“What gives you the right?” Arata paused, letting out a small wine-scented burp before continuing.
“What makes you think that someone you treated like trash–like garbage–since they were a child would ever remember your ‘kindness’?
What makes you think she won’t come back to settle the score once she gets strong?”
Naobito didn’t speak.
He just sipped his sake slowly, his eyes never leaving the drunken youth, observing him with a sharp intensity.
Maki sat in her place, eyes downcast, her expression unreadable.
However, her fingers tightened noticeably around her teacup.
Arata didn’t notice.
He went back to throwing his arm around Naobito’s shoulder.
“You’re the head of the Zenin clan, but do you even know what kind of people your family members really are?”
Naobito raised an eyebrow.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Fine, I won’t hold back then.” Arata cleared his throat and began calling names.
“First, let’s talk about your son, Naoya Zenin.
I have never seen such a mediocre person in my life.
He inherited your Projection Sorcery, but his punches feel like a light tickle.
I stood there and let him hit me for half a day, and nothing happened.
If this were a game, he’d be a Level 1 mob in the starting village–not even an elite mob.”
Naoya Zenin: [Input Text]
“Then there are those old geezers in your house,” Arata continued.
“Not much talent, but plenty of arrogance.
All they know how to do is bully their own kin.
If they’re so capable, why don’t they go challenge Satoru Gojo?
They don’t dare.
They just play tough at home.
Especially that brother of yours…
what was it…
Ogi Zenin, right?
You’d better watch out for him.
Not only does the bastard look like a villain, but he also blames all his resentment for not becoming the Clan Head on Maki and Mai.
With a guy like that around, watch your back so he doesn’t stab you one day.”
The air in the banquet hall froze.
At that moment, a middle-aged man sitting diagonally across from them stood up abruptly.
He was tall and thin with a harsh, bitter face.
His long black hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and he wore traditional samurai attire.
He had heard every word Arata just said.
“Where did this brat come from, daring to act so wildly in the Zenin house!” The man’s voice was low and piercing.
He shoved aside the low table in front of him, sending cups and plates crashing to the floor with a sharp shatter, and strode toward Arata in a few quick steps.
He looked at the furious man with bleary, drunken eyes and blinked.
“Who are you?”
Those three simple words made the atmosphere even more volatile.
Ogi Zenin’s face turned from pale to flushed.
As a Grade 1 Sorcerer of the Zenin family, he was a figure of authority second only to Naobito.
When had he ever been so dismissed by a wet-behind-the-ears brat?
Moreover, every word the kid had just spat out felt like a knife to his chest.
“Who am I?” the man growled, his voice dropping an octave as he gritted his teeth.
“I am Maki’s father.
Who do you think I am?”
“Oh–” Arata dragged out the vowel, his expression shifting from confusion to a sudden realization.
“So you’re the father-in-law.
My apologies, my apologies.”
*Pfft…*
Someone couldn’t hold back a snort, though the laugh was cut short immediately.
Ogi’s chest heaved violently.
He stared at the drunken youth who was leaning on his older brother and calling him “father-in-law.” A sense of humiliation he had never experienced before rushed to his head.
As a Special Grade 1 Sorcerer, he was a man of power.
But today…
The term “father-in-law” was like a poisoned blade.
Maki Zenin–his “failure” of a daughter–actually had someone willing to admit they liked her in front of the entire clan?
And in such a manner?
Ogi took a deep breath, his voice cold as ice.
“Boy, do you have any idea what you’re saying?”
“Blah, blah, blah.
Always the same lines.” Arata let go of Naobito and stood up slowly.
He looked at the seething Ogi and dug a finger into his ear.
“Can we get some original material here?”
The temperature in the hall hit freezing point.
Ogi’s fingers trembled–the sign of a man pushed to his absolute limit.
He had never been so publicly shamed by an outsider, a mere child!
“Fine.
Very well.” Ogi’s voice sounded like it was being squeezed through his teeth.
His right hand pressed against the hilt of the sword at his waist.
“Since you’re so eager to die, I’ll grant your wish.”
“Oh?
Moving to blades?
Sure!” Arata smiled, then stretched his neck forward.
Cut right here.”
A drunken kid, stretching his neck out to be cut with a smile on his face–the scene was so absurd that Ogi actually hesitated for a split second.
“What?” Arata tilted his head, his neck still exposed, almost as if he were trying to help his opponent.
“Scared to cut?
Or scared you can’t cut through?”
“DIE!”
Ogi’s sanity snapped.
“No!”
Maki’s voice rang out through the hall as she lunged to her feet, but it was too late.
The blade fell.
Blood sprayed.
The dull sound of metal slicing through flesh echoed.
The blade carved a diagonal path from Arata’s shoulder down toward his waist.
Crimson bloomed across his light-colored clothes, and a few drops even splashed onto the low table nearby, landing in the delicate dishes.
Dead silence fell over the hall.
Everyone stared at the scene–at the gruesome wound, at the blood dripping from the hem of his clothes and soaking into the tatami mats in a dark red stain.
Ogi withdrew his blade, a smug curve appearing on his lips.
“Arrogant brat.
This is the price for running your mouth in the Zenin house.”
He scanned the room to assert his authority, then turned to Maki.
His “failure” of a daughter was staring with wide eyes, the color completely drained from her face.
“What are you looking at?” Ogi snorted coldly.
“Is this who you brought back?
A piece of trash who can’t even take one strike–”
“The food here isn’t as good as my hometown, but it’s not bad.
The blood is going to make it taste really weird.”
Ogi’s pupils shrank.
Arata was standing right in front of him.
His young face showed no sign of pain; instead, he wore a faint, mocking smirk.
“You…”
“Even though this makes me look like a masochist, it was probably wrong for an outsider like me to strike first.
But now…” Arata’s voice was calm–eerily calm.
“It’s my turn~”
The moment the words fell, the blood on Arata’s body exploded outward, transforming into crimson ropes that instantly bound Ogi Zenin.
P.S.: Regarding Suguru Geto’s “family,” Manami Suda and Toshihisa Negi–since they don’t have much screen time or official techniques, it’s a great idea to design some for them for the Shibuya Incident.
It adds depth to the conflict and gives the protagonist more interesting variables to play with!
LanLi: How about ct of Socrates
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