Seventeen days. That was how long it had taken Naoya to identify the weak link.
His broken ribs had healed nicely in that time. The constant ache had faded to an occasional twinge, and the bandages on his arm had been reduced to a thin wrap. He could move freely now—not at full strength, but enough that he no longer felt like a cracked vase waiting to shatter.
In that time, he also managed to narrow down who is the most perfect target out of the three suspects.
Elder Natsuko.
She was the oldest of the three, the most traditionalist, the most invested in the clan's public image. She controlled the eastern storehouses and had been on the council for over forty years. Her reputation was that of a frugal, no-nonsense woman who despised waste.
Which made her the perfect target, Naoya reasoned. A traditionalist who has been stealing from the clan for years. The hypocrisy alone would destroy her if exposed. And she knows it.
The other two—Hideo and Chizuru—were more dangerous. Hideo was ambitious and pragmatic; she would cut a deal or betray an ally without hesitation. Chizuru was charming and well-connected; she had allies outside the clan who might protect her.
But Natsuko? Natsuko had only her reputation which stood as firm as…well, a house of cards would be the most polite way to say it.
She is the weak link, Naoya had concluded.
Hanaya knelt across from Naoya, her small cramped book of notes open in her lap. Her hands were steady now—no trembling. Fear had been replaced by something like grim determination.
It’s good to see she understood it’s ride or die with him now.
"I need you to deliver a message," Naoya said.
Hanaya's eyes widened. "To whom?"
"Elder Natsuko. A formal request for a private meeting. No witnesses, no servants, no record."
Her face paled. "Naoya-sama, if she asks why—"
"Tell her I have information about the eastern storehouse ledgers. Information that she would want to hear before anyone else." He paused. "Tell her that I am not looking for trouble. I am looking for an ally."
Hanaya swallowed. "And if she refuses?"
Naoya's expression did not change. "She will not refuse. A woman who has spent forty years protecting her reputation cannot resist the chance to know what others are saying about her."
He held out a folded piece of paper—no seal, no signature, just a time and a place written in his own uneven hand.
"Deliver this. Then wait. If she asks questions, you know nothing except that I approached you because you are my instructor. You are merely the messenger."
Hanaya took the paper and tucked it into her sleeve. "And if she tries to hurt me?"
"I doubt she is stupid enough to attack the messenger, so she will not. Not yet, at the very least. She does not know what I know. Until she finds out, she will be careful." He turned away. "Go."
Hanaya rose, bowed, and left.
Naoya sat alone in the dim room, his hands resting on his thighs.
Now we wait, he thought. Let’s see if my assessment is correct.
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Four weeks had passed since Naoya woke up in this twisted world.
His ribs no longer ached. His arm had been freed from its bandages, though the muscles were still weak. Moving felt like a chore as he was essentially learning to move his own body again from scratch.
The meeting was set for dusk, in a small garden pavilion at the edge of the compound—far from the main halls, far from prying eyes. Naoya had chosen the location himself. It had only one entrance, open sightlines, and a low wall that he could climb over if he needed to flee.
Not that fleeing is an option, he thought. If this goes wrong, I die. There is no second chance.
He arrived early. The pavilion was still empty, though it was dusted a little by snow. A single unlit lantern stood in the corner and the sky was the color of eerie, sickly blue.
“Thundersnow…what a terrible weather for such an important meeting.”
Naoya knelt in the center of the pavilion, facing the entrance. He wore his plainest kimono with not a single ornament or even the symbol of the Zenin clan. Looking like a truly harmless child capable of doing nothing was his intention.
Let her underestimate me, he thought. Let her see a five-year-old boy playing at politics. By the time she realizes her mistake, it will be too late.
He heard footsteps crunching in the snow.
Elder Natsuko emerged from the shadows, wrapped in a heavy gray kimono, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun. Her face was decorated with lines—he couldn’t tell which came from age, which from stress—and her eyes sharply eyed the room, likely expecting some sort of traps or…more people other than the child before her.
Slow and unhurried footsteps sounded out as she moved towards the edge of the pavilion.
Naoya had to hold back a scoff at seeing the way she walked, as if she was asking for respect instead of rightfully earning it.
"You are the head's son," she said. It was not a question.
"And you are an elder who has been stealing from the clan for years," Naoya replied. His voice was calm, even. "Shall we dispense with the pleasantries and talk?"
Natsuko's eyes narrowed. For a long moment, she did not move. Then she stepped into the pavilion and knelt across from him, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.
"You have ten minutes," she said. "Speak."
Naoya smiled. But even he could feel his cheeks stretched a little too long.
"Ten minutes is more than enough."
He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a single sheet of paper. It was a list of dates and numbers, carefully copied in his own hand.
"Shall I begin with the dowry from three years ago, or would you prefer the annulment that was never filed?"
Natsuko's face did not change
But Naoya chuckled nonetheless.
Got you.
"You speak of things you do not understand, child," she said. Her voice was low and carefully controlled. "Dowries and annulments are complex matters. Clerical errors happen."
Clerical errors, Naoya thought. That is her opening gambit. Blame the scribes. Claim incompetence. It might work on a fool.
"Clerical errors do not repeat themselves across three separate families over five years," he replied. "Clerical errors do not involve the same approving signatures appearing on contradictory documents. And clerical errors do not result in funds simply... disappearing."
He tapped the paper with one finger. "I have the dates. I have the amounts. I have the names of the families involved. And I have the names of the three elders who approved each step of the process—yourself included."
Natsuko's eyes flicked down to the paper, then back to his face. "You are five years old. Even if you had such information, no one would believe you."
"Would they not?" Naoya tilted his head. "I am the clan head's son. My mother may not love me, but she would love an excuse to purge the council of corrupt elders. It consolidates power. And your fellow conspirators—Elder Hideo and Elder Chizuru—would they defend you? Or would they let you fall to protect themselves?"
The silence stretched. A single droplet of water fell from the eaves and struck the wooden floor with a soft tap.
Hmph, she’s thinking hard. Did she thought that this is just a bluff?
"I am not bluffing," he said, as if reading her mind. "I have no interest in exposing you. Not unless you force my hand."
Natsuko's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you want, boy?"
Naoya leaned forward slightly, his small hands resting on his knees.
"I want your support."
Her eyebrows rose. "Support? For what?"
"For my claim as the clan head's successor." He said it plainly, without his usual arrogance. "I am the only son. And yet I’m the most fit to lead the clan. But the elders could still block my path—marry me off, declare me unfit, place a distant cousin ahead of me. I need allies on the council. I need voices that will speak for me when the time comes."
Natsuko stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed—a dry, rasping sound. "You are asking me to support a five-year-old boy for clan head? A child who cannot even control his temper during lessons?"
"I am asking you to support the only person in this clan who knows your secret and has chosen not to use it," he said. "Think carefully, Elder. If I go to Naobi with this evidence, what happens to you? Public execution, perhaps. Or exile. Your family stripped of rank. Your name erased from the clan records. Everything you have built over forty years—gone."
He let the words settle.
"If, on the other hand, you support me—publicly, vocally, without hesitation—then your secret remains buried. I will not investigate further. I will not share what I know. And when I become clan head, you will have a place at the table. Or at least, your descendant will.”
All was quiet for a moment, except for the sound of thunders echoing in the background. Naoya watched Elder Natsuko's face, waiting for her response. Her eyes had not left his, and he could see the calculation behind them.
Then she spoke.
"You mentioned that you are the most fit to lead this clan. What merit does those words truly have? You are five years old, barely healed from a beating, with no training and no reputation. Why should I believe you are anything more than a clever boy with a stolen secret?"
Naoya smiled. It was not the cold, mocking smile he usually wore. This one was…genuine.
"I am glad you asked."
He rose to his feet and stepped back from the pavilion's center, creating a small circle of empty space between himself and Natsuko. The wooden floor was cold beneath his bare feet, but he did not shiver.
My body is healed enough, he thought. Not full strength, but enough for this.
He raised his hands and formed the shadow puppet for a dog—the same gesture he had practiced in secret, night after night, when the compound was asleep and no one could see. His fingers moved with precision, the shape perfect.
"Demon Dogs," he said.
The shadows beneath him stirred.
From the darkness at his feet, two forms emerged—one black, one white. They rose like smoke given shape, their bodies solidifying into lean, muscular hounds with glowing crimson eyes. The black dog stood at his left, the white at his right. They did not growl or snarl. They simply... waited.
The air in the pavilion grew heavy with cursed energy.
Natsuko's composure cracked. Her eyes widened, and her hands, which had been folded so neatly in her lap, flew to her mouth.
"The Ten Shadows Technique," she whispered. "Impossible. You are male. Males cannot—"
"And yet here they are," Naoya said. He reached down and placed a hand on the white dog's head. Its fur was warm beneath his palm. "The last male to possess this technique, I believe, was Prince Takiya—Taira no Kado's son. Is that correct?"
Natsuko's face had gone pale. She stared at the twin dogs as if they were ghosts.
"Yes," she breathed. "Prince Takiya. He died over a thousand years ago. There has not been a male with the Ten Shadows since. The clan elders believed... we all believed... that the technique simply did not manifest in males anymore.”
The black dog let out a low, quiet whine, pressing its head against Naoya's hip.
"The technique is not lost," he said. "It was merely waiting for the right vessel." He looked at Natsuko, his eyes cold again. "Do you understand now? I am not just a clever boy with stolen secrets. I am a weapon this clan has not seen in four centuries. And I am offering you the chance to be on my side when I rise."
Natsuko's hands lowered from her mouth. She was still pale, but now, her gaze was piercing. Like a hungry dog that just found its meal.
He released the white dog's head and stepped back, allowing the twin beasts to fade back into the shadows. They dissolved like mist, their crimson eyes the last to disappear.
"The Ten Shadows Technique is my birthright," he said. "And the Zenin clan is my inheritance. You can stand with me and watch this clan rise to heights it has not seen in centuries. Or you can stand against me and be crushed."
He knelt back down across from her, his hands resting on his knees.
"Those are your only choices, Elder Natsuko. There is no middle ground."
The silence returned. But this time, it was different. This time, Naoya could see the answer in her eyes before she spoke.
"You are not what I expected," she said again—but now her voice was soft, almost respectful.
“You’re a woman. It’s only natural.”
Natsuko bowed her head. Not deeply—she was still an elder, still proud—but enough.
"I will support you," she said. "Not because of your blackmail. Because of what you are."
Naoya allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
"Then we have an agreement."
He stood up and walked toward the edge of the pavilion, his footsteps light on the wooden floor.
"Three days," he said without looking back. "I will send another message with instructions. Until then, tell no one. Not your allies. Not your family. Not your servants."
"And if someone asks why I met with you?"
Naoya glanced over his shoulder. A cocky and confident smirk—like one often in his old life—bloomed.
"Tell them you were curious about the boy who spoke out against women. That you wanted to see if he was as foolish as he seemed." He turned away. "They will believe that. Everyone underestimates me. That is their mistake."
He stepped into the snow and walked toward the main compound, leaving Natsuko alone in the dark pavilion.
Phase Two is complete, he thought. One elder secured.
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The storm had passed by midnight, leaving the compound buried under a fresh layer of snow. Elder Natsuko's private quarters were warm, lit by a cluster of lanterns that cast soft gold light across the tatami. The room was modest by council standards—she had never cared for excess—but the brazier in the corner was well-fed, and the futon in the adjoining room had been aired with lavender.
She sat at her low desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper. Her brush remained untouched in its rest. The inkstone was dry.
He is five years old, she thought for the hundredth time. And he has the Ten Shadows. Smiling like a fox while blackmailing me…
Is he perhaps the reincarnation of Prince Takiya himself?
A soft sound came from the doorway—the rustle of fabric, the careful placement of feet. She did not look up.
"Natsuko." Her husband's voice was quiet and warm. She herself has never raised hers in his presence, even after three decades of marriage. "You returned from your meeting hours ago. You have not eaten."
"I am not hungry, Taro."
Taro knelt beside her, placing a small tray of rice and pickled vegetables at the edge of the desk. He was a gentle-faced man, his hair more white than gray, his hands calloused from years of tending his own small garden—a hobby she had once dismissed as frivolous but had grown to appreciate for the peace it brought him.
"You always say that when something troubles you," he said. "And then you eat anyway, because you are practical."
Despite herself, Natsuko's lips twitched. "You know me too well."
"I have had thirty years to learn. Would be shameful if I didn’t know that much. "
She picked up the chopsticks and took a single bite of rice. It was lukewarm. She ate it anyway.
Taro did not press. He simply sat beside her. The lantern light caught the lines on his face—the same lines that marked her own. They had grown old together. It was not a romantic marriage—few in the Zenin clan were—but it was comfortable.
He is a good man, she thought. Kind. Patient… This clan does not deserve him… No, not even me…
"The head's son," she said finally. "I met with him earlier."
Taro's eyebrows rose. "Naoya-sama? The boy who was beaten by Oiko?"
"The same." She set down the chopsticks. "He is…unlike the rumors that spoke about him.”
The rumors paint him as a naive boy with what could be considered a rebellious mindset within the clan but progressive outside, she thought. But he is actually very cunning.
"What did he want?" Taro asked.
"My support. To become clan head." She paused. "He also accused me of stealing from the clan."
Taro's expression did not change. He simply nodded, as if she had told him the weather.
"Ah," he said quietly. "He found out."
Natsuko turned to look at him. "You are not surprised."
Taro exhaled slowly. "Yeah… I figured it was only a matter of time. Either someone discovers this and then catches all of us, or those two 'friends' of yours throw you under the bus and walk away without any repercussion."
He reached out and took her hand. His fingers were warm, steady.
"I have been waiting for this day for years, Natsuko. Dreading it, but waiting."
She did not pull away. "You could have left when I first told you, you could have walked out. Reported me and you would have saved yourself."
"I could have," he agreed. "But then who would remind you to eat?"
A sad smile touched her lips. "You are too good for me, Taro."
"I am exactly good enough for you. No more, no less."
The silence stretched. The lanterns flickered.
Then Taro said, "This boy who blackmailed you. What did he ask for?"
"Support. Public, vocal support for his claim as successor." She paused. "He also summoned the Ten Shadows Technique. The demon dogs, twin beasts. I saw them with my own eyes."
Taro's calm composure cracked. His eyes widened. "The Ten Shadows? A male? That is—"
“Unexpected, yes.”
"The very first user of the technique was Prince Takiya," Natsuko said. "Over a thousand years ago. He was male. According to the old texts, he was also the only one who tamed the Mahoraga and passed the technique down through the bloodline. After him, no male ever manifested it again. Until now."
She looked at her hands.
"Out of everyone in history, Prince Takiya is documented as the strongest user of the Ten Shadows. If this boy truly has his technique—if he can match even a fraction of that power—then he is not just a threat. The start of a revolution…it might be possible with his help.”
Taro was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "You agreed to support him."
"I had no choice. He had evidence. He could have destroyed us."
"But that is not the only reason you agreed, I presume?"
Natsuko looked toward the window, where snowflakes clung to the glass.
"He said something to me. When I said he’s not what I expected, he said, 'You're a woman. It's only natural.'"
Taro's brow furrowed. "Is that supposed to be an insult? If so, it’s quite…lacking.”
"I thought so too. At first." She turned back to him. "But what if he meant something else? What if he was not insulting me, but reprimanding me for forgetting?”
"You have been telling me for years that this clan is broken. That it crushes both men and women and calls it tradition. I did not listen. I was too busy protecting what little we had. And now a five-year-old boy has shown me what I refused to see."
Taro's eyes, gazed at her own were soft. "And what is that?"
"That power does not belong to women or men. It belongs to those who can seize it." She straightened her back. "Naoya Zenin can seize it. And I would rather be on the side of the one who wins than the ones who are thrown under the bus."
Taro nodded slowly. "Then I am with you. I have always been with you."
Natsuko squeezed his hand. "I know."
He smiled—warm, sad, proud.
"Eat your rice, Natsuko. It is a little cold, but it will still fill your stomach. Tomorrow, you will need your strength."
She picked up the chopsticks and finished the rice. It was already hard.
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Author's Note
The gap between what Naoya says and what people hear continues to grow. Naoya's actual meaning: "You're a woman, so of course you're too blind and inferior to recognize my greatness without a demonstration. It's only natural for your kind to lack perception."
What Natsuko heard: "You are a woman in power who has overlooked the potential of men for too long. It is only natural that you would need a reminder. Now open your eyes."
One is misogyny. The other is a call to equality. They are not the same.
But Natsuko will never know the difference. Poor old grandma.