Favorite

The two-hour break between lessons had felt like a breeze passing by for how it ended too soon.

Naoya sat on a cushion in yet another unfamiliar room—this one larger, more formal, with a raised platform at the far end where an instructor would presumably sit. The tatami was new, still pale green and smelling of rice straw. A single scroll hung on the wall behind the platform, bearing the Zenin clan symbol in bold black strokes.

With aching body and ribs that throbbed every time he moved, along with bandaged arm hanging limply at his side, he was… not glad that he would be learning about etiquette, but it shouldn't be as annoying as calligraphy and reading comprehension.

Then the door slid open, and any hope he had evaporated.

The man who entered was… unusual even by sorcerer standards. Late forties, with sharp cheekbones and hair pulled so tight it looked painful. He wore a formal kimono in muted grays—no color, no ornamentation. His movements were simply perfect. He knelt on the platform and fixed Naoya with a gaze that felt like a blade.

"I am Yone," he said. "I will be instructing you in etiquette."

Naoya said nothing.

"Given your current physical state," Yone continued, "we will begin with verbal components only. Posture and gestures will come later, when you are healed."

Verbal components, Naoya repeated internally. More talking then. Pretending to be a good little vase… I'm gonna hurl.

"Etiquette," Yone said, "is the foundation of a man's worth in this clan. A man who cannot speak properly, who cannot bow at the correct angle, who cannot pour tea without trembling—such a man is worthless. No woman of standing would marry him. No family would accept him as a son-in-law."

He paused, as if letting Naoya come to terms with that reality.

I would rather be beaten, Naoya thought. I would rather have Oiko kick me in the ribs again than sit here and listen to this.

But he kept his face neutral. Bare minimum, he reminded himself. Just the bare minimum for now.

Yone produced a small hand mirror from his sleeve and held it up. "Look at yourself, Naoya-sama. What do you see?"

A future clan head trapped in a child's body, he thought. Aloud, he said nothing.

"I see a boy covered in bruises," Yone said, answering his own question. "Unfortunate, but not irreparable. However, those bruises will fade. What will remain is your bearing. Your voice. Your ability to make a woman feel respected and admired."

He set the mirror down.

"We will begin with greetings. When a woman of higher rank enters a room, you do not stand immediately. You wait until she has taken her seat. Then you bow—from the waist, hands on your thighs, eyes down. Hold for three breaths. Then raise your head, but keep your gaze lowered until she speaks to you."

He demonstrated. His bow was perfect—smooth, unhurried, utterly submissive.

Disgusting, Naoya thought. This is what they want me to become.

"Now you try," Yone said.

Naoya hesitated as his ribs trembled at the thought of bending for a female. But he had promised himself the bare minimum. He placed his hands on his thighs—his bandaged fingers clumsy—and bowed from the waist.

It was shallow and quick. One breath, and he immediately went back up.

Yone's expression did not change. "Again. Three breaths. And keep your back straight—you are bowing, not collapsing."

I would rather he hit me, Naoya thought. A beating would be faster. And there would be a little dignity to it.

He tried again. Deeper this time, and the resulting goosebumps that appeared across his body as he did the motion somehow helped him stay in place.

"Better," Yone said. "Now, the greeting itself. When a woman enters, you say: 'Welcome. I am honored by your presence.' The tone must be warm, but not eager. Respectful, but not fearful. Let me hear it."

Naoya stared at him.

Welcome, I am honored by your presence. To a woman.

He felt bile rise in his throat.

Bare minimum, he reminded himself. Just get through this and don't lose your emotions like the last two times.

"Welcome," he said, his voice flat as a board. "I am honored by your presence."

Yone's eyes narrowed. "That sounded like you were reading a death sentence. Again. With warmth."

I would rather be given a death sentence, he thought.

He tried again. This time he forced a smile—or what passed for one. The result was a rigid and unnatural grimace.

"Welcome. I am honored by your presence."

Yone sighed. "We have much work to do. Again."

Naoya inhaled through his nose and prepared to repeat the wretched phrase. But Yone held up a hand.

"Before you do, let me explain what you are doing wrong. Your smile is too rigid—you are showing your teeth like a cornered animal. Your cheeks are stretched too long, which makes you look constipated. Your eyes are almost closed, as if you are trying to block out the sun, and yet your brows were frowning the entire time."

He leaned forward slightly.

"A proper smile should be soft. Eyes relaxed, brow neutral. The corners of the mouth lift slightly—no teeth unless you are genuinely pleased. You are not a warrior bearing his fangs. You are a man welcoming a woman into his home. There is a difference."

He gestured to his own face. His smile was small, gentle, utterly insincere—but convincing.

"Try again. And this time, imagine you are greeting someone you actually want to see."

Naoya stared at him.

Someone I actually want to see. In this world? There is no such person.

But he tried again. He softened his face. He relaxed his jaw. He lifted the corners of his mouth just a fraction.

"Welcome. I am honored by your presence."

It came out flat. Dead. Like a corpse reading a script.

Yone's sigh was deeper this time. "Better mechanics. Worse soul. But we will continue on, regardless."

Another hour passed. Then another.

Yone drilled him on greetings, on expressions, on the angle of his head when receiving praise versus receiving criticism. He corrected Naoya's posture, his breathing, the placement of his hands. He made him practice saying "thank you for your guidance" in three different tones—grateful, humble, and genuinely moved.

Naoya did it all. His face hurt, and he experienced enough goosebumps to last a whole lifetime.

Bare minimum, he thought. Just get through this. You can insult him later. You can curse his name when you're alone.

"Good," Yone said finally. "That was your best attempt yet. One more round, and I think you will have passed the first lesson without issue."

Naoya felt something flicker in his chest. Relief? Hope?

Almost done. Just one more.

He straightened his back. Softened his face. Lifted his lips.

"Welcome. I am honored by your—"

He stopped. His head dropped down. Silence was all there was while he stared at the tatami with wide eyes.

No.

I can't.

I cannot say this one more time.

The words lodged in his throat like broken glass. His hands curled into fists on his thighs. His jaw tightened. His smile—his fake, pathetic, woman-pleasing smile—twisted into something else.

"You know what?" he said. His voice was low, calm. No shouting. "You are a dried-up old man playing at being an instructor. Your face looks like a crumpled piece of rice paper. Your hair is pulled so tight it's cutting off blood flow to whatever shriveled organ you call a brain."

Yone's expression did not change.

"You spend your days teaching little boys how to grovel, and for what? So you can feel powerful? So you can pretend that anyone respects you?" He laughed—a short, bitter sound. "No one respects you. Your own family probably avoids you at gatherings. You are a relic. A fossil. The only reason you have this job is because no one else wanted it."

He leaned forward, his eyes cold.

"And the worst part? You know I'm right. That's why you're so harsh. That's why you nitpick every little thing. Because this—" he gestured to the room, to the scroll, to Yone, "—this is all you have. And it's pathetic."

Silence.

Then Yone's lips curved.

He was smirking.

"I anticipated such a reaction," he said, his voice utterly unbothered. "You have a temper, Naoya-sama. It is written all over your face. The question was never whether you would break, but when."

He folded his hands in his lap.

"Such a shame. If you had held on just a little longer—one more round, perhaps two—you would have the first lesson you managed to do without issue today." He tilted his head. "But alas. Your emotion won. Even though you were right at the finish line."

He rose from the platform, smoothing his kimono.

"The lesson is over. We will try again tomorrow. Perhaps by then, you will have learned that restraint is a man's greatest weapon."

He walked toward the door, then paused.

"For what it's worth, your insults were creative. I will give you that."

The door slid shut behind him.

Naoya sat alone in the large, formal room. His fists were still clenched. His heart pounded in his chest.

I was almost done, he thought. I was right there.

He slammed his fist against the tatami. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his bandaged hand.

But he could only feel relief, because he knew tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. And the day after that.

Because he would never be what they wanted him to be.

Never.

The etiquette room emptied behind him. Naoya walked—limped, really—down the corridor toward the small dining annex where his meals were served. The compound was quiet at this hour. Most of the women were training or managing clan affairs. He passed only one servant, a middle-aged man who bowed without meeting his eyes and hurried away.

Good, Naoya thought. At least there’s still some trash who know their place in this world.

The dining annex was a modest room with a low table and a single cushion. A tray had already been placed: rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables, and a small piece of grilled fish. Steam rose from the soup. The portions were small—appropriate for a child's appetite, or perhaps a deliberate restriction.

Naoya sat down heavily and a groan unwillingly escaped him as he felt his back aching from holding those ridiculous poses for hours.

He picked up the chopsticks with his bandaged hand. The grip was clumsy, but he managed.

At least no one is watching me eat, he thought. No one telling me to chew softly or hold my bowl at the correct angle.

He ate in silence. The food was bland compared to his usual palate. But he could care less about that now. Food was food and fuel is number one priority right now.

When the tray was empty, he set down the chopsticks and sat for a moment, staring at the grain of the wooden table.

One lesson down. Two to go? No—physical therapy after lunch. That's the last thing for today, right?

He almost welcomed it. Physical therapy meant movement. Movement meant he didn't have to sit still and pretend to be grateful for the privilege of existing.

The therapy room was at the far end of the compound, nearer to the medical wing. It was small and warm, with padded mats on the floor and low wooden bars along one wall—the kind used for assisted stretching.

A woman in a plain white uniform waited for him. She was young, perhaps mid-twenties, with a kind face and strong hands. She bowed as he entered.

"Naoya-sama. I am Mika. I'll be guiding you through your therapy today. Nothing strenuous—just gentle movements to keep your muscles from deteriorating while you heal."

Naoya nodded once. No need to speak to someone obviously so much lower than him.

Mika guided him through a series of simple exercises. Arm rotations—slow, careful. Ankle flexes. Gentle neck stretches. She had him lie on his back and lift his legs one at a time, just a few inches off the mat. Then knee bends, each movement measured and unhurried.

This is nothing, Naoya thought as he raised his left leg. Barely even exercise. At least I don't have to bow or smile or say "I am honored" to anyone in here.

His muscles trembled slightly with each repetition, though he ignored it and didn’t say anything.

See? I can do this. It's fine.

Mika watched him with professional calm. "Rest for a moment, Naoya-sama. Then we'll do one more set of arm stretches."

He lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell. His bandaged arm lay across his stomach. The warmth of the room made him feel heavy.

Just a little more, he told himself. Then I'm done for the day.

When the final exercise ended, Mika helped him sit up. "Very good, Naoya-sama. You did well. Please rest now. Tomorrow we'll do the same routine, perhaps adding a few more repetitions."

Naoya stood. His legs felt strange—rubbery, disconnected. He took a step toward the door.

I'm fine, he thought. This was nothing. I'm barely tired.

His hand reached for the doorframe. He gripped it tighter than necessary.

Behind him, Mika said, "Would you like an escort back to your room, Naoya-sama? The corridors can be cold, and you look pale."

"I don't need an escort," he said, his voice flat. He pushed off from the frame and walked out.

The corridor stretched before him. Each step felt heavier than the last. His eyelids drooped. His limbs seemed to weigh twice what they had an hour ago.

Just tired, he told himself. It's the injuries. Not the therapy.

The therapy was nothing.

He turned a corner. His room was twenty paces away. Fifteen. Ten.

By the time he reached the sliding door, his hand was shaking as he reached for the handle.

He slid the door open, stepped inside, and collapsed onto the futon without removing his clothes.

I'm fine, he thought, staring at the ceiling as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. Completely fine.

He was asleep before he finished the thought.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

Naoya surfaced from the dark like a drowning man clawing toward air. His eyes cracked open—barely—and the blurry shape of a person knelt beside his futon. The afternoon light had shifted into a mixture of gold and gray.

What time is it? How long was I out?

His body felt like lead and his mouth was dry.

"What do you want, trash?"

The words came out weak. Barely a whisper. He meant them to be sharp, cutting. Instead, they landed like a wet leaf.

The person did not flinch. He was a man—middle-aged, with a narrow face and small, careful hands. His kimono was plain, with ink stains on the cuffs. He held a wooden ledger under one arm.

"My apologies for waking you, Naoya-sama. I am Kenji. I am responsible for the household accounts. Budgeting. Supply management. These are the things I will be teaching you this afternoon."

Naoya stared at him.

Household accounts. Budgeting. Supply management.

He blinked. Once. Then twice more.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through his skull. His bandaged arm trembled under his weight.

I thought physical therapy was the last thing. I thought I could sleep. I thought—

"It will not be a long session," Kenji added, as if reading his thoughts. "Given your condition, I will simply introduce the concepts today. No practical work."

Naoya's jaw tightened. No practical work. That means listening. More listening. More sitting still while someone talks at me about things I already know.

But he was already awake. Too awake to fall back asleep.

"Fine," he said, his voice still rough. "Get on with it."

Kenji nodded and settled onto a cushion near the low table. He opened the ledger—pages filled with neat columns of numbers, dates, and item names. Rice. Charcoal. Bandages. Ink. Everything the compound consumed, tracked down to the smallest grain.

Naoya dragged himself to sit across from him, though his head pounded and he desperately wanted to close it.

Kenji began to explain the basics: how the Zenin household budget was allocated each month, how supply orders were placed, how inventory was tracked and verified. He spoke in a low, steady voice—no enthusiasm there and thankfully, no condescension either.

It’s nice to be near someone who know their place.

And Naoya listened.

This is… actually interesting.

Kenji pointed to a column. "This is the cost of maintaining the Kukuru Unit's training weapons. New wooden swords arrive every two weeks. They are distributed, used, and broken. The budget accounts for a fifteen percent loss rate. Anything above that comes out of the unit captain's stipend."

Oiko's stipend, Naoya thought. Good. Let her pay for her own carelessness.

"What about the Hei?" he asked. His voice was still weak, but there was a flicker of focus behind his eyes.

Kenji raised an eyebrow—slightly surprised by the question. "The Hei operates on a separate budget. They require less frequent replacement of equipment, as their weapons are of higher quality and better maintained. However, their training facilities cost more to upkeep."

Naoya leaned forward. His ribs complained. He ignored them.

"And who authorizes the budget? Naobi?"

Kenji nodded. "The clan head approves all major expenditures. However, day-to-day management falls to the household accountants. We track usage, identify waste, and make recommendations."

Waste, Naoya thought. I can work with that.

He asked another question. And another. Kenji answered each one with patient precision.

Before Naoya realized it, the session had ended.

Kenji closed the ledger. "That is enough for today, Naoya-sama. You absorbed more than I expected. Rest now. Tomorrow, we will begin practical exercises—small calculations, simple budgets."

He bowed—a shallow one—and left.

Naoya sat alone at the low table. The numbers still swam behind his eyes. Columns and rows. Profit and loss. Control.

I actually… didn't hate that.

He blinked, surprised at himself.

It's not like the other lessons, he realized.

He looked down at his bandaged hands.

Maybe not everything in this world is completely worthless.

He lay back down on the futon, staring at the ceiling. The afternoon light had dimmed further. Evening was coming.

But don't get comfortable, he warned himself.

Finally, he closed his eyes.