It's morning again.
Pale sunlight streamed through the window, casting long rectangles of gold across the tatami floor. A brazier burned in the corner, pushing back the winter chill. On the low table before Naoya lay a fresh sheet of rice paper, an inkstone, and a brush—its bristles dark with fresh ink.
Not a single person here was bothering him as he recovered from his wounds.
Or it should have been like that.
"You have to put more effort and elegance into the strokes, Naoya-sama."
Unfortunately, this man in front of him—his new calligraphy teacher, apparently—would not shut up for just a second and kept on blabbering useless things into his ears. The teacher was a thin, reedy man with graying hair pulled into a severe bun. His kimono was immaculate. His posture was perfect. His voice, however, was like a mosquito buzzing endlessly in Naoya's ear.
"Naoya-sama, you have to move your whole arm to be able to truly grasp calligraphy!" The man leaned closer, his eyes round with encouragement. "Which I know is a little hard to do given your current situation, but as the sole son of the Zenin head, this little bump in the road shouldn't hinder you from achieving greatness!"
Easy for him to say, Naoya thought, his jaw tightening. His ribs still ached beneath the bandages. His left arm was wrapped from wrist to elbow. Every movement sent a dull throb through his body.
Why the hell was calligraphy so demanding this time around?
As the heir in his former life, things like this actually used to be his bread and butter. It was only natural for the future clan head to know a thing or two about calligraphy. A few strokes of the brush. A graceful hand. That was all it had taken to earn praise from his tutors.
But now—
"That's right, Naoya-sama!" The teacher nodded vigorously, unaware of the volatile emotions currently being stirred within himself. "But your movement is a little—"
"Shut up! I'm trying to concentrate!"
Naoya's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
The teacher's mouth snapped shut. His hands, which had been gesturing enthusiastically, dropped to his sides. For a moment, he simply stared—his expression caught somewhere between shock and offense.
Naoya did not care. He turned back to the paper, gripping the brush so hard his knuckles ached.
Normally, in his first world, this usually would suffice and he would get praises raining down just with this level of work. His calligraphy had been fine. Elegant, even. Certainly better than whatever this man was pretending not to see.
But the teacher in front of him was unbelievably blind—or deliberately cruel—that he couldn't recognize the talent Naoya had in calligraphy.
Useless, Naoya thought. This entire world is filled with useless, blind idiots who wouldn't know talent if it bit them.
He dipped the brush in the inkstone again and pressed it to the paper. The bristles dragged across the surface, leaving a trail of black that smeared at the edges.
Behind him, the teacher made a small, pained sound but said nothing.
Good, Naoya thought. At last, the trash learned of his place.
He set down the brush with a sharp clack against the inkstone. The rice paper before him was a mess—blotchy strokes, uneven lines, characters that leaned awkwardly to one side. He didn't care. It was done.
"Alright, I'm done writing all the calligraphy here," Naoya said, his voice flat. He gathered the still-wet sheets—ink smearing under his fingers—and threw them toward his "teacher," the man he absolutely had no intention of respecting.
The papers fluttered through the air. Some landed on the tatami. Others draped across the teacher's folded knees. One sheet stuck briefly to the man's sleeve before sliding off.
The teacher did not flinch. He simply bent down, gathered the scattered papers with careful hands, and arranged them in a neat stack on his lap.
Then he gave them a brief look. Each page received no more than five seconds of his attention—his eyes moving quickly, methodically, from character to character. His expression remained neutral.
At the end, the man looked up and spoke.
"Naoya-sama, your total points for today are 38. Way below the passing grade."
Naoya's face contorted. His fist slammed against the low table, rattling the inkstone.
"Huh?! You kidding me, you blind trash?! You dare give my immaculate calligraphy a grade that low?!"
The teacher did not flinch. He held up one of the papers, turning it so Naoya could see the smeared, crooked characters.
"Well, yes. That's the only reasonable grade I could give you. After all, if you look at this carefully, you didn't follow the stroking order, your brush placement was… undesirable, and your hand movement is practically invisible. You only moved your wrist the whole time you were doing this, which caus—"
"You are the one who's blind!" Naoya's voice rose, cracking with fury. His bandaged hand trembled where it rested on the table. "You're making a mistake by giving me a grade that lo—"
"Regardless—"
"You dare to cut me off—"
The teacher stood, tucking the stack of papers into his sleeve. His movements were slow and deliberate, utterly unbothered by Naoya's outburst.
"This results will be shared with both Naobi-sama and Morinaka-sama," he said, looking down at Naoya with calm, impartial eyes. "So I hope for your own sake as well, you will get better at this in our future meetings. Now, have a good day and I wish you a swift recovery."
He bowed—shallow and yet correct, devoid of any warmth—and walked toward the sliding door. His sandals made soft sounds against the tatami.
Naoya sat frozen at the table, his chest heaving, his hands shaking.
The door slid shut.
He stared at the empty space where the teacher had knelt.
"Ffffuckk…"
Naoya said the word under his breath while smacking the table once again. His palm stung against the wood. The inkstone jumped. A drop of black ink spilled onto the tatami, spreading slowly into the fibers.
Goddamnit. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. There's nothing wrong with his calligraphy.
He had learned this once in his past life. Mastered it, even. The only roadblock he had faced back then was a strange, stubborn old woman his father had hired as a teacher. Of course, once he complained about it to Naobito, the old pathetic woman was never seen again.
But…
His bandaged fingers curled into a fist on the table.
That damn bitch Naobi. She wouldn't care a damn thing about me. He could already picture her face—cold, amused, utterly indifferent. She'll laugh at my face if she knew I was even considering asking her for help.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
But wait... Morinaka is supposed to be the inverse of his mother, right? Asking him should be possible... but would it really?
Naoya wasn't all that familiar with his own mother in his past life. She had taken Kai's side when the succession war between Naobito's children broke out. So less could be said for the inverse of his mother—this version of Naobi's husband. Granted, although Morinaka was a male now, he was still as submissive as Naoya remembered his own mother being to Naobito.
Hmm...
He stared at the spilled ink spreading across the tatami.
No. I don't think that will work. His shoulders sagged slightly—the first crack in his rigid posture since the teacher left. My position here is much too different. I'm not the heir like in my previous life. I'm not that precious in both of their eyes.
He thought of the daughter of a clan head—her only value being marriage between factions or interclan alliances. Her worth measured in beauty, grace, and the prestige of the family she could be married into.
Yeah, figures. Naoya's lip curled. They wouldn't help me like this.
Whatever. Naoya pushed himself up from the table, his ribs complaining with a sharp twinge. I just have to bear this for now. After all, I don't plan on being a flower vase of a son for too long.
When I'm healed and the opportune moment finally comes, he thought, I'm going to reveal both the Ten Shadows and the Projection Sorcery in front of everybody and then declare myself as one of the candidate successors too.
He limped toward the window and pressed his palm against the cold glass. Outside, the compound lay quiet under a fresh layer of snow. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the rhythmic shouts of the Kukuru Unit training—women's voices, unfit to be strong and unified. Hearing them like that gave him creep.
Women really are only good when they're quiet, and the only time they should be noisy is when they're satisfying a man in bed.
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The reading comprehension lesson began an hour after the calligraphy disaster.
Naoya had been moved to a different room—smaller, with a single desk and a bookshelf crammed with thin volumes. The afternoon light was harsher here, slanting through an uncovered window and falling directly onto the desk where he sat.
His new teacher was a young woman with round glasses and a perpetually cheerful smile. She wore the white uniform of a lower-ranked clan educator, her hair tied in twin buns that made her look like a rabbit.
"Good afternoon, Naoya-sama!" she chirped, bowing so enthusiastically that one of her buns wobbled. "I'm Hanaya. I'll be your reading comprehension instructor. Aren't you just the cutest little thing? Oh, those bruises break my heart!"
Naoya stared at her with dead eyes.
"Let's begin, shall we?" She pulled a thin book from the shelf and placed it in front of him, open to the first page. "Today's passage is from 'The Virtuous Male: A Guide to Domestic Elegance,' chapter four—'The Art of Pleasant Conversation.' Please read the first paragraph aloud, then answer the questions at the bottom."
Naoya looked down at the page.
The first paragraph read:
"A well-spoken man is a treasure in any household. When his wife returns from a long day of protecting the clan from curses, he should greet her with a warm smile, a cup of tea, and a gentle inquiry about her battles. He must never burden her with his own trivial concerns, for her mind is occupied with matters of life and death. Instead, he should offer quiet support and—"
Naoya stopped reading.
"Is something wrong, Naoya-sama?" Hanaya tilted her head, her buns swaying.
He could feel a vein throbbing in his forehead. "This is… what I'm supposed to read?"
"Of course! It's a classic. My own father made me memorize it when I was your age." She beamed. "Go on, dear. Aloud, please."
Naoya took a breath so deep it hurt his ribs.
Then, in a flat, monotone voice, he read, "A well-spoken man is a treasure in any household. When his wife returns from a long day of protecting the clan from curses, he should greet her with a warm smile, a cup of tea, and a gentle inquiry about her battles."
"Lovely!" Hanaya clasped her hands. "Now, the first question: What should a man do when his wife comes home?"
Naoya stared at her. "…Make tea."
"Very good! And what should he NOT do?"
He glanced back at the text. "Burden her with his trivial concerns."
"Excellent! You're a natural, Naoya-sama." She tapped the page. "Next paragraph, please."
Naoya's eye twitched. He read on,
"A man's appearance is also of great importance. He should wear clean, modest clothing, keep his hair neatly arranged, and apply a touch of powder to his face to maintain a fresh complexion. Remember: a wife works hard to protect her husband; the least he can do is remain pleasant to look at—"
He stopped again. "Powder? On my face?"
"It's traditional!" Hanaya said brightly. "The Zenin men have used the finest rice powder for generations. Your father still does, I believe."
Naoya felt something inside him crack.
"Please continue, Naoya-sama. You're doing so well!"
He gripped the edges of the book so hard the pages crumpled. "Next question?"
"Oh, we're not at the questions yet. You have two more paragraphs to read." She smiled. "Then there's a short essay portion. Don't worry, it's only a hundred words on 'Why Obedience Is a Man's Greatest Virtue.'"
Naoya stared at the cheerful, bun-wearing woman in front of him.
For the first time since waking up in this cursed world, he considered the possibility that he might actually go insane.
"…Fine."
He lowered his head to the book and kept reading, each word scraping against his soul like sandpaper.
Remember, he told himself, you are going to become the strongest. You are going to make them all bow. You are going to burn these books and use the ashes to blacken your ink.
He read the next paragraph.
And the next.
And the next.
The words blurred together—men should be seen and not heard, men should be grateful for their wives' protection, men should never, never, never raise a hand or a voice—
His hand trembled.
"Naoya-sama? You're gripping the brush very tightly."
He didn't hear her.
Another paragraph: A virtuous man accepts correction gracefully. If his wife or mother deems him unworthy, he does not argue. He thanks them for their wisdom and strives to improve—
The brush snapped in his hand.
Ink splattered across the page, across the desk, tainting his bandaged fingers.
"Naoya-sama!"
That's it.
I'm done.
He stood up—too fast, the chair clattering backward onto the tatami. His ribs screamed at the sudden movement. Unfortunately, Naoya could care less about what his ribs were currently feeling right now.
"YOU!"
Hanaya blinked, her cheerful smile finally flickering. "M-me?"
"YES, YOU! AND THAT PATHETIC CALLIGRAPHY OLD MAN! AND OIKO, THAT FUCKING PIG! AND NAOBI! AND EVERY SINGLE WOMAN IN THIS ROTTEN COMPOUND!"
He swept his arm across the desk. Inkstone flew and books scattered as pages spiraled through the air like wounded birds.
"YOU THINK I'M GOING TO SIT HERE AND READ ABOUT POWDERING MY FACE AND ASKING ABOUT MY WIFE'S BATTLES?!"
His voice cracked, raw and furious. He grabbed a book from the floor and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a satisfying thud.
"I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE CLAN HEAD! I WAS THE HEIR! I HAD PROJECTION SORCERY AND RESPECT AND NO ONE—NO ONE—EVER TOLD ME TO SMILE AND MAKE TEA!"
Hanaya stood very still, hands clasped in front of her.
"THAT WOMAN NAOBI—SHE THINKS SHE'S SO POWERFUL? SHE'S A JOKE! A WOMAN PLAYING AT BEING A MAN! AND HER PRECIOUS HEI UNIT? A BUNCH OF OVERGROWN BULLIES WHO COULDN'T LIFT A FINGER AGAINST A REAL SORCERER FROM MY WORLD!"
He kicked the fallen chair. It skidded across the room and hit the bookshelf.
"AND YOU!" He spun on Hanaya, chest heaving. "YOU WITH YOUR STUPID BUNS AND YOUR CHEERY VOICE AND YOUR JOY OF EMBROIDERY—I HOPE YOU EMBROIDER YOUR MOUTH SHUT SO I NEVER HAVE TO HEAR YOU SPEAK AGAIN!"
Silence.
His breath came in ragged gasps. Ink dripped from his fingers onto the scattered papers. His bandages were stained black.
Hanaya looked at him.
Then she tilted her head—buns wobbling—and smiled.
"Awww," she said. "You're adorable."
Naoya's fury short-circuited into confusion. "What?"
"I said, you're adorable." She stepped over the scattered books and crouched down to meet his eyes. "But you have such a potty mouth, Naoya-sama. Where did a little boy like you learn all those nasty words?"
"I—"
"Naobi-sama will be very interested to hear about this little outburst." Hanaya straightened up and dusted off her uniform. "But between you and me?" She winked. "I think it's kind of cute. A boy with spirit. You just need to learn how to express yourself without all the…" she waved a hand, "…fuss."
Naoya stood frozen, mouth half-open.
What.
What is happening.
Hanaya picked up the fallen chair, set it upright, and gave him a gentle pat on the head—again.
"Same time tomorrow, Naoya-sama. Try not to break any more brushes. They come out of your allowance."
She walked out of the room, humming.
Naoya stood alone in the wreckage of paper and ink, his hands shaking, his throat raw.
I hate this world, he thought. I hate every single person in it.
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The corridor outside the reading room was quiet. Hanaya walked slowly, her wooden sandals clicking a gentle rhythm against the floor. She hugged the stack of books to her chest—the ones Naoya had thrown, their pages still damp with spilled ink.
What a storm that little one is.
She replayed his rant in her head. Something about being a clan head. Projection sorcery. His world. Women playing at being men.
Nonsense, she decided. Children have wild imaginations. He probably read some forbidden scroll or had a fever dream. Or maybe that beating rattled something loose.
She shrugged to herself, her twin buns bouncing.
Not my problem.
She reached a wooden pillar and stopped, leaning against it. The afternoon light slanted through a gap in the eaves, warming her face.
Should I report this to Naobi-sama?
She thought about it. Naobi's cold eyes and her dismissive wave. Utterly lacking interest in anything that didn't serve the clan's power, unless it was about tradition.
"A boy threw a tantrum? And you're telling me because…?"
Hanaya snorted softly.
No point. She wouldn't care anyway. Her own son? Please. Naobi-sama probably sees him as a tool at best, an inconvenience at worst.
She pushed off from the pillar and continued walking.
Besides…
A smile crept across her face.
Naoya is really cute.
She pictured him—bruised, furious, ink-stained, screaming at the top of his little lungs. His dark hair mussed. His eyes blazing.
Those features. That bone structure. Once he grows into that face, he's going to be a real beauty. A rare one.
Her smile widened.
I can put up with his nasty attitude. It's actually kind of fun. Most boys are so bland—all yes-this and no-that and thank-you-for-your-kindness. He's got fire.
She turned a corner and entered a small courtyard, empty of people. A stone lantern stood in the center, dusted with snow.
Fire can be tamed. It's more fun that way, anyway.
She set the books down on a wooden bench and stretched her arms above her head.
Should I make him my husband?
The thought settled into her chest like a warm ember.
What better way to educate my future husband than this? I'll mold him into the perfect man—strong-willed enough to be interesting, yet obedient enough to be manageable.
She imagined him older—taller, sharper, those angry eyes turned to her with reluctant affection.
He'll thank me one day.
She picked the books back up and headed toward the storage room to return them.
For now, I'll keep his little outburst to myself. No need to have him punished. That would only make him more defiant.
She hummed a soft tune.
Tomorrow, embroidery. That should be entertaining.
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Hey guys. Author here.
Aghhhhh, it hurts! I got chicken pox, my left shoulder actually looks so horrific right now, aghhhh!!!!
Also, meet the pedo, Hanaya.
One last thing, did you guys know that Naoya in the anime was upscaled to have speed around Mach 22? Yes, in that one scene where he runs around in a circle, that was apparently an upshot of some mountains in Kyoto. Some guys analyzed it, and the fact that Naoya crossed the distance in 1 second puts his speed at around Mach 22.