The Hyūga Main House was a cage of perfect geometry. The hallways were polished to a mirror shine, the sliding doors were aligned with mathematical precision, and the silence was absolute.
The only sound was the distant clack-clack of the shishi-odoshi (deer scarer) in the garden, a rhythmic bamboo metronome counting down the seconds.
Hiashi Hyūga walked the perimeter of the inner garden. His footsteps were silent, absorbed by the white tabi socks, but his mind was loud.
He activated his Byakugan. Not fully—just enough to check the perimeter. Veins bulged slightly near his temples as the world shifted into monochrome x-ray. He saw the chakra signatures of the Branch family guards posted on the walls. He saw the birds nesting in the eaves.
He could hear their tiny heartbeats—thump-thump-thump—too fast and fragile, like frantic drums.
And then, he saw them.
In the center of the koi pond garden, the world was soft.
His wife, Hanami, sat on a stone bench beneath the weeping willow. She held a bundle of blankets in her arms—Hanabi, not yet a year old. Sitting on the edge of the pond, dipping her bare feet into the water, was Hinata, age six.
Hiashi stopped. He leaned against the pillar, watching.
To the naked eye, Hanami looked perfect. Her dark hair was pinned up with a jade comb, her skin was pale and flawless, and her smile was gentle.
But Hiashi wasn't using the naked eye.
The scent of wisteria was overpowering here, sweet and cloying, masking the faint metallic smell of her medication.
He looked at her chest.
Where a healthy chakra network should have been a blazing blue fire, Hanami's was... dimming. It looked like a candle guttering in a draft. There was a grey, stagnant rot spreading through her lungs, a cellular degradation that no medicine could halt. She was dying. Every breath she took was a theft from the reaper.
A low wheeze rattled in her chest with every inhale—hhhhhh—a sound like dry leaves scraping on pavement.
Hiashi deactivated his dōjutsu. He couldn't bear to look at the truth. He preferred the lie of her smile.
"Look, Hanabi!" Hinata giggled.
The six-year-old held a small plastic wand, dipped in soapy water. She pursed her lips and blew.
Whoosh.
A stream of bubbles drifted out.
Hiashi frowned. He stepped closer, staying in the shadow of the engawa.
The bubbles didn't pop.
They drifted over the surface of the pond, catching the afternoon sunlight. A dragonfly landed on one. It should have burst. Instead, the bubble dented, elastic and strong, supporting the insect's weight.
The surface of the bubble shimmered with an oily rainbow sheen, reflecting the warped image of the garden in perfect, distorted clarity.
Hinata laughed, waving her hands.
The bubbles obeyed.
They didn't float with the wind. They floated with her will. They clustered together, merging without breaking, forming a complex, undulating shape that looked like a cloud made of glass. They danced around baby Hanabi's head, chiming softly as they bounced off each other.
Plink... plink.
The sound was musical, like tiny glass bells chiming in the wind.
What is this? Hiashi thought, his analytical mind engaging.
He flicked his Byakugan back on.
He saw it immediately.
Hinata wasn't just blowing air. She was unconsciously coating the soapy water in a thin, perfectly even layer of chakra. And not just raw chakra—it was cool, fluid, and dense.
Water Release, Hiashi realized, a cold spike of disappointment hitting his gut. And Yin Release.
She was stabilizing the surface tension with form manipulation. It was brilliant. It was instinctual.
It was useless.
The Hyūga style was impact. It was the Gentle Fist. It was driving chakra through a target, not dancing around it with pretty, floating spheres. This was a parlor trick. It was soft.
Cough.
The sound was wet and rattle-like.
Hanami hunched over the baby, her shoulders shaking.
The sound tore through Hiashi's composure. It reminded him of the timer ticking down in her chest. It reminded him that softness was a luxury they could not afford. The world was hard. The world was killing his wife. If Hinata remained soft, the world would kill her too.
Fear transmuted instantly into anger.
Hiashi stepped out of the shadows. His sandals crunched loudly on the white gravel.
The noise was a violent crunch-grind, shattering the peaceful ambiance like a boot through a paper screen.
"Hinata."
The voice was a hammer.
Hinata jumped. The concentration broke.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The magnificent cloud of bubbles burst instantly, showering Hanabi and Hanami in a fine mist of soapy water.
The smell of cheap soap—sharp and artificial—suddenly overpowered the wisteria, stinging his nose.
Hinata scrambled to her feet, wet grass clinging to her knees. She looked at her father, her large, lavender eyes widening in terror. She put her hands behind her back.
"F-Father," she whispered.
Hiashi stood over her. He looked at the plastic wand in her hand.
"Stop playing," Hiashi commanded, his face a mask of stone. "Bubbles are not the Gentle Fist. You are wasting your chakra on frivolity."
He looked at the pond.
"Water is fluid. The Hyūga are solid. Do not let me catch you practicing this... Utakata again."
Hinata shrank back, tears welling in her eyes. "I... I was just showing Hanabi..."
"Hanabi does not need to see tricks," Hiashi snapped. "She needs to see strength. If you cannot provide it, you are failing her."
He reached out, intending to take the wand.
"Hiashi."
The voice was quiet. It wasn't a command. It was an anchor.
Hiashi froze.
He turned to the bench.
Hanami hadn't moved. She was wiping a speck of soap from baby Hanabi's forehead. She looked up at him. Her eyes were identical to his—pale, white, all-seeing—but they held no judgment. Only a profound, aching sadness.
"The flowers are blooming," Hanami said softly.
She gestured to the cherry blossom tree above them. A single pink petal fell, landing in the koi pond, causing a ripple that touched the shore.
"They are beautiful because they do not last," she whispered. "Let her have the moment, husband. The winter comes soon enough."
Hiashi looked at her.
He looked at the grey pallor of her skin. He looked at the way her hand trembled as she stroked the baby's hair.
A cold wind swept through the garden, rustling the willow branches—shhh-shhh—and sending a chill through his sweat-dampened robes.
The winter comes soon enough.
The anger drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, rusted grief.
He wasn't the Clan Head. He wasn't the master of the Byakugan. He was just a man watching his universe collapse.
Hiashi's posture slumped. The rigidity left his shoulders.
He knelt.
He didn't kneel to the Daimyō. He didn't kneel to the Hokage.
He knelt in the grass, ruining his pristine hakama, until he was eye-level with his wife and daughters.
The damp earth soaked through the fabric instantly, cold and wet against his knees, grounding him in the physical reality of his grief.
He reached out and took Hanami's cold hand in his.
"Forgive me," Hiashi whispered, his voice thick. "I... I forgot myself."
He looked at Hinata. She was trembling.
He reached out his other hand and awkwardly, stiffly, patted her head. It wasn't a hug. He didn't know how to hug. But it was contact.
"It was..." Hiashi swallowed, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "...It was a very round bubble, Hinata."
Hinata blinked, a tear rolling down her cheek. She offered him a tiny, hesitant smile.
Hanami squeezed his hand.
Her skin felt like dry parchment, fragile and cool, lacking the warmth of the living.
Hiashi stayed there, kneeling in the damp grass, watching the koi swim in circles, wishing with everything he had that he could freeze this moment like one of Hinata's bubbles, before it popped and left him alone in the cold.