"—and the chrysanthemums this year were simply breathtaking," Chizuru said, her voice light and airy, like she hadn’t essentially threatened them yesterday. "I told Seto that we simply must host a viewing party next autumn. Don't you agree, Natsuko?"
Naoya sat on a cushion beside Natsuko, his small hands resting on his knees. The room was different from Natsuko's quarters—larger, more formal, with painted screens depicting cranes and pine trees. And the blinding light shining on their face must be intentional too.
Damn prick. Are they really that desperate to be seen as a divine being or something?
Natsuko inclined her head, her gray hair catching the light. "Chrysanthemums are lovely. Though I've always been partial to wisteria myself."
"Wisteria!" Chizuru clasped her hands together. Her kimono was a deep crimson, expensive silk that rustled every time she moved. "How nostalgic. The wisteria at the southern compound used to be the envy of the entire clan, wasn't that right, Seto?"
Seto knelt beside his wife, his posture relaxed, his silver-templed hair combed neatly. He smiled pleasantly, though Naoya could sense it in his bones that the man is a sycophant.
"Indeed," he said. "Though I heard the frost damaged them severely two winters ago. A shame."
Naoya's eye twitched.
Mind-numbingly pointless. What are we doing here?
He watched Chizuru's face as she laughed at something Natsuko said. Her eyes were warm and her smile seemed genuine enough. If he didn't know better, he would have thought her a harmless grandmother type—plump cheeks, soft hands, a voice that made you want to lean in and listen.
But he did know better.
Elder Chizuru, Hanaya had said, is charming and well-liked. But there are rumors of a cruel streak.
He studied the way her fingers curled around her tea cup—delicate, deliberate. The way her gaze flicked to him every few seconds, then away.
She’s analyzing him then. Hmmph, so there’s someone in this entire clan with a working brain. No doubt, she’s assessing his threat level.
"—and Naoya-kun," Chizuru said suddenly, turning her smile toward him, "you've been so quiet. Are you enjoying the tea? I had it imported specially from Kyoto."
Naoya blinked.
His hand was wrapped around a small ceramic cup. He had not taken a single sip.
"It's fine," he said flatly.
Chizuru's smile did not waver, but her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than comfortable.
"Natsuko," she said, returning her attention to the older woman, "you've raised quite the polite young man. So well-behaved."
Natsuko's hand drifted to Naoya's shoulder.
"He's a delight and Yone did most of the work, not me of course," Natsuko said.
Naoya felt the word delight land on him like a particularly large drop of water.
Seto poured himself more tea. The liquid streamed from the pot in a thin, steady arc.
"Speaking of delightful things," Seto said, his tone still light, "I heard the most interesting rumor yesterday. Something about the eastern storehouses being short on rice this winter."
Natsuko's hand on Naoya's shoulder tightened. Just slightly. Enough for him to feel it.
"Oh?" Natsuko's voice was calm. "I hadn't heard that. I'll have to check the ledgers."
Chizuru waved a hand. "Oh, it's probably nothing. You know how servants gossip. They'll turn a single misplaced sack into a grand conspiracy."
She laughed.
Seto laughed.
Natsuko laughed, though it didn’t reach her eyes the same way when she laughed with Taro yesterday.
Naoya said nothing.
There it is, he thought. The first jab. Natsuko seems to be willing to go along with this for now.
He picked up his tea cup and took a sip. The liquid was warm, floral, almost too bitter.
Disgusting, he thought. This body really doesn’t like anything that doesn’t have the slightest sugar in it.
Chizuru leaned forward slightly, her crimson kimono pooling around her.
"Naoya-kun," she said, "I heard you've been spending a lot of time with Natsuko and Taro. That's wonderful. Every child needs grandparents."
Naoya lowered the cup.
"My parents are alive," he said. "I don't need grandparents. And they’re just someone I’m close with.”
The words came out exactly as cold as he intended.
Chizuru's smile flickered—just for an instant—then returned.
"Of course, of course. I meant no offense. It's just…" She glanced at Natsuko. "Well, you know how the head's household can be. Busy. Distant. It's nice that you've found warmth elsewhere."
Natsuko's hand slid from Naoya's shoulder to the table. Her fingers rested near her tea cup, still.
"Naoya-kun is always welcome in our home," Natsuko said quietly. "For as long as he wishes to visit."
Seto set down his tea cup. The ceramic clicked against the lacquer.
"How touching," he said. "Family is so important, don't you think, Chizuru?"
"Absolutely essential," Chizuru agreed.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, as everyone could see each other waiting for someone to speak first. As Naoya was about to end this meaningless charade,
Chizuru clapped her hands together. "Oh! I almost forgot. Naoya-kun, I heard you've been doing wonderfully in your lessons. Your calligraphy teacher says you've improved tremendously."
Naoya's eye twitched.
That blind fool Kenshin said I improved? I still score below forty.
"Thank you," he said flatly.
"And your etiquette instructor—Yone, is it?—said you have the makings of a proper young man." Chizuru beamed. "Such high praise coming from him."
"Thank you," Naoya said again.
Chizuru tilted her head. "You're so modest. It's refreshing."
Natsuko cleared her throat.
The sound was deliberately abrupt. She’s finally drawn her sword.
"Chizuru," Natsuko said, her voice losing all pretense of warmth, "I think we have appeased your bizarre need for etiquette enough. Should we not talk business now?"
Naoya's eyes flicked between the two women.
Finally, he thought. The mask comes off.
Chizuru's smile did not waver, but her posture shifted. She set down her tea cup—slowly, deliberately—and folded her hands in her lap.
"Business," she repeated, as if mocking Natsuko. "Very well."
She straightened her back. The crimson silk of her kimono rustled.
"Three days from now," Chizuru began, her voice dropping. "is December thirtieth. The Night of Vengeance."
Naoya's pulse skipped.
The Night of Vengeance?
Chizuru continued, her eyes moving from Natsuko to Naoya and back again.
"The clan holds a private ceremony honoring Taira no Kado as our 'avenging matriarch.'" She said the title with a faint curl of irony. "We recite her deeds, burn incense, and exorcise curses in her name." A pause. Her smile thinned. "And also kill any traitors we may have in the clan. Of course, that last part is rarely practiced today."
His mind raced.
The Night of Vengeance. A ceremony. A purge.
Then Chizuru turned her gaze fully on Natsuko.
"But Natsuko…" Her voice was soft, almost gentle. "I could make sure you and your beloved husband end up as this year's traitors."
Silence.
Natsuko did not flinch. Her hands remained folded on the table, still as stone.
"I know that all too well myself," she said quietly.
Chizuru tilted her head, her eyes narrowing.
"Well then… if that's the case, do you mind explaining why it seemed like you're actively supporting this little boy to expose our misdeeds?"
Natsuko's jaw tightened as her age-spotted hands curled slightly.
"Our, huh?" she said, her voice dry. "Though I can't deny that, hearing it still leaves a sour taste on my mouth, considering you practically dragged me into this."
Chizuru barked a short laugh.
"It's your fault you're too damn naive."
The words were not cruel. They were matter-of-fact. As if Chizuru were stating the weather.
Natsuko was silent for a long moment.
"Hahahaha… perhaps." Her voice was soft, almost sad. "I still have too much of my humanity, even after all these years serving this clan. I had hoped we were actually friends."
Chizuru reacted to that, but Naoya couldn’t catch it.
Because—
No way.
The thought literally hit him like a physical blow.
I remember now. That date.
His chest tightened and his palms, resting on his knees, grew slick with sweat.
December thirtieth. The Night of Vengeance.
In his first life—his real life—that was the day Naobito had executed the elder. The public execution. The consolidation of power.
That's the same date, Naoya realized.
His breathing shallowed.
That means…
He looked at Chizuru's calm, smiling face. Then at Natsuko's weary, resigned one.
Are we doomed already after all?
The question spiraled through his skull.
Did Chizuru report us to Naobi already?
His small fingers dug into the fabric of his kimono.
No. Wait. Think.
He forced himself to slow down and simply…breathe.
If Chizuru had already reported us, she wouldn't be here. She wouldn't be negotiating. She would have simply let the ceremony take its course.
So she hasn't reported us. Not yet.
She's giving Natsuko a chance.
Why?
He looked at Chizuru's face—that pleasant smile as if she has everything under control, and her keen eyes. Irritating. Naoya is really raring to go at her now.
What do you want? he thought. What's your angle?
Chizuru turned to him.
Her smile widened.
"Naoya-kun," she said, "you've gone very pale. Are you feeling unwell?"
Naoya stared at her.
“Wait…you’ve turned red now. Are you okay?”
"I'm fine," he said. His voice came out steady—steadier than he felt. "Just thinking."
Chizuru's eyes glittered.
"Thinking," she repeated. "About what, I wonder?"
Naoya did not answer.
He looked at Natsuko instead.
The old woman's face was still.
Fool, Naoya thought again. But this time, the word held less contempt. Sentimental fool. But she's my fool for now.
He turned back to Chizuru.
"You haven't reported us," he said. It was not a question.
Chizuru's eyebrows rose.
"No," she agreed. "I haven't."
"Then what do you want?"
The question landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Chizuru looked at him for a long moment. Then she looked at Natsuko. Then back at him.
"I want," she said slowly, "what everyone wants. Security. Stability. A future that’s infinitely more brighter than this for my descendants.”
Naoya's lip curled.
"What a fancy way to say you're a greedy fox past her prime." He unfolded his legs and placed his palms flat on the table. The wood was warm beneath his fingers. "But fine."
He stood up.
His knees cracked—softly, child's joints still settling—and he straightened his back. The crimson of Chizuru's kimono blurred at the edges of his vision as he rose to his full, insignificant height.
He looked down at her.
Well. Slightly down. She was still taller, even seated.
"I bet you tortured that useless subordinate of mine, right?"
The words came out flat. Though it was posed as a question, it was clear to everyone in the room that it was an accusation. Blatant and naked, barely covered by anything.
Chizuru maintained her unwavering smile, as always. But she did glance at Natsuko briefly.
"She has nothing." His voice was calm, almost conversational. He tilted his head, looking directly at Chizuru. "She doesn't even know I possess a cursed technique."
Chizuru's smile visibly trembled.
Naoya continued, pressing the advantage. "You can torture her all you want. Break her fingers. Pull out her tongue." He shrugged, a small, childlike gesture that he knew looked cold instead of innocent. "She can't tell you what she doesn't know."
Natsuko shifted beside him. He could feel her gaze on the back of his head, heavy and concerned.
He ignored her.
Let them squeeze her dry, he thought. They'll find only dust.
He lifted his chin.
"You want power?" His voice rang through the formal room, loud and clear. "Fine. Support me, and you'll earn it all. Everything you could have dreamed of. And more."
He raised his hands and called his cursed energy.
The shadows beneath him stirred.
"Demon Dogs," he said.
The shadows answered.
From the darkness pooling at his feet—thick, oily, alive—two forms emerged. One black, one white. They rose like smoke given flesh, their bodies solidifying into lean, muscular hounds. Their fur was sleek and their eyes glowed faintly with cursed energy.
The black dog stood at his left. The white dog at his right.
They stood there, perfectly connected to his will, waiting for commands.
Chizuru's composure cracked.
Her hands, which had been folded so neatly in her lap, flew to the table's edge. Her knuckles went white. Her breath caught—a small, sharp intake of air that she could not hide.
"The Ten Shadows," she whispered. Her voice was no longer light nor airy. Her mask had fallen off the moment he did the gesture.
"Impossible. A male cannot—"
"Shut up! I don’t want to hear the same thing over and over again every time I do this," Naoya said.
He reached down and placed a hand on the white dog's head. Its fur was warm beneath his palm. Its ears twitched at his touch.
The black dog let out a low, quiet whine. Naoya let out a scoff and roughly patted its head too.
He looked up to see Chizuru and Seto's faces.
Chizuru was still in shock—her mouth slightly parted, her eyes fixed on the twin beasts as if she expected them to vanish at any moment. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The crimson of her kimono seemed less vibrant now, drained by the shadows pooling at Naoya's feet.
Seto, however, was not looking at Naoya.
He was staring at the shikigami. Deeply. Intently. His silver-templed head tilted just a fraction, his eyes tracing the curve of the white dog's haunches, the gleam of the black dog's fangs. He did not blink or breathe the entire time.
Ah.
A realization settled into Naoya's head, cold and certain.
So that's how it is.
He looked back at Chizuru—still frozen, still speechless—and then at Seto, who had not moved except to follow the black dog's tail as it swept lazily across the tatami.
At a glance, Chizuru doesn't seem to be the most cunning person. She's charming. She's pleasant. She laughs at the right moments and says the right things. But she's not the one making the decisions.
Seto, though…
Naoya felt his lip curl.
Of course. It's always the same, isn't it?
He let his hand drop from the black dog's head. The beast whined softly, then pressed its snout against his hip.
Women are really dumb.
The thought came easily, comfortably—like an old coat he had worn a thousand times.
They think they're in charge. They think they're the ones pulling the strings. They sit in the clan head's seat, they give orders, they talk about tradition and power and legacy. But behind every one of them, there's a man doing the actual thinking.
He glanced at Chizuru. She had finally closed her mouth, but her hands were still gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
Look at her. She can't even form a sentence. She's useless without him.
His gaze drifted back to Seto.
He's the one I need to convince. He's the one who will decide whether Chizuru supports me or throws us to the wolves.
The woman is just a figurehead. A pretty face in a crimson kimono.
Aren't they all?
The black dog growled—low, barely audible—and Naoya realized he had been staring at Seto for too long.
He smoothed his expression.
"Well?" he said, his voice flat. "Are you going to sit there gaping all day, or are we going to talk?"
Chizuru flinched.
Seto's eyes finally lifted from the shikigami. They met Naoya's.
And he smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was not a calculating smile either—nothing so obvious.
Like a book addict that just came across a priceless classic and was eager to open its page.
Creepy bastard.
"My apologies, Naoya-sama." His voice was smooth, unhurried. "I was simply admiring your companions. They're quite… impressive."
Naoya did not return the smile.
"They're not for admiring," he said. "They're for killing."
Seto's smile widened.
"Even better."
.
.
.
.
Author's Notes
Naoya just looked at Chizuru—charming, well-liked, politically connected—and decided she's just a "figurehead" while Seto is the "real brain" behind the operation.
In his original world, that's exactly how it worked. The clan head was a man. Their partner? A woman. Who did the thinking behind the scenes? Who pulled the strings? The text never says, but in traditional patriarchal structures, the wife often had soft power—influence, not authority.
But Naoya has inverted that in his head. Now he sees a woman in power and assumes a man must be doing the actual thinking.
But o ma gad, this guy… In his original world, if a powerful man had a smart wife who advised him, Naoya would never call the man a figurehead. He'd call the wife "useful" at best.
He's so deep in his own misogyny that he can't see he's holding up a mirror to his own original world and calling it stupid.
In a roundabout way, Naoya is mocking himself.
And he will never, ever realize it.
Did I cook or nah?