After my second birthday passed, life settled back into something resembling a rhythm.
The house grew quieter again, the stream of elders and visitors thinning until only the familiar presence of my parents, the servants, and the occasional guest remained. For me, that meant returning to routine—training, observation, and careful restraint. Whatever tension had lingered in the air after the Hokage's visit faded into the background, never fully gone, but no longer pressing.
I used that calm to continue my chakra training.
By now, shaping chakra outside my body had become second nature. Threads were easy. Points, lines, and planes followed without much effort. Over time, those simple constructs evolved into something more complex. I learned to form rigid shapes, then articulated ones—straight rods, curved blades, blunt edges, even flexible segments that behaved like chains or nunchaku.
Swords.
Daggers.
Shuriken.
All of them made from chakra alone.
The irony was painful.
I could form weapons, refine their balance, even adjust their weight and density with alarming precision—and yet I couldn't actually use them. Swinging a chakra blade in secret inside my room was out of the question, and anything more than the smallest movement would immediately attract attention. So the constructs remained theoretical, hovering in controlled stillness before dissolving back into nothing.
It was frustrating, but I reminded myself that this, too, was progress. Control mattered more than application—for now.
About two weeks after my birthday, Neji came to visit again.
That alone wasn't unusual anymore. He showed up regularly now, almost like clockwork, and our time together had long since stopped feeling like a formal obligation. That afternoon, we were in the courtyard, navigating the familiar obstacles that had become part playground, part training ground.
Neji was unusually energetic.
"I'm training with Father now," he announced suddenly as we moved around a low wooden barrier. His voice carried a mix of pride and excitement that he clearly hadn't learned how to hide yet.
I glanced at him, curious. "Training?"
He nodded vigorously. "Taijutsu. Real forms."
Without waiting for permission, he stopped and demonstrated, feet shifting into position, arms moving in careful, deliberate motions. The form was simple—basic stances, guarded strikes, controlled steps—but for someone a full year older than me, it was still impressive.
"I have to practice for hours," he continued, breathless. "The instructors make me repeat everything again and again. If I mess up, I start over."
"That sounds hard," I said honestly.
Neji puffed up a little. "It is. But they say I learn fast. Faster than most."
That, I believed.
I watched closely, memorizing every movement, every subtle shift of weight. "Can you show me too?" I asked, keeping my tone light, casual.
Neji hesitated.
"I'm not supposed to," he said finally. "They said you're still too small."
I frowned. "But you're only a year older."
He shook his head. "They said you're… delicate."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
"What if you just show me a little?" I pressed. "I won't tell anyone."
He looked torn.
I tried bribery next, holding up a small bag of sweets I'd been given earlier. "Bomboms?"
Neji stared at them for a long moment.
Then he shook his head again, clearly conflicted. "No. I'll get in trouble."
I leaned closer and lowered my voice conspiratorially. "I promise. I really won't tell."
That did it.
After a few seconds of internal struggle, he sighed. "Okay. But only a little."
What amused me most wasn't the secret lesson—it was the fact that Neji genuinely believed this was happening unnoticed. I had only recently realized just how closely I was monitored. Through my ever-active Byakugan, I'd learned to spot the subtle signs: an adult lingering just out of sight, a servant whose gaze never fully left us, Hikari herself quietly watching with her own eyes active.
Neji, blissfully unaware, began teaching.
He showed me grips, stances, and transitions, explaining them with the confidence of someone repeating instructions he barely understood himself. I followed along, mimicking his movements as best I could, filing away corrections in my mind.
After the third such "lesson," spread out over several weeks, I reached a conclusion.
Neji was serious.
Dedicated.
But he was not a teacher.
Which led me to a decision.
That evening, I approached Hikari.
"Mama," I said deliberately, savoring the way her attention snapped fully to me at the word. "Neji is training Taijutsu."
Her expression didn't change, but her eyes sharpened slightly. "I know."
I paused. "You… know?"
She nodded. "And I know he's been trying to show you."
I swallowed. "I want to train too."
Hikari studied me for a long moment. "It's still too early for you," she said gently. "Your body needs time."
I tried again. "I beat Neji in races. And the obstacle course."
That earned a small smile.
"And," I added quickly, "everything he showed me, I already know."
Her eyebrow lifted. "Oh?"
She gestured toward the open space. "Then show me."
I did.
The forms weren't perfect. Some movements were off, transitions clumsy—but the structure was there. Hikari watched silently, correcting nothing until I finished.
When I stopped, she exhaled slowly.
"These differences," she said thoughtfully, "aren't mistakes. They're misunderstandings. Exactly what happens when children teach children."
She met my eyes. "If you train, it will be strict. Exhausting. And once you start, there will be no quitting halfway."
I didn't hesitate. "I want that."
She nodded. "Then we will do this properly."
That night, during dinner, Hiashi was informed.
He listened without interruption, then turned to me. "Training is not a game," he said calmly. "If you begin, you will finish. There is no stopping because it becomes difficult."
I met his gaze. "I understand."
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded once.
"Very well."
And just like that, the first door opened.
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