Naruto: Legacy of the Byakugan Chapter 4

Before the Storm Breaks

September 21, 34 bNb

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The air in the council room was cold. The wind stirred, but no lamps flickered.

Only the low crackle of a single brazier in the center remained glowing faintly.

The five elders sat in silence.

Four on woven mats, white-robed and unmoving. The fifth behind a carved lacquered screen.

The Grand Elder.

Haruka was the first to break the stillness. “The patrol leaves soon.”

Homoro gave a slow nod, wrinkled hands curled around a cane he no longer used to walk, only to hold. “He’ll be gone long?”

“Long enough,” Haruka replied, coolly. “Lord Tobirama requested Hiro by name—naturally, it’ll be a difficult mission.”

“The missions are stretching him thin,” Hotaka said, voice sharper than the rest. “The elders of the Aburame are recalling their veterans from the Fire Country—where they’ve been using kikaichū to clear crop pests. Even those trained for agriculture are being reassigned to reconnaissance. The Uchiha have already reinforced their flanks. And Kumo’s scouts were spotted near the Fire border twice last week.”

Hinako folded her arms across her lap. “And the Senju?”

“Lord Tobirama handles most matters now,” Haruka said. “Lord Hashirama hasn’t spoken publicly in weeks. Even the civilians have noticed.”

[A/N: Although the title of “Lord” is typically reserved for Kage, we thought it fitting that Tobirama also receive the title considering his contributions to the village, and his status within the village.]

That was true. Rumors of how Konoha’s power had waned had begun to circulate. Of how the First Hokage now barely appeared at his own compound gates.

Tobirama’s presence behind the Hokage desk was no longer surprising.

“The other nations will take it as weakness,” Hotaka said. “If they haven’t already.”

Haruka didn’t argue. She only folded her hands neatly into her sleeves.

“The other Kages are not idiots; they smell blood in the water. A fight is inevitable, and once it comes to that, Hiro—” she paused, only briefly, “—will be away longer and more often. That much is certain; he’s too valuable to the village to not be deployed.”

“We must move forward,” Hotaka said. “Before he returns.”

Homoro stirred, leaning forward. His voice cracked. “It’s already been delayed: two months have passed since her birthday. That girl should have been marked long ago.”

“Lord Hiro requested we wait,” Hinako said. Her tone wasn’t defensive—just respectful. Calm, where Hotaka was bitter.

“And we indulged him,” Haruka said. “Because he’s earned that much. He’s elevated this clan’s name. No one denies it.”

Haruka’s words held weight. Of all those seated, she was second in status only to the Grand Elder. And out of all of them, she was the most fond of Hiro.

But even favor had its limits.

“She isn’t just a child,” Homoro rasped. “She’s the branch family’s heir now. Hozaki was lost during the Grass border skirmish, and he failed to champion an heir to continue the lineage of the branch family.”

“Because we sent him,” Hotaka said, not with guilt, but conviction. “And the clan did not fracture because the system held. Because someone was there to lead them.”

“There must always be a branch head,” Haruka agreed. “Or the lesser house forgets its place.”

“She’s still so young,” Hinako murmured.

“And that is precisely when she must be molded,” Homoro said. “Before she learns the wrong things.”

“If she’s branded now,” Hinako added after a pause, “she’ll begin training within the month. The earlier we start her conditioning, the faster she’ll reach combat viability. That is how it’s always been.”

“And that’s exactly why it must continue,” Hotaka snapped. “The moment we make exceptions, the structure begins to fray. Hiro was lifted by this tradition. Now he would deny it?”

Haruka gave him a sidelong glance. “You speak too often with your teeth, Hotaka. Hiro was lifted by his talent. Not by tradition alone.”

Hotaka did not look away. “And yet he now seeks to deny the very thing that allowed him to be strong. That’s not honor. That’s arrogance.”

Haruka did not respond.

Not because she agreed—but because she could not argue with how the clan would perceive it.

Then a shift—the Grand Elder leaned forward behind the screen.

His voice, when it came, was worn by time. 

“He will be gone long enough. And he will not interfere.”

Not an opinion.

A statement of truth.

“The girl will be branded.”

None of them moved.

“The branch family has no head. The longer that continues, the greater risk we face. Resentment will grow. Boundaries will blur. For generations, we have thrived on order; do not undo it for momentary pity for my granddaughter.”

He paused.

When he spoke again, it was softer, but heavier.

“And when he returns, he will not undo it. He will see what this clan has always known—that only through strength on both sides, main and branch, can the Hyuga continue to thrive.”

There was nothing left to say.

Haruka dipped her head once. Not in defiance. Not even in agreement. 

Hotaka bowed fully, palms to the floor.

Hinako followed with a nod.

Homoro didn’t move; his body didn’t allow for much movement these days, but his eyes drifted shut in agreement.

The matter was settled—without ceremony, without a voice raised, and most importantly, with everyone else none the wiser.

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Two days passed.

In the clan leader’s private residence, ink pooled beneath steady hands as Hiroto and Hina sat with their father, learning the strokes of calligraphy.

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The room was quiet, save for the gentle scratch of bristles and his daughter’s humming. Afternoon light spilled across the floor in golden sheets, catching the edge of the calligraphy table and the folds of Hiro’s robe.

He sat with them—one child on either side. The twins. His children.

His hands moved with a practiced rhythm, but his eyes strayed. Not to the brush. Not to the paper. To Hiroto.

The boy’s posture was almost too straight for his age. His fingers, still small, already mirrored precision. The characters he traced were not perfect, but they were too clean.

Hiro said nothing, but he let the silence linger a beat longer.

Only three years old, and already… this.

His gaze lowered to the strokes being formed.

There were children four times his age in the clan who didn’t yet write with such balance.

It should have pleased him. It didn’t.

Excellence, in times of peace, was a gift. But peace was wearing thin.

He could see it in the border reports. The heightened tensions. Hiro was no stranger to war—he was a prominent figure during “The Warring States” period, and what came before every war was always the same: thinning borders, tightened schedules, ninja disappearing without explanation.

War was coming. He didn’t know when. But it was coming.

And he knew exactly what happened to excellent children when it did.

He blinked once and shifted his focus.

Across the table, Hina grinned triumphantly as she dotted a character with too much ink. It bled slightly at the edge. She pouted, then tried again, slower this time.

She wasn't foolish—just bright in a different way. Observant in bursts. Curious. She followed rules only when she felt like they made sense.

She giggled when Hiroto furrowed his brow too deeply at a smudge.

The sound twisted something in his chest.

Guilt.

It sat with him always now, like an old friend.

He had kept them at arm’s length for too long. Not because he didn’t care. Because he did. Too much.

He hadn’t known how to look at them—not when Hiroyo had died giving them life.

And so, he hadn’t. Not properly.

But he was trying.

He knew that was no excuse, but every time he looked at Hina, all he saw was his wife.

He watched Hiroto’s eyes follow his brush with an intensity that felt older than it should have.

He let them each try another stroke. Then another.

When Hina made a crooked line and giggled again, he leaned forward—not to scold—but to adjust her wrist gently. “Slow here,” he murmured. “Let the brush move with you.”

Her eyes widened, then she smiled. 

He looked away before it could hurt.

He had failed them, both of them. By being cold. By being silent. By grieving in a way that made him absent.

But he had also failed her. Hiroyo.

She had asked for one thing before she died. Keep them close.

And all he had done was watch from a distance.

He swallowed back something bitter.

At least the elders had agreed to postpone the sealing.

A year. Maybe two.

Enough time, maybe, to buy more.

He would fight harder when the time came. Negotiate. Bargain. Threaten, if he had to. The delay had cost him political capital, but it was worth it. For now.

His father had not agreed, of course.

The Grand Elder had said nothing outright. But he hadn’t needed to. The message was clear enough in every meeting: a branch child must be branded. It was tradition. The system. The reason the Hyuga had never fallen.

Hiro placed his brush down and looked at the finished characters.

They were beautiful.

Fluid, sharp, clean. Not a single stroke wasted. 

He folded the parchment once and placed it aside.

“I will be gone for a little while,” he said finally.

Two pairs of pale eyes turned to him.

“A mission,” he added. “Important. I’ll return soon.”

Hina looked up at him with concern. Hiroto’s expression didn’t change much, but his fingers curled inward slightly.

He reached out, placed a hand gently on each of their heads.

“You’ll both continue practicing with Kiku while I’m away.”

There was more he wanted to say, but his voice didn’t move.

Instead, he stood. Smoothed his sleeves. Turned toward the open door.

A part of him—small, irrational—hoped the mission would go poorly. 

Just enough to let him fight.

Let the mission veer sideways. Let enemies come.

He welcomed it.

Because there were few things in this world he understood more intimately than a fight.

And if nothing else, it would be a chance to exhale.

But that wasn’t the Hyuga way.

So he left without another word.

And the door slid closed behind him.

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A day later

The air was humid, and the clouds overhead churned with distant thunder.

The scouting party advanced in a narrow line. Three ninja moved silently across the leaf-littered terrain, their footsteps silent. 

The trees thinned just beyond the ridge. Hiro Hyuga gave the signal without a word, just a faint tilt of his head. The Aburame moved first. The Uchiha followed three paces behind.

It was supposed to be a standard sweep: Fire border, patrol route five. Scouting only. Confirm a recent trail sighted by another squad. Simple and harmless—in theory.

In practice, it was the kind of mission that could turn bloody without warning. That’s why Hiro had been sent. Not to observe. To ensure no one died.

His premonition was proven right because the second Hiro activated his Byakugan, he knew the trail didn’t belong to bandits.

“Three,” he said, voice low. “Thirty meters north. One at twenty-five, alone. Elevated position. Likely lookout.”

“Insects are uneasy too,” he murmured. “Human movement disrupted their route,” replied Aburame Kaimu, a stooped man with a stiff jawline, voice like gravel, and quite pale under his cloak. His kikaichū scattered into the surrounding moss. 

The Uchiha beside him—Uchiha Rei, a younger man with wind-swept hair, a brash but competent chunin—adjusted the hilt of his blade with a grin. “So much for a quiet morning,” he laughed, before turning slightly more serious. “Our formation?”

“Standard. You take the elevated one. Kaimu—flush the two in the brush. I’ll intercept whoever leads.”

No further explanation.

Rei vanished in a flicker.

And Hiro stood still.

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Kaimu and Rei honed in on their targets quickly, but before they could do anything, they felt a presence.

A pulse. Like static. Then the rising, unmistakable crackle of lightning.

Hiro’s eyes narrowed.

He stepped forward.

From the northern hill, a figure emerged—he wore layered blues and gray, a high collar long coat, and had two sheathed blades at his back. He was already forming hand seals.

Tiger. Horse. Snake. Dragon. Ox. Dog.

“Storm Release: Arc Lance.”

The spear coalesced instantly. Thin. Sharp. Nearly white from the heat coiled within it.

The man didn’t speak again. He hurled the lance in a single, clean motion.

Hiro didn’t move.

Not at first.

Only when the spear of lightning was two meters away did he raise his hand—not to catch it, but to meet it with something else.

Wind.

A silent veil, invisible to the untrained eye. Razor-thin. Precise.

The spear met the barrier—and split.

Not in an explosion. Not in a clash.

But in silence.

Vertical cuts ran clean down the length of the jutsu, like seams in silk. The electric construct fizzled, parted, and died mid-air, harmless.

The Uchiha stopped mid-motion. “What the hell...?”

The storm user—Kiruai, if Hiro’s memory served—lowered his arm slowly.

Kaimu adjusted his glasses. “Kiruai the Storm. A-rank ninja: Bounty of 55 million ryō. Member of the Kinkaku Force.”

Kiruai didn’t look surprised. Only resigned.

“So it’s really you,” he said, voice even. “Hiro Hyuga—it’s an honor.”

He didn’t bow, but he might as well have. “I suppose it makes sense. Only a ninja like you would have been able to stop my jutsu with such ease.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Kiruai continued.

Hiro did not respond.

Kiruai dropped into a stance. One leg forward, blade angled low. “But if I run,” he added, “my squad dies.”

“They will die either way.”

Kiruai glanced at his squad.

He exhaled. “I’ll hold him off. Go.”

Neither moved.

“Now!” he barked.

Kaimu’s kikaichū scattered from his sleeves, and Rei’s eyes gleamed red. Both were prepared to intercept the retreating ninjas.

But it was unnecessary: they didn’t make it five steps.

The first man dropped with a collapsed lung. 

The second reached for a scroll—Hiro shattered their tenketsu before they could scream. 

The third turned to run. 

Kiruai moved instantly.

The distance between them vanished as he surged forward, blade unsheathed—a long, single-edged sword used to intercept Hiro before the next blow could land.

Hiro didn’t pause.

He turned into the strike, hand rising—not to block, but to guide. Two fingers slid against the flat of the blade, adjusting its course just wide enough to miss.

His other hand snapped forward, striking the third man behind Kiruai squarely between the shoulder blades.

The runaway dropped mid-step—chakra severed, lungs stopped.

Dead before he hit the earth.

Kiruai’s eyes widened. He tried to retaliate, stepping into a reverse cut, but Hiro’s elbow clipped his wrist mid-motion, and the blade slipped from his grasp, flying through the air before hitting the ground.

They separated.

“You… didn’t even look at me,” Kiruai breathed.  He unsheathed his second sword without a moment wasted.

Hiro stood with one hand half-raised.

“Focus on me,” Kiruai snapped, and closed the distance with a sudden pivot, blade drawn back low for a rising strike.

Hiro responded in full.

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His blade crackled with lightning this time.

Hiro didn’t dodge.

He stepped in.

The clash was clean—metal against palm. No jutsu, no tricks. Taijutsu.

Kiruai pivoted, ducked low, and twisted his heel into a sweeping strike.

Hiro turned with it, shoulder shifting just far enough. 

Kiruai’s movements were efficient and trained, He wasn’t an idiot—he knew his chances of victory were slim, so he was testing range, finding the best distance to fight from. 

It also told him one thing: the rumors were far from exaggerated.

Every strike he threw was caught or avoided by millimeters. Not once did Hiro lose his footing. He barely even blinked.

Kauai jumped back, his blade spinning in the air as he performed hand signs.

“Rabbit. Dog. Bird. Snake.”

“Storm Release: Gale Force Palm.”

A burst of air and shock surged outward like a cannon blast.

But Hiro had already moved.

He was behind Kiruai before the jutsu finished.

Kauai grabbed his blade and swung behind him, but it was too late.

Hiro’s palm slapped against the steel.

Kiruai stumbled, and his sword shattered into pieces.

He whirled around—

“Tiger. Dragon. Rat. Ox.”

The air darkened with illusory mist.

“Storm Release: Thunder Mist Mirage!”

Dozens of clones swirled around Hiro, each one laced with electricity, striking from all angles.

But Hiro’s eyes saw all.

He didn’t waste time.

His fingers moved faster than the eye could follow.

Two strikes. Four. Eight.

Each clone blinked out before it could finish its attack.

Then silence again.

The mist dispersed.

Kiruai was breathing harder now. Not panicked. Not scared. Just... tired.

“I’m not foolish enough to think I can win,” he said. “But if I make it costly—”

Hiro moved.

No flicker. No afterimage.

He reappeared within Kiruai’s guard.

This time, he didn’t tap.

He struck.

A palm to the chest—chakra-infused.

Kiruai flew back. Hit a tree. Hard with a cough.

“Why are you here?” Hiro question.

Kiruai’s answer came in the form of blurred hands.

“Dragon. Ram. Horse. Snake. Tiger. Bird. Ox.”

“Storm Release: Laser Circus.”

Dozens of beams—searing, serpentine, each able to cut stone—arched through the canopy.

They twisted mid-air. Redirected themselves in real time.

Homing attacks.

“Scatter,” Hiro said to his team. Not a shout. A command.

They obeyed.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, his hand dropped to his side.

The wind around him changed, low and quiet.

And then, as the beams closed in—

He moved his hand.

Once.

Thin slashes of air burst outward like invisible blades.

Each beam that neared him was sliced clean apart before impact. One. Two. Twelve.

The cuts formed a pattern vertically.

The rest of the beams missed.

In the time it took for Hiro to destroy the attack, Kiruai had grabbed his previously lost blade and then—

He leapt into the trees, trying to gain height.

One moment, grounded. The next, in the air.

It didn’t matter; Hiro caught Kiruai mid-descent.

A single palm to the chest. Chakra surged.

The sound was like a thunderclap.

Kiruai was flung backwards into a boulder, the rock splintering on impact. He slid down, and his sword fell from limp fingers, clattering uselessly against the ground.

He was dead on impact.

Hiro landed without a sound.

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The forest fell quiet.

The Uchiha landed beside Kaimu a second later.

Neither spoke.

Hiro turned toward them.

“This was no coincidence,” he said at last. “Kinkaku’s men don’t wander this far without reason.”

“Should we report back to Lord Tobirama?” the Aburame asked.

“Yes,” Hiro replied. “Go now. I’m going to remain here and continue to scout—there may be more.” 

He stepped forward. His Byakugan activated once more, eyes scanning deep into the treeline.

“Take their heads, and hand them over to the village. Let Tobirama know what happened here.”

The Uchiha let out a slow breath.

“That was…” He trailed off.

The Aburame adjusted his collar. “That was expected.”

The Uchiha scoffed. “Expected? You can’t tell me that wasn’t unreal. I mean—Lord Kagami moves like that.”

Hiro turned his head.

The Uchiha bowed instantly. “With respect. I meant no comparison. Only…”

He swallowed.

“You live up to the name.”

The name that was given by enemies of the Hyuga during the Warring States.

The name that had single-handedly elevated his clan’s status in the ninja world.

Hiro Hyuga.

The All-Seeing.

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A/N: Some of the Storm Release jutsus showcased in this chapter were self-made. Let me know your thoughts, I hope they don’t come off as overpowered, but at the same time, I wanted to do Storm Release, one of my favorite techniques in the show, justice. 

Also, made Hiro as powerful as he was because in the show the Hyuga were often compared to the Uchiha and the Senju, and I don’t think there’s a single S-rank ninja they’ve had, except for maybe the one dude who fought a young Itachi and Shisui, but even then, he has practically no Hyuga blood. So does that mean the less Hyuga you are, the more powerful you are? Lol. 

But in all seriousness, even if they’re descendants of Kaguya, I doubt they would keep that much prestige without actually producing any powerful members—I mean, the most talented Hyuga we’re shown is Neji, and I don’t even think he’s A-rank. So it’s only fitting that Hiro is as powerful as he is, so the Hyuga name isn’t diminished and all that. 

Anyway, have a wonderful day, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!