Unknownfate
patreon
Chapter 10 Yuki
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 02:00:05 +0000 UTCThe first few days were… strange.
Not painful. Not terrifying. Just strange.
My body felt like a prison again—though this time, not cold stone and ancient chakra seals, but soft skin and helpless limbs. I couldn’t lift my head, couldn’t form words, couldn’t even open my eyes for more than a few seconds without getting overwhelmed.
Everything was too much. Sounds were muffled and distorted. Light was a blinding haze. My own body trembled at the slightest draft of wind. I had once soared between dimensions and conjured storms with a thought, and now I startled at the creak of a door.
The only true comfort was warmth.
A heartbeat. A voice. A scent I couldn’t name but instinctively knew.
My mother.
She held me often. More than she had to, I think. I don’t know if it was because I was her first child or if she sensed something unusual in me, but she always seemed… fascinated. She’d cradle me even when I wasn’t crying, hum little lullabies even when I wasn’t fussy.
She, in many ways, reminded me of myself, back when I first gave birth. So… afraid, so caring. Back then, I was afraid I wasn’t loving enough, so I showed them as much as I could.
“She has your nose,” I heard my mother say softly one morning, her fingers brushing my cheek as I squirmed in her arms.
“No,” my father replied with a chuckle, “she’s got yours. Look at that pout. She’ll be stubborn.”
“She’s already stubborn. She wouldn’t come out until the very last push.”
They laughed, and I cried again—not because I was upset, but because my body insisted on doing it. Everything was new, loud, overstimulating. Even breathing took effort.
“She’s loud,” my father said. “Good lungs. She’s got strength in her already.”
“She’ll need it,” my mother murmured, quieter now. “This world isn’t gentle. Not anymore.”
That made me pause.
The world wasn’t gentle. And clearly, it hadn’t become any better since I was last in it.
Still, I didn’t let my thoughts spiral. I couldn’t. I didn’t have that luxury. I had to be patient. I had waited over a thousand years for a second chance. I could endure a few more months—or years—of drooling and being swaddled.
For now, I listened. I memorized voices. I catalogued names. I marked every word, every gesture, every twitch of chakra I could sense through skin and instinct.
…
The first few weeks of my new life were quiet.
Not in the peaceful, idyllic way people imagine. No. It was quiet in the way the branch family of the Hyūga Clan lived. Restrained. Formal. Distant.
Our home wasn’t large. It was well-kept, yes—clean floors, simple sliding doors, a small garden just outside—but it lacked the grandeur of the main compound. No ancestral halls. No ornate silks. No symbols etched into wood to mark bloodlines and legacy.
We were a necessary part of the clan. Respected, in a way. Trusted, in another. Owned, in truth.
I spent most of my time held by my mother, a woman with tired eyes and hands that bore the roughness of someone who worked more than she rested. Her chakra was modest but disciplined. The first time I felt it, it felt less so, but I shouldn’t judge by that; she had just given birth back then. My father had far more, and it was firmer, stronger in every way; he was clearly a shinobi.
“She’s strong,” he said one night, as he lifted me after a feeding. “She doesn’t cry unless she needs to. And when she does, she means it.”
He often mentioned how strong I was, always with pride in his voice, and for the smallest of things.
“She’ll need to be strong,” my mother replied quietly. “Life isn’t easy in the branch. Not for girls.”
He didn’t answer.
Visitors came three days later.
Two women from the main house—dressed in pristine robes, their foreheads unmarked.
“The child?” one asked.
My mother nodded, lifting me with care.
If I could, I would question them. Why ask? Surely they didn’t think they were there to see another child? If I could, I would have rolled my eyes at their attitude.
The older of the two leaned in, pale eyes scanning me. I didn’t blink. I didn’t squirm. But I didn’t stare, either. I had seen enough kids, had two of my own to know how they react. I could mimic that.
“Healthy,” she finally said, and straightened. “No visible defect. No chakra flare. A quiet child.”
“She has her mother’s calm,” my father said, standing just behind her.
They nodded, said nothing more, and left within minutes. There were no blessings, prayers, or talks of potential.
They were cold, but not cruel. I knew who they were, or at least I knew their role, and why they had come. It was simple: if I were sick or needed extra care, they would have to assign more resources to my family.
That was how the branch family worked, you only had what you needed, rarely more, never less.
And that was fine.
While I would have preferred being born into the main family, it wasn’t something I could control; the jutsu was held together by hopes and dreams, and a sense of raw desperation. This much was already a blessing.
And the branch family wasn’t that bad.
I had watched the system be born, nurtured, and twisted into what it was today. I understood it better than any of them ever would. I knew their cursed seal—the so-called safeguard of obedience—every contour, every flaw.
And I wouldn’t be marked for a few more years.
By the time they came to brand me, it would already be too late.
I was taken outside for the first time on the twenty-third day of my new life.
Yes, I counted, I was bored.
It was a cloudless afternoon, the air dry but warm, the garden path swept clean of petals and dust. My mother carried me in her arms with care, wrapped in layered cloth to shield me from the breeze. She didn’t speak much, only murmured greetings as others passed. A few nodded. One or two offered smiles. But none lingered.
People were busy, the Second Great War had just ended, and people had much work to do.
We passed the edge of the branch compound, where low walls met the inner courtyards. I recognized them from memory alone—memories of watching from above, sealed within the moon. To walk here now, even in someone else’s arms, felt… surreal.
Children trained nearby, a half-dozen of them, barefoot and silent under the guidance of a Hyūga instructor. Their strikes were precise, their forms almost robotic in their discipline. Even the youngest, who couldn’t have been older than seven, moved like they’d been drilled since birth.
They had.
My mother paused a few steps away, just far enough not to disturb them, and sat beneath a blooming apricot tree. The scent drifted around us, faint and sweet. I remained still in her arms, watching with wide, curious eyes.
“You’ll be like them one day,” she said softly, not really to me, but more to herself. “Maybe stronger, if your father’s right.”
I wanted to laugh. But all I could do was gurgle.
Training in the Hyūga Clan began early. Chakra sensitivity before age five. Stances by six. Sparring by seven. Mastery? That was reserved for those born with the right pedigree. Those marked for greatness by name or by favor.
Not me.
Not yet.
I would have to prove myself worthy, something that would be all too easy.
By watching them move, I could already tell how far they had to go. Their strikes were too shallow. Their footwork too rigid. Even their chakra control—impressive by child standards—was still inefficient.
I could do better.
I would do better.
…
That night, my father returned late.
There was mud on his sandals, and the scent of iron clinging to his clothes. Not fresh blood—just the residue of long hours training, or perhaps sparring under supervision. He stepped quietly through the house, as always, and came to check on us where we slept.
I was still awake, eyes half-closed, listening.
“She’s growing quickly,” he whispered, crouching beside my mother’s mat. “Stronger grip today.”
“She didn’t cry once outside,” my mother replied, voice low with pride. “She watched everything.”
“Like a proper Hyūga,” he said.
I felt his hand touch the top of my head—gentle, careful. Reverent, almost.
They were proud of me. Genuinely so. It wasn’t the kind of cold, calculated admiration I had once received from followers or terrified subjects. It was… softer.
Having a father made me think. Was the reason my own sons turned against me because they had none? Was that the reason the toads could twist them against them?
---
Time moved strangely as an infant.
Days bled into nights. Weeks slipped by like the wind—soft, constant, and largely uneventful. But even without words, without conscious control, I could feel the changes.
My body was growing stronger.
Muscles that once trembled from the effort of lifting my head now supported brief, wobbly pushes. My arms were clumsy, but no longer useless. My legs kicked with purpose. And then—after days of failed attempts and face-first collapses—I began to crawl.
It wasn’t graceful.
In fact, it was embarrassingly awkward. I hated it. The lack of balance. The drooling. The way my mother clapped softly every time I moved a few inches forward like I’d just saved the world.
But I kept doing it.
Because it meant movement. Freedom. Independence. It meant control—something I hadn’t truly had in a very long time.
And with movement came opportunity.
I was no longer confined to just listening. Now I could see. I could explore. I could press my hands against walls and floors and feel history I had once only been able to watch.
My mother watched me closely, always nearby, always ready to scoop me up the moment I got too close to the wooden stairs or slid too far toward the door. She encouraged me often—never harshly, never with force, just soft words and quiet smiles.
On one of those afternoons, the floor was warm with sunlight. She laid out a cushion a few feet away and placed one of my toys—some carved wooden animal I didn’t care about—right in the center.
“Come on, Yuki,” she said gently, her hands resting in her lap. “You can reach it. I know you can.”
Yuki.
That was the name I had been given in his new life. Apparently, it was a rather common name in the Hyūga Clan. Not the most original name, given our pale skin and white eyes. We even mostly wore white, the entire clan loved that color, and now I was pretty much named after it.
Although it could have been worse, I heard someone call another child 'Sakura.' Getting that name would have been a disaster.
I pushed forward with shaky arms, dragging myself one inch at a time across the mat. My balance was still pathetic. My grip inconsistent. But I moved, and she cheered me on.
“There you go! That’s it, Yuki,” she said again, with more warmth now. “You’re getting so strong.”
Strong.
They had no idea what strong meant, I had once been strong, now? Even their greatest was nothing compared to me back then; this was the weakest I had ever been.
---
It didn’t take long before I was left alone more often.
Not for long stretches—never enough to be truly unsupervised—but the older I got, the more I was expected to entertain myself, to nap on my own, to sit quietly while my mother tended to housework or my father trained outside.
And I took full advantage of it.
I began experimenting in the quiet moments—on the floor of our small home, on my back beneath the rafters, or curled up beside the garden door when no one was looking. I couldn’t speak. Barely even stand. But I could feel.
Feel the wind against my skin, the sun kissing my face. The hardness of the floor and the softness of my mother’s arms.
But what I really wanted to feel was my Chakra.
Having used my secret Divine Revival Technique, I had left behind my body and my Chakra, all my power, leaving me with only my mind and my consciousness.
It was a painful loss, but it would hopefully only be temporary. My body still slumbered inside the moon, just waiting to be freed, but there was no way of getting it out. The fact that I was currently reborn like this was already a miracle.
It was all thanks to my first rebirth into the ninja world. When my soul merged with Kaguya, a tiny bit of Yin Chakra was formed, different from Kaguya’s own. It was a tiny amount and would have been quickly assimilated.
It had not been for the seal, which sealed my chakra so tightly that it stopped the process, allowing me to use it later.
So now, I just had this body, this thin bloodline and this tine amount of Chakra, I was a living clone, a second life, starting from nothing. But it beat staying in the moon.
I could sense my chakra, like the slow hum of a distant drum. The first time I touched it, it was by accident—just a flicker, a ripple beneath my skin when I grew frustrated trying to reach a blanket. It tingled, almost like a static charge, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
So I practiced.
Not boldly. Not foolishly. Just small things. Breathing slowly. Holding focus. Feeling the flow of chakra in the tips of my fingers. Most children wouldn’t start training until they could walk. But I had waited too long already.
I wanted my Byakugan.
No… I needed it.
It was the tool I had always relied on, even more than the Rinne Sharingan. The Byakugan would let me see—truly see—again. Not just light and movement, but chakra, networks, truth.
So, I began trying to awaken it.
Each time I was left alone, I focused on the pressure behind my eyes. I slowed my breath. I pulled every scrap of chakra I could gather from within this tiny, infant body and directed it there—to the blood, to the nerves, to the place I knew it lived.
At first, it hurt.
I cursed the impure bloodline; normally, it shouldn’t have been this hard. I had seen countless newborns able to use their Byakugan almost as soon as they were born, yet here I was, months of trying later, and still struggling and hurting.
Still, the pain meant progress.
Soon I began to feel something. A weight behind my eyes. A flicker of pressure when I focused hard enough. Still no chakra burst, no white field of vision, no clarity of veins or tenketsu. But the gate was there. Closed. Waiting.
One afternoon, as the sun sank low and my mother stepped out to speak with a neighbor, I tried again.
I lay on my stomach, arms folded beneath me, and closed my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I called to the chakra within me, little more than mist—but it obeyed. I shaped it slowly, drawing it upward, toward my eyes. Not too fast. Not too sharp. Just enough to make the pressure grow.
Then—
Thump.
A pulse.
Something sparked at the edge of my vision. A shimmer. A halo of white light.
It was gone in an instant.
But it had been real.
My Byakugan was waking.
