Naruto: Legacy of the Byakugan Chapter 8

Academy

February 12, 35 bNb

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The sun hung low over the village, its light caught on the rooftops.

The people of the Leaf had gathered—some ninjas stood on rooftops, others filled the streets along with the civilians, hoisting their children onto their shoulders for a better view. 

All had one thing in common: they were all turned toward the same towering structure.

The Hokage Tower.

A banner had been draped from its upper spire, unfurling in the wind, stitched with deep crimson, with the crest of the Leaf displayed proudly in the center. 

And at the peak of the tower, two figures stood alone.

Hashirama Senju: the First Hokage.

Tobirama Senju: his brother, and soon, his successor.

The crowd quieted.

They expected to see a dying man, bent with age or illness, voice trembling with farewell.

Instead, Hashirama looked radiant.

There was strength in his frame, a vitality that few expected. 

These were not the words of a beaten and broken old man awaiting the icy grip of death. Rather, this was the same man who had once stared down Madara Uchiha, mounted on top of the Nine-Tails, and laughed.

“I thank you all,” Hashirama’s voice boomed with joy. “Not just for standing here today, but for standing by the dream we built. This village was born from war. And yet, through all the tribulations, we’ve managed to understand one another—we’ve managed to make peace.”

A cheer rippled through the square.

“And today,” he continued, raising his hand toward his brother, “I entrust that peace to someone who has stood by and protected this dream since the very beginning. A man whose name may not be sung like mine, but whose vigilance built the walls you now stand inside. A brother. A protector. A shinobi.”

He turned to Tobirama.

“And now, the Second Hokage of the Hidden Leaf.”

Tobirama took that as his cue and stepped forward.

No smile. No wave. He accepted the Hokage’s hat without flourish. The red-and-white fabric settled over his head nicely as he turned to face the crowd.

“I am not my brother,” he said. “I do not expect your affection. Only your discipline.”

A few civilians glanced at each other, unsure if that was meant to be a joke. 

It wasn’t.

“I do not offer peace through words. I offer it through strength and unity. We will not just be another village; rather, a force that no outsider would dare challenge.”

He raised his chin slightly. “And if that strength is not enough—if diplomacy fails, if the peace we have worked so hard to maintain is tested—then I promise you this.”

He stepped forward.

“I will end that threat—without hesitation.”

For a moment, the crowd said nothing, and then the silence broke—not with a murmur, but with thunder.

Applause erupted across the plaza.

It was the sound of a village rallying together in uncertain times.

And in that moment, Konoha stood unified.

Under a new Hokage.

Under Tobirama Senju.

And just as Hiroto blinked—

Tobirama was standing above them again.

This time, atop the Academy steps.

The crowd was suddenly different: no longer a sea of ninja and villagers, but rows of children and families.

Bright-eyed youth who were Academy-bound.

“—and above all,” Tobirama said, voice echoing across the courtyard, “you are the future of this village—remember it.”

He didn’t linger a second longer.

He turned and descended the steps, vanishing back into the Tower with the same speed with which he had arrived.

The rest of the staff took over from there, guiding the new students into neat columns, ushering them toward their classrooms.

Hiroto stood in the middle of it all, arms tucked in his sleeves, surrounded by children.

.

The staff sorted them into classrooms with the same enthusiasm Hiroto was faced with when buying carnival tickets in another life—not much.

Hina and he were nudged into a line labeled “Class Three.” Her small hand gripped the corner of his sleeve the whole way. 

Neither of them spoke. There wasn't really anything to say.

At the door, a man was waiting; the dark circles under his eyes gave away his exhaustion. 

He didn’t look like the teachers Hiroto vaguely remembered from his past life. 

Instead, he was just a middle-aged shinobi with the chunin flak jacket, arms crossed, and a faded scar running across one eye. His hair was kept short, black, and already greying at the temples.

He looked... tired. 

Probably because he’d watched too many morons turn themselves into fireworks, and wasn’t betting on that trend ending anytime soon, Hiroto thought dryly.

The man clapped once, sharply.

“Get inside. Find a seat.”

The herd of new students shuffled forward, and Hiroto followed suit. He maneuvered Hina toward a pair of desks near the back. They were out of the way and close to the window. 

If he got bored, he could stare at the clouds, which counted as a full-time career for some of the village’s geniuses.

Hiroto leaned forward and let his palm hold his head up lazily. The room smelled like chalk dust, not quite the greatest scent.

The instructor waited until the last kid scrambled into a seat, then uncrossed his arms.

“Name’s Daigo Yanase,” he said. “I’ll be your instructor for the foreseeable future. If you’re lucky, you’ll learn something. If you’re not—well. There’s a nice career waiting for you pulling weeds—or chasing cats—in the civilian sector.”

A few kids giggled nervously.

Yanase didn’t.

He picked up a clipboard from the front desk and tapped it against his thigh.

“We’re going to start with introductions. Stand up. Tell us your name, your clan—if you have one—and why you want to be a shinobi.”

Hiroto sighed.

Ice-breakers, how wonderful, he mused. To make it even worse, he’d be expected to explain why he was signing up for the bloodiest, most deadly profession known to man. 

Golly.

He watched the first kid stand up—some merchant’s son—and mumble something about wanting to protect his family.

It was sweet. Also naive.

The real reason most people became shinobi?

Survival.

What good would money do when someone who could lob a fireball the size of a house came knocking on your front door?

You couldn't exactly bribe molten death to go away.

That’s why the academy was never about educating kids. Not really.

It was about filtering them.

Konoha didn’t just need shinobi. It needed the right shinobi. The kind who wouldn’t blink when told to burn down a rebel camp. The kind who would follow orders first and ask questions after the bodies were already cooling.

Hashirama had dreamed of peace.

Tobirama knew better.

You didn’t get peace by hoping really hard. It was about fear, overwhelming force, or—if you were really good at your job—both.

The Academy existed to make sure that when the time came, when peace cracked and old grudges resurfaced, there would be a generation ready to lay down their lives.

Raise them together. Train them together. Make them bleed together.

And maybe, just maybe, they'd be loyal enough to kill together, too.

Some called it a higher calling, others stupidity—Hiroto called it what it was: mass-producing child soldiers and slapping a patriotic sticker on it.

The second kid stood up.

Announced he was from the Sarutobi clan.

Said he wanted to honor his family name.

Hiroto watched him sit back down, hair sticking up in every direction, and wondered how long he’d last before the idealism wore off.

Probably about six months.

Maybe less if Yanase was feeling particularly generous with the survival exercises.

Hiroto’s turn was coming up. 

He wondered, briefly, what he was supposed to say.

Hi, I'm Hyuga Hiroto, child heir to a semi-feudal bloodline cult, and I’m here because my dad and a thousand years of institutionalized trauma said so.

Yeah. That would go over great.

He drummed his fingers once against the desk and then paused.

Old Hyuga instincts—lessons that had been drilled into him since before he could stand—whispered at the back of his mind:

Stop fidgeting, straighten up, and offer a polite smile. 

He sighed again before proceeding to do just that. 

Hina gave him a curious glance, but he waved her off. He'd survived introductions before.

He'd survive this one, too.

Maybe.

If he didn’t die of boredom first.

.

It was his turn; he rose to his feet, slow enough.

Eyes turned toward him, each gaze filled with curiosity. Some even whispered—not that he was surprised. It was somewhat of a common occurrence now. 

Hiroto clasped his hands loosely behind his back and hoped he had the same imposing presence his dad had in the same stance.

"Hyuga Hiroto," he said.

Polite. Proper. Textbook clan behavior.

He could practically hear the old Hyuga spirits clapping solemnly in approval somewhere.

Still, Daigo Yanase gave him an expectant look. Clearly, he was one of those instructors who liked the “say one thing about yourself” rule.

Wonderful.

Hiroto offered the faintest, most regulation-issue smile he could muster.

"I like calligraphy," he added blandly. "And reading."

Technically true. Calligraphy was the only sanctioned art form the elders hadn’t turned into a moral crisis. And reading was the one thing you could do that didn’t involve accidentally maiming yourself with a practice kunai.

Yanase gave him a nod, seemingly satisfied, and gestured for him to sit.

He smoothed his sleeves out as he did just that.

Hina beamed up at him from the side.

He didn’t smile back—he did give her a small, quick nudge with his knee under the desk.

It was the Hyuga equivalent of a full bear hug.

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It was Hina’s turn next.

She stood up a little too fast—nearly knocking her chair over—and then scrambled to bow.

A couple of kids snickered. Hiroto resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands.

She straightened, face pink.

"Hyuga Hina," she said, loud and clear.

There was a tiny pause, like she wasn’t sure if she should add more. Her hands fidgeted at her sides before she remembered herself and quickly pressed them into a formal posture.

"And…" she glanced sideways, catching Hiroto’s eye for half a second. He gave her a minute, almost imperceptible nod.

"And I like flowers," she finished in a rush. "And rabbits."

The silence that followed was the stunned kind, like they were unsure if they were supposed to clap or prepare a funeral.

She was nervous—more than she let on. Everyone in the clan had been walking on eggshells around her ever since the sealing. 

Centuries of treating branch members like tools to be discarded at will didn’t exactly build the foundation for warm, fuzzy relations. And now that the old geezers had been publicly punished for it, no one was really lining up to be best friends with the girl they used to ignore.

This was her first real shot at making friends.

No wonder she was terrified.

Daigo Yanase arched a brow. But to his credit, he didn’t say anything. He just gave a short grunt of acknowledgement and moved right along.

Hina sat back down, her whole face red now.

Hiroto leaned a little closer, pretending to scratch his ear just so he could whisper under his breath, “Flowers and rabbits? Really?”

She puffed her cheeks out slightly. "You said reading."

“That’s education," he whispered back, deadpan. "Yours sounds like you’re applying for a job at the zoo.”

She elbowed him.

He forced down a smile and leaned back, satisfied.

Her smiles were rarer now, not that he blamed her.

Hiroto shifted slightly closer.

It wasn’t much, but she was smiling.

.

The courtyard behind the academy was wide and open, a place built for sparring and breaking a few noses.

Daigo Yanase herded them into loose rows, his clipboard tucked under one arm.

"Alright," he said, voice scratchy. "You’re all gonna fight."

Daigo continued, tone dry: "This isn’t to maim each other. It’s for class rankings—first impressions and all. But it should be a good welcome to the rest of your lives."

He paused, glancing over the cluster of students with a gaze that made it all too clear his expectations weren’t the highest.

"Sparring will be hand-to-hand only. No weapons. No jutsus. If you fall, yield, or get tossed flat on your back, you’re out."

Simple rules.

Rules Hiroto was already familiar with from previous sparring matches he had done with other Hyuga. So he stood—not slouched—and listened to the instructor with growing boredom.

He scanned the people around him and saw some kids fidgeting, likely because of nerves. He couldn’t blame them, but couldn’t relate either.

He had no worries for the sparring match. In fact, he already knew how this was going to go.

He’d been pushing his Byakugan for months now.

Longer activation times.

Better range.

Sharper focus.

And it was paying off.

The older Hyuga said children couldn’t usually sustain it more than a minute without getting a chakra-induced headache.

Meanwhile, he’d gotten it to almost five.

Nepotism helped.

It turned out that being the firstborn son of the clan head opened a lot of doors—mostly ones labeled "Do Not Enter" and "Restricted to Jonin and Elders Only."

He got access to training scrolls that hadn’t seen the light of day since Old First was nothing but a crawling child. Probably. 

And tutors taught him things they usually reserved for kids who could already snap a grown man’s ribs.

Was it fair? Maybe not. 

Was he complaining? Definitely not.

He held no illusion of his strength—for his age, he was good, great even—modesty was always one of his strong suits—but compared to those older?

He had about the same chance of victory as the lottery in his old life, which, it was safe to say, was practically zero.

Yanase cut Hiroto’s musings, barking out the first names, which was followed by two kids shuffling forward. 

They bowed, made the seal of opposition, and the match started.

It was… about as tragic as Hiroto expected.

Wait, scratch that—it was much worse. They relied on flails rather than technique. 

And the fight ended just as sorry a sight as the beginning: an attempted flying kick which resulted in both kids falling flat on their faces.

Hiroto sighed internally. Suffice it to say this was going to be a very long day.

Eventually—mercifully—his name was called.

"Hyuga Hiroto. Umezawa Sota."

He stepped forward and faced his opponent, a wiry boy born to civilians, who bounced lightly on his feet, trying to look intimidating.

 Bless his heart.

The moment the match started, Hiroto activated his Byakugan.

Chakra surged behind his eyes, and the courtyard reacted instantly:

Conversations died mid-sentence.

The kids near the front took half a step back. Hiroto scowled at that; all he got were some veins around his eyes, and they acted like he’d just drawn a kunai. Talk about dramatic.

Heck, even the instructor Daigo Yanase's brows lifted slightly, the first real reaction he'd shown all morning.

Sota put on a brave face and lunged forward fast and clumsily. 

Hiroto had to give him some props, the kid had more guts than the others, but those guts wouldn’t win him the fight, just bring him right into an ass beating.

The Byakugan made fights... laughably simple.

He could see it all. The tension in his opponent’s stance and the twitch of a muscle before his lunge.

Hiroto sidestepped, avoiding the wild swing like he already knew it was coming. 

He did.

Deciding to reward Sota for his courage, Hiroto settled for a single palm to the ribs—gentle, almost lazy—and to absolutely no one’s surprise, the boy folded in half like a lawn chair.

Sota hit the ground with a muffled oomph.

A ripple went through the class.

Likely the dawning realization that, oh, maybe picking fights with the Hyuga kid wasn’t the brightest career move.

Daigo Yanase gave a grunt that might’ve been approval—or indigestion. Hard to tell with him.

"Winner: Hiroto Hyuga," he announced.

Hiroto stepped back, hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, face neutral.

Inside?

He was dying of boredom.

If this was the competition, he was going to start losing brain cells by the end of the week.

Maybe even earlier if someone tried another flying tackle.

The matches continued.

A few scrappy brawlers. Even a handful of decent strikes were thrown. One kid tried a dropkick so wide it missed by a good two feet and was accompanied by a faceplant into the dirt.

Hiroto made a mental note to send flowers.

But the one thing he was sure of was that none of them could hope to touch him.

The other kids had enthusiasm, sure. Some had speed. A few even had strength.

But Hiroto had something they didn’t.

Eyes.

Eyes that saw everything.

The tightness in the shoulder before a punch.

The tensing of a calf before a kick.

He didn’t need to be faster or stronger. He just needed to see.

He knew it was grossly unfair, but hey, they should’ve picked better ancestors.

The instructor called Hina’s name next, and Hiroto straightened a little.

"You’ll do fine," he said under his breath. "Just hit them harder than they hit you."

She blinked at him.

Then—nodded.

She shuffled forward, hands balled into tiny fists at her sides. Her opponent was a boy about their age, taller and wiry.

If she remembered even half of what she was taught, this fight was going to be a cakewalk.

Hiroto crossed his arms and leaned back against the nearest tree.

Daigo Yanase gave the signal, and the boy charged without hesitation.

Stupid move.

Hina blinked, and then she moved.

The boy’s punch sailed past where her head had been a second earlier, and she pivoted sharply, the heel of her palm connecting against his exposed ribs.

There was a loud oof, followed by the boy crumpling and falling into the dirt.

The silence was broken by Hiroto’s clapping. 

Hina just stood there, looking vaguely horrified, like she'd broken some law by winning too fast.

Hiroto pinched the bridge of his nose.

Yanase made a small noise of approval, then he waved Hina back to the line.

She trotted over, head ducked low.

Hiroto leaned sideways again and muttered under his breath, “Nice shot. Remind me not to steal your snacks.”

She puffed her cheeks and scowled at him, but it didn’t last. A second later, she was hiding a tiny smile behind her sleeve.

He called it progress.

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A/N:

Hereon, the pace of the story should slow down slightly, not excessively, just enough to get a feel for what Hiroto, and more importantly, the rest of the villages are doing.

Also, join the Discord to leave comments and thoughts on the story; that’s the only real place I’m active.

https://discord.gg/s2DVMbqSf4