The shuriken embedded itself in the tree trunk with a sharp thunk, close enough that Seiran felt the whistle of air pass his ear.
"What a pain," he muttered.
He'd been careful—moving through the forest like a shadow—but apparently not careful enough. The Naka River sprawled before him in the fading evening light, its surface glassy and still. Too still. Every footfall, every breath carried in the silence.
A figure burst from the treeline, kunai drawn, eyes blazing with the cold fury of someone who'd just caught an intruder.
"Who are you? Why are you trespassing on Uchiha land?"
Seiran held up his hands, dripping wet. "Technically, we're at least a few hundred meters from the compound. This is more... general river property?"
The girl's eyes widened—just a fraction—as recognition flickered across her face. She was pretty, in that severe way certain clans cultivated. Dark hair, sharper features, and the unmistakable bearing of an Uchiha. Her grip on the kunai loosened slightly.
"Have we met?" she asked, tilting her head as she studied him.
Seiran sighed. "Look, if my Byakugan hadn't gotten so blurry, we'd have been in the same class."
The girl's memory caught up with her. There was another Hyuga in their year—not the talented one everyone talked about, but the other one. The one who never paid attention. The one they joked was "the lazy version of Obito."
That would be him.
"What are you doing here?" Her tone hadn't softened.
Seiran gestured toward the shore, where his clothes lay in a neat pile next to a collection of scrap metal—old pots, rusted wire, worn shuriken, and... well, some other odds and ends. "I came to bathe. And to..." He hesitated, then decided the truth was better. "...scavenge materials."
She stared at the pile, then back at him, suspicion crystallizing into something like disgust.
Before he could explain further, she moved.
Her leg came up in a vicious crescent sweep aimed at his chest. Seiran twisted back, the kick missing him by inches. The message was clear: no more talking.
"First," she said coldly, advancing on him, "I don't like people disturbing my training."
Another kick. He blocked it.
"Second, I don't like people bathing in my river."
She came at him again, fast and precise, each strike aimed at nerve clusters and pressure points. This girl had training—real training, not the sloppy academy basics.
Seiran fell into a defensive rhythm, his palms deflecting her attacks. Her technique was solid. Genuinely solid. But as the exchanges mounted—once, twice, three times—he could feel her frustration building.
"You're not as simple as you seem," she said, her eyes sharpening with focus.
The sky had turned a deep purple. They stood on the river's edge, breathing hard, the tension crackling between them like a physical thing. They were getting too loud. If word reached the Uchiha compound that someone was fighting on their border...
"Look," Seiran said, trying for peace, "my mom's waiting. Can we call this even?"
"First rule," she snapped back. "You're still here."
She suddenly pressed her advantage, forcing him backward toward the water's edge. But as she did, Seiran shifted his weight. The river behind him became an asset, not a liability. He began pushing her back instead, each deflection angled to drive her footsteps closer to the water.
Her frown deepened. "This guy..."
She dropped back, throwing two shuriken in quick succession. He blocked them easily with a kunai.
Then her hands began moving through seals. Fast. Professional.
Seiran's pulse spiked. Jutsu? She actually knew ninjutsu?
He didn't wait to find out what. In the gap between her hand signs, he charged forward. His palm ignited with faint blue lightning—Gentle Fist channeling electrical chakra—and he drove it straight into her sternum.
The impact was solid. Perfect.
Boom.
She flew backward like a rag doll, the breath knocked clean out of her lungs, and splashed hard into the Naka River. Water erupted in all directions.
"Sorry!" Seiran shouted, already wrapping the scrap metal in his coat and slinging it over his shoulder. "Mom made spicy ramen tonight!"
He bolted into the forest without looking back.
Behind him, a figure broke the surface of the river, gasping and choking. Her eyes were wide—not with anger, but with something closer to shock. Her clothes clung to her soaked form, her long hair plastered to her shoulders and down her back.
She'd lost.
She'd actually lost.
To that guy.
Seiran Hyuga—the dead-last nobody—had just sent her flying into a river with what felt like a Gentle Fist technique that hit like a minor lightning strike. Her chest still burned, nerves firing in confused patterns.
She treaded water in the cooling evening, watching the forest where he'd vanished, and felt something unfamiliar bloom in her chest.
Not anger. Not quite.
"Kakashi's supposed to be unbeatable," she murmured to herself, her lips curving upward despite the chill. "But this one... this one's different."
She began swimming toward shore, already thinking about their next encounter.
"Seiran Hyuga," she said aloud, tasting the name. "Interesting."