They reached the edge of the garden, and Raika still hadn't figured out how to begin.
The path forked ahead—one branch leading back to the main compound, the other toward the commoners and the servants ground. The gravel beneath her feet had turned to packed earth, frozen hard by weeks of winter cold. Behind them, the dojo sounds faded into a distant murmur.
She stopped walking.
Naoya stopped too, a few paces behind her. She could hear his breathing—steady, unhurried. He did not ask why they had stopped. Unlike other children his age, he did not fidget or even complain about the cold.
How do you even talk to children?
The question echoed in her head, absurd and pathetic. She was twenty-three years old. The heir to the Zenin clan.
A semi-grade one sorcerer that has faced numerous curses and often butting heads with higher ups officials and even elders, are now frozen, paralyzed even, by the simple act of speaking to her five-year-old brother.
It wasn't always like this.
The thought came unbidden, sharp as a blade.
Before... he was different.
She remembered—fragments, really. Snatches of memory she had buried under years of training and duty. Naoya as a toddler, waddling after her with unsteady legs, his small hands reaching for her sleeve. "Raika-nee! Raika-nee! Look what I drew!" She had glanced at the crayon scribbles, said "good job," and walked away.
Naoya at four, tugging her kimono hem. "Will you play with me? Please? I'll be really good!" She had been busy.
Naoya at five—before the memory loss—clinging to her leg at some clan gathering, hiding from a crowd of strangers. She had pried him off gently and then carried him around, saying he’s tired whenever someone asked.
He wasn't tired. He was scared.
And I didn't care.
I didn't care.
The regret welled up from somewhere deep. It truly tasted like a bile.
I may have been a little too selfish.
She had told herself that Father—Morinaka—cared for Naoya. That he received enough affection from him. That she didn't need to compete for the boy's attention when she had her own path to forge.
How convenient that excuse was.
How easy, to let someone else do the work while I hoarded his affection for myself.
Naoya used to look at her with shining eyes, mouth open in a wide smile, his whole face lighting up when she entered a room. Like she was the sun. Like she could do no wrong.
And what had she given him in return?
Crumbs. Distractions. The occasional pat on the head when she remembered he existed.
Selfish and stupid.
The words carved themselves into her chest.
I should have played with him more. Comforted him. Become a pillar he could rely on.
The bare trees stretching towards the sky, stripped of it’s leaves by the winter’s cruelty.
Because now she knew the truth—or part of it. Father's care, the affection she had assumed was enough, the foundation she had built her neglect upon...
It was just an act.
The realization had settled into her bones during their walk. The way Naoya spoke about Morinaka—flat, dismissive, without the warmth of a child who felt loved. The way he had said "am I not the unwanted son of the head?" without a trace of self-pity. Just fact.
The regret pressed down on her shoulders, heavy as a mountain.
Every choice I made regarding Naoya...
Every time I turned away...
Every time I told myself he was fine, that Father would handle it, that I had more important things to do...
It was wrong. All of it.
She turned around.
Naoya stood a few paces behind her, his small hands tucked into his sleeves, his breath misting in the cold air. His face was blank—not the open, adoring expression she remembered from before. Not the shy smile or the eager eyes.
Just... nothing.
He looks at me like I'm a stranger, she thought.
And whose fault is that?
"Mine," she said aloud, before she could stop herself.
Naoya's eyebrow twitched.
"What?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. I was just thinking."
Naoya arched his eyebrow and just muttered, “Nonsense.”
She took a step closer. The gravel crunched.
"Youngest one," she said, her voice softer than she intended. "I know you don't remember me. Not really. But I want you to know something."
He did not look at her.
"I'm sorry."
Those cold, distant eyes bore into her. Unfit for a child. It doesn’t… belong in Naoya’s face.
"For what?" he asked.
For everything, she thought. For every time I wasn't there. For every time I chose myself over you. For letting you believe no one cared.
But she could not say all of that.
"For not visiting sooner," she said instead. "For being absent. For making you feel like you had to find comfort with strangers instead of your own family."
Naoya was silent.
The wind picked up, rustling the bare branches.
Then he laughed.
It was a short, hollow sound—not cruel, but not warm either.
"Family," he repeated, as if it was unfamiliar. "What family?"
Raika's chest tightened.
He's right, she thought. What family? Mother calls him defective. Father's affection was a lie. Aika is barely present. And I...
I am the worst of all. Because I knew better. And I did nothing.
She opened her mouth to speak—to say something, anything—but no words came.
Naoya turned away.
"Are we done walking?" he asked. "I have other things to do.”
Raika swallowed.
"Yes," she said. "We're done."
He nodded once and began walking back toward the compound, his small figure growing smaller with each step.
She watched him go.
I will fix this, she promised herself. I don't know how. I don't know if he'll ever forgive me. But I will try.
.
.
.
.
The sliding door to Natsuko's quarters scraped open. Naoya stepped inside, not bothering to remove his sandals, and let the door rattle shut behind him.
The warmth hit him immediately—the brazier had been fed, its charcoal glowing a deep orange. Natsuko still knelt where he had left her, her tea cup cold and untouched on the low table. Her gray hair was slightly mussed, as if she had been running her fingers through it while he was gone.
Was she worried? he thought.
"Hey, Natsuko, I'm back," he said with a lazy drawl devoid of respect.
He plopped down onto a cushion across from her, not bothering to arrange his kimono or straighten his posture. The tatami was warm beneath him.
Natsuko's eyes swept over him—checking for injuries, he realized. Making sure Raika hadn't done anything.
She really does act like a stereotypical grandmother.
"Welcome back, Naoya-kun." Her voice was soft, careful. "What did you talk about with your sister?"
Naoya reached for the tea pot. Cold. He set it down with a click.
"I didn't tell her about the Ten Shadows or my plan to join the race to become the clan head, if that's what you're asking."
Natsuko's brow furrowed. "Then?"
He poured himself a cup of cold tea anyway, just to have something to do with his hands.
"I told her a reason for me losing my memories."
He lifted the cup and took a sip then immediately stopped. The liquid was bitter and lukewarm. This body hated it.
Natsuko was silent for a moment. Then,
"Ah, that's right." She tilted her head, her gray hair shifting. "So you're saying that part is true?"
Naoya set the cup down.
"No. That's not true."
He said it flatly, without hesitation.
Well, he thought, technically I'm not lying. I still have memories of my past life, so that should count.
He almost smiled.
Too bad for her. Natsuko will never know the difference.
The old woman's face had gone still—not quite shocked, but close. Her hands, which had been resting on the table, curled slightly.
"But anyway," Naoya continued, waving a hand dismissively, "I told her that someone poisoned me and that's what caused my memory issues."
Natsuko blinked.
"…What?"
Naoya leaned back on his cushion, spreading his small hands.
"What? It's the perfect explanation." He let his voice drop, conspiratorial. "I think some servant discovered me puking my guts out on the snow and then passing out. So she's going to be too busy searching for a thread that doesn't exist." He tilted his head. "Wouldn't want her poking her head into our business, right?"
Natsuko stared at him.
The brazier crackled.
"That's too reckless," she said finally, her voice low. "What will happen if she tells Naobi of this?"
Naoya picked up his cold tea cup again and swirled it around hard enough the cold liquid splashed out into the tatami.
"She won't."
Natsuko's eyes narrowed. "Why? How can you be so sure?"
He set the cup down and looked at her.
How to explain it?
He thought of Raika's face in the garden—the way her composure had cracked, the way her voice had softened, the way she had said I'm sorry as if the words physically pained her.
She meant it, he realized. Every word.
The fool actually cares about me.
"Well…" He let the word stretch, savoring it. "Surely you must've heard this saying at least once in your life, right?"
"Love is truly the most terrible curse of all."
Natsuko's expression flickered—surprise, then understanding, then something softer.
"So it seems that she cherishes you a lot, if you're saying this."
Naoya shrugged.
"That she does." He picked up a cold rice cracker left over from earlier and bit into it. It was stale. "But you seem surprised. Just what kind of image does the clan have of me, anyway?"
Natsuko was silent for a moment. Then she exhaled—a long, slow breath.
"Image?" She looked toward the window, where the gray light began to turn more bright. "Well, Naoya-kun, before you drastically changed, people viewed you as a… prince, if you want to be kind."
Naoya crunched the cracker.
"Ah." He swallowed. "So a doll. Or even a potential breeding stallion." He dusted the crumbs from his fingers. "I get it."
Natsuko flinched at his words—just slightly, but he caught it.
"Also," she continued, her voice quieter now, "Morinaka seems to favor you and pays you a lot more attention than your siblings, Aika and Raika. So that's why most people here thought you didn't have a good relationship with each other." She paused. "Especially considering that Raika seems to be cold toward you… in public, anyway."
He reached for another stale cracker.
"Well," he said, "they're not wrong. I don't have a good relationship with them." He bit down. The cracker crumbled. "But that's their fault, isn't it?"
Natsuko did not answer.
"Anyway," he said, his voice shifting to something lighter, almost dismissive, "now that we've made deals with Chizuru, I think making deals with Hideo is unnecessary, right?"
Natsuko blinked. Her hands, which had been resting on the table, began to move—folding, unfolding, a nervous habit she probably didn't notice.
"That's… true." She tilted her head, her gray hair glinting. "Chizuru has such a wide range of connections that anything Hideo or I could do, she could do faster and better." A pause. She looked at him with those old, thoughtful eyes. "But still, having more elder support is better. So I suggest we still make contact with her."
Naoya shook his head.
"No." His voice was flat, final. "As I expected, I don't need her."
Natsuko's mouth opened. Closed. Then her brow furrowed.
"…"
She said nothing, but her silence was practically demanding answers from him.
Naoya leaned back on his cushion, resting his weight on his palms. The tatami pressed against his small hands.
"You see, Natsuko," he said, looking past her at the painted screen on the far wall—cranes and pine trees, frozen in eternal stillness. "The reason I even bothered to do all of this is because I want to have some form of legitimacy in joining the competition to become the head."
He turned his gaze back to her.
"Approvals. Powers. Traditions." He listed them like items on a shopping list. "All of it will stop being a matter of discussion once I truly begin in earnest."
His voice dropped, colder.
"Because I will leave my siblings behind in the dust."
Just like he did in his past life.
The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp and clear as if it just happened yesterday. Aiga's enraged face, Kai's bitter resignation, the way they had both crumbled when Naobito declared Naoya the heir.
They never stood a chance.
He looked down at his small hands.
Aika—no, Aiga's counterpart—is now 18 and yet she only started training to become a sorcerer now? His lip curled. She has no chance.
And Kai—Raika, what an 'inspired' name—in this world is what, 22 or 23? And yet she only reached semi-grade 1.
He almost laughed.
All their capability and achievements seem lacking when compared to me. And they got a lot of headstart for being that much older than me!
His jaw tightened.
I was grade 1 when I was 19, goddamnit.
The silence in the room felt louder now. The brazier hissed. Natsuko watched him with an expression he couldn't quite read—concern, perhaps. Or pity.
He hated both.
Ah, well. Whatever.
He let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing.
Now, considering the fact that both of them seem to genuinely cherish me…
He thought of Raika's face in the garden. The way her voice had cracked when she said "I'm sorry."
Maybe, he thought, maybe I could give them a little mercy.
Just leave them as cripples for life.
Instead of killing them like I did in my first life.
He almost smiled.
How generous of me.
Natsuko cleared her throat.
"Naoya-kun," she said carefully, "you're making a very strange face."
Naoya's expression smoothed instantly.
"I'm thinking," he said.
"About?"
He picked up his cold tea cup.
"About how merciful I am," he said, and drank it all down in one big gulp.
“How bitter…”