Chapter 22: The Calculus of Power and the Glint of Steel
The words of the Second Elder were a splash of cold water on the Clan Patriarch's mounting fury. They reframed the scene from a matter of discipline to one of existential calculus. The Hyūga clan was not an island. The world outside their compound walls was a chessboard of shifting alliances and looming war. The Land of Rain was a bleeding wound, and the ambitious Earth Country, its rocky fingers already stained, would not be satisfied until it had swallowed its neighbor whole. When that happened, the Fire Country's placid neutrality would shatter. Konoha would march.
And when Konoha marched, the Hyūga would be expected to contribute their most valuable—and most expendable—assets: the Byakugan of the Branch Family. They were the forward scouts, the vanguard, the living shields. A broken, terrified branch family, stripped of all hope and spirit, might obey, but they would fight without heart, without ingenuity. They would die in droves, and their deaths would not be noble sacrifices for the clan, but resentful surrenders. And if too many branches were sheared off… the Main Family itself would eventually have to step into the bloody mud of the battlefield. Their pristine hands would be stained. Their precious, direct-line blood would be spilled.
The Patriarch's gaze, pulled from Reitō's tortured form, swept across the faces of the assembled Branch Family. What he saw sent a jolt of cold realization through him. His intended object lesson had curdled into something toxic. The fear was there, yes—a deep, trembling fear of the cage and its key. But it was now layered with something far more dangerous: a black, smoldering hatred. Their eyes, which usually held a downcast acceptance, now glittered with a flat, cold fury. They did not look upon the Main Family with awe or even resigned subservience; they stared with the detached, assessing hostility of prisoners watching their jailers. In their silence, he heard not submission, but a vow deferred.
This was not control. This was the planting of seeds for a future rebellion. He had sought to cauterize a wound and was instead fostering an infection.
"Enough," the Patriarch's voice rang out, a note of finality replacing the earlier wrath. "Third Elder, desist. The Second Elder's counsel holds wisdom." He paused, his voice shifting into the measured tones of a statesman delivering a verdict. "Hyūga Reitō's transgression against clan hierarchy has been met with appropriate and severe correction. Let his endurance stand as a reminder of the consequences of overstepping."
He then turned his attention to the wider assembly, his tone deliberately softening into one of paternal, if cold, benevolence. "However, the clan is not blind to merit. Hyūga Reitō's accomplishment in gaining entry to Class A brings honor to the Hyūga name. This, too, shall be acknowledged. Henceforth, his monthly stipend shall be raised to match that of a Main Family child of his age. Let it be known: the Main Family recognizes duty and rewards achievement. We are not merely masters and servants; we are the trunk and the branches of the same tree. The trunk provides stability and direction; the branches reach for the sun and bear fruit. Both are essential."
It was a masterful piece of political theater. A brutal public punishment followed by a calculated "mercy" and a material reward. The message was clear: Defy us, and we will inflict unbearable pain. Serve us well, and you may sip from our cup. The integrity of the hierarchy was reaffirmed, while a tiny carrot was dangled to prevent total despair. He was trying to rebuild the psychological cage, reminding the Branch that their well-being, however minimal, flowed from the Main Family's whim.
"Assist Reitō back to his quarters," the Patriarch ordered dismissively, as if dealing with a minor inconvenience now resolved.
From the floor, where he trembled in the aftermath of agony, Reitō managed to lift his head. His voice was a ragged whisper, thick with pain and contempt. "I don't... want it."
Only Hizashi, who had rushed to his side and was hauling him up with a strong arm, heard the muttered refusal. "Not another word," Hizashi hissed urgently, his own face pale with stress. "Just for once, be still. Let's go."
As they staggered past, Hyūga Mōri could not resist. Leaning on his cane, he smirked down at Reitō's broken posture. "You see? Weeds are meant to be trodden upon. They may occasionally sprout in an unwanted place, but their fate is always in the hands of the gardener. Remember that."
Through the haze of pain and nausea, Reitō's head snapped up. His Byakugan, though strained, was still active. He fixed Mōri with a look that contained no fear, no pleading, only a pure, undiluted, and utterly cold promise of violence. It was a gaze that had witnessed its own torture and had decided, in that crucible of pain, that some things could only be answered in blood.
Mōri's smirk died. The words of further gloat caught in his throat, choked by a sudden, primal chill. For the first time, he was not looking at a victim or a rival, but at a predator in temporary distress. The hatred he saw was not hot and blustering, but deep, glacial, and patient.
"Come on, Reitō, ignore him," Hizashi pleaded, pulling him away with increased urgency.
But the look had been exchanged. The line had been drawn deeper than any clan law.
As they disappeared from the hall, Mōri, shaken, tried to reclaim his bravado for the benefit of those still watching. "Hmph! That glare won't save you, Hyūga Reitō! Just you wait for the intra-clan competitions. I'll show you the chasm between a true genius and lucky trash who forgot his place!"
In the days that followed, Reitō became a ghost within the branch compound. He kept to his small room, the door shut against the world. The physical ordeal had passed, but the curse seal had left a deep, psychic scar. Waves of debilitating headaches and vertigo would ambush him without warning, a phantom echo of the Cage's bite. Each time, he would grit his teeth, focus his inner vision, and marshal his chakra to push back against the lingering malevolence embedded in his forehead. It was a constant, exhausting battle, a civil war waged inside his own skull.
Yet, in this painful resistance, he discovered a sliver of progress. As he repeatedly forced his chakra to confront and diffuse the curse's aftershocks, he noticed his control becoming finer, more resilient. And his eyesight, when he tested it during moments of clarity, seemed… sharper. Not in range—the ten-meter wall remained frustratingly firm—but in clarity and depth. The internal structures he could see within that radius became more intricately detailed, the flow of energies more vividly defined. It was as if the curse, in its attempt to break him, was inadvertently tempering his unique vision, honing it against the whetstone of agony.
He was contemplating this bitter silver lining when a quiet knock announced Hizashi's visit.
"How are you holding up?" Hizashi asked, his voice low with concern as he took in Reitō's pallor and the dark circles under his eyes.
Reitō shook his head weakly from his bed. "It comes and goes. Like a sickness I can't sweat out." He paused, his voice dropping to a bare whisper. "I never knew… the Cage could feel like that. It wanted to unmake me from the inside."
A flash of raw, unvarnished anger crossed Hizashi's face, erasing his usual careful composure. "They meant to break you. Just like they…" He caught himself, but the words had already begun to spill out in a heated rush. "Just like they tried with your parents."
The room went very still.
Reitō slowly pushed himself up on his elbows. The fatigue and pain seemed to retreat before a sudden, chilling focus. He fixed Hizashi with a look the older boy had never seen before—not the defiance of the hall, but something older, darker, and utterly serious.
"What," Reitō asked, his voice deathly quiet, each word enunciated with perfect clarity, "did you just say about my parents?"c