The rain didn't stop until late at night. The drops had mingled with the blood on my clothes, and even after washing, I could still smell the metallic tang clinging to my skin. Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that blade gleam, poised to take my life.
The next morning, the adults of the clan gathered us in the great hall. The Hyūga head watched in silence, his white eyes impenetrable. Next to him, the jōnin who had supervised us recounted the mission. They explained how we had been attacked, how we had survived.
Then one of them added:
"The newcomer reacted. Clumsily, but his chakra pushed the enemy back."
All eyes turned toward me. My chest tightened. I didn't feel like I had done anything heroic. I had acted on instinct, out of fear. But in the eyes of the clan, it was a sign: a Hyūga, even inexperienced, must never retreat.
The head fixed his gaze on me for a long moment before declaring:
"Then he will learn. From today, he will undergo advanced Jūken training. Let him become worthy of that name."
A shiver ran down my spine. I was both honored… and terrified.
The following days were hell.
At dawn, I would join the training yard. A relentless instructor, his graying hair tied back, was already waiting. His gaze chilled me more than any kunai.
"Position."
I assumed the stance, knees slightly bent, palms open.
"Wrong. Again."
He corrected me brutally, striking my arm, my shoulder, my side, until I fell.
Then came chakra practice. We had to project a fine stream of energy through the palm, with surgical precision, to reach the opponent's tenketsu. But my strikes were too heavy, too clumsy.
Every mistake was punished. A slap, a sharp strike, a fall to the ground. My body was covered in bruises.
Yet, I rose again.
Because every time I thought of giving up, the image returned: the blade at my throat. That feeling of helplessness. No. Never again.
One evening, as I lay on the grass, breathless, I sensed a presence. It was the boy who had helped me during the mission. He sat beside me, silent.
"You're not giving up, huh?" he finally asked.
I shook my head.
"If I stop… I'll die next time."
He smiled faintly.
"Me too."
It was the first time we truly spoke. His name was Kenshiro, a Hyūga of the main branch, serious and disciplined. Unlike me, he had grown up with this war, trained from birth to fight. Yet in his eyes, I saw the same fear that lived in mine.
We sat for a long while, staring at the night sky. The stars twinkled, beautiful and indifferent.
I murmured,
"Do you think… one day, this world will change? That they won't send us to die as children?"
He looked down, hesitating.
"I don't know. But if anyone should try… why not you? You're different. You speak as if you've seen another world."
My heart leapt. He was right, unknowingly. I was a stranger to this world. And maybe that was exactly my strength.
From that moment, something shifted within me. Training was no longer just a chore it became a tool. Every strike received, every fall, every correction, I accepted as a step forward.
Little by little, my palms became more precise. I managed to hit the tenketsu of a wooden dummy. Then, in duels with Kenshiro, my strikes began to push him back. The instructor, cold at first, eventually gave a brief nod one day.
I was improving. Slowly, painfully but improving.
And with that progress came a certainty: to survive, I needed to become far more than a simple Hyūga. I needed to prepare… for something far greater.
But war waits for no one.
One evening, as I left the training grounds, I heard whispers among the adults. They spoke of a recent confrontation with the Uchiha clan. Deaths, heavy losses, a bloody battle.
My heart tightened. The Uchiha. The other great clan. The sworn enemies of the Senju, but also of the Hyūga.
The numbers were staggering over a thousand had fallen. Names, faces, lives extinguished in the blink of an eye. Children too young to understand had been sent to fight. Entire villages had burned. The stories of survivors were grim, each recounting the horrors they had witnessed.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. My mind raced. The history I had known Hashirama, Madara, the founding of Konoha was already bleeding into this reality. And yet, it wasn't enough to stop the carnage. Not yet.
I looked at Kenshiro, who had joined me silently, and felt a shared resolve. We were still children, yet already hardened by war. Already carrying the weight of a shinobi's duty and the burden of death.
The thought struck me like ice: if even the Hyūga could die so young, what hope did this world have?
I lifted my head to the darkening sky. Rain threatened again, heavy clouds rolling in like omens. And I made a vow, one that burned hotter than any fear:
"No. I will not let this cycle continue. If I fight, it won't just be for survival. I will fight so that no child will ever feel the weight of a kunai again."
The first drops of rain fell, cold and relentless, washing over the ground. But it could not wash away what I had seen, what I had felt. The memory was etched forever.
And so began the next step in my journey a journey into the merciless world of the shinobi, where the weight of a kunai was more than steel; it was the burden of life itself.