In Konoha's long history, two great clans once stood above all—the Uchiha and the Hyuga.
But after the fall of the Uchiha, only one remained to bear the weight of old power.
The Hyuga had rooted themselves deeply into the village's foundation. They were not just a noble family—they were Konoha itself, proud descendants of its earliest days, protectors of its traditions and symbols of its unshaken authority. Their influence stretched far beyond strength or bloodline. They were the village's legacy made flesh.
Yet Moyu stood apart, a man from outside those bloodlines, untouched by their old pride.
So when the Hyuga elders spoke threats in veiled tones, he merely smiled.
"If you truly had the strength you claim," he said, his voice even, "then let power decide. The winner becomes king, the loser a bandit. If you want to take me, then try—but until you can, silence your words. Empty talk without proof is nothing."
The words struck like a blade.
Hyuga Hiashi's jaw tightened. Beneath the calm surface, irritation rippled. He forced himself to nod politely, but inside he seethed. Tonight, he told himself, he would make arrangements—quiet and absolute. This outsider would learn who truly ruled Konoha.
But Moyu's gaze was already on him, sharp and unflinching.
"Tell me," Moyu said slowly, "isn't the master of Konoha the village itself? Aren't we founded on harmony and service to the people? The one who holds true power—should that not be the Hokage?"
Each word rose in volume, carrying weight that could not be ignored. The eyes around them turned toward Hiashi. His composure faltered for an instant, the faintest twitch betraying the ambition he wished to keep buried.
"Don't tell me," Moyu continued, "you dream of taking Konoha's reins yourself—as the next Hokage. To lead not for the people, but for your clan alone. Is that it?"
The accusation struck deep.
For a moment, silence reigned.
That was indeed his hidden desire, one he dared not speak aloud. The Hyuga leader's ambition burned quietly, restrained only by the knowledge that he lacked the strength to seize it. Yet Moyu had dragged it into the open, raw and exposed.
His pulse quickened, and anger replaced shame.
"Lies!" he snapped, voice trembling. "You twist my words to make yourself look righteous!"
Moyu tilted his head, unbothered, his voice cutting clean through the tension.
"You're trembling, Hiashi. A guilty man always trembles. If you feel accused, perhaps you should ask yourself why."
The Hyuga leader's fists clenched at his side, veins bulging. Were it not for the eyes watching him, he would have silenced Moyu right there. Instead, he turned away with a cold snort, retreating to his seat as his pride slowly curdled into resentment.
Below them, the battle reached its conclusion. The Hyuga genius—his own nephew—was defeated. Naruto's final strike sent him sprawling, unable to rise again.
Hiashi's expression darkened further.
Moyu, however, watched the result with quiet satisfaction. Naruto had not only matched Neji's refined technique, he had surpassed it—turning discipline and unpredictability into a single flowing form that broke through fate itself.
Even Iruka, standing nearby, was speechless. He had once worried that Naruto would fail even basic techniques. Yet here he was, dominating a Hyuga prodigy before the entire village.
Far beyond anyone's expectations, the so-called dead-last had surpassed them all.
And as the dust settled, Moyu's faint smile lingered.
Sometimes, destiny only changes when someone dares to stand outside it.
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