Hyuga Neji could feel it now—the rhythm of Naruto's fists.
Each strike carried no pattern, no hesitation, no sign to read. It was impossible to predict.
He tried shifting his stance, focusing his Byakugan on Naruto's legs to seal the chakra points there, but even that was futile. The boy's movements were too fast, his body too fluid to follow. Every motion blurred between fist, elbow, and kick, leaving Neji's senses struggling to keep up.
Damn it.
Even if I want to strike back, I can't find an opening.
How do I block something that refuses to follow logic?
His teeth clenched as his frustration deepened. For the first time, the Hyuga prodigy—once hailed as unshakable—felt cornered.
Up in the stands, the Hyuga patriarch sat silent. His gaze darkened as he watched the scene unfold below. The genius of his clan, his brother's only son, was being completely suppressed by Moyu's apprentice.
A dull ache filled his chest. His brother had given his life for him, and yet, he had failed to guide the boy left behind. That guilt now pressed heavier than ever.
And yet—he couldn't deny it. Moyu had changed everything.
Everyone in the village had once known Naruto as nothing more than a prankster, a loud, hopeless child who could barely perform the basics. But under Moyu's guidance, that same boy had transformed into a fighter who could stand toe-to-toe with the Hyuga clan's brightest heir.
Each movement of Naruto's body carried the weight of countless hours of discipline, his strikes alive with confidence.
In the next instant, he broke through Neji's defense with a single, explosive combination. His fists and legs struck like flowing steel, crushing Neji's technique entirely.
The patriarch's expression hardened. He knew Neji's power better than anyone. That boy had been born with talent surpassing even most Jonin. Yet Moyu's disciple—once the village clown—was overwhelming him purely through Taijutsu.
For the Hyuga, it was a sobering sight. Their centuries-old techniques, refined and perfected, were being dismantled by a boy who learned to fight from outside their lineage.
The patriarch exhaled slowly, his voice low as he spoke beside Moyu.
"Don't you think your apprentice goes too far? They don't even leave room for mercy."
Moyu tilted his head slightly, his tone calm, unbothered.
"I don't teach mercy. Face is something earned, not begged for. If your clan wants it, take it back with strength."
The words hit harder than any strike in the arena.
The Hyuga elder's expression froze, the quiet dignity of his lineage cut by Moyu's blunt truth.
Who does this man think he is?
Just a foreign Jonin—one of many.
Konoha was built by clans like ours, families that carried tradition and bloodline pride.
And yet, watching the battle below, even that pride began to feel fragile.
Moyu's apprentice—a boy from nowhere—was rewriting what it meant to stand in the arena.
Each blow from Naruto was a declaration.
Each breath, a rebellion against the destiny the Hyuga believed unbreakable.
And above it all, Moyu stood with quiet certainty, his eyes unwavering.
"Don't be alone," he murmured—not to the Hyuga patriarch, not even to Naruto, but to the world that still refused to see change coming.
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