The silent forest seemed more alive than ever. Akihiro stood alone, katana gripped tightly in his hands, the cool night air brushing against his skin. The moonlight glinted off the blade, casting long, wavering shadows across the mossy ground.
He had spent days practicing simple cuts, learning the weight of the sword, the flow of his body, the rhythm between breath and motion. Yet tonight, something felt different—an idea had sparked in his mind that refused to leave.
"What if… what if I don't have to rely on my hands anymore? What if I can use the sword to replicate the Gentle Fist?"
The thought seemed almost insane. The Gentle Fist relied on precise strikes to chakra points, the flow of energy concentrated in the palms.
But Akihiro had already noticed something unusual: his Byakugan responded to the blade. Wherever his vision detected chakra in an opponent—or even in objects—he instinctively knew the direction of the cut.
He raised the sword, eyes narrowing as he focused on a fallen log nearby. In his mind, the lines of chakra points glowed faintly, imagined like markings hovering in the air.
The first cut was hesitant, awkward, and almost graceless—but when the edge met the correct point, a peculiar energy shivered through the wood. Tiny fragments lifted and spun before clattering down.
"Wait… that… worked?"
Breathing deeply, Akihiro tried again. This time, he targeted a stone imbued with residual chakra from a previous training session.
He imagined the flow of energy, mentally tracing the sequence of a Gentle Fist strike he could never execute with his hands alone.
The cut was clean. A pulse of energy radiated from the blade, the stone's chakra faltering and dissipating as if sealed by his strike.
"Damn… this is… it's like the Gentle Fist, but… better."
Each movement fused instinct, Byakugan perception, and the sword itself. Every slash was no longer merely physical—it was strategic, precise, capable of paralyzing or sealing chakra through a single stroke.
He felt the synergy in a way that no conventional training could teach.
Akihiro laughed aloud, a sound somewhere between exhilaration and madness.
"Look at you, Hyūga clan… you gave me eyes and useless hands… but forgot about the sword. And now… let's see who gets the last laugh."
He moved through the forest with increasing confidence, each cut more fluid than the last, the rhythm of his body syncing perfectly with the weight and swing of the blade.
He visualized imaginary opponents, tracing their chakra flow, striking with pinpoint accuracy.
For the first time, the frustration, the endless failures in the academy, the limitations imposed by his branch family—they all seemed surmountable.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Akihiro's arms ached, sweat dampened his brow, yet his focus never wavered.
Each swing carried more intent, more control.
He found himself smiling despite the exhaustion; every slash was progress, every movement a small rebellion against the destiny forced upon him.
"If I survive the academy… if I survive the seal… no one can stop me. Not the clan, not Neji, not any fate laid before me."
The forest seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, the night alive with energy that answered to his Byakugan-enhanced vision.
This was his moment—his creation. Gentle Fist reborn as a lethal sword style, a fusion of instinct, insight, and steel.
Akihiro stopped for a moment, the katana's edge resting on the ground, chest heaving. For the first time, he felt something wholly his own—a path carved by his own hands, a power entirely earned. The moonlight gleamed on the blade like a promise.
"This sword… it's more than iron. It's freedom. It's my first step toward breaking the Hyūga cage for good."
He glanced toward the edge of the woods, almost expecting Hinata to appear, timid as ever, watching silently as she often did. The thought brought a small, private smile to his face.
For now, though, he was alone, training, growing, and reshaping his destiny—one precise, chakra-guided slash at a time.