One afternoon, my usual routine shifted in a small but telling way.
Instead of posture drills or polite conversation practice, Hikari informed me that I would be assisting her in preparing tea. Not just for practice—but for a meeting. A proper one.
That alone was enough to make me pay attention.
We moved through the preparation in silence, my movements careful and deliberate. Every step followed the pattern drilled into me over countless afternoons: how to hold the utensils, how to pour without spilling, how to keep my posture composed even while kneeling. When we entered the room, Father was already there, seated across from several of the clan elders.
I recognized them by now—not by name, but by presence. Old men with sharp eyes and carefully controlled expressions, each of them carrying decades of influence even if they no longer held direct authority.
Hikari and I knelt at the side and began our task.
The conversation flowed above us, calm on the surface.
"The situation with the Uchiha is becoming more difficult," one of the elders said quietly.
Father nodded once. "I am aware. I cannot imagine what Hiruzen is truly aiming for. The old fox never moves without a reason."
Another elder spoke next. "We suspect he is attempting to marginalize them—or to maneuver them into a position where their influence is reduced."
"They do themselves no favors," the first elder added, "by clinging so rigidly to their rules when dealing with outsiders, especially in their role as the police."
"That is true," Father replied. "Still, we will continue to support the Hokage in councils and meetings. At present, this remains the best course of action."
A third elder leaned forward slightly. "Clan Head, have you received the reports regarding the Kumogakure delegation?"
Father's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Yes. I find them deeply concerning. The delegation claims to be here to discuss the terms concluding the last war, but according to the reports, they are making demands rather than negotiating."
"And they are walking the village far more than necessary," the elder continued. "My contact suggests they are gathering information."
"Without doubt," Father said. "We will increase surveillance within the Hyuga compound accordingly."
The discussion moved on, touching on alliances, resource allocations, and quiet tensions that felt oddly mundane given the stakes. At some point, one of the elders glanced in my direction.
"Young Hinata behaves impeccably," he remarked. "You are raising her well."
Father acknowledged the praise with a polite nod.
I remained still, focused on the tea, my expression calm.
Inside, I felt… detached.
Politics, as it turned out, sounded far less grand when stripped of banners and speeches. What I heard felt less like strategy and more like a group of adults circling each other cautiously, afraid to be the first to push too hard. It reminded me of a kindergarten argument scaled up to village-wide consequences.
What puzzled me most was the Uchiha.
A clan with power, influence, and military strength—yet they allowed themselves to be pressured, isolated, and quietly cornered. In my memories, the entire clan would eventually be wiped out by a single member. Even knowing the circumstances, it still felt absurd that something like that could happen without resistance.
The meeting ended without resolution, as most such discussions seemed to.
Life continued.
Training filled my mornings. Etiquette and instruction filled my afternoons. The days blurred together in a steady rhythm of effort and expectation.
And threaded through it all was Kumogakure.
I heard about the delegation constantly—through servants whispering in hallways, through Hikari's quiet conversations, through Father's clipped orders as he assigned additional patrols and reinforced security protocols. The visitors from the Lightning Country were polite, persistent, and far too curious for comfort.
None of it directly affected me.
Not yet.
Training, however, did.
At some point, Hanato changed the routine.
We still began with warm-ups and conditioning, still repeated the same stances and transitions, but now something new was added at the end of each session.
Sparring.
At first, it was nothing more than controlled movement. Hanato would step into my space, forcing me to react—block, sidestep, retreat. No strikes with real intent, no speed meant to overwhelm.
Testing reactions.
Then it escalated.
He began to apply pressure, forcing me to string movements together rather than reset after each action. I was pushed out of static forms and into motion, learning how each stance flowed into the next under stress.
I made mistakes.
Frequently.
Every lapse was corrected immediately. A misplaced foot earned a light tap to the shin. A delayed response earned a gentle but undeniable shove that sent me stumbling.
It was exhausting.
It was exhilarating.
And it was nothing like practicing alone.
For the first time, training felt real.
Hanato adjusted constantly, matching my level without overwhelming me. Whenever I relied too much on chakra reinforcement, he slowed the pace, forcing me to compensate with structure rather than raw enhancement.
By the end of each session, my muscles ached in a way that felt earned.
As the days passed, I realized something else.
This was no longer preparation.
This was the beginning of combat.
And somewhere between tea ceremonies, political murmurs, and the first controlled blows exchanged on the training grounds, it became clear that the world around me was tightening—quietly, patiently—waiting for the moment when all these small tensions would finally snap.