Chapter Text
Unrelenting, infallible.
Generation after generation, we, the noble Nijiku clan, have persevered. We bear the burdens of the Ground—leading it as Hell Guard and we do so willingly, as your brother and sister did. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Zanka?
His father’s voice wouldn’t stop echoing, no matter how many times Zanka swallowed around it. It pressed against the inside of his skull like a hand that refused to let go. Even now, standing stiffly in a pristine academy uniform, the weight of those words clung to him like another layer of fabric.
Zanka stood at the front of the classroom, straight-backed, eyes forward. The room was too bright. Too crowded. Too loud in its silence.
Dozens of Hell Guard trainees stared at him. Some stunned, some curious, some openly whispering behind their hands.
The teacher cleared his throat, formal and almost trembling with respect.
“This is Nijiku Zanka,” the instructor announced. “Youngest son of the Nijiku family. Starting today, he will be training among us.”
The reaction was immediate.
A sharp intake of breath from the left. A murmur spreading across the rows.
Someone straightened their uniform hurriedly.
Someone else elbowed their friend.
Even the ones trying not to stare.
stared.
Because this wasn’t just a transfer. This was a Nijiku entering the room.
Zanka kept his eyes down, just slightly, remembering how his father said he should stand: chin high, shoulders square, never wavering. But it felt like everyone could see the truth under the uniform, his shaking muscles, the fading bruises under his sleeves, the exhaustion that never left.
“Go ahead and take a seat.” the teacher instructed.
Zanka bowed slightly and walked down the aisle. Each step felt like walking through water, slow, heavy, too many eyes following him. Some students whispered.
“The Nijiku heir…”
“I heard he’s a prodigy.”
“No—his brother’s the prodigy.”
“He looks… different than I expected.”
Zanka’s teeth clenched, but he kept walking.
Do you understand, Zanka?
He understood too well.
He found an empty desk near the middle row and sat. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table, knuckles pale. He could still feel the sting of last night’s training in his hands. His father’s corrections. His father’s disappointment.
The teacher resumed the lesson.
The students pretended to focus.
Zanka stared straight ahead, but all he could hear was the echo of his father’s voice, wrapping around him like a chain.
You carry our name.
Do not falter.
Do not embarrass the family.
He inhaled shakily.
His first day at the Academy had only begun—and he already felt the weight of every generation on his shoulders.
The teacher’s voice echoed across the room, calm but sharp enough to cut through the noise:
“We’ll be doing practical combat examinations today. One-on-one. Like karate sparring. I want to see your natural abilities, your strengths, your weaknesses. Dismissed. Change into your gi and meet me in the main training hall.”
A mix of excitement, nerves, and quiet dread rippled through the room.
Students immediately stood, chatter rising as they hurried toward the hallways. Zanka rose slowly, shoulders heavy, and fell in step behind the other boys.
The group of boys walked ahead of him, loud and joking among themselves, nudging each other in the ribs. Zanka followed a step behind, close enough to seem part of their group, far enough to not actually be included.
As they passed the tall glass windows overlooking the downstairs training floor, Zanka’s eyes flicked down.
The huge room was already lined with students from another class, standing in rows while their instructor paced in front of them. Their voices were muffled through the glass, but the energy was sharp, focused.
Zanka watched for a moment, feeling a twist in his stomach. Everyone here trained like they belonged. Like they knew their place.
He swallowed and kept walking.
The door swung open, and warm light buzzed inside the boys’ changing room. Metal lockers. Benches. The scent of deodorant, sweat, and detergent.
The others moved around confidently, tossing their uniforms down, laughing, shoving each other. Zanka scanned the rows until he saw his name printed neatly on a locker tag.
Nijiku Zanka.
He hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing the metal.
The name felt heavy.
He opened it.
Inside, folded perfectly, was his white karate gi. New. Clean. Crisp.
Almost too crisp.
He exhaled through his nose and began unbuttoning his uniform jacket.
The boys around him continued talking.
Not to him… mostly about him.
“Hey, you’re the Nijiku kid, right?” one of them asked while pulling off his shirt.
Zanka nodded. “Yeah.”
Another boy smirked.
“Thought you’d be taller.”
A couple laughed under their breath.
Another added, “We heard your brother was crazy strong. You like that too, or…?”
Zanka didn’t answer. He kept his face neutral and slipped his shirt off, folding it silently.
The boys weren’t being openly cruel, not enough to get in trouble. But every comment had an edge.
A test.
A poke.
He ignored it and stepped into his gi pants, tying the drawstring tightly.
One of the boys nudged his friend, whispering just loud enough.
“He looks nervous.”
Zanka’s jaw tightened. He pulled on the gi top, tying it in a firm knot.
When he finally shut his locker, he kept his eyes ahead, shoulders squared, pretending their words didn’t exist.
They walked in a loose line toward the massive training hall, feet slapping lightly on polished floors, the sharp scent of disinfectant and mats growing stronger with every step.
Zanka kept his gaze forward, face calm, but his heartbeat thudded like he was marching into an arena, not a classroom.
The boys who had poked at him earlier walked just ahead, whispering, half-laughing, glancing back at him with the kind of smirks that invited conflict.
The hall was enormous, matted floors, bright overhead lights, weapons locked behind glass on the far wall. A wide space cleared for sparring.
The teacher stood in front, already changed into a black belt gi.
“Everyone kneel.” he commanded.
In one smooth movement, the class dropped to their knees. Zanka followed, posture straight, hands resting on his thighs. He felt a few stares burning into him.
The teacher’s eyes scanned the room.
“Today’s sparring isn’t to hurt each other,” he began, voice loud and steady. “It’s to test your form, your discipline, and your control. When I call your names, step forward. Bow to each other. Then begin.”
He lifted a clipboard.
Names started being called, pairs forming, matches beginning. The cracks of strikes echoed across the room, bare feet thudding, gis snapping in the air.
Zanka waited.
Then.
“Nijiku Zanka… and Ishiro Daichi.”
Of course.
The boy who’d been poking at him earlier stood and smirked, rolling his shoulders back.
“Guess I get to see what the Nijiku name is worth,” Daichi muttered as they walked to the center.
Zanka ignored him, but Daichi’s tone crawled under his skin.
They bowed.
The teacher dropped his hand.
Begin.
Daichi lunged immediately, fast, sloppy, confident. Zanka stepped aside, effortless, barely moving.
Daichi stumbled past him.
“Oh, so you can dodge,” Daichi laughed breathlessly. “Thought maybe you were scared.”
Zanka kept his guard up, expression unreadable.
Daichi attacked again. Jab, jab, kick.
Zanka blocked each one mechanically. Perfect textbook form. No aggression, no counterattack.
Just enough effort to pass.
And that annoyed Daichi.
“You fight like you’re scared to break a nail.” he spat.
Zanka’s jaw tightened.
Daichi grinned when he saw it.
“Your brother would’ve flattened me by now. Guess you didn’t get that part of the bloodline.”
Something hot flared in Zanka’s chest. He hated how easily Daichi hit the mark.
Daichi kicked again, wild, heavy.
Zanka’s patience snapped.
This time, he didn’t dodge.
He stepped in.
Grabbed Daichi’s wrist.
Pulled him forward and swept his leg out from under him with a speed and precision that made the room jolt.
Daichi hit the mat with a violent thud, breath punched out of him.
Before he could recover, Zanka twisted, pinned his arm, and forced him flat on his stomach.
The mat vibrated from the impact.
The room went silent.
Even the teacher’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
Zanka let go and stood back, chest rising and falling harder than before.
Daichi wheezed, staring up at him with shock and a hint of fear.
“Match over.”
The teacher’s voice was impressed despite staying strict.
“Nijiku wins. Daichi, dismissed.”
Daichi limped off, rubbing his shoulder.
But the teacher didn’t call the next pair.
Instead, he stepped forward.
“I want to test you myself,” the teacher said. “Stand ready.”
Murmurs spread around the class.
Zanka nodded and took his stance.
The teacher bowed.
Zanka bowed back.
“Begin.”
The teacher struck first, fast, clean, far sharper than any student.
Zanka met him.
Their arms clashed with a sharp smack.
The teacher spun—ridge hand strike aimed at Zanka’s ribs.
Zanka blocked.
Then countered, a straight punch that the teacher barely dodged.
The room watched, wide-eyed, as their movements blurred.
• Zanka ducking a kick.
• The teacher pivoting around him.
• Zanka countering with a sweep that almost toppled him.
• A palm strike Zanka absorbed and redirected.
• A strike to the teacher’s shoulder that made him grunt.
He wasn’t holding back now.
Not completely.
The teacher stepped back, breathing a little heavier, eyes shining with approval.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Very good.”
The class stared, stunned.
Zanka lowered his hands, trying to calm his breathing, cheeks flushed, hair sticking slightly to his forehead. The teacher looked like he wanted to say more but held it.
“Nijiku Zanka,” he announced to the class. “You pass with distinction. Stand down.”
Zanka bowed again, heart pounding.
For the first time today, the whispers around him weren’t mocking.
They were amazed or intimidated.
Zanka returned to his place in the kneeling line, lowering himself quietly as his pulse slowed. Sweat trickled along the back of his neck beneath his gi, sticking the fabric lightly to his skin. He kept his eyes forward, but he could feel the room looking at him, curiosity, tension, and something sharp like envy threading through the air.
The teacher composed himself quickly, though the faint rise of his chest showed he was still recovering from their exchange.
“Next pair.” he called, but even his voice carried a slight change, like he hadn’t expected that outcome.
More matches began. More thuds against the mat. More grunts, gasps, the smack of bodies hitting the floor.
Zanka watched each fight with rigid focus, though he wasn’t really seeing them. His hands curled on his thighs, silently reciting his father’s words.
Unrelenting. Infallible. We, the Nijiku clan—
He forced the words away.
He didn’t want them echoing right now. Not to stain this moment too.
A boy on his left whispered to someone behind him.
“Did you see how he took Daichi down? Didn’t even look like he tried at first.”
Another murmured, “The teacher sparred him. That’s crazy.”
Zanka pretended he didn’t hear.
It didn’t matter. None of it meant anything in his father’s eyes, so why should it in his?
Eventually, the teacher dismissed the class.
“Cool down and stretch. Then you may return to the changing rooms.”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” filled the space.
Zanka rose with the others.
The mats were warm beneath his feet as he joined the line for stretching. Students kept glancing at him, some quick, some lingering, some masking their interest with forced indifference.
Daichi passed by, still rubbing his shoulder. He didn’t say a word, but the glare he shot Zanka promised he wasn’t done.
Zanka ignored him.
Instead, he closed his eyes and stretched forward, forehead nearly touching his knees, his breathing steady. His muscles hummed with exhaustion, but it wasn’t unpleasant. There was something grounding about it, something he controlled, something that didn’t come from obligation.
After stretching, the students filtered toward the doors in clumps, talking quietly. Zanka followed, falling into step with the crowd but apart from it, like a stray blade in a pile of dull ones.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly above them. The floors gleamed from constant polishing. Their damp footsteps smudged the shine.
A boy beside Zanka, tall, sharp-browed, glanced at him.
“You fight different from the others,” he said, not quite friendly, not quite hostile.
Zanka didn’t look over. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” The boy smirked. “Just means you’re not boring.”
Zanka didn’t respond. The boy walked ahead, laughter echoing softly.
Inside the changing room, the air smelled like sweat and detergent. Lockers clanged open and shut. Students talked, complained about sore ribs, compared bruises, bragged about who they almost beat.
Zanka reached his locker, untied his belt, and began to change back into his uniform.
A group of boys near the sinks glanced over at him.
“Bet he trains every day. His family’s famous for it.”
Zanka tugged his sleeve straight, face blank.
He was used to whispers.
Rumors.
Expectations.
They stuck to him like dust.
Once fully dressed, he closed his locker with a soft metallic click and stepped out of the noise.
He walked alone through the quiet corridors, wooden floors creaking faintly under his feet. Through the large windows, he could see the training room he fought in, now empty, lights dimmed.
His reflection faintly outlined in the glass.
He paused.
The ghost of his father’s voice rose again, low and carved in stone.
Unrelenting, infallible… your brother and sister followed in my footsteps. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Zanka?
He swallowed.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
He wished, just for one moment—that his father had been in the room to see him fight today.
To see that he could do it and that he wasn’t weak.
To see that he wasn’t—
He forced the thought away before it finished forming.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Another student passed by, barely sparing him a glance.
Zanka pushed himself away from the window and continued walking.
The academy halls stretched ahead, bright, cold, and endless.
His first day wasn’t over yet and already, it felt like he was standing on the edge of something sharp.
This was going to be a long day.
Zanka’s legs felt like lead by the time he reached the tall stone steps of the Nijiku estate. His spine ached, his wrists throbbed faintly, and the deep muscles of his shoulders hummed with overuse. Every breath stung a little, sharp reminders of strikes he hadn’t been fast enough to block.
The academy felt like a world away now, its noise replaced by the silent, suffocating stillness of home.
He pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped inside.
Warmth spilled over him immediately, along with the faint smell of simmering broth and grilling meat. Dinner preparations. The chefs always started early.
Zanka toed off his shoes, carefully placing them beside the others lined perfectly against the wall. His feet sank into the polished wooden floors, cool and smooth.
Servants glided past him carrying baskets of ingredients, trays, folded linens.
They bowed as they walked but not to him.
The house felt enormous around him, bigger than it had this morning. Quiet, cold, humming with the distant clatter of kitchen work and nothing else.
He took a few steps forward, shoulders aching under the weight of another long day.
He could still feel it in every muscle.
Running endless laps around the central yard until his lungs were burning, the sun turning his uniform hot against his back.
Push-ups and squats, bodies dropping and rising in harsh unison, instructors yelling for them to keep pace.
Plank holds that turned minutes into small eternities.
Then.
Demon-Beast Simulation. Darkened room. Swinging padded limbs meant to mimic animal strikes. He had to dodge, pivot, stay low, duck, roll.
Then strike the colored “weak points” before the limbs swung back.
Again and again.
His ribs still felt the impact from when one had blindsided him.
After that.
Hand-to-Hand Defense Drills. Students paired off. Strikes, blocks, deflections. Instructors correcting every mistake with a sharp slap to the arm or shoulder.
“Too slow.”
“Guard higher.”
“Don’t think—move.”
His body had obeyed.
Zanka walked deeper into the main hall, the echoes of his own footsteps bouncing off the tall ceilings.
The estate always looked like this, beautiful, immaculate, and empty.
A servant carrying vegetables passed him, eyes slightly downcast. Another with a water jug walked quickly by.
No one spoke to him and no one noticed how he winced when his shoulder pulled wrong.
This was so normal.
This was home.
The scent of miso broth drifted through the air, comforting in a way that only reminded him how little comfort actually lived in this place.
Zanka let out a quiet breath and headed further inside, the ache settling deeper into his body, each step a reminder of the expectations buried in his blood.
Tomorrow would be another day.
If he didn’t get better or stronger.
Someone in this house would make sure he remembered it.
Once he entered his room, Zanka laid on his futon for a little while, staring at the dim ceiling, letting the dull hum of pain pulse through his muscles. The futon cradled his aching body in a way the rest of the house never did, soft, quiet, forgiving.
His first day replayed in flickers, the weight of the gi on his shoulders, the sting of the teacher’s kicks, the burn in his hands from gripping too tight, the rush of winning, the bitterness that followed right after.
He closed his eyes. Just a minute. Just one minute to breathe.
A soft shuffle outside the door.
Then a gentle knock.
Zanka’s eyes snapped open as the shoji slid aside. Light spilled in from the hallway, and a servant bowed deeply before stepping back so two more could enter.
Each of them carried something: A deep-blue yukata with crisp white patterns, a matching haori folded perfectly across an arm, a small wooden tray of hair accessories and grooming tools.
“Young master,” the first servant said quietly, “please prepare yourself. Your family will be having dinner together tonight.”
His stomach dropped instantly.
Together.
The whole family.
For the first time in months.
And then.
“Your elders have arrived from the Upper District. They will be joining as well.”
A cold, nervous prickle crawled across his ribs.
The elders.
The ones who always found something wrong with him, his posture, his height, his stamina, his lack of “presence,” his future as uncertain and “delicate.”
He sat up slowly, trying to hide how sore his body was. The servants were already kneeling around him, lifting the yukata from their arms, untying his academy clothes with practiced, gentle hands.
Two worked on his hair, brushing it smooth and pulling it back with ornamental pins. Another wiped the sweat and grime from his face with a warm cloth. Another pressed powder to his cheeks to soften the signs of fatigue.
It felt like they were painting over him—layer by layer.
Covering the real boy who hurt everywhere. Replacing him with something presentable.
Fake.
All of it fake.
It wasn’t just him.
Every time the elders came, the whole household transformed. Smiles that meant nothing. Compliments sharpened like knives. Forced laughter echoing in cold hallways. Hands resting on shoulders with the weight of expectation, not affection.
“Young master, please lift your chin.”
He obeyed.
They adjusted the haori on his shoulders, smoothing out each wrinkle with careful, almost reverent hands.
“To honor the visit,” one servant murmured, “everyone must look their best.”
He swallowed.
Look their best.
Act their best.
Be their best.
If only that effort ever felt like it belonged to something real.
Another servant stepped back and bowed deeply. “It is time. Please join your family in the main dining hall.”
Zanka rose slowly to his feet.
His body screamed.
His heart thudded too hard.
The walk to the main dining hall felt longer than usual.
Servants trailed behind him in a neat line, their footsteps soft against polished wood. One murmured reminders in a careful, rehearsed tone, quiet enough to sound helpful, firm enough to be instruction.
“Smile brightly, Young master. Greet your elders first and lower your gaze when addressing your father.”
Each word pressed into him like a hand guiding his spine straighter, his face smoother, his thoughts quieter.
The doors to the hall loomed ahead, tall shoji panels framed with dark wood, carved with patterns meant to symbolize prosperity and endurance. One servant stepped forward and slid them open.
Laughter spilled out immediately.
Old, booming laughter. The kind that filled a room and claimed it as its own.
Zanka stepped inside.
The elders noticed him at once. Voices rose, overlapping, calling his name with exaggerated warmth. One of the elder women leaned forward, eyes sharp despite the smile stretched across her painted lips.
“Oh my, look at him,” she said. “So tall already. He truly looks like a Nijiku.”
Another reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve without asking. “Such good posture. And those shoulders—yes, yes, a proper Hell Guard build.”
Zanka bowed deeply, every movement precise and practiced. “Thank you for your kind words. I am honored by your presence.”
The words came easily. They always did.
He lifted his gaze just enough to take in the rest of the room.
His father sat at the head of the long table, straight-backed and immovable, dressed in formal robes darker than everyone else’s. His expression was unreadable, eyes steady and assessing, as if Zanka were still being examined.
Beside him knelt his mother, elegant and composed, her kimono flawless. She looked beautiful in the way statues did perfectly arranged, distant, untouchable.
On the other side of their father was Kyouka, her Hell Guard uniform replaced with ceremonial attire, posture sharp and disciplined even in rest. Goka knelt beside her, broad shoulders filling his space, expression neutral but tense, as if this dinner were another form of endurance training.
Everyone was dressed immaculately. Too immaculately.
The table itself was overwhelming.
A massive pot of miso broth steamed gently at the center, rich and fragrant. Platters of grilled meat sizzled softly, lacquered with sauce. Kaiseki dishes were arranged like art, small, deliberate, delicate. Plates of sushi, unagi glazed to a shine, sashimi sliced so cleanly it almost looked unreal.
Between them sat a water jug and bottles of alcohol—Junmai, Daiginjo, placed almost reverently, a bottle of Yamazaki. Rare. Expensive. Several bottles were already opened, their sharp scent mixing with the warmth of food.
The elders always brought alcohol. They always drank.
Zanka moved to his place at the very end of the table, directly facing his father. He knelt carefully, folding his legs beneath him, hands resting properly on his thighs. His back was straight. His expression calm.
Perfect.
Conversation resumed around him almost immediately, voices loud, overlapping, stories told and retold. Compliments were exchanged like currency. Laughter burst out again, followed by the clink of cups.
Zanka stayed quiet.
He felt small at the end of the table, despite the space, despite the luxury. The weight of his first day pressed against his ribs, mixing with the familiar pressure of being watched, not lovingly, not gently, but critically.
His father finally spoke.
“So,” he said, voice cutting cleanly through the noise, “your first day at the Academy.”
Every eye turned to Zanka.
The room seemed to shrink.
Zanka bowed his head slightly.
“Yes, Father.”
“How was it,” his father asked, lifting his cup and taking a measured sip of beer.
The question was simple.
The weight behind it was not.
Zanka straightened slightly, hands tightening on his thighs before he spoke. His voice came out even, respectful—exactly as he’d practiced.
“It was… demanding,” he said. “We began with practical combat examinations. Hand-to-hand techniques. Paired battles.”
A few of the elders leaned in, interest sharpening their expressions.
“I was matched against another student first.” Zanka continued. “He underestimated me. I was able to subdue him and force a surrender.”
A ripple of murmurs moved through the table.
“Well done,” one elder said. “Already showing results.” another added.
Zanka swallowed and went on. “After that, the instructor challenged me personally. To evaluate my form.”
His father’s gaze did not waver.
“We fought,” Zanka said. “I maintained correct stance and footwork. I was able to keep up until the instructor called the match.”
The elders laughed softly, impressed.
“A first-day victory against a teacher?”
“Truly a Nijiku.”
Pride hummed in his chest, fragile and bright. He kept his eyes lowered, but he could feel the attention, warm and dizzying.
Then.
“Good.”
The single word cut through the chatter.
Zanka looked up.
His father set the cup down slowly, eyes fixed on him. The faintest curve tugged at his mouth, not quite a smile, but something close enough to make Zanka’s breath catch.
“I’m proud of you.”
The world seemed to tilt.
Zanka froze, shoulders stiff, heart slamming hard against his ribs. For a split second, he forgot where he was. Forgot the table. Forgot the elders. Forgot how to breathe.
Proud.
The word echoed louder than any strike he’d taken that day.
His mother’s lips curved into a small, approving smile. Kyouka glanced at him, expression softened, something like pride flickering across her face. Even Goka’s mouth lifted, just barely, before he looked away again.
Zanka didn’t know which of them was real.
Didn’t know if this moment was meant to last or shatter the second he reached for it.
He bowed deeply, perhaps a second too late.
“Thank you, Father.”
His voice trembled despite himself.
The elders resumed talking, cups were raised, laughter returned—but Zanka barely heard it. His chest felt too full, too tight, as if that single sentence had wedged itself somewhere it didn’t belong.
He wasn’t used to praise. Not from them.
The warmth spread anyway, traitorous and fragile, blooming behind his ribs. His hands curled slightly against his thighs as if holding onto something invisible.
For once—just once—he felt like he had done something right.
He was terrified of how badly he wanted it to be real.
The moment passed as quickly as it came.
Conversation swelled again, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in practiced rhythms. The elders turned their attention elsewhere, leaning toward his father and mother, clapping hands on the table, speaking too loudly about politics, prestige, old victories. Kyouka and Goka were pulled into it as well, praised and questioned, their smiles sharp and polished.
Fake.
Zanka watched them for a moment, the way their expressions never quite reached their eyes. Even Goka’s faint smile looked carved into place, like it had been practiced in a mirror long before tonight.
No one looked at Zanka anymore.
Which, somehow, hurt just as much.
He turned his attention to the food. The kaiseki dishes were beautiful, too beautiful to touch but he ate anyway, small careful bites. The flavors were delicate and rich, but they barely registered past the tight knot still lodged in his chest.
His throat felt dry.
Zanka reached for the water pitcher beside him, fingers just brushing the handle.
“Oh, no, no,” a voice slurred cheerfully.
An elder leaned across the table, face flushed red, eyes glossy with drink. His cup was already empty, fingers sticky with spilled alcohol.
“Water?” the elder scoffed. “On a night like this? After your first day? Absolutely not.”
Before Zanka could react, the elder grabbed the Yamazaki bottle.
Zanka stiffened. “I— thank you, but I shouldn’t—”
The elder laughed, loud and ugly, and poured anyway. The amber liquid filled Zanka’s cup nearly to the brim, the sharp scent burning his nose.
“I really must decline,” Zanka said again, quieter now. He glanced instinctively toward his father.
His father did not look back.
“Come on,” the elder said, waving a dismissive hand. “A Nijiku boy can handle it. What kind of Hell Guard refuses a drink?”
Zanka’s fingers tightened around the cup. His mouth opened to protest.
The elder leaned forward suddenly and tipped the cup.
Liquid flooded his mouth.
Zanka choked, eyes widening as the alcohol burned its way down his throat, harsh and overwhelming. He coughed, hands flying up too late as the elder laughed again, clapping once in delight.
“There we go! That’s it!”
The taste was sharp, smoky, wrong. It burned all the way down, leaving his throat raw and his stomach twisting. His eyes stung, breath coming uneven as he struggled not to cough again.
“Good, good,” the elder said, satisfied. “See? Strong.”
Zanka swallowed hard, forcing himself to straighten. His face felt hot. Dizzy. He pressed his lips together, bowing his head slightly in what was supposed to look like gratitude.
Around him, laughter continued. Someone poured another drink. Someone else told a story.
No one stopped it.
Zanka lowered his gaze to the table, hands clenched tightly in his lap. The warmth from earlier twisted into something sour, something heavy.
The praise still echoed in his head. I’m proud of you—but now it felt fragile, paper-thin, soaked through with alcohol and expectation.
He sat there quietly, burning from the inside out, and wondered how many more times he would be asked to swallow things he didn’t want.
The first burn hadn’t even faded before another cup was pressed toward him.
“Here—another,” someone said, voice thick with cheer.
Zanka barely had time to inhale before the rim touched his lips again. Liquid poured in, sharp and hot, flooding his mouth. He swallowed on instinct, throat spasming as the alcohol scorched its way down. It felt like fire sliding along the inside of his chest, settling heavy and nauseating in his stomach.
Laughter burst out around him.
“That’s the spirit!”
His cup was taken, refilled, returned.
Again.
Each time it burned worse. Each swallow took longer. His tongue felt numb, his throat raw, like it was being scraped open from the inside. The room seemed warmer, louder, the lantern light too bright.
He glanced toward his father.
Just once.
His father’s eyes flicked to him briefly, an acknowledging glance, nothing more before he turned back to the elders with a polite smile, cup raised in agreement with something they were saying.
His mother looked as well. Her gaze softened for half a second then she smiled and looked away.
They didn’t stop it.
They didn’t say anything.
Zanka swallowed again as another drink was tipped into his mouth. His hands trembled slightly now, fingers curling against his lap to keep them still. His head felt light, like it wasn’t fully attached anymore.
“Enough water for him,” an elder laughed. “Let him drink properly.”
The bottle was heavier this time.
A Junmai.
The elder placed it in front of him with a firm thud. “Go on,” the old man said, eyes gleaming. “Chug it. Show us what a Nijiku can do.”
Zanka’s breath hitched. His lips parted to refuse—to say please, I can’t—
The elder’s hand came down on his shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to remind him he didn’t have a choice.
“Don’t embarrass your family.”
The words landed harder than any strike.
Zanka lifted the bottle with shaking hands. The glass was cool. Too cool. He tipped it back.
The alcohol rushed in fast, overwhelming. He gagged once, eyes squeezing shut as he forced himself to keep swallowing. It burned his throat, flooded his chest, made his stomach churn violently. Each second stretched, his body begging him to stop.
He didn’t.
He drank until the bottle was empty.
Cheers erupted.
“Well done!”
The bottle slipped from his fingers and clinked against the table. Zanka bent forward slightly, palms braced on the wood as nausea rolled through him in heavy waves. The room spun, edges blurring. Sound dulled, voices smearing together into an indistinct roar punctuated by sharp laughter.
His eyelids felt heavy. His head rang like something had struck it from the inside.
He looked up again, desperately this time.
Toward his father.
Toward his mother.
Toward anyone.
But faces swam out of focus. Their smiles were there, bright and distant, but none of them were really looking at him anymore.
Zanka leaned forward, elbows nearly giving out as his weight sagged toward the table. The scent of alcohol and food made his stomach lurch. His hands slid slightly against the polished surface as he tried to ground himself.
Everything felt muffled. Far away.
He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to be sick, blinking slowly as the room tilted.
Time slipped in uneven pieces.
At some point, Zanka’s haori was no longer on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure who had taken it. An elder’s careless hand, a servant trying to be polite, or maybe it had simply slid off when he leaned too far forward. The cool air brushed his arms, raising goosebumps that vanished almost immediately beneath the heat pooling in his skin.
His yukata had come loose at the collar. Each small movement tugged the knot closer to undoing itself, fabric slipping where it should have stayed neat and proper. He fumbled once, trying to fix it, but his fingers didn’t listen. They felt thick. Slow.
Someone laughed and plucked the hair accessories from his head—too stiff, they said, let the boy relax. The pins were gone, and his carefully styled hair fell out of place, dark strands sticking to his temples, to the back of his neck damp with sweat.
He felt warm.
Too warm.
Heat crawled under his skin, spreading from his chest to his face, down his spine. His cheeks burned, ears ringing faintly, the world tilting just enough to make it hard to tell where the table ended and where he began.
The smell of food, rich broth, grilled meat, mixed with alcohol and turned sour in his stomach.
He swallowed and gagged.
Not yet.
His throat tightened painfully as nausea surged up, sharp and insistent. The taste of alcohol coated his mouth, bitter and relentless, no matter how many times he swallowed. It felt like it was soaked into him, his breath, his skin, his thoughts.
He wanted to vomit.
Wanted to empty himself of all of it—the burn, the praise, the expectations, the word proud that now felt just as sickening.
Zanka blinked slowly, eyes struggling to stay open. The lantern light blurred into soft halos. The voices around him stretched and warped, like he was underwater, words losing their edges before they reached him.
His head dipped forward again, chin nearly touching his chest.
So tired.
The kind of tired that sank into his bones, heavier than training, heavier than bruises. His body swayed slightly, fighting gravity, fighting sleep, fighting the dark creeping at the edges of his vision.
He pressed his palm against the table, grounding himself in the cool wood.
Stay awake.
Just don’t fall.
But the warmth wrapped tighter around him, thick and suffocating, and his eyelids slid lower despite his effort.
Zanka breathed out slowly, shakily.
All he wanted was to lie down. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he didn’t have to be seen.
A few of the elders noticed it at the same time. Zanka’s head dipping lower, his shoulders sagging, his body barely holding itself upright.
“Well, well,” one of them laughed. “Look at him. Can’t even sit straight anymore.”
Another chuckled, eyes gleaming with alcohol. “Too much like his mother. She never could keep up either.”
The words landed somewhere deep, dull and aching, though Zanka barely had the strength to react. His vision blurred, lantern light smearing into gold and white.
A cup was lifted again.
“Another drink,” an elder said cheerfully. “That’ll sober him up.”
The cup started toward Zanka’s mouth.
It didn’t get there.
Kyouka moved without hurry, without spectacle. Just a slight shift of her body, her hand rising to intercept the cup as if by accident. The motion was subtle, almost polite.
“He has Academy tomorrow,” she said calmly. “That will be enough.”
Several elders turned toward her, surprised.
“Oh?” one scoffed. “And since when do we stop a celebration for a schedule?”
“He’s clearly unwell,” Kyouka replied, tone even. “Continuing would be irresponsible.”
The table stirred.
“He’s a Nijiku,” someone snapped. “He can handle it.”
“This is nothing compared to real Hell Guard trials.”
Kyouka met their gazes one by one, unflinching. “This isn’t training. This is excess. And it reflects on us.”
Voices rose.
“You’re overstepping.”
The argument escalated quickly, cups thudding against the table, sharp laughter turning brittle, words edged with irritation and pride.
Zanka barely heard any of it. The noise blended into a ringing haze. He leaned forward again, elbows threatening to slip, his breath shallow and uneven.
Then—
Tap.
The sound was quiet but sharp.
His father’s fingers struck the table once, hard enough to cut through every voice in the room.
Silence fell instantly.
All eyes turned to the head of the table.
Kyouka bowed her head slightly, respectful. “Father,” she said, “I request that Zanka be dismissed.”
His father did not answer right away.
He looked at Zanka.
Really looked.
Zanka’s head was bowed, hair loose and damp against his flushed face. His yukata hung unevenly, collar slipping. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, struggling to stay open.
Completely out of it.
His father’s gaze shifted, just briefly, to his wife.
His mother nodded once, understanding.
She reached for the small bell resting beside her and rang it softly.
The sound chimed clear and delicate.
Within moments, servants entered the room, kneeling low.
“Take him to bed,” his father ordered coolly. “See that he rests.”
The servants moved quickly, carefully gathering Zanka’s haori, his discarded hair accessories. One gently took his arm.
Zanka barely registered it.
When they helped him to his feet, his legs wobbled violently. He stumbled once, breath hitching, and had to lean heavily against them to stay upright. The room tilted again, spinning as the servants guided him toward the doors.
He tried to walk on his own.
Failed.
As he was led away, voices resumed behind him, quieter now, controlled, as if nothing had happened at all.
The doors slid closed softly.
Zanka disappeared down the hallway, held upright by hands that were gentle in a house that never was.
Zanka’s feet dragged along the polished floor, steps uneven, weight sagging more with every pace. His head lolled forward, then to the side, breath shallow and hot.
“M’… sorry,” he mumbled suddenly, the words thick and tangled on his tongue. “Didn’ mean t’… make trouble…”
The syllables fell apart as soon as they left his mouth.
One of the servants tightened their grip on his arm, steady but gentle. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Young master.” she said softly.
He tried to lift his head, failed, and let out a quiet, broken sound—half a breath, half a whimper. “Tried,” he slurred. “I tried… did good, right…?”
No answer came fast enough.
The hallway lights blurred into long, golden streaks. The house felt endless again, too large, too quiet, swallowing him whole as the servants guided him forward.
“You did very well,” another servant murmured, adjusting his slipping yukata, keeping it from falling further open. “Please rest now.”
They reached his room at last.
The doors slid open, and the familiar darkness welcomed him in. Cool air brushed his flushed skin. The servants eased him down onto the futon, careful not to jostle him as his body finally gave in, limbs going heavy and unresponsive.
Someone placed a folded cloth near his head. Another pulled a blanket over him.
Zanka turned his face into the pillow, eyes finally closing as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His last conscious thought was a hollow ache in his chest, confusion, relief, and something like grief tangled together.
He had done everything right.
And still, the night had left him bruised in ways no training ever could.
The lantern light off.
The doors slid shut.
In the vast, silent Nijiku house, Zanka slept—alone, aching, and already bracing for tomorrow.