It was evening by now.
The room was small and cramped, lit by a single paper lantern that cast wavering shadows across the walls. A low desk sat in the center, piled with scrolls and thick volumes of books.
Naoya sat on a cushion, his body still feeling heavy with exhaustion despite the brief rest he had got earlier. His stomach growled. He had not eaten since lunch—the small tray of rice and fish that now looking back at it, tasted more appetizing than he last remembered.
I would love to have dinner by now, he thought, but unfortunately, I'm forced into this room to review and learn about the history of the Zenin clan.
Like I could care any less about it.
The instructor was a man—thin, with receding hair and wire-framed glasses perched on a long nose. He stood beside a hanging board covered in genealogical charts and dates. His voice was dry, droning on and on, as if he had said these for decades and had stopped caring midway.
"…and she is one of the most important women to have ever graced the Zenin clan—"
The history here is dominated by women, Naoya realized. Every name the man spoke was female. Every great achievement, every decisive battle, every political victory—all credited to women.
Disgusting.
Naoya’s hand began to impatiently tap the table. "Did you think I have all the time in the world? Stop running around in circles and just get straight to the point."
The instructor stopped mid-sentence. He blinked once behind his glasses, then slowly removed them, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"That's not how history works," he muttered.
"Yes it does." Naoya's voice was flat, impatient. "History is only a record of the past anyway. Why should I even bother remembering people who already turned into dust?"
The instructor replaced his glasses and turned to face Naoya fully. And he could see the man holding back a sigh from coming out.
"So that you may know of their hubris and their greatest moments. Then maybe, one day, Naoya-sama could replicate those great moments."
Naoya's eyes narrowed.
Replicate them?
Don't speak as if you know anything about me.
"Don't speak as if you know anything about me," Naoya said, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "You're standing at the very bottom of the barrel. You have no privilege to presume anything about me, you trash."
The instructor's face paled. He bowed his head quickly, his hands trembling slightly as they clutched his glasses.
Naoya turned his gaze to the window. It was already dark out.
Hmph. Replicate it, he said?
Everyone in this world is truly blind. Or maybe they just have inferior eyes naturally.
How could he even come to that conclusion?
I am not going to replicate anyone's greatness.
I am going to surpass them all.
He looked back at the instructor, who was still bowing, still waiting.
"Continue," Naoya said. "But skip the glorification. Just the facts."
The instructor straightened, cleared his throat, and resumed his lecture—faster now, with fewer flourishes. Naoya listened with half an ear, his mind already wandering to dinner.
"Now, Naoya-sama, the lesson is over—wait, don't stand up yet."
Naoya had already shifted his weight to rise. Stopping the movement caused him to wince in pain.
Now what?
The instructor adjusted his glasses, swallowing nervously. "Morinaka-sama mentioned that it is mandatory to give you a quiz based on the lessons. The results will be sent to both him and Naobi-sama."
Naoya's jaw tightened.
That damn old crow. Whatever.
"Just start now," he said, sinking back onto the cushion.
The instructor reached for a stack of blank paper and a brush. "Well then, here is the pen and paper—"
"No way. I don't want to write. Just recite the questions and I will answer."
The instructor blinked. "But the answers—"
"Obviously you have to remember them. Are you stupid or something?"
The man's face flushed. He set down the paper and cleared his throat.
"O-okay… ughh…"
"Stop crying. You better start now, or else…!"
Naoya let the threat hang in the air. The instructor straightened his spine, his hands no longer trembling.
"Yes! Of course. Let us start with the first question. Who is the ancestor of the Zenin clan?"
Taira no Masakado, Naoya thought immediately. The name was drilled into him in his past life—the great rebel, the man who defied the imperial court, the progenitor of the Zenin sorcerer line.
But this wasn't his past life.
He remembered the instructor's mindless drone from earlier. It got quite heated when he began rambling about her.
"Taira no Kado," Naoya said aloud.
The instructor's eyes widened. "Correct. It is Taira no Kado. And what technique did she possess?"
She possessed—
The Steady Gate. The same cursed technique as Masakado in his world.
Hmph. Naoya's expression did not change. Even if they both have the same technique, my ancestor is still vastly superior, he thought. A woman could never wield it the way a man could.
"Next question," the instructor said, gaining confidence. "The name of the last Zenin who possessed the Ten Shadows Technique is—"
Zenin Agaki. Naoya recalled the name from his world. A pathetic wimp who threw a tantrum after getting utterly destroyed by the Gojo with Six Eyes in a spectated match and ended up killing himself as a way to regain his honor.
The instructor winced. "Uhh… you are wrong. It is Zenin Naoe."
Naoya's eye twitched. Naoe. A woman's name. Of course.
"Naoe," he repeated flatly. "Fine."
The instructor nodded, making a small mark on his mental scorecard. "Third question. What was the primary contribution of Zenin Yori to the clan?"
Naoya had not been listening during that part. He had been thinking about dinner.
Guess.
"She killed a special grade curse," he said.
The instructor brightened. "Correct! She slew the Shikoku Curse in the third year of the Meiji Restoration. How did you know?"
Lucky guess. "Are there more questions or not?"
The instructor quickly consulted his notes. "Yes. Fourth question: Who established the current hierarchy of the Kukuru Unit?"
"Zenin Ritsuko," he said, pulling the name out of thin air.
The instructor's mouth fell open. "That is… also correct. Naoya-sama, you were listening more than you let on."
No, I wasn't, Naoya thought. I'm just good at guessing because all your history is predictable. Women doing what men did in my world. Names swapped to just becoming more feminine. Nothing changes except the sex. From Ritsuka to Ritsuko. Makes you realize just how much of a fake this world really is.
"One final question," the instructor said, his voice almost warm now. "What is the most important virtue a male of the Zenin clan must cultivate?"
Naoya stared at him.
Obedience, he thought.
I would rather eat glass.
"Obedience," he said, the word coming out like poison.
The instructor beamed. "Correct! You have passed, Naoya-sama. Four out of five."
He made a final mark on his paper and bowed.
"The results will be delivered tonight. You may go. Have a pleasant evening."
Naoya stood with stiff legs and made his way towards the dining room, his stomach already growling.
I passed, he thought as he walked toward the door.
And obedience?They can have that word.
Arriving at the same dining annex once again, he sat down in the cushion, a tray of food already prepared for him. Rice, miso soup, steamed fish, and pickled vegetables. The portions were larger this time, perfect for his tired and demanding body.
Picking up the chopsticks, he began to eat slowly in silence.
Chew. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.
The rice filled the hunger in his chest and the soup warmed his body.
Finally, he thought, setting down his chopsticks. It's over.
He sat for a moment, staring at the empty tray. The lantern light flickered. Outside, the compound had gone still. No more shouts from the training yard and there’s only the occasional footsteps in the corridor.
Today was… He tried to find a word. Long. Painfully exhausting and humiliating.
Unfortunately for him, he has to bear this for a little longer. Just until his wounds were healed.
Pushing himself to his feet, Naoya barely felt the usual aching anymore as his feet now felt steadier.
The walk to his room was short. He slid open the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. The futon was still rumpled from his earlier collapse. The quilt lay in a heap at the foot.
He did not bother to fix it.
Naoya knelt beside the futon and began to remove his kimono. His bandaged arm made the process clumsy. The fabric caught on the wrappings, and he had to tug it free with his teeth. By the time he was down to his undergarments, his breath came in short, irritated huffs.
He fell onto the futon.
The pillow was soft. The quilt, when he pulled it over himself, was warm. The darkness behind his eyelids was immediate and thoughts immediately slept.
The day was finally and truly over.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The morning was colder than usual and even with the brazier being lit, the warmth barely reached their desks.
Calligraphy teacher, Kenshin. That was the first mistake he made yesterday, thinking Naoya might have manners and would ask him his name. In the end, Naoya had never asked and would never care.
Today, he once again knelt across the boy, brush in hand and watching for any signs.
That’s right. He’s prepared today. The shouting and the insults was sure to come and so is the thrown brush and paper and scrolls. He had even prepared a response—calm, professional, the same response he had used for decades with difficult students.
But today…Naoya said nothing.
The boy dipped his brush into the inkstone and began his right arm with slow and deliberate movement. There was…more thoughts put into it than yesterday.
But as Kenshin watched the strokes form, he could see they were still uneven. The characters leaned. The pressure varied too much—heavy here, light there. The ink pooled in places where it should not.
Terrible, Kenshin thought. Worse than yesterday, perhaps.
But he did not interrupt. He waited.
Naoya finished the first character and moved to the second. His face was expressionless. No scowl. No sneer. Just... blank.
Strange.
Kenshin cleared his throat. "Naoya-sama, your brush placement is off. You are holding it too vertically. Angle it slightly. And slow down—your strokes are rushing."
Naoya paused. His eyes flicked toward Kenshin—briefly and it was unbelievably cold for a 5 years old—then returned to the paper. He adjusted his grip, only barely. Then continued writing.
No argument today, Kenshin noted. No shouting. No "shut up."
It unsettled him more than the tantrums had.
The boy finished the page and set down his brush. Kenshin reached for the paper, lifted it, and examined it in the morning light.
The characters were still crooked. The ink was still blotchy. The stroke order, at least, was mostly correct.
But still shit, Kenshin thought.
"Naoya-sama," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "your writing remains below acceptable standards. The vertical strokes are wavering. The horizontal strokes end too abruptly. You are still moving only your wrist. I need you to try again, and this time, use your whole arm as I showed you yesterday."
He waited for the explosion.
Instead, Naoya muttered something under his breath. Kenshin caught the words—"you fucking blind fool"—but they were quiet, almost inaudible. The boy did not shout nor did he throw anything in a fit of rage like Kenshin expected.
He simply picked up a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his brush, and began again.
Kenshin blinked.
He listened? Not politely, that’s for certain, but... he is doing it.
He watched as Naoya wrote the next character. The boy's whole arm up to the elbow, moved—stiffly, reluctantly, but it moved. The stroke was still flawed, but there was an attempt. A bare minimum attempt.
This does not feel like the same child who screamed at me yesterday, Kenshin thought. Something has changed. Or perhaps he is merely tired. Or storing his anger for later.
Naoya finished the second page and set down his brush, staring at him with challenging eyes, waiting for him. Kenshin picked up the paper. It was still not good. But it was better than the first.
"...Better," he said. "Again."
Naoya picked up his brush.
And said nothing.
Kenshin suppressed a sigh. This boy is going to be the death of me. But at least he is writing now.
.
.
.
“Uwaahh, today sure is really cold, huh, Naoya-sama?” Hanaya asked as she closed the window and lit up the brazier.
Naoya said nothing. sat at the low desk, a new book open in front of him—something about the proper way to fold a man's kimono for storage. His bandaged arm rested on the table. His expression was…focused? Determined? But it was different from yesterday.
He's so quiet today, Hanaya thought. Yesterday he screamed at me. Called me every name in the book. So the fact that he’s so quiet now is…really off.
She circled behind him, her wooden sandals clicking softly on the tatami.
"Naoya-sama, you are holding the book too close to your face. You will strain your eyes."
She reached down and placed her hand on his shoulder—gently, to guide him back.
He did not lean away nor did he did flinch like she expected. His shoulder remained rigid beneath her palm.
Interesting.
She let her hand linger. A moment. Two.
Naoya's eyes flicked toward her hand, then back to the book. He said nothing.
Hanaya withdrew her hand slowly, her fingers brushing the collar of his kimono as she pulled away. The fabric was soft and his skin underneath was warm.
He usually would have shoved me off by now, she thought. Or cursed. Or both.
She walked around to his side and knelt beside him—closer than necessary. Her knee brushed his hip.
"Your posture is wrong," she said. "You are slouching. Let me fix it."
She placed both hands on his shoulders and straightened his back. Her fingers pressed into the small muscles near his neck. He felt thin beneath the kimono. Fragile.
But his eyes...
His eyes were the same. Cold.
"Do you mind?" he said. His voice was strangely flat and not in a way meant to mock others.
She kept her hands on his shoulders. Then one hand slid down to his arm—the bandaged one. She traced the edge of the wrappings with her thumb.
"You are very still today, Naoya-sama. Yesterday you were a storm."
He turned his head slightly. His glare was weak—more annoyance than fury.
"You're annoying," he said. "You're testing my patience."
Hanaya blinked.
That's it? That's all?
Yesterday, those words would have been shouted. Accompanied by flying books and overturned furniture. Today, they were muttered. Barely even a complaint.
What happened to him?
She should have been relieved. Instead, she felt... somewhat unsettled
Her hand lingered on his arm. He did not pull away.
How much can I get away with?
She moved her hand to his wrist—the bare skin above the bandages. His pulse was steady. He did not react.
She let her fingers drift up his forearm, over the bandages, to the inside of his elbow.
Nothing. Still nothing.
Naoya's jaw tightened. His glare deepened. But he did not move and it doesn’t seem like he has any intention to speak towards her.
"You're not going to scream at me?" she asked, tilting her head. Her twin buns wobbled.
"I said you're testing my patience," he replied. “Figure that out on yourself, you damn brainless fool.”
She pulled her hand back and sat upright, smoothing her uniform.
"You are very strange today, Naoya-sama."
"You are becoming very annoying, even more than yesterday. Are we done?
Hanaya looked at him. The bruises on his face were still visible. His dark hair was messy. His eyes stared back at her without warmth.
He should be afraid of me, she thought. I am his teacher. His elder. A woman. He should be nervous when I touch him.
Instead, he is bored.
And I...
She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was beating faster.
What is this?
Excitement?
"Not done," she said, reaching out to fix his collar. Her fingers brushed his neck. "We have another hour."
Naoya exhaled through his nose though he did not stop her.
Hanaya smiled.
How much can I get away with?
Let's find out.
The hour stretched. Hanaya found reasons to touch him.
A correction of his sleeve. A brush of her fingers through his hair—to remove imaginary dust. A hand on his lower back when he slouched. Each time, Naoya's glare hardened. Each time, his jaw tightened. But he did not scream or push her away like how child typically would.
He's holding back, she thought. Why?
It should have been satisfying. A fierce boy getting tamed and is currently learning patience.
Instead, it only made her want to push further.
How far until he breaks?
She waited until he reached for his brush. Then she slid behind him—close enough that her knees touched his back—and reached around to adjust his grip.
"Your fingers are too stiff," she said, her voice soft in his ear. "Like this."
She wrapped her hand around his. Guided the brush to the paper. His hand was so small and so soft and so… warm.
This time, Naoya went rigid.
"Hanaya." His voice was low. Warning.
"Yes, Naoya-sama?"
"Remove yourself from my back."
Is that a crack?
She did not remove herself. Instead, she lifted him.
He was light—lighter than she expected.
She pulled him off the cushion and settled him into her lap, his back against her chest. His head barely reached her shoulder.
"Let me go." His voice was not a shout, but it was the sharpest she ever heard from him.
"You are tense," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her fingers found the hem of his kimono. "You need to relax. Look at the paragraph, “A proper husband must be comfortable with his wife's touch.” So just think of this as a practice, okay?”
She slid her hands beneath the fabric. Her palms pressed flat against his stomach. His skin was warm and so deliciously soft.
He's shaking, she realized.
Good.
She let her hands drift higher. His ribs. His chest. She could feel his heartbeat—fast, pounding.
"Hanaya." His voice cracked. "Stop."
"Or what?" she whispered. "You will hit me? You are a child. I am a woman. You cannot—"
His fist connected with her face.
The impact was blinding. White light exploded behind her eyes. Her head snapped back. Her arms went slack.
What—
She had felt children's punches before. They were playful and weak. The kind that made you smile and ruffle their hair.
This was force. Real force. Curse energy—she felt it now, surging through the point of impact, radiating through her skull.
How? He's five. And he's injured. How can he—
Her vision swam. The room tilted. She tried to raise a hand to her face, but her arm would not obey.
The last thing she saw was Naoya scrambling off her lap, his face twisted with fury and muttering something about everything testing his patience today.