To demonstrate the Hyūga clan's Gentle Fist technique, Kurakawa first performed a set of Gentle Fist—Eight Trigrams Sixty-Four Palms—on the wooden training post in the courtyard.
Since this was merely a demonstration, Souma could clearly observe the angle of force, strength, and techniques of the Gentle Fist, even though his Byakugan had just awakened.
After completing the set and retracting his stance, Kurakawa asked Souma, "How much did you see clearly?"
"About fifty percent, I think," Souma replied uncertainly.
"Very good. For a newly awakened Byakugan, being able to perceive around fifty percent of my Eight Trigrams Sixty-Four Palms is already remarkable. Most people can only grasp ten or twenty percent at best. Now, try performing a set on the post yourself. Don't aim for all sixty-four palms at once—if you can manage eight, that would be a success."
Though Kurakawa said this, he privately estimated the likelihood of Souma executing eight palms on his first attempt was slim. Still, it would serve as motivation for the young boy.
He even entertained the thought of harshly criticizing Souma when he inevitably failed to reach eight palms, just to prevent his grandson from growing arrogant due to his natural talent. The idea made Kurakawa chuckle to himself like a sly old fox.
Meanwhile, Souma stood before the wooden post, recalling his grandfather's movements. He took a deep breath and began.
"Gentle Fist—Eight Trigrams Sixty-Four Palms! Two palms, four palms, eight palms, sixteen palms, thirty-two... Ah!"
With a shout, Souma struck the post in rapid succession, delivering sixteen precise blows. But as he attempted to transition to thirty-two palms, his focus wavered, and he lost momentum—meaning he could only execute sixteen palms for now.
Comparing his performance to his grandfather's, Souma recognized numerous shortcomings in his own technique.
Watching from the side, Kurakawa was at a loss for words. He had intended to humble his grandson, but instead found himself humbled. What had he been doing at five years old? Probably still doing basic physical training. And when he first awakened his Byakugan at eight, how many palms had he managed? He couldn't even complete eight back then.
The gap was staggering. Kurakawa resolved never to admit this to Souma if asked.
"Grandfather, I'm sorry. I can only manage sixteen palms right now. I'm still far from thirty-two," Souma said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.
"Ahem, well, yes. It's good you recognize that. Learning has no limits. But sixteen palms on your first try is quite impressive—almost as good as I was back then! Yes, exactly like that. Keep working hard."
To maintain his dignity before his prodigious grandson, Kurakawa had no choice but to... slightly exaggerate his own early achievements. Just a tiny bit.
"Yes, Grandfather. I understand. I'll keep striving."
At this moment, the still naive Souma didn't doubt his grandfather's words at all. After all, in his inherited memories, Kurakawa was a powerful shinobi.
Though Kurakawa was already past fifty, he was an elite jōnin who had survived the First Shinobi World War—a battle-hardened veteran who had walked through blood and fire. While no longer at his peak, he remained stronger than most jōnin.
As for the other pampered main family members of the Hyūga clan, they were far inferior to Kurakawa.
Among the nine main family branches of the Hyūga clan—including the clan head and elders—fewer than half still maintained any real combat prowess.
"Souma, let's spar now. I'll correct any mistakes in your Gentle Fist techniques and power application," Kurakawa said, abandoning his initial thought of holding back against his grandson.
For a genius, one should use training methods suited for geniuses.
"Alright, here I come, Grandfather!" Souma responded, his heart pounding with both excitement and nervousness for his first real combat experience.
Though this was essentially just a teaching session between grandfather and grandson, he couldn't suppress his thrill at finally experiencing this power firsthand.
The two stood facing each other, both assuming the Gentle Fist's opening stance.
"Ha! Gentle Fist—Sixteen Trigrams Palms!" Souma wisely didn't attempt the reckless Thirty-Two Palms against his grandfather—such arrogance would have left him flat on the ground before completing the technique. He at least had that much self-awareness.
"Good, attack me. Not bad—your power application in the second palm is correct, with proper angle and technique."
"But the fourth palm's angle is wrong—you're striking where no chakra points exist. Remember, the Gentle Fist aims to inject your chakra into the opponent's tenketsu to damage their internal organs. Adjust this angle downward by ten degrees."
"The eighth palm has even worse issues—both power and technique are incorrect. This level of force couldn't even penetrate an opponent's chakra network—are you giving them a massage? Moreover, this sloppy execution leaves you vulnerable to counterattacks mid-sequence."
"As for the sixteen palms—every strike has problems. Your power fluctuates wildly. In real combat, uncertainty about whether you've sealed an opponent's tenketsu is gambling with your life. Always target the most prominent pressure points, not obscure ones. And make your angles more unpredictable—leave them no opening to block."
Throughout their exchange, Kurakawa strictly fulfilled his role as instructor, showing no mercy as he pointed out every flaw in Souma's technique.
Souma's Sixteen Trigrams Strikes were all blocked by Kurakawa—not a single palm strike landed on his grandfather.
As the grandfather, Kurakawa remained purely defensive throughout, countering each move without launching a single offensive strike. Otherwise, Souma wouldn't have lasted this long.
Indeed, after executing the full set of Sixteen Trigrams Strikes, Souma was exhausted and had to pause to catch his breath.
About five minutes later, Kurakawa, his expression stern, asked Souma, whose breathing had steadied, "Souma, can you continue?"
"Ah, no problem. Let's keep going, Grandfather."
Souma refused to back down. Having resolved to take control of his own fate, how could he retreat at the very beginning?
Soon, the courtyard of the Hyūga main family echoed with the shouts of the grandfather and grandson.
"Souma, the technique here..."
"Souma, the angle of your palm strike should be..."
"Souma, you must control the force behind your strikes..."
Between their sparring sessions, Souma practiced alone against wooden dummies, while Kurakawa occasionally demonstrated techniques.
Time flew by during training. Starting at noon, they didn't stop until the sun set in the evening, their relentless practice unbroken.
In between, the branch family's maids delivered tea and towels no fewer than ten times—proof of just how grueling their training was.
After an afternoon of intense practice, the two soaked in the bath together. Once the maids served dinner, they ate while discussing the day's lessons.
Souma loved this feeling—whether it was training or simply chatting with his grandfather after meals.
Though most households forbade talking during meals, here, with just the two of them, who cared about such rigid, outdated rules?
Rules were for show. Without outsiders, one should do as they pleased. Only fools would chain themselves to pointless traditions.
After dinner, they sat on the wooden floor of the house, the courtyard bathed in moonlight, with tea and desserts prepared by the maids nearby.
"Souma, if your parents were still alive, they would be so proud to see you now."
Gazing at the moon, Kurakawa spoke from the heart.
Souma didn't know how to respond. His original self had no memories of his parents.
The only traces of them were two photographs. His mother was strikingly beautiful, with long hair cascading to her waist, delicate features, and a gentle smile.
His father looked bright and cheerful, bearing a faint resemblance to Grandfather Kurakawa, his lips curled in a subtle, knowing smile.
As for Souma himself, unlike most Hyūga clansmen who kept their hair long, his short black locks barely reached past his neck, with a single strand drifting leftward across his forehead.
Above his pure white pupils were a pair of double eyelids, his soft features always carrying that same faint, enigmatic smile as his father's—warm yet distant.
Souma was quite satisfied with his appearance. While not devastatingly handsome, he possessed a unique charm—neither the soft femininity of women nor the typical masculinity of most men, but rather a perfect blend of both, making his face unforgettable at first glance.
Yet at this moment, Souma's first thought was of his parents from his past life.
"I wonder how Dad and Mom are doing. My sudden disappearance or death must have devastated them." He shook his head helplessly. What was the point of dwelling on it? He couldn't go back now. Instead of wallowing in sorrow, he should cherish the present!
Seeing his grandson lost in silence, Kurakawa misunderstood, assuming Soseki was grieving over growing up without parents.
"I'm sorry, Souma. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."
Kurakawa's heart ached as well—his grief was no less than his grandson's. But since he had broached the topic, it was only right for him to close it.
"Don't worry, Grandfather. I'm fine. I've already let it go."
Setting aside his thoughts, Souma quickly reassured the elderly man before him.
"That's good to hear. In that case, Souma, you should rest early. Training resumes tomorrow." With that, Kurakawa rose and headed to his room, heart warmed by his grandson's maturity.
"Yes, Grandfather. Goodnight."
Only after watching Kurakawa enter his room and turn off the lights—and waiting a while longer—did Souma finally look away, dismissing the servants to their rest as well.
But Souma himself wasn't ready to sleep yet. It was barely past 7 p.m., equivalent to around 8 p.m. in his previous life—a time when most young people were just beginning their nightlife!
Returning to the courtyard where he had trained earlier that day, he found the wooden posts replaced—nearly twenty had been destroyed beyond use during his afternoon session. The one before him now was freshly installed by the servants, originally intended for tomorrow's training.
Since the area was far enough from the sleeping quarters, Souma didn't worry about the noise disturbing anyone—whether his grandfather or the household staff.
Not wanting to waste this precious time, he resumed practicing the Gentle Fist techniques and principles his grandfather had taught him earlier.
Thud! Crack!
That night, the training grounds of the Hyūga clan's Third Branch echoed with the sounds of Gentle Fist strikes against wooden posts, occasionally punctuated by the splintering of wood.
The noise persisted well past midnight, deep into the midnight.
Lost in his training, Souma never noticed the pair of pale eyes watching him from the corridor near the entrance. Only after he returned to his bedroom did those eyes finally withdraw, their owner retreating to their own room...