The room had grown dimmer since Naoya last opened his eyes. A single oil lamp burned on a low stand near the wall, casting shadows across the wooden pillars. The doctor—a thin man with a graying goatee and small, dark eyes—knelt beside Naoya's futon, one hand resting on his forehead.
"His fever is caused by him staying in the snow for too long," the doctor said in a bland voice while withdrawing his hand and turning slightly toward the parents standing near the sliding door. "But so long as he rested well, he should be back to normal in a few days."
"Hmm…" the woman claiming to be his mother said, her chin lifting slightly. Her gaze slid from the doctor to Naoya's flushed face, then back. "What about the test? I need to know if this boy is truly defective or not. Can it be done right now?"
The doctor shook his head once, his expression unchanged. "No. The boy needs to be in his peak physical condition if he wants to take the test. A fever like this might actually hinder his ability to think."
Naobi folded her arms inside her kimono sleeves. The man beside her—Morinaka—stood with his back straight, watching Naoya with an uncanny stillness.
"That makes sense," Naobi said after a pause, her gaze drifting to the window where snow continued to fall beyond the frosted glass. "But do you perhaps have any hypothesis regarding why this boy is acting strange? He doesn't remember his father nor me." She turned her cold eyes back to the doctor. "I could see in his eyes that there's no recognition there."
The doctor remained silent for a moment, his fingers steepled in front of his chin.
"To be honest, Naobi-sama, I currently have no concrete idea. It could be that this child has a mental illness as I've described earlier. And to be honest, that's the most likely reason as seeing he has suffered no head trauma that could cause him to lose his memory."
"Hmm...I see." Naobi's lips curved into a thin smile. She turned her gaze toward the futon where Naoya lay—still, eyes closed, but his breathing had changed, shallower. "So he's likely a defect, huh? Well, at least he's not totally worthless. He inherited my and Morinaka's looks, so when he grows up, I could marry him to the other two families or something." A soft chuckle escaped her. "Hehe, imagining the look on their face when I offered this child to them is pretty funny."
Morinaka, who had been silent near the door, shifted his weight. His arms, which had been folded across his chest, slowly lowered to his sides. The lantern light caught the side of his face, covering his other side in shadows.
"Are you perhaps not afraid they're going to take offense to that, Naobi-sama?" he asked. His voice was low and each word was placed with care.
Naobi turned her head slightly, one eyebrow raised. "Hmm? It's rare for you to speak up, Morinaka."
Morinaka stepped forward once, then stopped. His gaze swept from Naobi to the doctor, then to the child on the futon. He exhaled a quiet breath that misted faintly in the cold room.
"The Gojo and Kamo clans are proud," he said, his tone still even. "If we offer them a child we ourselves have labeled defective—whether or not they would even accept the marriage—they would see it as an insult. A deliberate mockery. Friction between the three families is already high enough without adding fuel to that fire."
Naobi's smile faded. Her fingers, which had been resting lightly on her sleeve, curled inward.
"Moreover," Morinaka continued, his dark eyes fixed on his wife's face, "the point of an arranged marriage between clans is to strengthen partnership. To bind houses together through blood and mutual benefit. If we send them a defect—knowingly, intentionally—what does that say about our intentions? We would not gain an ally. We would gain an enemy."
A long silence followed. The doctor looked down at his own hands, clearly wishing to be elsewhere. Outside, a thin layer of ice had begun to form on the window's wooden frame.
Naobi's expression had gone cold again—colder than before. She turned back to look at Naoya, who lay utterly still beneath the quilt.
"Then what would you have me do with him?" she asked quietly. "If he is defective and cannot be used for marriage…"
Morinaka took another step forward. His hand, which had been resting at his side, rose slowly to adjust the collar of his kimono. Then he lifted his gaze and met his wife's eyes directly.
"Then I shall take care of him, Naobi-sama."
Naobi's eyes narrowed slightly. She tilted her head, the oil lamp's flame reflecting in her dark irises. "What are you going to do with him, Morinaka? Do you perhaps have any idea on how to use the child?"
Morinaka nodded once.
He glanced toward the futon where Naoya lay motionless, then back to Naobi. "Yes. I have some ideas. And moreover, my duty as a father had become considerably lighter these past few years since Aika started her training as a sorcerer. So I can allocate enough time to make something out of a defect like him."
A silence followed once again.
Then Naobi's lips parted, and laughter spilled out—boisterous and yet, almost musical. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. "...Hahahahaha. I knew I was right in marrying you. Alright then. I shall place my trust in you, Morinaka."
She turned toward the sliding door, her kimono trailing softly across the tatami. Morinaka followed a step behind. The doctor rose to his feet, bowed deeply, and quickly gathered his satchel.
One by one, they left the room. The sliding door closed with a soft thunk.
Naoya lay still beneath the quilt, his breathing slow and even.
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Naoya woke up with a slight start as he stared at the ceiling of his room. The wooden beams above were dark, barely visible in the gray light filtering through the paper window. His small chest rose and fell beneath the quilt. Then, he started gritting his teeth in anger. His small fist clenched his quilt hard—the fabric bunching tight around his fingers.
A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the winter air. His jaw ached from the pressure.
Nightmare… he had a nightmare about Maki. His breathing quickened for just a moment before he forced it down. To think he would ever have a nightmare about such pathetic lowlifes like her. HER! OF ALL PEOPLE!
He wouldn't mind as much if the nightmares had Toji or Satoru in the center of it, but MAKI?! She already took his life once—he was merely unprepared—and now she dares to invade him inside of his own dreams?!
His free hand came up to his forehead, wiping away a thin sheen of sweat that had gathered there. The room was cold—he could see his own breath misting faintly—but his skin felt clammy.
Naoya seethed in silence and then muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, barely disturbing the still air, "I was only caught off guard. I didn't know Maki couldn't be targeted by a domain. Next time... surely next time we fight, I will effortlessly slaughter her."
His fist relaxed slightly. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed himself upright on the futon—his small back straight, his glare fixed on the closed sliding door of his room.
He felt better already, so Naoya stood up and walked out of his room, heading toward the hall where his father would usually be drinking sake. The wooden corridor stretched long and dim before him, polished floorboards cold beneath his bare feet. During the way, he passed multiple servants—each one stopping to bow low as he approached. And each time, he became more confused. Why are they all male? The majority of the Zenin clan's servants are female.
His steps slowed near the third servant—a young man in a simple dark kimono, head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest.
Curiosity piqued, Naoya grabbed one of the servants bowing as he walked by the shoulder and asked him, his small fingers digging into the fabric, "You trash."
The servant's entire body flinched. His head lifted just enough to reveal wide, frightened eyes.
"Y-yes? Naoya-sama? What do you need me for?"
Naoya's brow furrowed. He stared at the man's face—clean-shaven, youthful, utterly submissive. "Why are you a servant?"
"...Huh?" The servant blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing. "Excuse me?"
Naoya's free hand came up to scratch the back of his head, his fingers pulling at his dark hair in irritation. "Aghh… I'm asking you, why are you, a male, willingly would want to become a servant? Shouldn't you be in the...I don't know? Kukuru Unit?"
The servant's face went wide in confusion and shock.
"...Huh? I-im sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Naoya-sama."
Naoya's jaw tightened. He released the servant's shoulder only to jab a small finger into the man's chest. "Damnit all. Do you truly have no brain in your head, you damn trash! I'm speaking to you loud and clear and this is how you respond to me?!"
"Hieek, I'm sorry Naoya-sama! Please forgive me for my transgressions!" The man he held shrieked—a high, reedy sound—and immediately bent forward at the waist.
But...the sight of this man in front of him acting just like a girl stunned Naoya so much that he could only stare at him. His hand hung in the air where it had been pointing. His mouth remained slightly open. The corridor was silent except for the servant's ragged, terrified breathing.
Then, after a moment of silence, Naoya's arm dropped to his side. He turned his head away from the sight of the servant.
"Go away now, you trash."
The servant straightened so fast he nearly stumbled backward. He bowed twice more—jerky, desperate movements—then scurried away, his wooden sandals clattering against the floor. As he disappeared around a corner, his voice drifted back, high and grateful, "Thank you for your generosity, Naoya-sama."
Naoya stood alone in the corridor, staring at the empty space where the man had been.
What the hell is going on?
Naoya continued his walk and finally arrived. The corridor opened into a wider hallway, and ahead stood a sliding door with dark wooden frames—the clan head's private chamber. Standing in front of the room, he could hear the sound of someone drinking sake inside—the soft clink of a ceramic cup being set down, then lifted again. There's no doubt. That must be his father. The woman and man that claimed to be his parents must be scheming or something. What kind of schemes would include claiming to be his parents he has no idea, but they are stupid after all. Naoya wouldn't be able to understand the thoughts of stupid people.
He reached up—his small hand barely reaching the door's middle rail—and pulled. The sliding door scraped open with a low rumble, revealing a room warmed by a small charcoal brazier in the center.
And he found…
"Hey! You little brat. Close the god-damned door! The warm air is leaking out."
The woman who claimed to be his mother sat in his father's—the clan head's—zabuton, one leg crossed over the other, a sake cup in her hand. A ceramic tokkuri bottle rested on the floor beside her knee. Her eyes were half-lidded, cheeks faintly flushed from the drink.
The sight brought anger to him as he stood frozen in the doorway, then his face contorted. He shouted out, his small voice cracking, "You! What are you doing here?! Where the hell is my father?!"
Naobi lowered the sake cup but did not set it down. She tilted her head, a lazy smile spreading across her lips. "Ohh, it seems you got better already, huh? What a surprise. The doctor said it will at least take a few days for you to get better, but I guess this only proves just how good being young is, hahahahaha." Her laugh was loud, unguarded, echoing off the wooden walls.
"Don't joke around with me you damn bitch! Where is my father?!"
The smile vanished from Naobi's face. Her eyes went flat.
Then—
She disappeared from his sight. There was no sound of footsteps, no rush of air. Only the barest flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. And then he felt a kick—precise and hard—in his stomach before he was launched away. His small body flew backward out of the doorway, across the wooden engawa, and tumbled into the yard. Snow exploded around him as he hit the ground and skidded to a stop.
"Gaahh…"
He puked again—a thin, sour liquid that stained the white snow beside his face. His body curled into a small ball, knees drawn up to his chest, both arms wrapped around his stomach. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. The cold of the snow seeped through his kimono, but the burning pain in his gut overwhelmed everything else.
Footsteps crunched through the snow toward him. Naobi's shadow fell over his curled form.
"Watch your tone, boy. I may be your mother, but first and foremost, I'm the clan head. Be grateful that you are my son. Because if you were anyone else, I'd make sure you'll end up in the disciplinary pit."
Naoya couldn't hear her words. His face was half-buried in the snow, eyes wide and unfocused. His mind was reeling from the fact that he saw her use the Projection technique. A technique that only him and his father should have!
The snow melted beneath his cheek from the heat of his own breath.
Goddamit what the hell is going on!
He felt himself getting pulled by the scruff of his kimono—the fabric tightening around his neck—and was thrown into the room back again. Landing with a thud against the tatami, the impact jarred his already bruised body, and let out a small groan of pain. His small fingers splayed against the woven floor.
"Hey you," he heard the woman speak again. Her shadow loomed in the doorway, one hand still extended from the throw. "Take him to his father. This brat is searching for him. And also, tell Morinaka to start his education already."
"Yes, Naobi-sama." The voice came from somewhere above him—low, male, respectful.
He felt gentle hands pick him up. One arm slid beneath his knees, another behind his back. His head lolled against a solid shoulder. The warmth of the person carrying him was a sharp contrast to the cold snow still melting into his kimono. Through half-closed eyes, he saw the blurred shape of a man in servant's clothing.
And then he was taken away from the room—carried down the corridor, the ceiling beams passing slowly overhead, the sound of Naobi's sake cup being refilled fading behind him.