The morning after my conversation with Father passed quietly, but there was a tension beneath the surface that I could feel even before anyone spoke of it.
At breakfast, Hikari watched me more closely than usual, her gaze thoughtful rather than playful. I did my best to act normal, eating slowly, posture straight, movements controlled. Whatever decision had been made the night before, it clearly wasn't something she intended to announce lightly.
Only later that morning did she finally speak.
She told me that she would be talking to the instructors, as well as to Hizashi, about my request to begin proper training. She didn't frame it as a promise or a refusal—just a statement, calm and measured, as if the outcome was still being weighed.
I waited.
That afternoon felt longer than it had any right to be. I kept myself occupied with light movement, stretching, and minimal chakra work—nothing that might draw attention or test patience. When Hikari returned, she knelt in front of me and met my eyes directly.
I would begin training.
Not immediately, she said, but starting tomorrow.
That single word—tomorrow—settled heavily in my chest.
The next morning came quickly.
Instead of the layered kimonos and dresses I'd grown accustomed to, Hikari dressed me in my training clothes: simple, practical garments meant for movement. The same kind I wore when playing and training lightly with Neji. Loose enough to move freely, sturdy enough to endure repetition and strain.
When she finished adjusting the fabric, she gave me a small, encouraging smile.
Then we left the house.
It struck me almost immediately that this was the first time I was truly leaving our house itself, rather than simply moving between rooms or into the inner courtyard of the estate. As we walked, I paid close attention to everything around me.
Winter still held the Hyuga compound in its grip. Snow lay piled along the inner paths of the estate, packed down where servants and clan members passed regularly. The walkways were carefully cleared, damp and darkened by meltwater, and a few members of the household moved quietly from one building to another, bundled against the cold, their breath visible in the air.
The architecture around me was unmistakably traditional—wooden buildings, tiled roofs, sliding doors, and covered walkways connecting different wings of the estate. And yet, even here, subtle signs of modern comfort were present: discreet heating units, insulated walls, warm air flowing from inside. Flowing water, controlled warmth, and electric conveniences existed side by side with an aesthetic that felt centuries old.
It was a strange mixture.
A patchwork of eras stitched together by chakra.
After a short walk—barely two minutes—we arrived at the training grounds. An open area lay before us, its surface packed flat and clear of snow. Beside it stood a larger structure, solidly built, clearly meant for indoor training when weather turned hostile.
Waiting for us was a man who appeared slightly older than Father, his posture straight and disciplined. The moment we approached, he bowed deeply.
"Hikari-sama."
Then he turned to me and bowed again, even lower.
"Hinata-hime."
The respect in his voice was unmistakable.
He introduced himself as Hanato Hyuga—my instructor. He explained that he had been informed of my wish to begin training early and that he had been instructed to apply the same foundational regimen used for the other children.
I returned his bow as best I could and introduced myself properly, thanking him for his time and effort with the utmost politeness I could manage.
His expression softened slightly.
"Then let us begin," he said. "We will start with the basics."
The first phase was warm-up.
For two full hours, Hanato guided me through stretching and conditioning exercises. Slow, deliberate movements designed to loosen joints, lengthen muscles, and prepare the body for strain. We worked from the neck down—shoulders, arms, spine, hips, legs—nothing rushed, nothing skipped.
After that came strength training.
Small weights at first, scaled carefully to my size. Lifting, holding, lowering. Repetition after repetition. Every major muscle group was engaged in turn, with strict attention paid to posture and breathing. Whenever my form slipped, Hanato corrected me immediately, adjusting the angle of my arms or the position of my feet with calm precision.
As the session continued, I realized something.
This wasn't unfamiliar.
Much of it mirrored what I already did daily with Hikari—only stricter, longer, and less forgiving. With controlled chakra reinforcement, the exercises remained manageable. Demanding, yes, but not overwhelming.
By the end of the two hours, I was breathing a little harder, muscles warm and heavy—but far from exhausted.
Hanato noticed.
He studied me for a moment, eyes sharp, then nodded faintly. He commented that my fatigue was minimal and that my foundational form was already well developed. The fact that he rarely needed to correct me spoke volumes.
After a short fifteen-minute break, during which Hikari excused herself, the training resumed.
This time, it was combat training.
Hanato began by teaching me basic stances. One after another, he demonstrated, then had me copy them. Feet placement, weight distribution, posture. He guided me from one stance into the next, then into a third, forcing smooth transitions rather than static poses.
Again and again.
Whenever my arms drifted too far or my balance wavered, he corrected me, sometimes with words, sometimes by physically adjusting my position. Each correction was precise, purposeful.
The hours passed slowly.
More stances were added, gradually increasing in number until there were sixteen in total. Hanato called them out in no particular order, forcing me to shift instantly from one to another. The sequence changed constantly, leaving no room for memorization—only understanding.
By the end of the third hour, my legs trembled slightly, my muscles sore but steady.
The session ended.
Hanato and Hikari exchanged a few quiet words I couldn't make out, then Hikari returned to my side. We began the walk home.
Halfway there, my steps slowed. Hikari noticed immediately and offered to carry me.
I refused, insisting that I was strong enough to walk the rest of the way.
She smiled, but didn't argue.
As we walked, she asked how the training had been and whether I still wanted to continue.
I told her the truth—that it was exhausting and repetitive, but that I understood why the foundations mattered. That without them, everything else would collapse.
She nodded in approval.
We walked the rest of the way home together, the weight of the day settling into my muscles.
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