The sun was dipping below the rooftops of Konoha, casting the village in streaks of orange and gold.
The Academy grounds had emptied, and Akihiro wandered into the forest alone, the katana from the day's training swinging lightly at his side as he wiped the blade clean.
Each movement he made felt more precise than the last. He twirled, slashed, and practiced defensive stances, letting the blade guide his motions.
His body moved instinctively, almost as if it had memorized patterns from years of Gentle Fist training, though his mind didn't consciously register it.
The Byakugan, subtle and constant, whispered the flow of chakra in his surroundings, directing his cuts and parries in ways that no ordinary swordsmanship could teach.
He paused for a moment, chest heaving slightly, and muttered to himself,
"Hah… maybe two swords was overkill…" carefully sliding the secondary blade back into its sheath.
"But with one… I think I'm starting to feel what real fighting is like."
Akihiro extended his arms, practicing a series of fluid cuts. He imagined opponents surrounding him—Kiba's ferocious attacks, Shino's insect swarms—and adapted, moving his katana in arcs that parried, deflected, and redirected imaginary chakra flows.
The blade became more than steel; it became an extension of his perception, sensing the tension in the forest, the subtle pulse of energy in the trees and rocks.
He crouched low, spinning into a wide sweep, the sword slicing through air and foliage.
Leaves scattered, cutting small arcs in the sunlight. The ground beneath his feet became a chessboard, each step calculated, each rotation a study of balance and leverage. His breathing synchronized with the rhythm of movement, slow and controlled, yet powerful.
"Okay… next, a vertical strike followed by a sliding thrust…"
he muttered, adjusting his grip. He imagined the flow of chakra in an opponent's limbs, visualizing each point of pressure and how he could manipulate it indirectly through the blade.
The swing was precise; the vibration of energy through the sword hummed like an invisible chord.
Minutes passed, stretching into an hour.
He moved like a whirlwind, practicing consecutive strikes, spins, and evasions, until his arms burned and the forest floor was littered with displaced leaves and twigs.
The katana's edge caught glimmers of the last sunlight, reflecting them like sparks dancing in the air.
In the middle of a spinning cut, he paused, letting the sword hover before him.
The wind teased his hair as he lowered into a defensive stance, considering what he had learned.
"Each movement… each mistake… it's teaching me something. Not just about the sword, but about me. About how to survive. How to turn instinct into skill."
Meanwhile, in the Hyūga clan hall, the elders had gathered, their conversation low and measured.
"Have you noticed?" one murmured, adjusting his glasses.
"The boy… his handling of the blade is strange. It's not mere swordsmanship. It's the flow of chakra—Gentle Fist applied indirectly."
Another elder raised his eyebrows.
"He doesn't even realize it. If we saw him attempting the strikes with his hands, the result would be disastrous… yet with the sword, the Byakugan guides him."
Hiashi closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling sharply.
"This cannot be ignored. If he continues like this, he will be more than just a branch Hyūga."
The first elder smiled faintly, almost coldly.
"Then we must intervene. Schedule his next evaluation, observe him closely. Limit the training if necessary, guide him… control his growth before he becomes a threat."
"Or… we could use him. If he doesn't understand his own talent, he can be molded to our plans," another suggested, voice low and calculating.
Hiashi remained silent, eyes unfocused, the Byakugan pulsing beneath his eyelids as though sensing the danger.
"Let him train. But our eyes will always be on him. No step, no strike, will escape us."
Back in the forest, Akihiro moved again, shifting into a series of complex footwork sequences, testing combinations he had never tried before. He spun the sword overhead, then ducked into a low sweep, feeling the blade vibrate with energy as if alive.
He imagined multiple opponents pressing him from all sides, forcing him to adjust mid-motion, parrying with calculated precision and attacking with intuition rather than thought.
"Each strike… each spin… it's like learning a new rhythm," he muttered. He twirled the blade, deflecting imaginary attacks, and visualized the chakra in the forest around him as subtle waves.
The sword became a medium through which he could extend the Byakugan's perception, cutting through more than just physical space—through energy, intent, and reaction.
Akihiro finally paused, lowering the sword, breathing hard but steady. The forest was quiet again, save for the wind rustling leaves.
He wiped his blade, feeling the weight in his hands, not as a burden but as a partner.
Little did I know… every movement, every mistake, it's shaping me. One day… I won't just survive. I'll dominate. And no one—no clan, no destiny—will cage me again.
He allowed himself a small smile, letting the wind and the dying sunlight wash over him.
With each cut, with each step, he was forging a path, carving a future one swing at a time.