Under the moonlight.
Two figures walked slowly along the streets of Konoha—a man and a woman, each lost in their own thoughts.
A gentle breeze swept past. Fresh from the hot springs, Yūgao Uzuki shivered slightly, feeling a trace of chill on her shoulders.
The boy beside her said nothing and didn't bother to ask. He simply pulled the cloak from his shoulder—the one Itachi had given him when they left the Uchiha compound—and, without ceremony, draped it over Yūgao's shoulders.
Without a word, he lightly pulled her closer by the shoulders, and the two continued down the street together.
It felt warm.
Such a sense of security—she had never felt it before.
The girl, uncertain how to react, could only look up at him in a daze. Everything felt so natural. As if leaning into his warmth like this was exactly how it was meant to be.
Yūgao's home lay within one of Konoha's ordinary residential districts. But for generations, her family had been part of the village's core strength, passing down the Konoha-ryū sword style. In this generation, Yūgao was the only daughter, yet her determination had never disappointed her aging father.
As they turned down the final street, her home came into view.
Hakken stopped walking, his gaze shifting forward. The next moment, his brows rose slightly.
A small, thin figure was crouched there, waiting.
Hakken recognized him immediately—Hayate Gekkō, the sickly one.
In the original story, he'd had some sort of connection to Yūgao.
But the sight before him now made Hayate's already pale face flush with an unnatural shade of red. His breathing grew uneven.
Clearly, what he was seeing had stirred something in the frail young man.
Hayate Gekkō.
A minor character in the original, a Special Jōnin at best. He'd died on the eve of the Konoha Collapse Plan.
After a brief glance, Hakken lost interest and looked away.
Still holding Yūgao close, he escorted her to her doorstep.
Once she stepped inside, Hakken turned to leave, never sparing Hayate another glance.
The moment he and Yūgao had entered the bathhouse together with him, Hayate had already lost.
To Hakken, there was no pity for a loser, nor any deliberate cruelty.
Had the man been a true warrior, he might have stood in his way, demanding a fight.
But he wasn't.
Hayate remained silent, watching Hakken's figure disappear down the alley. Yet the boy's detached indifference tore at him from within.
After Hakken left, Hayate turned toward Yūgao's home. The door had shifted slightly open.
It creaked as it moved, revealing the girl inside. Yūgao stood there clutching the cloak, a look of apology on her face.
She'd rushed in too quickly and forgotten she was still wearing someone else's cloak.
But when she stepped outside again, she didn't see Hakken anywhere. She'd wanted one last glimpse of him.
Disappointment crossed her face as she sighed softly—only to meet Hayate's gaze, filled with silent accusation.
"Why?"
Hayate forced out the word, his tone tight with agitation.
"What do you mean, why?"
Yūgao Uzuki looked at him in confusion.
"You chose him? A useless slacker who sleeps through every class. You should know..."
In Hayate's mind, Yūgao had always harbored feelings for him. But now, everything had changed.
His sudden outburst made Yūgao's expression turn cold in an instant.
"Enough."
Cutting him off, she gently touched the cloak in her arms. "Remember this—the gap between you and him is like an unbridgeable chasm."
"He's not someone you have the right to insult."
"And another thing—stop waiting at my doorstep and pestering me when I come home."
"Even if he wouldn't say anything, I know he'd be displeased if he saw this."
"That's all."
She closed the door and stepped back inside her home.
But the words she'd spoken to Hayate sounded more like something she was telling herself. The moment she wrapped that cloak around her shoulders, she had already made up her mind.
In this lifetime, she would devote herself fully to chasing after Hakken's footsteps.
...
"Hah."
The familiar training grounds.
While others had spent the day admiring cherry blossoms, Hakken's training was far from over.
His daily quest reset after midnight. If he didn't complete it, he probably wouldn't be able to rest easy.
After all, that was 0.2% of progress.
It might not sound like much, but every bit counted toward real improvement.
He swung his blade again and again, each motion sharp and deliberate.
From his match with Shisui, Hakken had gained countless new slashing techniques. Now, he needed to refine them—categorize, analyze, and apply them with greater precision.
Even a simple slash required technique.
Any excess movement during a swing would slow the attack by a fraction—and that single, fleeting instant was enough for an expert to seize the advantage.
That was Hakken's realization tonight.
Shisui of the Body Flicker—his strength was absurdly overwhelming.
In their match, he hadn't even gone all out; at the very least, he hadn't used his Body Flicker Technique.
There was still a long way to go.
If it came down to pure template power, Hakken was indeed strong. But his age still limited how much of that strength he could truly unleash.
The power of the Bleach world's demon—Zaraki Kenpachi—was wild and untamed. After his Bankai, that ferocity grew so violent that even his own body couldn't withstand it, tearing itself apart under the force.
Taking a deep breath, Hakken resumed his training.
Just as his sword sliced through the air, a green blur dropped down from above.
"Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-seven!"
"Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight!"
"Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine!"
"Ugh..."
Thud.
He fell off the wooden post with a dull sound. The man in the green spandex showed no trace of frustration—on the contrary, he clenched his fists and pumped his arms, brimming with excitement.
"Failed 10,000 handstand jumps! Switching to 2,000 side kicks!"
Hakken's mouth twitched as he shook his head.
He was starting to think this guy failed on purpose just to add more training for himself.
Might Guy, huh?
If he was around, tonight certainly wouldn't be dull.
Swish!
The sound of Hakken's blade echoed again.
Under the moonlight, two figures trained side by side in the quiet practice field—one furiously kicking a willow tree, panting between each strike, the other swinging his sword in a steady rhythm, tireless and focused.
Thud!
Swish!
The night was filled with the rhythm of their training—a symphony of effort and endurance.
And soon, darkness fully embraced the village.