Once, a breeder sought perfection—a dog that loved the water and swam with ease. So they crossed a Labrador, a natural swimmer, with a Bulldog, sturdy and strong.
But instead of the best of both, they created a failure. A dog that adored the water yet couldn't swim. It would race toward the lake, tail wagging, paws eager—only to sink the moment it stepped in.
Genzou's breath hitched.
His Byakugan flared, veins bulging as he scrutinized the boy before him. He had seen the glow of the Curse Mark, had expected the inevitable—agony, collapse, the searing pain meant to drive Akai to his knees.
But Akai stood. Unfazed. Untouched.
"How in the world—" Genzou's voice barely rose above a whisper.
Akai met his gaze, then glanced at the green sigil flickering on his forehead. Active, yet useless. A realization settled in his chest—a quiet, bitter amusement.
He was a defect.
His eyes were the water he longed for. His chakra, his ability to swim. A failed hybrid. Two powerful bloodlines meant to forge something greater—yet they clashed instead. His Byakugan granted clarity. His red eye, perception. But his chakra? Insufficient. Too little. Too weak.
So he turned to cursed energy.
And it worked.
The Curse Mark had failed because it relied on something he barely possessed—chakra. There simply wasn't enough to fuel its effects. Pain might have come, but the intended necrosis, the damage meant to cripple his brain and eyes? It never took hold.
Then came Addition.
A simple implementation, yet utterly disruptive. His Nullification Technique severed the chakra flow before the Curse Mark could even root itself. He had broken the system.
"For an elder... you're quite emotional. Irrational, too."
Akai exhaled.
"Insignificant."
They had said it over and over—Akai did not feel emotions like normal people. He felt curiosity. Satisfaction in its fulfillment.
So what was this?
Annoyance.
Annoyance that something so trivial was happening now. Had he been careless? He had no secret lab, no grand deception. And yet, only Genzou had come for answers.
Hiashi hadn't. The Third Hokage, who had sent the ANBU, hadn't. Even the ANBU agent tailing him likely had no clue why they were assigned to watch him in the first place.
Nothing was confirmed.
Which meant Genzou's actions weren't just reckless. They were baseless. A dying old man grasping for something—anything—in one last act of arrogance.
Then that meant...
Genzou had always known.
It was never the Kyūbi's chakra.
He had been there the night the beast attacked. He had seen it through the Byakugan, watched as its vile, corrosive energy swallowed the village in chaos.
What Akai had was different.
Yet, he had let the lie fester. He had let the accusations build, let Takahiro's suggestion of "Kyūbi's chakra" remain uncontested—even when Akai, with his usual lazy-eyed disinterest, had admitted it like a bored child agreeing to nonsense.
That brat had been lying.
Or perhaps, in some twisted way, he wasn't.
But it didn't matter. Not to Genzou. Because in the end, his hatred was never truly about Akai's power.
It was about that damn eye.
The red eye that had no place in a Hyūga.
That was the real reason. The false leniency, the relentless discipline—it had never been about control. It had always been about resentment. Antagonizing for no reason. Hating because it was easy.
Akai's words echoed back—mocking, sharp.
Irrational. Emotional.
Genzou grit his teeth.
Then the child stepped forward. Deliberate. Heavy.
His aura—wrong.
That smoke-like cursed energy flared around him, thickening, shifting unnaturally in the air. The lapse had deepened—a shift Genzou felt in his very bones.
And then—
A surge.
Addition was applied. The forces multiplied in real time—the sheer, impossible difference between a child's body and an adult's was countered through pure energy manipulation.
Chakra met cursed energy.
And for the first time...
Genzou felt pressure.
A real, undeniable force.
Akai was no longer counting his output—he no longer needed to.
The cursed energy in his lapse surged forward, relentless.
And Genzou?
His eyes darkened, jaw locking. "You—"
"A defect?" Akai finished for him, voice steady. "Yeah. I agree with that fully."
Silence.
Genzou said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say.
For the first time, he had to acknowledge it.
This boy—this so-called failure—was no ordinary defect.
The air between them grew heavier.
For the first time since the fight began, Genzou shifted into a proper stance. His usual condescending posture—arms behind his back, chin tilted downward, eyes dismissing Akai like an insect—was gone.
Instead, his feet slid into position, knees bent, arms raised. His Byakugan remained focused, every muscle in his body poised for the next exchange.
Subtle, but undeniable.
Acknowledgment.
Akai exhaled.
He adjusted his own stance—both hands raised, but spread wide. Not the traditional Hyūga form, not the refined precision of the Gentle Fist. His was looser, unorthodox. Built for mobility rather than strict control.
A contrast of styles.
One, the textbook-perfect form of a Hyūga elder, sharpened through decades of discipline and mastery. The other, a child's improvisation—untamed, shifting, built from instinct rather than tradition.
For the first time, they faced each other as true combatants.
Not elder and child.
Opponent against opponent.
.
.
.
The Hyūga Training Hall quaked under the relentless force of their battle.
The crash of bodies, the snap of splintering wood, the ringing impact of flesh against flesh—it all blended into a chaotic symphony of destruction. The very air trembled beneath the clash of chakra and cursed energy.
And then—
A sharp crack as Akai's heel met Genzou's raised forearm—blocked at the last second. The elder twisted, palm surging forward—a precise strike aimed directly at Akai's heart.
Instinct.
Akai's body twisted midair, cursed energy flaring wildly—blackened outlines against the crimson lapse. The technique was crude, unrefined, but the force behind it was undeniable.
Their palms met in a thunderous collision.
The floor beneath them splintered.
A shockwave erupted, dust and debris scattering through the ruined hall.
Yet neither fell.
They lunged forward again.
Genzou moved first—his Byakugan locked onto every minute shift in Akai's stance. His fingers blurred, striking with pinpoint precision.
Two palms.
Four.
Eight.
A pattern as natural as breathing.
But Akai did not collapse.
Instead—he twisted through the strikes, his body weaving in and out of Genzou's range unnaturally. His movements were no longer just Hyūga—they were something else entirely.
A fist, sharp like a spear.
Genzou blocked—but the impact rattled his bones. His sleeve tore, blood splattering onto the broken floor.
The elder's eyes narrowed. "This is not the Hyūga way."
Akai grinned through bloodied lips. "Yeah?"
He kicked off the ground, closing the distance instantly—his cursed energy howling.
"Then maybe the 'Hyūga way' is just too weak!"
Genzou's face darkened.
The hall trembled as their fists met—chakra against cursed energy, rigid discipline against raw, unrestrained power.
Each strike landed heavier.
Each exchange turned sloppier.
They blurred in and out of sight—vanishing, reappearing—their battle no longer just a test of skill, but a clash of will.
Genzou's strikes slammed into Akai—his chest, his ribs, his shoulder. Precision honed over decades.
But Akai was just as merciless. His fist cracked against Genzou's jaw, his knee slammed into his side—
—and then, teeth sank into flesh.
A torn chunk of skin ripped away.
Genzou snarled. "You little—"
Akai spat it onto the floor. "Tastes like shit."
Their breathing grew ragged. Their bodies swayed.
And yet—
Neither fell.
Beyond the hall, the Hyūga compound stirred. Lanterns flickered to life in the distance. Footsteps shuffled.
The whispers rose.
Something was happening.
Something big.
But inside the hall—there was only the fight.
The moment stretched.
Genzou blurred—even wounded, his speed was terrifying. His feet barely kissed the ruined floor before he was upon Akai again.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
The first strike landed.
Then the second. The third. The fourth.
A blur of strikes erupted like a storm.
Eight Trigrams—One Hundred Twenty-Eight Palms!
Each blow, a pinpoint of destruction, aimed to sever Akai's chakra flow completely. Genzou's hands—despite his wounds—moved with practiced precision, an execution honed through decades of Hyūga mastery.
Akai felt it—the numbing sensation crawling through his limbs. Faster. Sharper. More refined, even in Genzou's injured state.
By the time the elder reached the final strike—the 128th blow—Akai's body was momentarily locked in place.
Then—
A breath of movement. A fraction of a second.
Akai tilted his head.
The strike missed.
The weight of the Hyūga's ultimate technique collapsed into an empty moment—a fractured rhythm, a mistake in execution.
Genzou's pupil shrank.
He—
No time.
He improvised.
Chakra flared, twisting—no longer Gentle Fist, no longer precision.
His fingers tensed—a blade.
A sudden, sharp diagonal slash.
A pale blue hue solidified around his hand, its edge gleaming—
Chakra Scalpel.
SHRRK!
A clean cut.
Akai halted.
For the first time in the fight—he saw his own blood.
A thin, precise gash ran across his chest, slicing through fabric and skin. His kimono, already tattered, peeled apart at the wound. The tasuki came loose, falling away.
Blood soaked through the torn cloth, staining it deep crimson.
A new sensation. A first.
Akai blinked, pressing his fingertips to the wound.
Then—
A slow, wild grin.
"Hahah! What was that again about the Hyūga's way?!"
His voice rang mocking, sharp.
His palm pressed against the open gash—
—and then it was gone.
Flesh knitted together instantly, the blood flow reversing, the wound erasing itself as though it had never existed.
Reversed Cursed Technique.
A whisper of it.
Barely intentional.
Yet the damage was undone entirely.
Akai exhaled, steady. His posture relaxed, as if the wound had never existed.
Genzou's eyes narrowed.
Again. That unnatural healing.
Again. That chakra.
His mouth opened—
"Again with that chakra—"
Then—
Everything froze.
A pressure.
A suffocating weight.
—SHUT IT. Akai's voice. Cold.
His red-and-white eyes turned toward Genzou.
And the elder—shuddered.
A man who had dedicated his life to discipline, to mastering his mind and body—felt his blood run cold.
The air thickened.
The cursed energy leaking from Akai wasn't like before.
It wasn't a quiet hum.
It was malice.
A dark, formless pressure that clawed at the edges of reality.
Genzou clenched his teeth. He would not—could not—falter.
And yet—
"I don't desire to sit down and try to correct you."
Akai's voice was final.
Then—a realization.
If a grown man could throw a tantrum about bloodlines and traditions—
If a grown man could wage a pointless fight, ignoring reason, abandoning discipline—
Then why couldn't he?
Who was the child here?
The one forced to endure these mindless tests?
Or the man blinded by his own emotions?
A slow exhale.
And then—
Akai moved.
A flicker. A step.
And in one unfocused moment—
His fingers dug deep.
RIP!
A sickening, wet tear.
A limb separated from its body.
Genzou staggered back—his arm missing.
Blood sprayed.
A beat of silence.
Then—
The elder screamed.
"T-This weakling actually—!!"
His voice tore through the ruined hall, hoarse with disbelief, rage—
And something far worse.
Shock.
His severed arm had yet to hit the ground—
But the reality struck harder than any blow.
Blood poured freely, pooling beneath his staggering form.
The gaping space where his limb had been burned with agony—
But nothing compared to the insult of it all.
That child.
That abomination.
Akai had ripped his arm from him.
And yet—
He wasn't even looking at Genzou.
His red-and-white eye flickered downward, studying the severed limb in his grip.
Fingers flexed. Testing its weight.
Then—
His lips curled.
A grin.
Amused. Unbothered.
Genzou's Byakugan flared. His remaining hand clenched.
That boy was laughing.
His stance wavered.
But his hatred did not.
"You—!!"
Chakra surged—raw, unrestrained. He would end this child.
And then—
A blur.
A shift in space.
Too fast.
"That is enough."
A voice.
Steady. Composed. Absolute.
A figure now stood between them.
Tall. Balanced. Unyielding.
ANBU.
Porcelain masked his face—smooth, unmarked. His armor, standard-issue black, clung to his frame.
But there was nothing standard about him.
Genzou's Byakugan locked onto him instantly.
And in that moment—
He knew.
Not by sight.
Not by voice.
But by the sheer impossibility of his movement.
The Body Flicker.
His gaze darkened. Fury cooled into something far colder.
"...Shunshin."
Akai blinked.
Who?
He had never heard that name before.
But Genzou had.
And that was why—despite the pain, the fury, the unbearable humiliation—
He did not move.
The moment stretched.
Then—like the final echo of battle—
Genzou's severed arm fell.
Not from Akai's grip.
From Shisui's.
It landed at Genzou's feet with a wet thud—untouched, intact.
Neither of them had even seen when Shisui had taken it.
Genzou's Byakugan pulsed.
He should have seen it.
But he hadn't.
His jaw clenched. The shame was unbearable.
Shisui, unmoving, finally spoke again.
"The Hokage was aware of this from the beginning."
Calm. Absolute.
Genzou's expression twisted.
Pain. Frustration. Realization.
"...The Lord Third."
His voice was low.
Shisui didn't acknowledge the name.
He only continued.
"You were warned that the boy's power was not linked to the Kyūbi. The reports made that clear."
A sharp, undeniable truth.
Genzou's teeth ground together. He had read the reports.
Day after day.
Confirmation after confirmation.
He had ignored them.
Because the truth mattered less than his hatred for that eye.
Akai, still catching his breath, blinked.
So even the Hokage had known.
And yet—
Nothing was done.
Genzou exhaled sharply, ignoring the raw agony in his shoulder.
"...And yet you allowed it to continue."
Shisui tilted his head slightly.
"We were ordered to."
Genzou scoffed, blood dripping onto the ruined floorboards.
He knew what that meant.
Hiruzen Sarutobi—the Hokage—had been watching.
Waiting.
And still, he had done nothing.
His voice came quieter now, but edged with venom.
"So... he knows too, doesn't he? That it was Elder Danzō who wanted the boy 'disciplined'?"
Shisui did not answer.
He didn't need to.
He simply shifted—barely perceptible.
But even in that stillness, his presence was absolute.
This battle was over.
And they all knew it.
.
.
.
To be continued.