Dinner was unusually quiet.
The low clinks of ceramic against lacquered wood punctuated the silence, accompanied only by the faint rustle of fabric as movements shifted across the tatami floor.
The dining room, like the rest of the Hyuga mansion, adhered to strict traditional design—smooth, polished tatami mats, short yet wide tables with perfectly arranged utensils, and a stillness that mirrored the customs of their clan.
For the past few nights, the same familiar faces had gathered here.
Hiashi Hyuga, the clan head, maintained his usual composed demeanor, his presence commanding without effort. Elder Takahiro sat nearby, exuding the quiet weight of experience, while Elder Genzou observed everything in his usual, unreadable silence.
Hinata was there too—the ever-gentle girl, who spoke little during meals yet brought a quiet warmth to the otherwise rigid atmosphere.
There should have been one more.
Hiashi's wife was absent tonight.
Her pregnancy had progressed smoothly, but with her due date drawing near, precautions had been taken. She had already been admitted to the hospital for monitoring—an agreed-upon measure to ensure no complications arose when the time came.
It was safer this way. Necessary.
Still, her absence left a noticeable emptiness at the table.
But tonight, that emptiness was overshadowed by something else.
Yesterday, something had shifted.
For the first time, Neji had joined them.
It had been unexpected.
Hiashi had long since extended the invitation, offering the boy a place at the table despite knowing it would likely be refused. And indeed, Neji had rejected it time and time again, choosing instead to dine alone, maintaining that silent but steadfast distance between himself and the Main House.
Yet, without warning, yesterday, he appeared.
Hiashi had been taken aback, but relief had followed almost instantly. He had been pleased, even if he did not say it aloud.
Neji's presence had been proof of something. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But change.
To Neji, Hiashi was the heartless clan head. The man responsible for his father's death. The figure who upheld the traditions that shackled the branch family into servitude.
And yet, though the resentment still lingered, something had softened. His usual animosity had been absent—not gone, but subdued.
He still regarded Hiashi as a distant figure, as a stranger within his own clan.
But at the very least, he had come.
That had been yesterday's surprise.
Tonight, there was another.
The shoji doors slid open without ceremony.
"Ah, I'm not late today," came the casual remark, breaking the quiet. "Lucky me. My wallet's getting empty these days."
Akai Hyuga entered the room.
Unlike Neji, who had arrived with hesitation, still bound by ingrained formalities, Akai simply walked in.
No greeting. No bow. No customary words of gratitude before taking his seat.
He merely sat—right next to Hinata, his expression one of casual indifference, as if this had been his place all along.
His posture was relaxed, the loose sleeves of his formal kimono shifting slightly as he reached for his chopsticks.
Hiashi, Takahiro, and Genzou could only stare.
Neji, too, had gone still, his grip tightening just slightly around his own utensils.
To say they were surprised was an understatement.
For years, this boy—the child of that couple—had remained distant, existing on the periphery of the Hyuga's main household despite his lineage.
Though he bore the Hyuga name, his presence had always felt... separate. Even more so than Neji's.
Neji, for all his quiet resentment, still acknowledged the weight of the clan's hierarchy. His every action, every glance, carried the burden of that unspoken divide.
Akai, however, was different.
He had never shown the slightest regard for the rules that governed them. Never looked at the Main House with reverence or contempt—only indifference.
And now, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he had joined them for dinner.
Unbothered by the eyes on him, wearing that ever-present expression of mild curiosity, Akai picked up his chopsticks and began to eat.
Dinner had started quietly enough.
Despite the initial surprise of his presence, the meal soon fell into its usual rhythm—ceramic bowls lifted, the faint clink of chopsticks against lacquer, the subdued rustle of fabric shifting over tatami.
But it didn't take long for Akai to disrupt that quiet in his own way.
"Thanks for yesterday's dinner," he remarked offhandedly, glancing at Hinata between bites. No elaboration. Just that.
Hinata blinked, caught off guard, before a small, pleased smile curved her lips.
The simple exchange didn't go unnoticed.
Takahiro, ever watchful, was the first to react. His sharp brows furrowed. "Dinner?" He turned toward Akai.
"You actually ate dinner yesterday?" His voice carried a note of disbelief. "I thought you skipped it like every other time. You're growing like a stick at this rate."
Akai stopped mid-bite, lowering his chopsticks just slightly. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
"Well, this stick here needs more allowance. Would you give him that?"
A vein twitched on Takahiro's forehead. "That money is for a whole month, you brat!"
The exchange escalated quickly, shifting from an ordinary conversation into something almost ridiculous.
Akai's lazy smile remained intact as he leaned into the conversation, while Takahiro looked two seconds away from launching his chopsticks at him.
Elder Genzou exhaled through his nose—an almost imperceptible gesture, but one that carried the weight of either amusement or exasperation. Perhaps both.
Hinata giggled softly.
Even Neji, who had remained silent throughout dinner, glanced toward them—his usual detachment momentarily replaced with something resembling curiosity.
For a fleeting moment, the atmosphere felt... pleasant.
Then, Hiashi spoke.
"How is training for everyone?"
The room stilled.
The warmth from before evaporated, replaced by a thoughtful silence.
Finally, Neji broke it.
"I have a question," he said.
Hiashi raised an eyebrow, signaling for him to continue.
Neji's hands rested lightly against the table as he chose his words with care. "There are techniques you perform," he began, his voice steady, "but as far as I know, those belong to the Main House."
Hiashi's expression remained unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—sharp, assessing.
Neji met it without hesitation. "Is it forbidden for me to learn them through observation?"
A weighted pause followed.
Hiashi's eyes widened—not in shock, but in contemplation.
Of all the things he had anticipated from Neji, this had not been one of them.
His first instinct was to ask if Neji had already done so. But he held back, choosing instead to answer the question at face value.
"No," he said finally, his voice calm and deliberate. "This is not a breach of conduct. If neither I nor the heiress have given you direct instruction, then you bear no fault in this matter."
The meaning behind his words was clear.
If Neji had learned on his own—if he had broken past the limitations imposed upon him—then there was no fault to be found.
"I see," Neji muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze flickered—subtly, but deliberately—toward Akai.
Across the table, the boy sat in the most unbecoming manner imaginable—elbow propped against the surface, chin lazily resting on his palm, his entire posture exuding disinterest.
His other hand, the one holding the chopsticks, moved with an almost unconscious rhythm, bringing rice to his mouth in slow, lethargic motions.
But what truly baffled Neji was how Akai managed to eat without even holding his bowl.
It remained untouched on the table, as though lifting it was too much effort. And yet, grains of rice clung obediently to his chopsticks, making their way to his lips without fail.
It looked absurdly lazy—frankly, idiotic—but Neji knew better.
That nonchalance. That utter lack of urgency.
He had seen it before.
His mind drifted back to their training session—to the moment Akai had revealed the Eight Trigrams Sixty-Four Palms as if it were nothing more than a passing trick.
He knew.
Not only had Akai been aware of the rule about observation, but there was no doubt in Neji's mind that he had learned far more than he had ever let on.
And yet, despite Hiashi's lingering expectation—his subtle but undeniable readiness to hear more—Neji said nothing.
Hiashi, in turn, did not ask.
A heavy silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words, a quiet testament to the awkward distance that still remained.
Hiashi's earlier question—How is training for everyone?—hung in the air, unanswered, ignored.
Finally, Hinata spoke.
Softly, steadily, she spoke of her preparations for the Academy.
There was nothing grand in her words, nothing remarkable—simple remarks about practicing her forms, reviewing chakra control, and looking forward to learning more.
And yet, the table listened.
Then, inevitably, it was Neji's turn.
And then...
Silence.
Akai did not speak.
Takahiro's eye twitched.
This brat.
He was waiting. Watching. Expecting something—anything—from him.
After all, wasn't this the closest thing they had to a family dinner? A rare moment of sharing in a household that barely functioned as one?
And yet, Akai remained silent.
Takahiro clenched his jaw. Irritation bubbled beneath the surface, but he had no real reason to smack the boy like he usually would.
If I could, I'd whack that stupid blank look right off his face just to get a reaction.
Damn it. If he keeps staying quiet, I might just do it anyway.
Just as he opened his mouth, preparing to mask his concern with the usual mockery—Oi, you mute now, brat?—someone else spoke first.
"How is your training going, Akai Hyuga?"
Elder Genzou.
His tone was calm, measured—an ordinary question to anyone else at the table.
But to Akai?
His hands tensed against the table.
He tried not to see them.
The foxes. The birds. They swarmed now.
Like the cursed spirits that had once clung to the servants, grotesque forms whispering, snarling at the edges of his vision.
But this time, the hunger, the bloodlust—it was directed at him alone.
Slowly, lazily, Akai lifted his gaze to meet Genzou's.
"...Training?" He echoed, as if the word was foreign on his tongue.
His voice was too casual.
"Training?" He repeated, his chopsticks still lifting a clump of rice to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then, as if just remembering, tilted his head slightly.
"Well... I think you've known about that for quite a while now yourself, haven't you?"
Genzou did not react immediately.
Hiashi's gaze flickered between them—sharp, unreadable.
Takahiro, who had been moments away from whacking Akai earlier, suddenly leaned back, crossing his arms.
Hinata, oblivious to the undercurrents, merely glanced between them, confused but silent.
Neji, however, was watching. Closely.
The slight narrowing of Genzou's eyes told Akai enough.
Ah... so I was right.
This wasn't just a casual inquiry.
Only recently had he pieced it together—the ANBU agent, lurking just far enough to avoid direct notice but still within reach.
It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. The Hokage had his own men keeping tabs on the blond kid.
But that was the problem.
Those ANBU were supposed to be under the Hokage's command.
So why had that same operative—the one who had been tailing him in the village—suddenly appeared here, within the Hyuga mansion?
More importantly, why only this once?
There was only one plausible reason.
Someone with authority had allowed it.
And more than that—someone had been testing him.
A slow, creeping presence had been pressing against his senses for weeks now. Not overtly hostile, but persistent.
Patient.
Sending bloodlust little by little, bit by bit, as if gauging his reactions.
As if trying to draw something out.
Akai met Genzou's stare evenly.
A tense silence settled over the room. The weight of unspoken words, of unacknowledged challenges and lingering suspicion, thickened the air.
Genzou's gaze lingered on Akai, his sharp, assessing eyes betraying nothing but cold scrutiny.
Though his posture remained composed, something in the way his fingers rested lightly against the table—too still, too precise—hinted at quiet restraint.
Then, without another word, he moved.
The faint rustle of fabric accompanied the shift of his weight as he pushed himself to his feet. His expression unreadable.
A deliberate motion.
Neither rushed nor hesitant.
Yet, for all his outward composure, there was an unmistakable finality in the way he turned.
"I'll take my leave."
His voice was smooth but distant, dismissing the matter as though it no longer required his attention.
His steps were quiet, each footfall against tatami barely making a sound.
But to Akai, they might as well have been a declaration.
A silent warning.
This conversation was far from over.
The shoji doors slid open with practiced ease. Genzou did not look back.
And just like that, he was gone.
Yet, the tension remained.
Akai's fingers drummed lightly against the table, his expression betraying nothing but vague amusement.
His eyes, however, remained sharp, following the now-closed door with quiet contemplation.
Takahiro let out a barely perceptible sigh, shaking his head before muttering under his breath.
"That old bastard's always so dramatic."
Hinata, who had unknowingly been holding her breath, exhaled softly.
Neji, still seated, cast a thoughtful glance at Akai, his grip around his chopsticks tightening just slightly.
Hiashi remained still. Unreadable.
And Akai?
For the first time that evening, he finally lifted his bowl and took another bite.
As if nothing had happened at all.
Then, a beat late, he casually added—
"But you're also an old bas—"
"YOU—! 💢"
.
.
.
To be continued.