Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Konoha's hospital

The sterile chill of the hospital room did nothing to temper Neji’s humiliation. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, but inside, fury churned. An academy student. Naruto Uzumaki. The very thought made his stomach twist. How had that idiot—undisciplined, loud, and entirely beneath him—managed to best him? His fists trembled under the sheets, nails biting into his palms. Next time, there wouldn’t be a mistake. Next time, Naruto wouldn’t just lose—he would break.

The door slid open. Neji’s sharp eyes snapped to it, and his body instinctively stiffened. Hiashi entered, his robes immaculate, his expression carved from ice. Each step carried the weight of authority, and the soft click of the door closing behind him might as well have been the sound of a guillotine.

“Neji,” Hiashi said, his voice sharp and clipped, carrying no warmth. His gaze flicked over the bandages wrapped around Neji’s torso, pausing for a fraction of a second before rising to meet his nephew’s eyes. “Do you realize the gravity of your failure?”

Neji opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. “I—”

“Silence.” Hiashi’s tone was colder than frost, cutting off any attempt at an excuse. “Do you know what you’ve cost this clan?”

Neji’s shoulders tightened, his head bowing slightly under the weight of his uncle’s stare.

“The Hokage extended an extraordinary opportunity to the Hyūga—a chance to elevate our standing. An expedited promotion to Chūnin, accompanied by a captaincy in the Military Police, contingent on one task.” Hiashi’s lips pressed into a hard line. “You were to impress Lady Tsume Inuzuka. To demonstrate our superiority during a routine spar with Academy Students. A trivial task, nothing more. And you would have been the youngest captain of the military police!”

Hiashi’s voice sharpened further, his words striking like hammer blows. “I vouched for you, Neji. I trusted you to uphold the dignity of the Hyūga name. For the good of the clan.”

Neji’s jaw tightened, his pride reeling under the onslaught. “It was a miscalculation—”

“A miscalculation?” Hiashi interrupted, his voice rising. His composure wavered, anger bleeding into every syllable. “You call this humiliation a miscalculation? You, who bear the Byakugan, who are hailed as the prodigy of our family, lying here because you were bested by an academy student. A child who can barely keep his headband straight! No—who hadn't even his headband yet!”

The words stabbed deep, each one twisting in Neji’s chest. He stared at his lap, his teeth grinding as he struggled to suppress the burning shame crawling up his neck.

Hiashi stepped closer, his tone dropping into something colder, more measured. “Do you understand the disgrace this brings? To lose so publicly, and to such a worthless opponent. The Inuzuka will laugh at us. The village will talk. And the Hokage—” He exhaled sharply through his nose, his fury palpable. “You were given everything, Neji. Privilege. Training. Opportunity. And you squandered it.”

“I will prove myself,” Neji said finally, his voice tight but firm. “This will not stand.”

Hiashi’s lip curled in disdain. “Prove yourself? You think a vow will erase this shame? Actions have consequences. Do you expect Tsume Inuzuka to look favorably upon our clan now? Do you expect the Hokage to trust us with further responsibilities when we can’t handle this?”

Neji flinched but kept his head high, his eyes burning with resolve. “I will not fail again.”

Hiashi stared at him for a long moment, his gaze heavy with contempt. “You are fortunate I tolerate this disgrace for the sake of the clan. Do not expect leniency again.” He turned sharply, his robes swishing as he moved toward the door. “Until then, you are to remain silent and follow orders. Nothing more.”

With that, Hiashi left, the door clicking shut behind him. Neji sat in the oppressive silence, his fists trembling beneath the sheets. His uncle’s words echoed in his mind, blending with Naruto’s taunting grin, and the shame of his failure boiled into something darker. This wasn’t over. He would make them see. He would rise above. And when the time came, they would all understand what Neji Hyūga was truly capable of.

— — — 

 Fire Country Capital 

“Don’t shuffle your feet when you walk,” Asuma said, his voice low but firm, like a teacher drilling a lesson into a hopeless student. “And don’t lean on anything. Stand straight, hands at your sides. No fidgeting. Speak only when spoken to. Keep your answers concise. Too many words sound like excuses.”

Taro tugged at his stiff collar, groaning. “Anything else, Mom? Maybe remind me not to scratch my ass while I’m at it.”

Asuma didn’t rise to the bait. “When you bow, go low, but not so low that you look desperate. About halfway. Hold it for two seconds. Then straighten. Not too fast, not too slow.”

Taro rolled his eyes. “What if I fall over while I’m doing your ‘perfect bow’? Think they’ll have me executed on the spot or just laugh me out the door?”

Asuma glared, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I’m serious, Taro. This isn’t one of your street deals. The people in that room can ruin us with a glance. Some of them would do it for fun.”

Taro smirked, as did Asuma. They both knew it wasn’t the truth. Never would a Daimyo dare move against the sons of his Kage—not openly, at least. The respectfulness, the deference, all the pomp and protocol, were mainly for appearances. An ill informed mandarin ? Maybe. The true balance of power was far more intricate, a delicate dance where authority was shared, fractured, and contested in ways no court etiquette could disguise. The Daimyo held Konoha by the balls - in terms of funding, logistics, food…But the Kage and a few dozen of Anbus could totally storm over the capital and take over the palace in less than a day. 

But that did not mean that Taro could do it. Poor lil' Taro, without chakra, in the dens of monsters.

He smirked, though it felt more like a reflex than confidence. “Relax, little bro. I’ll bow. I’ll nod. I’ll even keep my mouth shut for once. You might actually be proud of me.”

Asuma gave him a skeptical look. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Taro glanced down at his formal robes, an intricate ensemble of layered silks embroidered with gold. It probably cost more than his entire life’s worth of schemes. He tugged at the sleeves, hating the restrictive feel of it. “Feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin,” he muttered.

“Good,” Asuma said flatly. “That’s exactly how you should feel.”

Taro sighed. 

Three hours. 

They’d been sitting in the palace’s waiting room for three hours, and Taro was ready to chew through the embroidered armrests of his chair. He sat sprawled like a man in a tavern, one leg stretched out, fingers drumming on the table in front of him. The only reason he hadn’t fallen asleep was that the chair was too damn uncomfortable, its straight-backed design more punishment than furniture.

The room itself was obscene. Supposedly a “smaller” waiting chamber, but it felt more like a treasure vault disguised as a sitting area. The walls were paneled with shimmering lacquer, every inch carved and painted with scenes of mythical beasts and ancient battles. A folding screen near the far wall displayed a landscape so intricate, Taro swore he could see the dew on the painted grass. Every piece of furniture, from the chairs to the low table in the center, looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a room where people might spill tea.

Fucking rich people, he scoffed. He had thought he was rich, with his thirty businesses or so. But this ? 

Taro’s eyes flicked to a vase in the corner, a monstrous thing of porcelain and gold, decorated with cranes flying over rivers. He could’ve sold it for enough to buy a block of houses in the capital. Hell, one of the chairs could probably feed an entire street of the ragged kids he’d seen on his way here. He thought about their hollow faces, their desperate hands reaching out for coins, and then looked at the gold-encrusted panels on the walls. His stomach twisted, but he forced the thought away. This was the game, and feeling sorry for anyone didn’t win games like this.

The door creaked open, and a eunuch entered. His pale, powdered face betrayed no emotion as he bowed shallowly toward Asuma, ignoring Taro entirely. “The Daimyo will see you now.”

“Finally,” Taro muttered, standing with a theatrical stretch. “I was beginning to think the big guy forgot we were here.”

Asuma shot him a warning look, his eyes flashing. Taro raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Serious face on.”

The eunuch turned, leading them down the corridor, and Taro followed. The air changed as they walked, heavier somehow, though Taro didn’t know if it was the incense or the pressure of knowing what lay ahead. The corridor was more opulent than the waiting room—if that was even possible. Silk banners hung from carved wooden beams, their vibrant reds and golds catching the light from lanterns that seemed too delicate to hold fire. The floor beneath his feet was polished so clean he could see his warped reflection in the wood.

Taro’s attention darted from detail to detail, cataloging the wealth on display. They stopped in front of a pair of massive doors that swung open without a sound. Taro’s breath caught as he stepped into the audience chamber.

The room was enormous, its vaulted ceiling high enough to make even the tallest man feel small. The walls were adorned with silk screens painted in vivid hues, showing mountain peaks shrouded in mist, rivers winding through forests, and great battles fought by heroes long dead. At the far end of the chamber, the Daimyo sat on a raised dais, his throne an intricate masterpiece of dark wood and gold. His robes shimmered with threads of red and blue, and the crest of the Fire Nation stood proudly on his chest. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, sweeping over the room with the ease of a man used to commanding absolute authority. 

So, that was the fucker that had made them wait, huh? 

Surrounding him were mandarins, nearly seventy of them, arranged in small clusters. Their robes were a kaleidoscope of color and pattern, but none of them denoting rank, faction, or allegiance. Taro recognized a few from Asuma’s descriptions—the stern-faced traditionalists who clung to the old ways, the younger reformists whose sharp eyes seemed to dissect everything they saw, and the neutrals, their unreadable expressions betraying nothing but quiet calculation.

To the Daimyo’s right, three courtesans lounged on silk cushions, their laughter melodic and their painted faces serene, though their watchful eyes missed nothing. Behind them, another trio stood poised, their elegance undercut by a sharpness that hinted at hidden roles beyond mere ornamentation. Flanking the dais were two Guardians: one, a shinobi in Konoha garb whom Taro didn’t recognize, and the other, a monk from the Temple of Fire, exuding a quiet intensity. 

The air shifted as the room noticed them. Taro felt the weight of dozens of eyes settling on him, some openly hostile, others curious, a few amused. A whisper spread through the mandarins, a low murmur that felt like a storm building beneath the surface. They recognized him — the black sheep of the Sarutobis, appearing in front of the Daimyo for the first time. 

Asuma stepped forward, his movements fluid and practiced, and bowed deeply. Practice as one of the Twelve. Taro followed, doing his best to mirror the gesture. His bow was stiffer, less polished, but it was enough to avoid immediate ridicule.

Straightening, Taro resisted the urge to glance around, though he could feel the weight of the mandarins’ stares pressing on him. Instead, he let a small, crooked smile flicker across his face—a fleeting thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew better than to look too smug. The room was full of predators — politicians, almost worse than ninjas—, and he wasn’t here to look like prey.

The Daimyo rose from his throne, the movement calm, practiced. He wore the robes of an emperor but carried himself like an aging grandfather, his expression warm and familiar as he descended the dais. “Ah, Asuma! How long has it been—over a year now?” His arms opened as if to embrace him. “We miss you at court. Your presence always brought such balance.”

Asuma’s laugh was polite, his body language composed. “It’s good to be back, Lord Daimyo,” he said, his voice smooth. “Your hospitality is as generous as ever.”

Taro forced himself not to roll his eyes. Asuma had warned him about this exact performance: the three-hour wait to assert dominance, followed by the feigned camaraderie to avoid stepping on Konoha’s toes. It was the kind of power game the Daimyo loved—making them wait just long enough to show the mandarins who was boss, then wrapping it in enough false familiarity to avoid looking like he was snubbing the Hokage’s sons. Old fox, Taro thought, his smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. Trying to milk the old relationship for all it’s worth.

The Daimyo turned toward Taro, his expression measured. “Ah, and this must be… your brother. Taro Sarutobi.”

Taro gave another bow, just as Asuma had coached him. Low enough to show respect, but not enough to grovel. When he straightened, he caught the faintest twitch of amusement in the Daimyo’s face. There was no bow in return. Not even a nod.

Taro’s brow arched. Huh. Fucker’s playing games? Alright, old man. Let’s see who wins.

The Daimyo shifted his attention back to Asuma, deliberately snubbing Taro.“And what brings you to court today? Surely, you wouldn’t travel all this way without reason.”

Asuma’s polite smile didn’t falter, though Taro could sense the slight edge in his voice as he answered. “Oh, I’m merely here as an escort, Daimyo-sama. My brother, Taro Sarutobi, has been given a special mission from our father.”

A ripple of murmurs swept through the mandarins, a low hum of curiosity and intrigue. The words weren’t audible, but Taro didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying. The Hokage’s other son? The Black Sheep ? His Father…Held him in high esteem, now? What had changed? What’s his game?

The Daimyo’s eyes narrowed, though the movement was subtle, a crack in the carefully painted facade. “A special mission, you say?” His voice was laced with feigned interest, but Taro caught the hesitation, the split-second recalibration.

Taro stepped forward, bowing again. “Indeed, Daimyo-sama. As you know, the Chūnin Exams will take place in Konoha in four months. My father has new plans for the event and wished to offer you a personal gift.”

The Daimyo tilted his head ever so slightly, the barest flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “A gift?”

“Yes,” Taro replied, his tone respectful, but far from servile. “This year, for the first time, the Chūnin Exams will be broadcast. We will be installing large viewing screens in the major participating villages so they may witness the exams as they unfold. Additionally, the broadcast will be available for purchase by other cities and nations. However, as a gesture of friendship and our shared membership in the Fire Country, we wish to personally install a screen here in your palace, so that you and your court may enjoy the exams freely.”

The room fell into a hushed murmur, louder this time. The mandarins shifted in their seats, exchanging glances and whispers that Taro could only guess at. He imagined they were already calculating the scale of such a project. He knew how this worked. The fuckers were just like the scoundrels and crooked businessmen  back home — maybe a bit richer dressed. And he knew how to deal with such people. 

The Daimyo, for his part, recovered quickly, folding his hands in front of him. “Marvelous,” he said, his voice warm, almost congratulatory. “Truly marvelous. Your father’s foresight is, as always, impressive.”

Taro’s smile widened ever so slightly. He knew the game wasn’t over yet. The Daimyo couldn’t simply endorse Konoha’s plan outright; he needed to assert his relevance.

“Naturally,” the Daimyo continued, his tone growing more theatrical, “I will graciously validate and authorize such an enterprise. It is only fitting that I, as Daimyo, lend my approval to such a bold endeavor.”

Graciously validate? Taro thought, keeping his expression neutral. The old man knew full well he couldn’t block Konoha’s plans even if he wanted to, but this was his way of pretending he held the reins. Taro let him have it—for now.

“And you, Taro Sarutobi, are the one in charge of this?” the Daimyo asked, his gaze sharpening slightly as he gestured toward him. “Impressive.”

“Thank you, Daimyo-sama,” Taro replied, bowing again, his voice even. “My father entrusted me with this project personally.”

The Daimyo hesitated for the briefest moment, then clapped his hands. “Summon the seal bearer,” he commanded a nearby eunuch. “I will personally authorize Taro Sarutobi to commence this… succulent enterprise.”