At some point, I realized that I had underestimated Hikari.
The teasing between us had started harmlessly enough. It was easy, almost instinctive, to poke at her by stubbornly insisting on calling her Hikari-sama instead of Mama, watching her expression twitch between exasperation and amusement while I pretended complete innocence. For a while, it felt like a private victory, a tiny rebellion I could indulge in without consequences.
Then Hikari adapted.
I noticed it gradually, at first thinking it was just coincidence. One morning, instead of the usual soft baby clothes, I was dressed in something far more elaborate. The fabric was finer, the colors gentler, the cut unmistakably deliberate. When I looked down at myself, I saw layers, flowing sleeves, careful stitching.
A kimono.
I frowned, tugging at the fabric with small, annoyed hands.
That day wasn't an exception.
Over the following weeks, the pattern became impossible to ignore. Baby clothes still appeared, but less often. In their place came dresses, skirts, carefully tailored outfits meant to be worn by a little princess. Kimono after kimono, each one more elegant than the last.
And pants?
Almost completely gone.
The injustice of it all settled deep in my soul.
I hated how restrictive the clothes felt. I hated how impractical they were for crawling, climbing, or doing literally anything useful. And I really hated how pleased Hikari looked every time she adjusted the fabric and smiled at me, clearly aware that she had found my weak spot.
Of course, she noticed my frustration.
Which meant it immediately became a game.
A silent one, fought with smiles, gentle tones, and an escalating series of tiny annoyances. I resisted in the only ways available to me—sulking, dramatic sighs, stubborn silence, and, when possible, passive-aggressive use of chakra threads to tug at hems or shift sleeves just enough to be irritating.
Neither of us said anything about it out loud.
But the competition was very real.
As my walking improved and my vocabulary slowly expanded, Neji began visiting more often. What had once been stiff, awkward interactions gradually turned into something closer to familiarity. He was still reserved, still a little too formal for his age, but he no longer treated me like something fragile and breakable.
The biggest change, however, happened in the courtyard.
At some point, the space was quietly transformed. New structures appeared—low obstacles, uneven surfaces, things meant to be climbed over, around, or through. Nothing overtly dangerous, but clearly intentional.
A training ground.
For toddlers.
Watching it take shape, I felt a mix of curiosity and unease. Once we were allowed to use it, my suspicions were confirmed almost immediately. The expectations placed on us were… intense.
For a child barely past her first birthday, the standards were high. We were encouraged—constantly—to move faster, reach farther, balance longer. Every stumble was met with immediate assistance, gentle hands steadying me before I could even process the fall.
But there was no rest.
The encouragement never stopped.
I understood the logic behind it. Early conditioning. Building coordination, strength, awareness from the moment the body was capable of movement.
Still, it was exhausting.
And infuriating.
Especially because Neji kept winning.
Every race, every climb, every improvised challenge—he beat me. Cleanly. Consistently.
It grated on me far more than it should have.
Not because I disliked him, but because I knew why he was faster. His body was older, more developed, better suited to movement. And yet, knowing that didn't make the losses sting any less.
So I started thinking.
I remembered the shinobi I'd observed over the years, how their chakra surged and pulsed when they moved, how their muscles seemed to respond to invisible rhythms. I began experimenting during training, carefully pulsing chakra through my body while I ran or climbed.
At first, nothing happened.
Then I realized why.
The way chakra was pulsed wasn't universal. In some people, the flow seemed soothing, almost healing. In others, it hardened the skin or reinforced joints. The effect depended on how and where the chakra was applied.
Once I understood that, progress followed.
By pulsing chakra through specific muscles during movement, I felt a subtle reinforcement—strength where there should have been weakness, stability where my body would normally fail.
But it was dangerous.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
During one experiment, I pushed too much chakra, too quickly, and felt a sharp, tearing pain as my muscle exceeded what my body could safely handle. Panic flared, but instinct—and prior experimentation—saved me. I pulsed chakra differently, guiding it into a healing pattern, and felt the damage mend almost as quickly as it had occurred.
After that, I was far more careful.
Still, the results were undeniable.
I grew faster. Stronger. More coordinated.
Before long, I wasn't just keeping up with Neji.
I was beating him.
Consistently.
He did not take it well.
What began as surprise quickly turned into determination. Neji stopped treating our training like play and started approaching it like a personal challenge. I could feel the rivalry forming, subtle but unmistakable.
He had found a goal.
And apparently, that goal was me.
Outside of physical training, Hikari ensured I was educated in other ways as well. Flexibility exercises, posture correction, controlled movements—all carefully disguised as play.
But she didn't stop there.
Etiquette lessons followed.
Older women from the clan visited regularly, guiding me through the rituals of polite behavior. With Hikari's help, I learned to serve tea in the traditional manner, to bow correctly, to sit still and listen while adults spoke.
Conversation was encouraged, though no real substance was expected from me yet. Even so, the elders showered me with praise.
They compared me to their own grandchildren, lamenting what they perceived as shortcomings in others while praising my composure and manners.
Through all of this, Hikari drilled one lesson into me relentlessly.
Responsibility.
She spoke often about my eyes, explaining—again and again—that using them to spy on others was rude and disrespectful. Privacy mattered. Trust mattered.
I nodded. I listened. I complied.
Mostly.
In truth, I kept my Byakugan active almost constantly while awake. I simply reduced the chakra flow to the minimum necessary, allowing me to maintain a steady thirty-meter radius without drawing attention.
Over time, something changed.
The visible signs of activation faded. The veins around my eyes no longer swelled unless I deliberately increased output. To anyone watching, my eyes looked normal.
That alone felt like a victory.
Time passed.
Before I knew it, my second birthday arrived.
This one was… different.
Clan elders filled the house, their presence heavy and formal. I was dressed in an elaborate kimono and expected to sit quietly while praise and flattery washed over me.
Gifts piled up: dolls, stuffed animals, and—much to my surprise—training shuriken deemed safe for a child.
Then came the final guest.
The atmosphere in the room shifted the moment he arrived.
The Third Hokage entered with the slow, measured steps of a man who had walked these halls for decades, his presence heavy in a way that went beyond rank alone. He carried gifts in his hands and wore a kindly smile, the sort meant to put people at ease, yet something about it felt carefully practiced rather than spontaneous.
"Hiashi," he said warmly, inclining his head. "Hikari-san. Thank you for receiving an old man on such an important day."
"You honor our household with your visit, Hokage-sama," Hiashi replied, bowing with perfect formality. Hikari followed suit, her expression polite but reserved.
I sat between them, small hands folded in my lap, posture corrected so many times already that it came almost naturally. I could feel the Hokage's gaze settle on me, not heavy, not obvious, but attentive in a way that made my skin itch.
"Well now," he said softly, crouching down just enough to bring himself closer to my eye level, "so this is Hinata-chan. Two years already, hm? Time truly does fly."
I tilted my head, offering what I hoped looked like a shy, uncertain smile.
"She's grown quite well," Hikari said, her voice gentle. "Strong and healthy."
"So I see," the Hokage replied. His eyes flicked briefly toward me again. "And very calm. That's a good trait. Tell me, Hinata-chan, what do you like to do these days?"
The question sounded innocent.
It wasn't.
I hesitated, deliberately. Letting silence stretch just a little before answering felt appropriate—natural, even—for a child my age. When I finally responded, my words were simple, unpolished.
"Play… run," I said, stumbling slightly over the sounds, careful not to be too clear, too confident.
"Running already?" he asked lightly. "That's impressive."
Hiashi's posture shifted almost imperceptibly.
"She is energetic," he said evenly. "We encourage healthy movement."
The Hokage chuckled. "Of course. Of course. And what about your eyes, Hinata-chan? Do they ever get tired?"
There it was.
I blinked, slowly, as if processing the question took real effort.
"Eyes… sleepy," I said after a moment, rubbing at one of them for emphasis.
Hikari let out a soft laugh. "She does that when she's overwhelmed. Too much excitement makes her tired very quickly."
"I see," the Hokage murmured. His gaze lingered a second longer than before, sharp beneath the kindly exterior. "And does she train often?"
Hiashi answered this time, his tone calm but firm. "Only what is appropriate for her age."
A pause.
"Appropriate," the Hokage repeated thoughtfully. "That is good. Children should be allowed to grow at their own pace."
Something unspoken passed between the adults. I could feel it, even without my eyes—an undercurrent of scrutiny and restraint.
Hikari seized the opening smoothly.
"Hokage-sama, would you care for some tea?" she asked, already rising. "The blend was prepared this morning."
The Hokage smiled, the moment shifting just enough to dull its edge. "I would be honored."
The conversation drifted then, pulled away from me and toward safer topics—village affairs, polite observations, nothing that cut too close. I stayed quiet, exactly as expected, listening without drawing attention.
Eventually, the visit ended. The Hokage offered a final smile, a few kind words, and then he was gone, leaving behind a room that felt lighter for his absence.
As the house slowly returned to its usual rhythm, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
The day wound down.
And with it, my second year in this world slipped quietly into the past, leaving me acutely aware that surviving wasn't enough.
AN: Feedback :-) Comment/E-Mail/Smoke Signals i dont care :-)