Naoya woke up and slowly opened his eyes.
The ceiling which seems familiar and yet so foreign evoked a feeling of deja vu. And yet, the world around him felt a lot more steadier now that he knew the truths that this world held. The pain in his ribs was still there, a dull throbbing beneath the bandages, but his mind was clear. Sharper than it had been since he first arrived.
He took a breath. Then another. And another.
Now, he thought.
He activated his technique, and it answered.
One second split into twenty-four frames, each action discrete and became a part of a sequence. His mind mapped them out instantly: push the quilt aside, plant his palms on the futon, swing his legs over the edge, rise to his feet, straighten his back, stand.
From lying down to standing tall.
All of that happened in one second.
The world snapped back to normal speed. He stood in the center of the room, barefoot on the tatami, his bandaged body trembling slightly from the effort. But he was upright. He was moving.
"Hehehehehe... hahahahaha."
The laughter bubbled up from his chest—low at first, then louder. It scraped against his raw throat, but he didn't care. Even through his broken ribs and limbs, Naoya stood tall in happiness. His shoulders shook with each laugh.
Finally... finally! He had regained his Projection Sorcery!
And moreover—
"Demon Dogs."
He uttered the words while making the shadow puppet for a dog—his fingers forming the shape he distantly remembered from his first life when he hadn't manifested his Projection technique. Shadows pooled at his feet, dark and thick, writhing like living things.
Then, from the darkness, they emerged.
Two dogs. One black, one white. Their fur was sleek, their eyes glowing faintly with cursed energy. They sat on either side of him, silent and waiting, their heads tilted as if listening for a command.
Naoya stared at them. Then he could feel his features contorting into a sharp smile, like that of a predator.
The Ten Shadows Technique. One of the two strongest techniques in the Zenin lineage. And now it's his to freely command.
The strongest. A title that seems so close and yet always so far. In his past life, he had been strong. But never the strongest. There were always ceilings above him—Toji-kun, who moved like a force of nature; Satoru-kun, who was simply untouchable. Naoya had often seethed, knowing he's beneath them.
But here? In this inverted world?
Here, the ceilings are lower. The women who inherited their techniques are lesser. They may have the same abilities, but they lack the spirit. The will to dominate.
One day, he will put all the women in this world in their rightful natural place. Beneath his feet.
His thoughts drifted to the ones who would be the greatest obstacles. The ones who, in his world, had been untouchable.
The wielder of the Six Eyes, he mused. In this world, she is a woman. She may have the limitless technique, but she lacks Satoru's absolute arrogance. She will hesitate. She will doubt. And when she does, he will be there to tear her down
And the other one. The one who carried Toji's heavenly restriction—the perfect body, the zero cursed energy. In his world, Toji had been a monster. A man who could kill sorcerers with his bare hands and walk away without a scratch.
But here, Naoya thought, his smile twisting, that power is in the hands of a woman. And a woman could never wield it the way Toji did. She will be slower. Weaker. Her instincts will be dulled by the very fact of her sex.
He would make her bow. He would make all of them bow.
The demon dogs whined softly, as if sensing the shift in their master's mood. Naoya reached down and placed a hand on the white one's head. Its fur was warm beneath his palm.
First, he will heal. Then, he will train. And finally, he will take everything that rightfully belongs to him.
And when he's done, no woman in this world will ever dare to look down on him, ever again.
.
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The main hall was cold despite the brazier burning in the corner. Morinaka knelt on a cushion across from Naobi, his back straight and his hands resting on his thighs. The sliding doors were closed, shutting out the gray afternoon light. A few lanterns flickered between them, casting wavering shadows on the painted screen of cranes.
Naobi had called him here. She did not offer tea.
She spoke first, her voice calm, almost conversational.
"He is not cursed," she said, pouring herself a cup of sake. "I probed his body myself. No foreign energy. No parasitic seal." She took a sip, then set the cup down with a soft click. "And he is not defective. Well, he could be considered defective if you didn't do something about it. So, Morinaka. What is the plan for his education?"
Morinaka's brow furrowed. He leaned forward slightly, his hands sliding from his thighs to his knees.
"You are certain there is no curse?" he asked. "No subtle possession? His behavior changed overnight, Naobi-sama. One day he was soft-spoken and obedient. The next, he was screaming obscenities at the Kukuru Unit and attacking an officer. That is not the same child."
Naobi waved a hand dismissively. "Children change. Especially when they encounter the world outside their nurseries for the first time."
"That is not a change," Morinaka pressed, his voice firmer. "That is a complete overwriting of personality. He spoke of a man named Zaiki as if Zaiki should be captain of the Kukuru. He asked why male servants were not in the Hei. These are not the fantasies of a naive child. These are... memories. From somewhere else."
Naobi's eyes narrowed. She studied him for a long moment, then shrugged.
"Perhaps he dreamed them. Perhaps he invented them whole cloth. It does not matter. What matters is what we do with him now." She gestured toward him with her sake cup. "So, Morinaka. What is the plan for his education?"
Morinaka held her gaze for a beat longer, then exhaled. He would not win this argument today.
"The basics first," he said, his tone measured. "Reading, writing, calligraphy. Etiquette—he will need to relearn how to speak to women without shouting. When his body heals, I will introduce him to household management, overseeing servants, budgeting, and running a residence."
Naobi nodded, her expression bored.
"If he shows aptitude," Morinaka continued, "I will teach him the arts expected of a high-ranking male. Poetry. Flower arrangement. The tea ceremony. And if he continues to resist..." He paused. "I will break that resistance. Gently, but thoroughly. He will learn his place."
"Good." Naobi set down her cup. "See to it. I do not want another incident like the one with Oiko. The elders are already whispering."
Morinaka bowed his head. "It will be done, Naobi-sama."
She rose and walked toward the door, her kimono trailing behind her. The sliding door opened, then closed.
Morinaka remained kneeling in the empty hall. The brazier's embers glowed faintly in the dim light.
Naobi is wrong, he thought.
He had watched Naoya grow from infancy. The child had always been soft-spoken, yes—but never empty-headed. There was a sharpness behind those young eyes, a quickness to learn, a wit that could cut when he chose to use it. The Naoya he knew had insight. He had cunning. He knew exactly how to play the part of the perfect son while keeping his own thoughts hidden.
This new Naoya—the one who screamed at women, who attacked the Kukuru captain, who spoke in a rough Kansai dialect like a common thug—was not that child.
So Naobi's explanation doesn't make any sense.
He looked at his wife across the brazier. Her face was placid, content with her own conclusion. She had decided the boy was a naive dreamer, and so he was. She would not be moved.
But Morinaka knew.
Something else is inside my son. Something that does not belong.
The corridor blurred past him. His sandals clacked against the wooden floorboards—too fast and too loud, but he could not slow down. Not when every step brought him closer to the thing wearing his son's face.
In a fit of panic from a father that genuinely cares for his son, Morinaka briskly walked toward the infirmary where Naoya—that thing that was currently taking over his son's body—was recovering. His hands were clammy inside his sleeves. His chest felt tight. But he kept his expression neutral. Years of serving Naobi had taught him how to mask his emotions.
He arrived at the sliding door. Paused. Raised his knuckles.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
From inside, a voice responded—rough, gravelly, with zero delicacy. Not the soft, melodic tone of his son. This was the voice of a thug. A common criminal.
"Come in."
Morinaka slid the door open. And there, propped up against the pillows, was his son's body.
His son's body.
A shiver ran down Morinaka's spine as he saw it—the familiar dark hair, the delicate features, the small hands resting on the quilt. But the way the body held itself was wrong. The posture was too rigid. The eyes, when they lifted to meet his, were too hard. Too old. And it held too much cruelty.
Something is using my son as a vessel.
He felt bile rise in his throat but swallowed it down. He could not let it show. Could not let that thing know that he already knew it was an entirely different being than Naoya.
Outwardly calm, he reminded himself.
He stepped inside and knelt at a respectful distance from the futon, folding his hands in his lap. He did not smile nor did he frown. He simply... existed.
"Naoya," he began, his voice even. "Your education will begin earlier than planned. Naobi-sama has approved the curriculum."
The thing stared at him. Its face remained unmoving—a mask of stone. But its eyes... its eyes held something that made Morinaka's skin crawl.
Barely concealed disgust.
The feeling is mutual, Morinaka thought. I would burn you out of my son if I knew how.
But he said nothing of the sort. Instead, he continued,
"Tomorrow, you will begin at dawn. First, calligraphy—one hour. Then reading comprehension—one hour. After a short break, etiquette training: how to address women of various ranks, how to bow, how to walk, how to sit. That will take two hours." He paused, watching the thing's face for any reaction. There was none. "In the afternoon, you will learn household accounts. Budgeting. Supply management. Then, before dinner, a review of Zenin clan history—specifically, the role of men within the family."
The thing's lip curled. Just slightly. Morinaka pretended not to notice.
"After your body has fully recovered," he continued, "the curriculum will expand. You will learn the tea ceremony—every high-ranking male must know it. Flower arrangement. Poetry composition. Calligraphy will continue, but at an advanced level. You will also be expected to accompany me to clan gatherings, where you will observe and learn proper social conduct."
He folded his hands tighter in his lap.
"You will also begin physical therapy to rebuild your strength—not combat training, simply mobility exercises. Oiko's beating left you with cracked ribs and strained ligaments. A physician will supervise."
He paused again. The thing still had not spoken. It simply stared at him with those cold, ancient eyes, its disgust barely veiled behind a mask of indifference.
"If you perform well in these areas," Morinaka added, "you may eventually be allowed to study musical instruments. The koto, perhaps. Or the shamisen. These are prestigious accomplishments for a man of your station."
He bowed his head slightly.
"Do you have any questions, Naoya?"
The silence stretched. The lantern flame flickered. The thing's lips pressed into a thin line.
Then, finally, it spoke—its voice flat, devoid of any warmth or respect.
"No."
Not "no, Father." Not "no, thank you." Just... no.
Morinaka rose to his feet, his knees aching from kneeling on the cold floor.
"Then rest. Tomorrow, we begin at dawn."
He turned and walked toward the door. His hand trembled as he reached for the frame, but he steadied it before sliding the door open.
He did not look back.
He could not bear to see his son's face twisted by that thing one moment longer.
The door slid shut behind him. And in the corridor, alone, Morinaka allowed himself one single, shuddering breath.
I will find a way to save you, he promised his son. I swear on my life.