The scrolls lay scattered before Hizashi Hyuga like fallen leaves, each a testament to change pressing against centuries of doctrine. The low golden glow of the council chamber lanterns reflected off his byakugan-irised eyes, dulled now more by fatigue than age. The reforms had begun to take shape... Neji's reforms. Yet to Hizashi, they were only small pebbles tossed into the vast ocean of Hyuga tradition, ripples barely touching the surface.
He leaned back, the rigid tatami beneath him offering no comfort. The morning had been spent reviewing the proposed integration of individual combat nuances into the revered Gentle Fist—a topic as divisive as any war. To even suggest that the ancient style, passed down from ancestor to heir, could benefit from personalized adaptations was to court open rebellion among the elders.
"The purity of our form is our legacy," one had argued, his voice strained with suppressed indignation.
"But legacy without evolution becomes a fossil," Hizashi had countered.
The conflict was not in technique but in philosophy. Gentle Fist was not merely a way of combat; it was Hyuga's identity. Precision, control, internal flow... every strike surgically designed to close the chakra points and incapacitate.
The core issue lay in control. Personalized styles risked creating deviations that could weaken the cohesion of clan techniques. Imagine two Hyuga shinobi in tandem battle, whose rhythms did not match. A single mistimed strike could mean defeat.
But Hizashi knew something the elders would not say aloud: the world was changing. Shinobi combat evolved, adapted, incorporated. And if the Hyuga did not do the same, they'd become a relic of admiration... never fear.
The ideas to bridge these issues took form slowly. Maintain the traditional Hyuga kata as the backbone. Allow minor, supervised variations during training drills. Mandate monthly dueling evaluations under senior instructors. And importantly, document these variations formally, so they could be studied, refined, or rejected with reason, not ego.
He had begun working with three talented branch members with aptitude for Taijutsu nuance. They would become the first testers—though it risked backlash if discovered. But without risk, there would be no progression.
A sudden patter of feet broke his focus. A branch member, young, flushed, and panting, appeared at the door frame. "Hizashi-sama, Neji-sama has returned from the academy… crying."
Hizashi closed the scroll with a soft click. "So, he held the shadow clone that long," he murmured more to himself than the messenger. "One week... I gave the Shadow clone scroll one month ago. He's improving."
The branch member lowered his head, unsure whether the words were relief or disappointment.
"You may leave," Hizashi said, gathering the scattered scrolls into his sleeves. "Do not let anyone enter his quarters. Send word to the academy that Neji will be absent until notified."
"Yes, Hizashi-sama."
Once alone, Hizashi exhaled. A week, and the clone held. Beaten, humiliated, made into a mockery of the Hyuga name. It was that this had been a burden Hizashi couldn't help carry.
By late afternoon, Hizashi returned to the family quarters. The scent of boiled rice and ginger soup floated from the kitchen wing. As he passed through the inner gardens, he heard laughter—light, innocent, unburdened.
In the shaded courtyard, the mothers were gathered in conversation, seated under a blooming plum tree. Hanabi darted between them, wooden kunai in hand, while Shinra gave chase, breathless, determined.
"You're too slow, ototo!" Hanabi called gleefully.
Shinra pouted, doubling his speed. The laughter swelled.
Hizashi paused just at the edge. The sun lit the tips of Shinra's hair, catching glints of lavender like echoes of the clan's power. Hizashi watched longer than he meant to.
"Hizashi-sama," came the warm voice of mother of Hanabi. She bowed slightly. "You're just in time for Shinra's dramatic defeat."
He managed a tired smile. "He always did lack flair for theatre."
"Or he simply refuses to act weak," spoke another woman, his wife. Her gaze was soft. "Neji... is he alright? We heard..."
Hizashi gave a subtle shake of his head. "He is beaten at the academy but he returned safely."
His wife looked away. "The elders are talking about the new reforms would disgrace our ancestry."
"Let them talk," Hizashi said quietly. "The truth doesn't require their permission."
The women exchanged glances, uneasy but trusting. They saw in Hizashi the man burdened by what his brother never could be... a father who could act, not just command. A branch member with the heart of a main house. A pseudo-clan head.
Later, Hizashi entered Neji's quarters. The air was heavy with lingering chakra—shadow clone residue, like a scent only the Byakugan could notice. The futon was untouched. The room was clean, too clean, like a place that had not known a child at all.
On the floor lay the last of the clone's memories. The clone had been terrified, not by pain, but by failure. Its death had not been one of battle, but of resolve. It had cried, not from pain, but from emotion.
"I didn't want to act weak," were the etched onto the wooden floor. Hizashi closed his eyes. It was a paradox, this loyalty. A clone with the will to live like a real boy, but never more than a reflection.
He sat on the edge of the futon, fingers pressed against his forehead. In his mind were the whisperings of the elders, the pride of the main house, the mocking of the branch, the responsibilities he never asked for.
He was not the clan head. He never would be.
But he would lead them anyway.
And Neji...Neji would never walk the path Hizashi had.
In the days that followed, Hizashi sent out scrolls under the table. Select instructors were instructed to trial flexible chakra thread drills. Junior members began noting their sparring with optional footwork adjustments. And in council, he introduced the idea not as revolution, but as restoration.
"Our ancestors were not static," he argued. "They adapted to war, to terrain, to politics. Are we less capable than them?"
Some elders grumbled. Some narrowed their eyes. But none had answers.
At night, Hizashi stood on the veranda, watching Shinra sleep through the screen door, tiny fingers curled in dreams. Above him, the stars flickered like chakra points waiting to be struck.
--
A/N: Shinra is Hizashi's second son.
Chapter 16: "Come, Neji...let's go. Your soon-to-come sibling might already be kicking. who do you want brother or sister?"
Did you notice? and Shinra is not normal either.
Change takes time.