Her aimless walk took her to the western district, where several elders stayed around here. Because of that, the crowds and sounds of festive thinned even further and there’s only the occasional servants and Hei members crawling around the area. Which suited her just fine. Those people serving the elders are smart. And so are the Hei patrolling the area, because the moment they saw her, they immediately steered clear off of her. They recognized her and know the correct thing to do is to leave her alone. Even if in the distant past, it wasn’t always like this.
“Look! There’s the monkey!”
“Hahahaha, you’re even less than a human! Stop pretending to walk and just get on all fours!”
“What is that waste of space doing here?”
“Did you hear? Her father killed himself and became a cursed spirit because of how shameful she is?”
“That worm that always followed her around is her father?”
“Even though Ichika is an excellent sorcerer…her little sister just had to be born as the blight of the Zenin clan.”
“YOU SHOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN BORN!!”
The ringing in her ears is getting worse. Why? It usually isn’t that bad.
Ah…no.
It has always been like this. It’s just…
Keyama. Ever since she got to know him…everything feels like it’s going to work out somehow…
And now…
Something small and fast collided with her legs.
A child.
He must have been bolting around the corner, not looking where he was going. The impact was nothing to her—she didn't even sway—but the boy's momentum sent him sprawling backward onto his butt and his small hands slapped the tatami as he caught himself.
Touko looked down at him.
He was young. Around five. Maybe six. Dark hair with pale skin and kimono that has definitely has seen better days.
If Keyama were here, no doubt he’s going to pamper the boy, saying he looks really cute and whatnot.
But as he stared up at her with those wide eyes, she acutely felt it.
Cursed energy.
Refined and controlled. Unlike the wild, leaking aura of most children his age, but something shaped with clear intent.
She blinked.
"...a sorcerer?"
The word slipped out of her before she could stop it.
Even though she didn’t care about sorcerers, she couldn’t lie and say she had nothing to do with them. Her livelihood revolved around killing them, and thus she’s usually pretty quick on the uptake than what most people give her credit for. That’s why this is a little unexpected. Most children with this level of talent were already being paraded around, their names whispered in hushed, reverent tones.
But this one?
She had never seen him before.
And his cursed energy is quite refined too, she noted. People with keen eyes would undoubtedly classify him as "talented."
The only person surpassing him at this young of an age was probably the other brat with the Six Eyes. That thing was a freak of nature, born with power that made elders weep and rivals despair.
But this one...
He was born a male.
His fate was now set in stone. He would become a breeding stallion for the clan—used, exploited, and never more. His technique would be milked for bloodlines. His body would be bartered for alliances. His opinions, his dreams, and his very self would be irrelevant.
How pitiful.
Touko felt nothing for most sorcerers.
The only thing she has for them was hatred. Their incessant whining and undeserved pride were even more unbearable when coupled with their smug attitude. The way they acted as if they’re the most righteous thing in the world when they’re the furthest from it—corruption, bribe, nepotism, ethnic cleansing, subjugation of weaker clan or people they deem to be dangerous—is the most sickening.
And the foot soldiers they always deployed—she always killed them—to get rid of their problems, acting as if they were necessary evil when they know it’s not the truth! And their blind faith towards their system that would discard them with no hesitation! Those fools did not deserve to live.
But this boy?
Even through her hate, she could recognize his tragic fate. He would be used by the clan until he had nothing left to give, then tossed aside like a broken tool.
Her hatredcould not reach him.
Instead, she just felt... nothing. Maybe if she lived a better life, she’d felt a flicker of acknowledgement.
But still.
He was sitting on the floor, staring up at her, and he hadn't moved.
How long are you going to stay down there?
She almost said it aloud.
Instead, she watched.
And the longer she watched, the more she noticed.
He wasn't just sitting there because he was shocked or scared in the way children usually were. She had seen that before—the trembling, the tears, the desperate glances toward the nearest exit.
This was different.
She could see his entire body was rigid and his hands, pressed flat against the tatami, were trembling. Eyes dilated. His breathing, shallow, uneven, and quick might make some people mistake he’s hyperventilating right now. Or maybe he is currently doing that?
Not the fear of punishment. Not the fear of a scolding or a beating.
The fear of death.
As if standing before her was the same as standing before an executioner.
She had seen that look before. On the faces of sorcerers who knew they were about to die. And on the rare occasion she fought a curse, when they realize they picked the wrong prey.
Why?
She had done nothing to him. She had barely moved. She hadn't even spoken.
And yet this child—this sorcerer child with his refined cursed energy—was looking at her like she was the end of his world.
Interesting.
Touko tilted her head.
The boy flinched.
Not a subtle movement. A full-body jerk, as if he had been struck. His back hit the wall behind him—he must have scrambled backward without her noticing—and his hands came up, palms out, as if to ward off a blow.
But she hadn't moved.
She still hadn't moved.
A thought suddenly came to her.
Did somebody abuse this boy that badly?
She didn't particularly care. But something about the intensity of his fear made her pause.
Touko slowly crouched down and deliberately brought her face close to his.
The boy pressed himself flatter against the wall. His breathing hitched. His eyes went everywhere but her eyes and mostly fixed on her hands, as if expecting a blade to appear.
"How long are you going to stay down there?" she asked.
Her voice was…empty, void of anything.
The boy didn't answer.
His mouth opened and closed repeatedly and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
He's trying to speak.
She had seen that before too. Fear that stole words as it came from experience, and thus, you could only respond with action.
And she also had been on that same side too—experiencing abuse from this "family" so badly she truly thought she should've never been born.
Someone has hurt this child, she thought. Badly.
She didn't care.
He was still a sorcerer.
She stood up.
"Watch where you're running," she said, and walked past him.
She did not look back.
But she heard his ragged breathing behind her, long after she turned the corner.
.
.
.
Though he hated to admit it, hanging out with Seto and Chizuru was kind of fun.
Not that they did anything particularly fun or anything. He just ate snacks there—rice crackers, sweet bean pastries, some kind of steamed bun that was surprisingly soft—and drank tea. And when there was something he was curious about, he'd ask them.
The questions most of the time were pointed toward Seto, because he was the brain. The one who gave Chizuru—stupid, borderline incompetent, whose only good point was her charm—her answers.
How does the clan handle trade disputes with the Kamo? Seto would explain, in detail, while Chizuru nodded along as if she had thought of it herself.
What's the real reason the Gojo declined the invitation? Seto would glance at Chizuru, she would give a small nod, and then he would answer.
It was useful and informative. And also, surprisingly kinda fun!
And other than that?
He just bothered them. For no reason.
He would move the scrolls around while Chizuru was reading. He would tap his fingers on the table while Seto was writing. He would ask pointless questions—"What's your favorite color?" "Do you think Taro could beat Yone in a fight?" "If a curse and a politician switched places, would anyone notice?"—just to watch them sigh.
Doing things that would get him dirty looks if he did them as an adult was extremely fun.
Chizuru would roll her eyes. Seto would pinch the bridge of his nose. But neither of them ever told him to leave.
Then he remembered.
"I haven't taken my bath yet!"
The words came out loud and sudden. Chizuru's pen paused. Seto looked up from his scroll.
"Ahhhh," Chizuru said, her nose wrinkling slightly. "No wonder you smell kinda sour."
"Here I thought that was the kind of perfume kids these days like," Seto added, his voice dry.
Naoya's face went red. Only slightly though.
Only slightly.
But still…
Sour?!
He stood up so fast his cushion slid backward. "I'm leaving."
"Please do," Chizuru said, already turning back to her scroll.
"Shut up."
He was out the door before either of them could respond.
And now, the corridor was busy. Servants, branch family members, children running everywhere. The festive noise had grown louder as evening approached.
If he went the way he came, there would be too many people.
Not that I care about other people's opinions or anything, he told himself, walking quickly. But—
Thoughts came to his mind without prompting.
"What? Someone like that is chosen to be the heir?"
"He smells. Are we sure it's a wise choice?"
"He can't even take care of himself. We shouldn't do it."
"Boo-boo. Smelly head that never takes a bath."
That last one was particularly irritating because it was the image of Raika saying it in her monotone voice.
Shut up, he growled internally. She wouldn't say that. Probably. Maybe.
But the point still stands!
These sorts of things—appearance, hygiene, presentation—would be taken into consideration when he stepped up and formally declared himself joining the race for the clan head. And moreover, he was a male. In this world, he was starting at an insanely disadvantageous position.
Every little detail matters, he thought. If they think I can't even take care of myself, they'll never trust me to take care of the clan.
He turned down a narrower corridor, one that would take him to the eastern wing faster. Fewer people here.
Tomorrow, he thought. After the ritual. I'll reveal the Ten Shadows and—
He rounded a corner.
And ran straight into a wall.
Except it wasn't a wall.
It was a person.
A woman.
Tall. Dark hair. Empty eyes.
The impact didn't move her at all. But he flew backward, his feet slipping on the tatami, his spine hitting the floor hard.
What—
He looked up.
And his heart stopped.
Maki.
The name that had carved itself into the very depth of his soul. The name of the woman who had destroyed half of his skull and would follow it up by cutting him in half. The woman who had looked down at him with cold, dispassionate eyes as his body split open and his life as a cursed spirit ended.
She was standing over him.
Dark hair with that distinct sharp features and a feeling of emptiness.
No. No, no, no—
His body moved before his mind could catch up. He scrambled backward, hands and feet scraping against the tatami, until his back hit the wall. The wood was cold against his spine.
She's going to kill me again.
She's going to—
He raised his hands. Palms out. A futile gesture.
Please—
The word didn't come out. His throat was locked tight by a fear so primal it bypassed thought entirely.
The woman tilted her head.
Naoya's entire body jerked.
She's going to move. She's going to attack. I need to—
But he couldn't move. His limbs were frozen. His cursed energy churned beneath his skin, ready to respond, but his mind was a storm of static and screaming.
Why isn't she moving?
Why is she just standing there?
Is she playing with me? Toying with her prey before the kill?
The woman crouched down.
Her face came closer to his. Her eyes—those empty, bottomless eyes—were fixed on him.
Naoya pressed himself flatter against the wall. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps. He couldn't look at her face. He couldn't. So his eyes dropped—to her hands, her empty hands.
No cursed energy, he realized distantly, somewhere beneath the panic. She has no cursed energy.
Like Toji.
Like—
Like Maki.
"How long are you going to stay down there?"
Her voice was without emotion. Empty. Void of anything.
Naoya's mouth opened. His throat produced only a dry, clicking sound.
Say something.
Anything.
Prove you're not afraid.
But he was afraid. He was more afraid than he had been since the day he died.
The woman watched him for a moment longer. Her gaze flicked to his trembling hands, his heaving chest, his dilated eyes.
Then she stood up.
"Watch where you're running," she said.
And walked past him.
Naoya didn't move.
He sat there, pressed against the wall, his hands still raised, his breathing still uneven.
She's gone.
She didn't kill me.
She's not—
He forced himself to look. To turn his head. The corridor was empty.
She had disappeared around the corner.
That wasn't Maki.
That wasn't Maki.
He let his hands drop to his lap. His fingers were still trembling.
Who was that?
The name surfaced from somewhere. The Sorcerer Killer. The one with no cursed energy.
Toji.
That was the inverse of Toji.
Naoya's breathing slowed.
I just had a panic attack. In front of the Sorcerer Killer.
I thought she was Maki.
I thought I was going to die again.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
He took a deep breath. Then another.
Get up. Walk back to your room. Take your bath. And pretend this never happened.
He pushed himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady, but they held.
He did not look toward the corner where she had disappeared.
He walked back the way he came, his footsteps slow and deliberate, and did not run.
He would never run again in this area.
.
.
.
.
Author's Notes:
Chizuru and Seto have started treating Naoya like a particularly handful child. They don't find him really all that irritating. They find him entertaining. Of course, Naoya has no idea. And also, notice how Naoya didn’t immediately resort to Mahoraga? Could it be?! The cycle of potential man is about to be broken by him?!