The attached flesh was made of lies, but the skeleton was made of truth.
If there was a phrase that could accurately describe Naoya's situation, that was it. Everyone actually believed him whenever he asked normal, necessary things—like who was the president, how did world history in general go, did the Japanese Imperial Family collapse, and so on. No one questioned why a five-year-old was asking about geopolitics. They simply answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And he had gotten the confirmation that this world was truly, truly different at its nature during one of his lessons.
With Yone, of all people.
It was morning in the etiquette room—the place was as insufferable as ever—with an exhausted looking Yone at his usual place.
Naoya sat in front of him, cushion below him with back a little slouched. It was intentional.
It worked wonderfully. And then they argued.
As per usual.
"—and your posture remains unacceptable," Yone was saying, his voice curt. "You slouch when you think no one is watching. Your greetings still sound like threats. And your smile—" His face scrunched up and Naoya took delight on that. "Is simply awful. How could there be no improvement for this long?!"
"My smile is fine. Your eyes are simply too old to recognize perfection when you see it."
Yone's eyebrow twitched in return. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"Perfection," he repeated. "And yet you could not recognize the fact that you are merely a child in a world that doesn't revolve around you."
"The world revolves around whoever has the power to spin it."
Yone's face reddened.
Hmmph, how does it feel to argue with a wall who talk backs and never stops and even sent some people to harass you? Must be pretty terrible.
"Facts," Yone said, jabbing a finger at the air. "You need facts. Because clearly, your delusions have outstripped your reason."
Naoya opened his mouth to retort—
But Yone was already talking, faster now, as if trying to outrun interruption.
"In this world, women are naturally stronger than men. Their muscle growth develops at a different rate. Their cursed energy manifests more frequently and in greater quantities. That is not opinion. That is biology. That is recorded data across centuries."
He paused, breathing hard.
"And men? Men grow slender. Effeminate. The vast majority never develop significant muscle mass, regardless of training. It is simply not in our physiology."
Naoya's mouth hung open.
"THAT'S RIGHT!!!" As if he's been waiting for this his whole life, he shouted with a triumphant expression. "YOU ARE GOING TO GROW UP AND BECOME REALLY PRETTY, AND FAIR SKINNED, AND DELICATE!! NO MATTER WHAT KIND OF DELUSIONS YOU HAVE ABOUT BECOMING STRONG AND EVEN GETTING MUSCLES, THIS IS THE TRUTH!!"
Not in our physiology.
Men grow slender.
Effeminate.
His brain short-circuited.
"I'M GOING TO GROW UP AND BECOME A TWINK?!"
The words erupted from his throat, horrified and full of despair. His small hands slapped the tatami and his cushion slid backward. Yone blinked—genuinely startled for once—and then slowly, deliberately, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"…That is one way to put it," Yone said, "though I would have chosen more dignified terminology."
"DIGNIFIED?!" Naoya's voice cracked. "YOU TELL ME I'M GOING TO LOOK LIKE—LIKE—"
He couldn't even finish the sentence.
Images of men looking oddly soft and slender with delicate features, as if they have never lifted anything heavier than a tea cup flooded his mind.
Like the men in this world, he realized. The servants. The teachers. Taro.
Taro.
The old man was thin, frail, with papery skin and a gentle face.
That's what this body is supposed to become.
No.
NO.
He forced air into his lungs.
Wait. Calm down. Think.
He pressed his palms against his thighs, grounding himself.
Remember your own situation properly.
This is a forced body hijacking. The vessel is merely a vessel.
His breathing slowed.
In the Culling Games—the incarnated sorcerers—their vessels underwent significant changes.
He had read about it. Glossed over it, really, because most of the files had been useless. But the basic principle was clear: when a powerful sorcerer incarnated into a vessel, the vessel's body reshaped itself to match the sorcerer's original form.
That's right!
The realization hit him like a thunderbolt.
It's reported that their vessels' bodies underwent significant changes. They transformed into their original forms!
He was almost smiling now.
Thank god or buddha or whatever is out there he saw a picture of a naked woman floating in the sky and became interested in reading that particular section of the reports…for research purpose, of course.
The point was:
He'll grow up to become as big and as tall as Toji-kun and Satoru-kun.
His original body had been tall. Broad-shouldered. Lean with muscle. Not the hulking mass of Toji, but nothing like the slender men of this world either.
This body will change, he told himself. It has to. Supposedly the soul shapes the vessel, right?
He let out a long, slow breath.
Yone was staring at him.
"…Are you quite finished?" the old man asked.
Naoya straightened his back and smoothed his expression. Now, only cold certainty remained.
"Yes," he said. "Let's continue."
Yone's eyes narrowed.
"You just screamed about becoming a twink."
"I have resolved that concern internally."
"….You are by far, the strangest kid I have ever taught."
.
.
.
.
.
The last time she ever visited the compound, it certainly wasn't like this.
Lanterns were hung from everywhere, their gold and red paper shells managed to create a somewhat festive and bustling glow. Not to mention the various stalls being erected here and there, grilling fish, steaming buns, selling trinkets and masks. Children ran around, laughing and sometimes bumping into the legs of an adult.
Must be because of that.
The Night of Vengeance.
Held just a day before New Year, it was the Zenin family tradition that celebrated the birth of Taira no Kado as the first samurai and revolutionary against the imperial court of old. For the elders, the heirs, and those in the know, this was supposed to proceed as a solemn ceremony.
But because it also doubled as a family gathering, naturally the common clan members viewed it as some kind of festival.
Not that they were wrong.
There would be plays, performances, and theaters. And in the end, a grand purification ritual—grand in name only; a decently competent grade 2 could handle it—where selected members of the clan would assist in exorcising cursed spirits and other ritual nonsense that she had no interest in knowing.
Touko walked through the compound's eastern gate. Her long dark hair was pulled back loosely, strands falling across her sharp cheekbones. She wore a plain, dark kimono—no clan symbols or any sorts of adornment. The only thing of note was the worn leather pouch at her hip, bulging with something that clinked softly with each step.
Her eyes, listless and apathetic, stared ahead.
"H-hey… isn't that the one with no cursed energy?"
The whisper came from her left. Two young men in servant's clothing, their heads bowed too low, their shoulders trembling.
"Shhh!! If she hears you, we're dead!"
She kept walking.
"Why did she suddenly come back?"
"Is it because of the ceremony tomorrow?"
"Don't talk to her. She only brings bad luck."
Hushed condescending voice dripping with terrors blurred together in her ears. She had heard it all before. Years ago, when she still lived in this compound. Before she left. Before she made a name for herself outside these walls.
Then, the voice of a boy who clearly wasn't taught anything rang clear.
"…That's!? The Sorcerer Killer…"
Touko stopped.
The area fell silent.
She deliberately turned her head slowly to look at the boy.
Young. Looks to be 13. But should be old enough to learn to shut his mouth. A guest or outsider, then?
Her eyes met his.
Killing intent rolled off her in waves—not cursed energy, because she had none. A primal feeling every mammals possessed when confronted with danger or apex predators. Managing to trigger that merely from using body language and presence of existence.
That's what a true killing intent really is.
The boy's knees buckled and he grabbed the wall to stay upright.
Touko held his gaze for three heartbeats.
Then she looked away and continued walking.
The whispers did not return.
Just what do they think of me?
She passed through a courtyard, empty of flowers but was clearly just recently cleared of snow.
Just because I've been away from the clan, people think it's okay to gossip and whisper like that in broad daylight?
She snorted softly.
Are they newbies or something?
Hushed whispers of fear and condemnation for what they thought to be this clan's source of downfall.
Ridiculous.
She stopped at the edge of a frozen pond, her reflection staring back—dark eyes, sharp features, the face of a woman who had killed more people than she could remember.
These people are all so desperate and pathetic.
Servants pressing themselves against walls. Pitifully weak young sorcerers who crossed to the other side of the corridor when they saw her coming and those infuriating elders who pretended she didn't exist.
What proof of existence? Cursed energy?
Her lip curled.
Their amounts are so meager that they might be better off having nothing—like me—and yet these people think themselves blessed while not having the ability to do half the things I can.
She kicked a stone into the pond. It cracked through the thin ice and sank. And her reflection disappeared with it.
Pathetic.
She turned away from the pond and walked toward the main hall. She had been summoned—by Naobi herself, which was unusual. The clan head rarely acknowledged her existence except when she needed something killed.
Probably another mission, Touko thought. Something dirty. Something they don't want on official records.
Fine. As long as the price is right.
She entered the main hall through a side entrance, avoiding the clusters of chattering clan members. The room was already filling with people—distant cousins, branch family members, servants carrying trays of tea and snacks.
Touko found a corner near a wooden pillar and leaned against it, arms folded.
No one approached her.
Then—
A pulse.
Naobi.
The clan head had entered the main hall. One moment, Naobi was across the room. The next, she was standing directly in front of Touko, close enough to touch her.
Barely any sounds and no warning.
Touko's arms remained folded.
The thin, amused smile Naobi wore was irritating because anyone with eyes could see she had spent decades perfecting it to make people uncomfortable.
"Touko-san," Naobi said, her voice light, almost teasing. "You shouldn't surprise an old woman like that. I'm already in my fifties, you know. Prone to heart attacks."
Touko's expression did not change.
As if someone like you would let yourself die because of a heart attack.
"Now then," Touko said, her voice flat, "tell me. Why did you summon me here?"
Naobi tilted her head.
Touko gritted her jaw.
"Enough of the games, you old fox."
Her words were curt. Around them, the crowd had given them a wide berth—no one wanted to be near a conversation between the clan head and the Sorcerer Killer.
Naobi's smile did not waver. If anything, it widened.
"Very well." She folded her arms inside her kimono sleeves, a gesture that somehow made her look both casual and commanding. "I heard you started some kind of business with the Yakuza. Not just as a hired killing tool, either."
Touko felt something flicker in her chest. She crushed it.
"…And so?" Her voice remained flat. "That is not your business, is it not?"
Naobi's eyes hardened. The amusement drained away, replaced by something sharper.
"Of course it is." Her voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "Though you are what you are—" The words hung in the air, unsaid but audible. Abomination. Failure. "—you still bear the name of Zenin. And throughout history, we keep our hands clean from those kinds of filth."
Touko laughed.
Hollow with no humor but clearly acknowledging it.
"Ha!" She shook her head. "You say that while openly colluding with politicians. What was that? 'They're just donations'?"
Naobi's expression curdled.
"This is why a monkey like you is hopeless." She gestured sharply with one hand. "That is legitimate business. Politicians pay us as thanks for constantly exorcising curses. Moreover—"
"Enough."
Touko's voice cut through like a blade.
Naobi's mouth snapped shut and her eyes narrowed.
"Hey," the clan head said, her voice low, "wait. I'm not finished."
Touko stared at her.
"…What else?"
Naobi's smile returned—slow, predatory, savoring.
"A little birdie told me there's someone named Keyama in that Yakuza gang you work for."
The world stopped.
Touko moved.
As if she ceased to exist in one spot and simply appeared in another—directly behind Naobi, her left arm hooking around the clan head's throat, her right hand pressing a knife to the soft flesh beneath Naobi's jaw.
The blade was cold.
The crowd gasped. Someone screamed. Several people scrambled backward, knocking over tea trays and cushions.
Naobi did not flinch.
Her pulse beat against the blade—steady, unhurried.
Touko's breathing was shallow. Her arm trembled—just barely, just enough for Naobi to feel.
"Ha!" Naobi's voice came out calm, almost cheerful, despite the knife at her throat. "Hahahahaha…" She laughed, her shoulders shaking. "I see. I never expected you to be capable of that kind of emotion."
She tilted her head slightly—just enough to meet Touko's eyes from the corner of her vision.
"On that front, I offer you congratulations." Her smile softened, almost genuine. "You're more human than me."
Touko's grip tightened.
"But think." Naobi's voice dropped, conspiratorial. "What do you think will happen if you kill me?"
Touko's jaw clenched.
"I'LL DESTROY THIS WHOLE CLAN AND MASSACRE EVERYONE HERE!"
Her voice cracked through the hall, raw and furious. The lanterns flickered. Children began to cry.
Naobi did not react.
"You could." Her voice was calm, measured. "But then the five Hei members and thirteen Kukuru unit members stationed just a few prefectures away from Keyama would do everything in their power to make him suffer."
Touko's arm went rigid.
"Then, when you finally get there," Naobi continued, "his mind will be broken beyond recovery."
The silence was absolute.
Touko's breathing filled the hall—ragged, uneven.
"Now… choose."
The knife trembled in Touko's grip.
She could do it. One swipe with a little pressure and the clan head's throat would open. Blood would spray across the tatami. The Zenin clan would descend into chaos.
And Keyama would die.
Slowly.
Because of her.
The blade lowered.
Slowly. Inch by inch.
Touko's arm dropped to her side. The knife disappeared into her sleeve. She stepped back, her shoulders slumped, her face a mask of stone.
Naobi turned to face her, smoothing her kimono collar.
"Good choice." Her voice was soft, almost maternal. "Touko Zenin. You are this clan's weapon." She reached out and, for a moment, Touko thought she might touch her cheek. But Naobi's hand stopped short. "Abandon that man, and you shall be given the privilege to live among us freely."
Touko said nothing.
.
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Author's Notes:
Wait, what's this? Toji?
Yes. Well, Touko. Same empty eyes, same killing intent without cursed energy, same terrifying presence. Just genderbent, like everyone else in this world.
Also, in my headcanon, Mamagumi (Megumi's mother in the original JJK) is a yakuza princess whose father hired Toji to act as her bodyguard. That's how their connection begins. So here, Touko's connection to Keyama mirrors that.
And Naobi just used that someone as leverage.
Oof.