AN: some more feedback pls :-)
After the shock with the chakra thread, I didn't stop.
If anything, it forced me to slow down—not to retreat, but to become more deliberate.
Fear lingered, sharp and cold, every time I remembered how easily that impossibly thin strand of compressed chakra had sliced through the edge of my crib. The image replayed itself often: the silent cut, the ease with which matter had given way, the realization that I had been seconds away from doing something truly catastrophic. That memory became an anchor, grounding every experiment that followed.
So I continued.
Carefully.
Methodically.
Day after day, between naps, feedings, and the constant supervision of Hikari and the household staff, I refined my control over chakra outside my body. I stopped chasing extremes and focused instead on stability, on consistency, on learning how much pressure was enough and where restraint mattered more than power.
The results came slowly at first, then faster.
A single chakra thread became two.
Two became three.
Eventually, I could maintain five separate threads at once, each one roughly sixty meters long, all under my control simultaneously. The mental load was heavy, but manageable now that my brain had grown and adapted. It felt like learning to use new muscles—exhausting at first, then strangely natural.
I practiced endlessly.
With one thread, I lifted the stuffed animals in my crib, making them float just above the blankets. With another, I nudged small objects on nearby shelves, sliding them a few centimeters at a time. The remaining threads I used for balance, anchoring them to fixed points in the room so I could feel tension, resistance, and feedback.
At first, the motions were clumsy. Objects wobbled. Threads snapped. My concentration slipped.
But repetition turned chaos into habit.
Eventually, moving things with chakra felt almost like moving my own fingers—less deliberate thought, more instinctive intent. I could pick up a doll, rotate it, set it down, all while adjusting the position of another object across the room.
By the time it felt like second nature, I had already started pushing myself further, testing finer movements and subtler manipulations, always careful not to compress the chakra beyond safe limits.
It was around then that my first birthday came and went.
I only noticed because people told me.
Hikari smiled brightly that morning, her voice warm as she spoke to me, congratulating me with a softness that made it feel important even if I didn't fully understand why. Hiashi offered his own quiet words later in the day, dignified and reserved as ever, while the servants bowed and murmured polite congratulations.
There was no celebration. No feast. No ceremony.
Why would there be?
I was still just a baby.
In the days that followed, however, new stuffed animals and dolls appeared in my crib—soft, colorful, varied in shape and size. They delighted me far more than any cake ever could have, because to me they weren't toys.
They were test subjects.
Since Neji's first visit, he began coming by every few days.
At first, he was as stiff and awkward as before, clearly unsure of how to interact with someone smaller than him. Over time, though, he relaxed. He poked at me less cautiously, tried to make me laugh, showed me his own toys. Our "play" remained hopelessly one-sided—my movement was still limited—but he seemed content enough, and Hikari watched us with quiet amusement.
My own mobility improved faster than I had expected.
By the time I was a year and two months old, I could sit up without any real difficulty. Pulling myself upright along furniture was shaky but possible, and while crawling remained faster and safer, I practiced walking whenever I could.
I couldn't help but notice how intentionally the adults encouraged this.
Small goals appeared just out of reach: a stuffed animal placed slightly farther away, a gentle call from Hikari, subtle encouragement from the servants. It felt less like casual childcare and more like early movement therapy.
A ninja world, I reminded myself.
Of course they would start early.
Unfortunately, I was never left unsupervised. Someone was always watching, always nearby, which made exploring the house freely impossible. Every inch of progress came with eyes on me.
Still, my world expanded in other ways.
Language, for one.
By now, I understood nearly everything spoken around me. Only the occasional unfamiliar term slipped past me, usually something technical or steeped in clan-specific context. Conversations between adults became a constant source of information, especially when visitors arrived.
The elders.
Old men and women with sharp voices and sharper gazes, who came and went with measured steps and formal tones. They spoke at length with Hiashi, discussing matters of clan business and village politics.
From listening, it became clear that while they advised, they did not command. Decisions rested firmly with Hiashi alone.
That, at least, was reassuring.
From their conversations, I pieced together the broader situation.
The year before my birth, the Nine-Tails had attacked.
The Fourth Hokage and his wife had died sealing the beast into their newborn son. Reinforcements had arrived too late. Witnesses claimed they had seen the Sharingan in the Nine-Tails' eyes.
The unspoken conclusion was obvious.
Officially, nothing had been proven.
Unofficially, the Uchiha were under suspicion.
Pressure mounted quietly but steadily, their influence eroding under scrutiny and distrust. The Third Hokage's stance, while never stated outright, leaned heavily toward the idea of Uchiha involvement.
Hiashi, from what I could tell, had chosen to align the Hyuga with the Hokage's faction in the name of stability and peace.
I didn't know how to feel about that.
From a political standpoint, I understood the logic. From a broader perspective, it felt… dangerous.
Why would clans like the Uchiha—or the Hyuga—allow themselves to be isolated and pressured this way? If one clan could be cornered, accused, and weakened, what stopped the same tactic from being used against the others?
The entire situation reeked of manipulation.
And Hiruzen…
I couldn't shake the thought that behind his grandfatherly exterior lurked a far more calculating mind. Danzo was obvious in his cruelty, but Hiruzen? He was subtler. More dangerous.
Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do.
I could barely speak.
I had started practicing words, shaping sounds with clumsy baby lips, but forming sentences was still beyond me. Even so, I managed one small surprise.
One day, without really planning it, I addressed Hikari clearly:
"Hikari-sama."
The reaction was immediate.
She froze, eyes widening, then laughed with delight, calling the servants over to witness my "first proper words." She encouraged me to repeat it, again and again, beaming with pride.
It took her a while to realize something was off.
When she gently corrected me, trying to teach me to say "Mama," I decided—quite deliberately—to refuse.
"Hikari-sama."
Again.
And again.
The entire day passed like that.
When Hiashi returned in the evening and Hikari excitedly shared the news, he crouched down and spoke softly to me, coaxing me to call him "Papa."
This time, I obliged.
"Papa."
He melted.
The dignified clan head turned into an utterly besotted father, pulling me into an uncharacteristically tight hug while I repeated the word with exaggerated enthusiasm.
When Hikari tried again afterward, she was met with yet another cheerful:
"Hikari-sama."
Over the next few days, she tried everything—gentle encouragement, playful bribery, exaggerated disappointment.
I held firm.
It wasn't until four days later, when she finally gave up in mock frustration, that I relented.
"Mama."
Her face lit up instantly.
Then, before she could celebrate properly, I added:
"Hikari-sama."
The look she gave me was priceless.
And as she sighed in defeat, I couldn't help but think that maybe—just maybe—being a baby had its advantages.
Especially when no one suspected how much trouble you were capable of causing.