Asahi and Indra were now engaged.
The word hung in Indra's mind like a stone dropped into still water—ripples spreading far and wide. Though it had been said formally in front of the clan elders, it hadn't truly sunk in until much later.
Now, sitting alone with his father in the quiet of their courtyard, it finally came out.
"Why so early?" Indra asked. "We're just children."
Hiroshi didn't respond immediately. He folded his arms into his sleeves and looked out at the garden, where petals from a sakura tree drifted silently through the air.
"It's not about age," he said at last. "It's about blood. About legacy. You are the heir to a powerful bloodline. That means more in this world than feelings or timing. If we waited, if you chose someone else outside the clan—what then? The purity of the Byakugan, the strength we've carried for generations, would weaken."
Indra looked down at his hands. Small, delicate. Not yet hands made for war—but they would be, in time. His father continued, voice gentler now.
"It's not about control, Indra. I chose your mother because I believed in equality between main and branch. I want the same for you. Asahi is not just the elder's granddaughter—she's smart, perceptive, and strong. Give it time. Let her surprise you."
Indra didn't answer. He wasn't sure what he felt—resentment, maybe. Or just confusion. The clash between a modern soul and an old world bound by bloodlines and duty.
-----------
A few days later, the sun had barely risen over the tiled roofs of the Hyuga compound. Mist clung to the stones like silk, and the clan's private training ground felt almost dreamlike in the early light.
Indra stood across from Asahi for the first time since the announcement. They bowed to one another in silence.
This was how it would begin.
Lady Satomi, their instructor, was a graceful and quiet woman with the aura of someone who had seen too many wars. Her movements were like flowing water—gentle but unyielding.
"Today, we begin with form," she said. "The Gentle Fist is not about brute strength. It's about precision. Control. Harmony."
They moved through the opening palm drills—posture, stance, footwork. Open hands struck at invisible points, following the rhythm Satomi demonstrated.
Indra focused hard, but his mind kept drifting. His body moved out of sync.
"Palm flat, Indra. Don't hold tension," Satomi reminded.
"Good correction, Asahi. That's the right flow."
He glanced sideways. Asahi's form was almost textbook-perfect. Her movements were crisp, practiced. She didn't seem nervous. Just focused.
They moved into chakra control exercises—a far more difficult task for children their age. Indra closed his eyes, trying to draw his chakra into his palms, to circulate it and reach toward Asahi's.
It took several attempts, but eventually, a soft, buzzing connection formed between their hands—like static before a storm. It flickered, held for a moment… then broke.
"You're not breathing," Asahi said quietly. "You hold your breath when you focus too hard."
Indra blinked, a little surprised. "I do?"
She nodded. "You did it earlier too. During the palm strikes."
"…Thanks," he muttered, embarrassed.
Then came balance drills—standing on narrow stumps, controlling chakra flow through their legs and feet. Indra's footing slipped more than once. Asahi stood like a statue.
"Do you practice this every day or something?" he asked, climbing back up.
"Of course," she replied, a small smile playing at her lips. "Don't you?"
"…I do now."
They ended the session with breathing meditation beneath a tall tree, seated cross-legged with tea set on a small wooden tray between them. The silence was comfortable for a while. Birds chirped. The wind stirred the leaves above.
Asahi finally spoke.
"You don't like this engagement, do you?"
Indra glanced at her. "It's not about liking or not liking. I just… wasn't expecting it. It feels strange."
"Because we're kids?"
"That… and other things."
She turned toward him, curious. "What kind of things?"
He hesitated. "Things I can't explain. Not yet."
She nodded slowly, taking a sip of her tea. "Okay. You don't have to explain now."
"…Thanks."
"You're different," she said after a moment. "From the others. You don't look at me like I'm just another clan member."
He smirked faintly. "Maybe because you're not. You're faster than me. More balanced. I can see that already."
"I don't care about being faster," she said. "I just want to be strong enough to protect what matters."
Her voice was soft, but steady. Honest.
Indra looked at her differently then—not as a burden, not as a symbol of duty. But as a person. Just like him. Caught in this web of blood and expectation.
"…I think we'll be alright," he said at last.
She smiled, for real this time. "I think so too."
Maybe, he thought, this wasn't a prison. Maybe it could be something else entirely.
------
In the days that followed, Indra and Asahi trained together almost daily. What began as awkward, quiet sessions gradually turned into something else.
Laughter.
Teasing.
Encouragement.
When one fell, the other waited. When one struggled, the other helped.
They practiced Gentle Fist forms until their hands ached, balanced on water until they fell in, and worked on sparring drills that left them covered in bruises. They even began meeting outside training—sometimes in the garden, sometimes near the koi pond, sometimes just walking through the quieter parts of the compound, speaking of things children rarely put to words.
There was a stillness in Asahi's presence that grounded Indra. She didn't pry when he went quiet. She didn't pressure him with expectations. And slowly, Indra began to let go of his resistance.
He still carried the weight of his memories—of a world far beyond this one—but here, now, in the heart of a clan bound by duty, there was something oddly comforting about their strange friendship. He began to see Asahi not just as a future he hadn't chosen, but as someone who understood the same burdens he did. Even at their young age, they were heirs to something older, deeper, and far heavier than themselves.
A year passed, and Indra's bond with Asahi grew. Their daily training, once stiff and uncomfortable, had turned into something familiar, even comforting. They were no longer just partners in a forced engagement—they had become friends.
But the world around them was shifting.
One night, whispers spread through the Hyuga compound like wildfire. Even as a child, Indra could feel the tension in the air, the hushed conversations, the grim expressions on the faces of the elders. Then, the news came.
Hashirama Senju was dead.
Indra sat in his room, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing.
He had known this would happen. Hashirama was a god among shinobi, but even gods had limits. His battle with Madara Uchiha four years ago had been the greatest fight in history, reshaping the very landscape of the Valley of the End. But that fight had also cost him dearly. Many had speculated that Hashirama had come out of the battle unscathed—but Indra knew better.
In his past life, he had spent hours reading theories on forums, dissecting every possibility about Hashirama's decline. And now, standing in this world, the truth was clearer than ever.
The answer was simple: cellular mitosis limit.
Hashirama's healing ability was beyond anything human. He could regenerate fatal injuries, regrow lost limbs, and heal wounds instantly. But regeneration wasn't without consequences. Every cell had a limit to how many times it could divide before it began to break down. His battle with Madara had pushed him past that threshold.
His own strength had killed him.
Four years ago, Hashirama had stepped down as Hokage, passing the mantle to Tobirama Senju. Many had assumed it was for political reasons—to help stabilize the village, to implement the systems Tobirama had envisioned. But Indra saw the deeper truth. Hashirama had stepped down because he knew he was dying.
And now, he was gone.
Indra clenched his fists.
With Hashirama alive, the other villages had kept their aggression in check. He was the only thing standing between them and Konoha's destruction. But with him dead, the balance had crumbled. The Land of Fire was the richest and most fertile among all nations. The other villages, jealous of Konoha's prosperity, had no reason to hold back anymore.
The war began swiftly.
All four great villages—Kumogakure, Iwagakure, Kirigakure, and Sunagakure—turned their eyes toward Konoha. Tensions that had been simmering for years erupted into full-scale invasion. The First Shinobi War had begun.
And soon, the Hyuga would be called to battle.
Indra watched the elders gather in the main hall, their voices sharp and urgent. His father, Hiroshi, sat at the head, his expression unreadable. The time for peace had ended.
Even as a child, Indra knew—his world was about to change forever.