Chapter 24: The Thorned Path
The calm in Reitō's eyes, the sheer lack of reaction to his presence, was like salt in a wound for Hyūga Mōri. It wasn't fear or deference; it was a dismissal, as if Reitō were looking through him at something more important. And those eyes—those flawed, supposedly inferior Byakugan—had been activated before his own. The injustice of it festered. Why should you, a branch family reject, awaken before me, the heir? Why are you not broken?
"Weeds are truly tenacious," Mōri sneered, not to Reitō, but to his two lackeys, performing his contempt for an audience. "Look at it. Trampled one day, sprouting right back up the next. Disgusting."
Reitō didn't pause. He simply adjusted his course to walk around them, his focus already miles ahead, on the Academy gates, on the path he had to walk.
Mōri shifted, blocking him again. The game was clear: he would not be ignored. "Where's the fire? I heard you got into Class A. Even the Patriarch called you a 'pride of the Hyūga.'" He spat the words like a curse. "Such a big shot now. Why don't you give us a little demonstration? Let's have a… friendly spar. Right here, right now."
The taunt was a baited hook. Reitō knew Mōri had been barred from the Academy entrance after his humiliating defeat. This petty harassment was the spoiled heir's only remaining outlet for his fury.
"Move," Reitō said, his voice a low monotone. "I don't have time for your games."
"If I don't?" Mōri challenged, puffing out his chest, leaning on the invisible shield of his birthright. "What will you do, branch member?"
One of the attendants, emboldened by his master's posture, piped up with a nervous warning. "Reitō! Don't be a fool! If you lay a hand on the young master again, they'll drag you before the Patriarch. They'll throw you in the clan lock-up! You'll miss your precious Academy!"
The words were a bucket of cold reality. Reitō's fists, clenched at his sides, trembled not with fear, but with the effort of restraint. The image of his mother's broken eyes, of his parents' "convenient" mission, flashed behind his own. This wasn't just about a schoolyard bully. This was the son of his parents' murderer, a piece on the same rotten board. Venting his rage here would be satisfying, but it would be a luxury he couldn't afford. It would give Ryōtomo the perfect excuse to finish what he started.
Hold. What I need is not a moment's satisfaction. What I need is a reckoning.
He forced his fingers to uncurl, his breathing to steady.
Seeing Reitō's apparent submission, the old, familiar arrogance flooded back into Mōri. He mistook control for cowardice. He took a step closer, invading Reitō's space, his voice a condescending whisper. "That's better. A branch dog should remember how to heel."
He threw a lazy, contemptuous punch at Reitō's shoulder—not to injure, but to羞辱, to establish physical dominance one more time.
Snap.
Reitō's hand shot up, catching the fist in mid-air, his grip like iron. His head lifted, and for the first time, he let Mōri see what was in his eyes. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was a cold, pitiless promise of annihilation, a gaze that had seen past pain and into the heart of a blood feud.
Mōri's bravado faltered, a chill running down his spine.
"Hyūga Mōri," Reitō said, his voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the morning breeze, yet each word rang with absolute clarity. "The clan competition. That will be the day we settle all accounts."
Before Mōri could formulate a retort, Reitō's free hand formed a single, swift seal at his side—a subtle feint for any watching eyes.
Bam.
A small puff of dust, and Reitō was simply gone, having used the Body Replacement to swap with a pebble several meters down the path. He didn't look back.
Mōri stood frozen, his fist still held in the empty air where Reitō's hand had been. The cold finality of that statement, coupled with the effortless escape, left him feeling foolish and exposed. Rage, hot and humiliated, boiled over.
"That bastard! He thinks he can challenge me? At the competition? He's delusional!" he shouted to no one.
One of his followers, confused by the intensity of his master's obsession, dared to ask, "Young master… why do we even bother with him? He's just a—"
Mōri's head whipped around, his eyes blazing. "I don't pay you to ask 'why'! I pay you to obey!" The follower cowered, immediately silent.
Mōri stared down the empty path, his mind churning with spite. Reitō wanted to train for their showdown? He wouldn't get the chance.
"Listen carefully," Mōri commanded, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper. "From today, you two will be his shadows. I don't care how you do it. Sabotage his supplies. 'Accidentally' disrupt his training. Spread rumors in the Academy. Make sure every moment of his day is filled with irritation and hassle. He wants to prepare? I want him exhausted, frustrated, and looking over his shoulder until the day of the competition. He will not have a single moment of peace."
Shaking off the lingering foulness of the encounter, Reitō arrived at the Ninja Academy. The bustle of students—some nervous, some boastful, all embarking on the same path—was a strange, jarring normalcy. He found Class A and slipped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it: a cluster of focused, hostile gazes pinning him from the far side of the room. Without even turning his head, his sharpened senses and peripheral vision identified the source. Uchiha. Three of them, their postures stiff, their dark eyes tracking him with undisguised animosity. The fallout from Uchiha Fusa's disgrace had reached the next generation. He was now marked, not just as a Hyūga, but as the specific Hyūga who had humiliated one of their clansmen. The political battlefield of the clan had followed him into the classroom.
He ignored them, finding an empty seat near the middle. He was a island of Hyūga pale in a sea of varied colors and clan insignias.
Just as he settled, a familiar, cheerful voice called out.
"Reitō!"
Namikaze Minato waved from a seat closer to the front, a genuine smile on his face, seemingly untouched by the undercurrents of clan politics. In that moment, his simple, welcoming gesture felt like a lifeline to a world where merit might matter more than bloodline. Reitō managed a small, tight nod in return, the first crack in the icy armor he'd worn since leaving the compound. The Academy was his new forge. Here, he would temper the weapon of his vengeance. And it seemed his first, tentative ally had already declared himself.