Chapter 16: The Unspoken Truth and a New Foe
The Anbu ninja's question was a needle, probing for a weakness, a secret, or a miscalculation. Reitō met his gaze with his own placid white eyes.
"Intuition," he replied, the single word offered as both an answer and a dismissal.
In truth, when his Byakugan had first activated in the room, his internal vision had provided a starkly different assessment. The three examiners at the table glowed with dozens of active tenketsu points, signs of their chūnin-level cultivation. But the man by the door… his chakra network was a constellation. The number of opened and refined release points was not just higher; it was of a different order of magnitude, dense and efficient like a coiled spring. That man was not staff; he was a predator wearing sheep's clothing. Reitō had placed his bet on that hidden power.
His brief, almost bored reply clearly irritated the Anbu operative, who was accustomed to more fearful or obsequious responses.
Before the Anbu could press further, the other chūnin examiners, recovering from their shock, found their voices. "Why would Lord Hokage send an Anbu operative here?" Ino asked, his tone a mix of awe and trepidation.
"The Hokage deemed it prudent to have an independent observer ensure the integrity of this year's assessments," the Anbu replied smoothly, his gaze sweeping over Uchiha Fusa, who stood rigidly, the kunai-mark on his throat a brand of shame. "To prevent any… partisan influence from compromising the selection of Konoha's future."
He took a step toward Fusa. "Uchiha Fusa. You will come with me. Your conduct has invalidated your role as an examiner. You will explain your actions directly to the Hokage."
The color drained completely from Fusa's face, leaving him ashen. A summons before the Hokage under these circumstances was not just a reprimand; it was a career-ending, clan-shaming catastrophe.
As he turned to leave, the Anbu paused beside Reitō. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for the boy's ears. "Congratulations on your admission, young Hyūga. My own… intuition tells me we will see you in the black ops one day. I look forward to it."
The words were neither warm nor threatening. They were a statement of fact, a marker placed. Then he was gone, ushering a defeated Uchiha Fusa out of the room.
With the primary obstacle removed, the remaining formalities were swift. The two examiners, now sobered and intensely focused, stamped Reitō's assessment sheet with decisive finality.
Hyūga Reitō:
Assessment Result: A
Performance: Exceptional
Recommendation: Class A
Seeing the bold, official script, a genuine, unburdened smile finally broke through Reitō's composed facade. The first, most impossible gate had been forced open.
From the moment Reitō had entered the examination room, the buzz of speculation outside had never fully died down. Other candidates had emerged in minutes, their fates clear on their faces. But Reitō had been inside for an unnaturally long time. The muffled sounds from within—raised voices, sharp noises that could have been combat—had only fueled the mystery.
When the door finally opened, it wasn't Reitō who emerged first, but the two examiners, followed swiftly by an unknown chūnin and a pale, stricken-looking Uchiha Fusa, who vanished down the hall without a glance. The strange procession left the waiting children in stunned silence.
Then Reitō walked out. His face was carefully neutral, wiped clean of the earlier smile, giving nothing away. To the onlookers, he could have been a spectacular success or a humiliating failure. The ambiguity was frustrating.
The examiner called the next name. "Namikaze Minato!"
The boy with the sunshine hair walked past. As he did, Reitō spoke, his voice low but clear. "Do your best. I'll be waiting for you in Class A."
Minato paused, a flicker of surprise in his blue eyes, then responded with a firm, respectful nod. The exchange did not go unnoticed.
Reitō intended to leave, to process the whirlwind of the last hour in solitude. He didn't get far.
"Hyūga Reitō. Did I say you could leave?"
Hyūga Mōri blocked his path, his expression a familiar mask of arrogant disdain. The spectacle had drawn every eye in the hallway. Reitō, weary from the chakra expenditure and mental strain, had no patience for this. He tried to step around him.
Mōri shifted, cutting him off again. "Step aside," Reitō said, his voice flat, a warning in its simplicity.
"Not until you show me," Mōri demanded, his eyes locked on the folded assessment sheet in Reitō's hand. "Show me your results. Let's see if the clan's embarrassment managed to scrape by into Class C, or if you've finally accepted your place as the village's laughingstock."
He held out his hand, not to take, but to demand submission. It was a power play, pure and simple, meant to reassert the hierarchy that Reitō had just spent everything to defy. The surrounding children fell silent, the air thickening with anticipation. This was a clash more relatable to them than secret Anbu and chūnin disputes—a direct, personal challenge between clan heirs.
Reitō looked at the outstretched hand, then at Mōri's smug, expectant face. He didn't move to hand over the paper. Instead, he let a slow, cold smile touch his lips. The fatigue seemed to melt away, replaced by a focused intensity. He had just faced down a biased chūnin and an Anbu operative. He would not be bullied by a spoiled child.
"The report card isn't for you," Reitō said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet hall. "But if you're so desperate to know my place… I'll show you."
He didn't reach for the paper. He simply stood still. For Mōri and the others, nothing happened. But for Reitō, with his inner vision active, it was a simple matter of will. A tiny, precise surge of chakra, directed not for movement, but for a single, targeted release at a point just below Mōri's outstretched wrist—a minor tenketsu governing muscle response in the hand.
There was no flash, no sound. But Hyūga Mōri's commanding, outstretched hand suddenly twitched violently, then went limp, falling to his side as if the strings had been cut. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped him. He stared at his own unresponsive fingers, confusion and dawning horror on his face.
Reitō hadn't thrown a punch, formed a seal, or used a ninjutsu. He had simply… affected him. It was a demonstration of control so subtle, so surgical, that it was infinitely more terrifying than any show of brute force.
"Class A," Reitō stated, the two words dropping into the stunned silence like stones. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. He simply stepped around the frozen, wide-eyed Mōri and walked down the hall, the proof of his statement not in the paper he carried, but in the useless hand of the main family heir he left behind. The message was clearer than any stamp on a form: the "tail feather" was gone. Something new had taken flight.