Earlier That Day — Hyuga Compound, East Garden
Neji had paid a visit to Hinata, his four-year-old cousin, just before slipping out for the caravan journey.
She was alone in the Hyuga garden, drenched in sweat, holding a wooden training katana. Her eyes—one Byakugan, one hidden under gauze—shone with unusual determination.
Neji stood quietly until she noticed him.
"Nii-san," she whispered, lowering the katana.
"I saw your last training duel with the elders," he said softly. "You were adding kenjutsu stances into your Jūken. That's bold."
"I… wanted to try something new. Gentle Fist is amazing, but…" Her voice flat. "I feel like I need something more."
Neji knelt beside her. "You're right to try. Every style has limits. Ours is no exception."
"Hizashi said the same once," Neji smiled. "Until I convinced him otherwise."
Hinata's gaze head straight said. "I'm weak."
"You don't have to fight like them to be strong. Fight like you."
He showed her a basic rotation-deflection move using the katana's hilt and a Gentle Fist palm combo. It was awkward but promising.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll keep trying."
Morning — The Caravan Sets Off
The sun hadn't risen yet when the convoy rumbled to life. Wheels creaked, oxen groaned, and shinobi escorts snapped into motion.
"Shin! On Cart Four!" barked Daizo.
Neji jogged up and began pushing his load forward, eyes half-lidded, ears wide open.
He would see the world, learn its pulse, study how power flowed beyond the Byakugan's gaze.
The first few days were slow. Forests blurred by. They stopped only at designated waypoints. The merchant, Yugo, chatted endlessly with his guard detail, oblivious to Neji's quiet analysis.
But Neji was absorbing everything—terrain, dialects, currency patterns, watch rotations, and local rumors. This was intel-gathering in disguise.
Back at the Academy
Neji A returned to the academy every day, bruised and battered but never out of character. One day, during a mock drill, he was overwhelmed by an NPC classmate from the Komori clan and took a harsh blow to the ribs.
Sasamoto Orui stepped in. "You're from a noble clan, Neji. This behavior… is unbecoming."
Neji A bowed low, wincing. "I just want to get stronger. I won't give up."
The class was torn between pity and amusement.
Only Rock Lee watched him with sincere admiration.
Caravan — Day 5
Neji's transformation held steady. He was already cataloging possible chokepoints and bandit ambush routes when the convoy slowed.
A minor rockslide had blocked the path. Daizo sent a squad ahead, and Neji slipped into the woods under the guise of relieving himself.
There, alone, he practiced his Chakra Pulse Rotation, launching short, compressed bursts from his palm into the trunks of nearby trees. It left cracks, but wasn't loud. He was getting close.
He had one week left before returning. One week to look around the world.
At the Compound — Hizashi's Solitude
Back at the Hyuga estate, Hizashi stood alone in the courtyard.
Reports from the academy showed Neji's performance as abysmal. But every time he came home, there was a quiet grace to his movements, a growing strength in his silence.
Hizashi knew something had changed.
And somewhere deep inside… he smiled.
For the first time, his son wasn't a branch member.
He was walking his own path.
Day Six – The Crimson Pine Route, Fire Country
The morning haze had barely lifted from the dirt road when Daizo, the caravan's lead guard, stiffened. His hand flew up in a sharp signal—halt. A silence settled over the convoy like a predator's breath.
"Something's wrong," he muttered.
From behind, Neji—still transformed as the unassuming worker Shin—froze as well. His byakugan inactive, but his instincts alert.
Before Daizo could give orders, three kunai streaked through the air, aimed with surgical precision.
Daizo deflected two. The third embedded in the wooden beam beside Neji's head.
"Scatter formation! Defensive wall, now!" Daizo shouted, voice iron.
Then he was gone—blurring into the treeline to pursue the origin of the ambush.
The forest swallowed him whole.
In the Depths of the Forest
Daizo raced through tangled brush and twisting roots, his senses wide. The scent of burned moss. The sound of light breathing. The faintest shimmer of chakra.
A shadow stepped from behind a boulder—a tall figure in midnight-blue leather armor, scars dancing across his jaw.
"You've got good instincts, old man," the Bandit Leader sneered. His hitai-ate was scratched beyond recognition. "Haven't had a proper fight in months."
"Mercenaries?" Daizo narrowed his eyes.
"Does it matter?" The man grinned. "You're prey now."
With a flick of his wrist, the bandit launched a chain whip crackling with faint lightning—a chakra-enhanced metal coil.
Daizo leapt backward, but the whip lashed his thigh, searing cloth and skin. He rolled, drew twin trench knives, and narrowed his stance.
"So you're Chūnin-level after all," he muttered. "Fine."
Clang!
They collided like hammer and anvil.
Daizo parried a sweeping blow, twisted low, and slashed upward at the bandit's ribs. The leader flicked the chain whip in a cross-sweep, knocking Daizo's right arm wide and trying to bind him.
Daizo twisted his body, letting the momentum spin him around, and slammed a roundhouse into the bandit's jaw. Teeth cracked. The bandit reeled—and smiled.
"You've still got moves," he growled, spitting blood.