The servant carried him down another corridor, past sliding doors and paper screens. Snow dusted the engawa planks visible through open gaps. Then—
"Get your hands off me, you lowlife scum!" Shouted Naoya at the servant carrying him when he finally regained his bearing. His small fists came down at the man's shoulder and chest—weak, flailing blows—and the servant finally put him down, lowering him carefully to the wooden floor.
Naoya's bare feet touched the cold planks. He stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, his breathing uneven.
An yet, when he stood all by himself, all Naoya wanted to do was to sit or lie down somewhere far away from anyone else. His hand reached out to brace against the wall, fingers pressing into the dark wood grain. Or if that's not possible, beat up the people in the Kukuru unit to relieve his stress. Because really,
"What the hell is going on?!"
His voice echoed down the empty corridor—high, frustrated, cracking at the edges. That sentence has been uttered by him so much in just one day that he felt like it's going to become his trademark or something. But it fit perfectly for his situation.
After all, why the hell would a man and a woman who he has never met in his entire life claim to be his mother and father?! And why the hell are the people here acting according to her whims as if she was truly the clan head?! That's simply not possible!
His small hand slid down the wall until it hung limply at his side. His reflection stared back from a polished wooden pillar—a child's face, pale and stricken.
Naobito Zenin, his useless bastard of a father, is supposed to be the clan head! And Projection technique is something only Naoya and his father could use! How the hell could a woman do that?!
Something is truly wrong somehow. Naoya closed his eyes and tried to recall the earliest part of his life…
His brow furrowed deeply. His lips pressed into a thin line. Nothing. Nothing like this ever happened in his first life. Then why? What is truly going on here?
"Naoya-sama? Are you okay?"
Irritation and anger somehow sparked in his chest at getting interrupted by the servant. His eyes snapped open. Lifting his head to glare at the offending piece of garbage, he uttered with as much venom as he could muster, his small body going rigid,
"What?! Is?! It?!"
The man didn't even tremble or waver at his gaze. He stood there with his hands tucked inside his sleeves, expression calm and patient as ever, and continued on,
"Regarding Naobi-sama's order. Do you perhaps still wish to meet your father? If not, I shall proceed alone to tell your father about Naobi-sama's order."
Ah. That woman said something about...what is it again? Education? Naoya's glare faltered for just a fraction of a second. Whatever. That's not important right now. What's important to him right now is to get to the bottom of this whole thing as fast as possible.
He turned his face away, staring down the corridor toward the dojo wing. "Go away now before I crush your face."
"As you wish, Naoya-sama."
The trash went away with grace—a quiet bow, then soft footsteps retreating in the opposite direction. His back remained straight, his movements unhurried. A sight that somehow irritated Naoya at seeing how good a male is at being a servant.
He turned away with a hmph, his small nose in the air, and walked toward where the training yard should be.
Arriving there, he couldn't hold his mouth from opening in disbelief.
The training yard stretched wide before him, a vast rectangle of packed earth now blanketed in several inches of snow. Wooden weapon racks lined the far fence. The air was full with the sounds of grunts, strikes, and the heavy breathing of exertion.
People—Kukuru Unit—were training their martial arts and body in the snow, barely wearing anything on their bodies. Thin training gi clung to sweat-slicked skin; some wore only fundoshi despite the bitter cold. A standard procedure of training that even the Hei Unit isn't exempt from. All of them were paired up with one another, sparring with hand-to-hand combat or other weapon of their choice. Fists collided with forearms. Wooden swords clacked and scraped. Bodies rolled in the snow, then sprang back up.
But no...that was not what shocked him. His hands, hanging at his sides, went slack. His half-open mouth remained frozen. What shocked him was the fact that EVERYONE HERE is a woman!
He blinked once. Twice. His eyes traveled slowly across the yard—from pair to pair, face to face. Bunched hair. Narrower shoulders. Higher voices calling out between strikes. All throughout his life, the only woman he knew to have ever joined the Kukuru Unit was Maki. So why is he now seeing the whole Kukuru Unit being composed of women?!
"Oh my, Naoya-sama?"
He heard a woman calling him from the side. Snow crunched softly beneath her black shoes as she approached.
"Is there anything I could do to help you?"
Different from others, she was wearing a white formal uniform of an officer buttoned up all the way to her neck with white pants and black shoes. Her hair was styled in a practical bob haircut. She was quite tall—Naoya had to crank his head way up to be able to see her face. Her posture was relaxed, one hand resting on the hilt of a short blade at her hip.
But…
"Where is Zaiki? And why are you wearing that trash uniform?"
Zaiki was the captain of the Kukuru squad in his childhood if he remembered correctly. Nobuaki was granted that position after Zaiki died in a mission. But that's years ahead. Right now, Zaiki should still be the head of the Kukuru Unit.
The woman tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. She glanced to the side as if searching her memory. "I'm sorry, Naoya-sama. I don't think there's anyone named Zaiki...I think?"
Then she turned her head toward the training yards and yelled with a surprisingly loud and strong voice, "Hey! You rapscallion!"
Everyone stopped training and looked at them with utmost attention. Snowflakes continued to fall onto their bare shoulders and heads, but no one moved to brush them off.
"Is there anybody named Zaiki?"
Silence. The only sound was the wind stirring the snow across the yard.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Hey now. I asked you girls a question just now."
"NO MA'AM!" The reply came as a unified shout, dozens of voices rising in perfect unison.
The woman turned back to Naoya and spread her hands, palms up. "...Well, that's what they said. There's nobody with that name around here, Naoya-sama."
Naoya was boiling in rage and confusion. His small hands trembled at his sides. His face had turned red—whether from the cold or fury, it was impossible to tell.
"Did you take me for a fool...HUH?!"
The woman took a half-step back, her confident demeanor cracking. "Uhh...what? I'm sorry I don—"
"ZAIKI IS THE CAPTAIN OF THE KUKURU SQUAD. THAT GUY SHOULD BE HERE AND WEARING THAT UNIFORM INSTEAD OF YOU!"
Naoya took a breath and continued his tirade, spittle flying from his lips, "AND WHY THE HELL ARE THOSE WOMEN HERE?! WHERE ARE THE MEN?! HUH?! THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE TRAINING HERE!"
The woman in front of him was now panicking at his sudden hysteria. Her hand fell away from her sword hilt. She raised both palms in a placating gesture and muttered, "What happened to you, Naoya-sama? You're usually so soft spoken…please calm yourself do—"
"AND DO THEY HAVE NO SHAME?! HOW DARE THEY WEAR CLOTHES ONLY A SLUT ON THE STREET WOULD WEAR! I CAN SEE EVERYTHING FROM HERE!"
Naoya turned and looked at the stunned women in the yard. Their faces were frozen—some confused, some angry, some merely blank.
"ALL OF YOU HAVE NO SHAME AND NO DIGNITY!"
…The silence was so loud. The snow seemed to fall quieter. Even the wind held its breath.
Naoya could only hear his own breath and the exasperated breathing of the tall woman beside him. Then, he felt a gentle pat on his shoulder—her hand stroking him as if to calm a spooked animal.
"Naoya-sama, please calm down," she said, her voice softer now, almost maternal. "This is your first time ever coming to the training grounds, right? So I think it's normal for you to be confused, but this is how it's always been."
"...What?" Naoya's voice came out hollow.
"And did this Zaiki person feed these ideas into you? That men should be here training to defend the clan and gain honor?" Her hand continued its slow, soothing motion on his shoulder. "You shouldn't listen to that person, Naoya-sama. He must surely be delusional."
"...What? What are you…"
"A pretty boy like Naoya-sama should be playing with dolls, learning how to cook, and maybe reading poetry," she said, her tone warm, almost pitying. "You shouldn't bother dirtying your hands with training."
She gestured broadly toward the training yard, where the women still stood at attention. "That is what the women are for. To fight. To protect the clan. To bear the burden of cursed energy and battle." She turned back to him, her expression kind but firm. "A man's place is in the home—raising children, keeping the household peaceful, and supporting his wife. That is how it has always been in the Zenin clan. Your own father, Morinaka-sama, understands this well. He was a great beauty in his youth, you know. That's why Naobi-sama chose him."
Naoya's face had gone pale beneath the flush of cold.
"Even if you have enough cursed energy to become a sorcerer and join the Kukuru Unit," she continued, "you should just focus on learning how to be a good husband. After all, it is the duty of the wife to protect the husband. And since one day you will become someone's husband, you should learn how to take care of children early. How to sew. How to arrange flowers. Those are the skills that will serve you." She smiled down at him—a gentle, condescending smile. "So don't worry your pretty little head about training, Naoya-sama. Leave the fighting to us women."
Nonsense. This is nonsense. Naoya muttered to himself, unheard by everyone around him. His hands were gripping the fabric of his kimono so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
In his desperation, Naoya tried to grasp his cursed technique with his cursed energy. He reached inward—to that familiar current that had always answered him, that he had wielded like an extension of his own body. And just like before, it did not answer his call. The void inside him remained silent, cold, and empty.
But…
"What?"
The woman beside him looked at him and whispered that in both shock and awe, mixed with incredulity. Her eyes had widened. Her hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, lifted away as if burned.
Naoya stepped into the yard. Snow crunched beneath his bare feet. His small form moved past the stunned officer and onto the packed white ground. He whispered to himself, barely audible over the falling snow, "This is an opportunity to relieve my stress... might as well do that, huh…"
A lot of questions were popping up and wandering inside his mind. But he shoved them aside for later. Now, it's time to let out his pent-up frustration. His breath fogged in the cold air. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep inhale.
"C'mon now. I want a spar. Anyone of you can do just fine."
The woman walked to him—her black shoes leaving sharp prints in the snow. She positioned herself between him and the rest of the training yard. "No. Do not humor him. Naoya-sama, I, in good faith, cannot let you do this. Please, follow me. I'll take you to your room."
Naoya did not move. His gaze remained fixed on her face. "So you're my challenger?"
Her jaw tightened. "...Please listen to me, Naoya-sama."
"Get ready."
"Naoy—"
He didn't let her finish as he unleashed a kick to her thigh with a high kick. His small leg arced up and drove into the side of her leg just above the knee. It hit true—a solid, satisfying impact—and she cried out in pain, stumbling sideways, one hand flying to the struck spot.
...Huh. That took quite a bit more cursed energy than expected.
He didn't reinforce his leg with cursed energy just now. It would be wasteful because he's only a child, the increase in strength wouldn't be anything special. No, what he did just now was imbue his leg with cursed energy, then at the moment of impact, sent that cursed energy as a strike. It was quite weak by all standards of measure.
But it had hurt her.
For a moment, Naoya felt a flicker of satisfaction and was about to mock her.
Then the woman's expression changed.
Her face, which had been patient—almost indulgent—contorted. Her brows drew down. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. The hand that had been clutching her thigh lowered, and she straightened to her full height, looming over him like a shadow.
"Just because you're a little pretty you think you can do anything?!" she snarled.
Her fist came down. Naoya tried to raise his arms to block, but his body was too small and too slow. The blow caught him across the shoulder and sent him spinning into the snow. He landed on his side, gasping.
Before he could rise, her foot connected with his stomach—not enough to launch him, just enough to fold him in half. Snow filled his mouth.
"Being the clan head's child won't save you from me!"
She grabbed the back of his kimono and yanked him upright, then drove a knee into his chest. He heard something crack—a rib, maybe. Pain exploded through his torso. His vision went white at the edges.
"You're only a male! You should be grateful I even talked to you politely!"
Her palm struck his cheek—a backhand, then a forehand, then another. His head snapped left and right. Blood from his split lip painted the snow beneath him in thin red streaks.
He tried to speak. To curse her. To say anything. But his mouth only produced a wet, choking sound.
The last thing he saw was her face—still twisted in anger—looming above him as his knees buckled. Then the snow rose up to meet him, soft and cold, and everything went dark.