything but a burden. He remembered the smell of cheap liquor soaking into the carpet. The way he used to microwave instant noodles for her dinner and pretend it was gourmet. He remembered pulling a blanket over her small frame at night and whispering that it’d be better one day. That she deserved more.

He’d believed it.

He’d been coming home late that night—past eleven—after working a double shift at his after-school job. He’d picked up extra hours so he could afford a new phone for her. Hers had cracked months ago, and she’d stopped asking their parents for a replacement. As if silence was easier than disappointment.

The last thing he remembered was the rain.

The sound of tires.

Then nothing.

He had failed her more times than he could count.

That was what haunted him.

Not death. Not reincarnation.

Her.

And yet the more time he spent with Hina, the more he found himself forgetting. Not purposefully, but rather for a few fleeting seconds each day, he’d stop remembering what he’d left behind.

And then the guilt would return.

Because Hina wasn’t supposed to be his little sister.

His real sister—Emma—was still out there, stuck in a crumbling apartment with two broken people who called themselves parents. She had lived off stale cereal and bottled water while he scraped together enough money for a broken screen replacement.

She had cried herself to sleep while he whispered empty promises through thin walls.

And now, this… this life he had been dropped into—with silk-wrapped cribs and ostentatious displays of luxury—was everything she had never gotten.

Every time Hina giggled or curled her tiny fingers around his thumb, some part of him felt like he was replacing Emma. As if by holding this new sister close, he was letting the old one slip even further away.

And yet he didn’t hate it.

He couldn’t.

Because even though he felt like after letting Emma down, he was barely even qualified to be a brother—

She looked at him like he was the only thing in her world that made sense.

And he wasn’t sure if that made it better.

Or worse.