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This is the third time the curse receives his blow and still manages to stay standing up. Naoya inhales, calculating his next move carefully. Endurance-wise, the curse probably has more stamina than him so he knows he has to finish him off quickly. Still, there’s something in the curse’s dark eyes that ticks Naoya off. That’s why he can’t help the question that comes tumbling out of his mouth.
“You’re tough. Seriously, who are you?”
The curse’s eyes light up, one second and it’s gone, like Naoya has finally managed to surprise him somehow. “I’m the oldest of ten siblings,” he answers.
And there it is, something in his voice. Something akin to pride.
Naoya frowns. He doesn’t understand. “That’s no answer,” he tells the curse. He doesn’t want to know if the curse has any siblings. “I want to know about your cursed technique...”
The curse’s brow twitches. Naoya’s dismissal has made him irritated.
Good.
“...and strength,” he finishes, and pounces.
He aims for the curse’s blind spot, twisting his body in a wide curve. The curse, again, tracks Naoya’s movements, and his palm shoots out to incapacitate him. Naoya ducks and strikes at his gut, feeling a spike of satisfaction when his attack doesn’t miss.
“Too bad for you. I always act on the assumption that you’ll counter,” he smirks.
The curse sprints away, trying to put some distance between them. As he braces himself against the concrete wall, his eyes widen when blood spurts out from a gash on his hip.
Even when his blood spills, the curse is still awfully quiet. Naoya tsks. This kind of opponent bores him the most.
“Since you’re a pain in the ass, I’ve decided to use this weapon,” Naoya explains, brandishing a tantō. “I know Blood Manipulation is your forte, but how long will you last against me while trying to stop the blood flow?”
The curse watches him. “You’re well-prepared.”
Naoya smiles, remembering what the curse said about having siblings. “Y’know, there are a lot of sorcerers who carry weapons around, always relying on them. My older brothers always show them off.” Naoya cleans the blood off the blade before sheathing it. “Pathetic. I’m amazed at how they complained about Tōji.”
The curse’s eyes grow cold. “So you hate your brothers.”
Naoya has an inkling that he’s hit a jackpot. “That’s right. Older brothers who are weaker than their little brothers are useless,” he says, his smile spreading across his face. “They should hang themselves and die.”
“But maybe it’s because of them, that you are who you are.”
“Huh?” That takes Naoya off guard, and he can feel a hint of anger bubbling inside him. How dare this curse say that Naoya is who he is today because of those pathetic scums? They are weak, and disgusting, and one look at them makes Naoya want to puke.
The curse doesn't seem to notice Naoya’s inner turmoil, and he keeps on explaining something about the duty of older brothers and how younger brothers benefit from the older ones’ mistakes. It’s all become white noise to him. Naoya stares. What the fuck is this curse going on about?
In all 27 years of his life, Naoya has never understood the point of siblings. He doesn’t get it when movies and books talk about brotherly bonds. He’s always thought it was all made up, just a ruse to make people feel good about having to share their toys and fortune with someone else. He’s never bought it. Father told him he was the best he’d ever had, praised him for inheriting his technique. His brothers have never looked at him like what he saw on television. Those fictional brothers, they can smile at each other because it’s all fake. Naoya knows because he has the real thing, and the real thing has only disdain in their eyes.
Everything belongs to him, is what he’s been taught. Everything belongs to him because Naoya is better than all of them. He is who he is today because of himself, not because of those useless bastards. Not because of anyone else.
So why does the curse look that way? Naoya wonders. That light—that fire—in his eyes when he talks about his brothers. It makes Naoya dizzy.
The curse chooses this moment to attack. Naoya didn’t notice the large amount of blood on the floor. The curse must have let it out when Naoya was too busy trying not to listen to the crap he said. Waves of blood rush at him, obscuring his view, and he tries to dodge, but some of the liquid still gets on his hakama, weighing it down.
His heartbeat quickens, his senses telling him that he’s fucked up.
The moment Naoya spots the curse again, the fight is already over.
A sharp streak of blood hits him in the chest, sending him flying back into the concrete wall behind. Sharp pain erupts all over his body. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over, Naoya’s mind tells him. He tries to open his eyes, but he can’t see past the blurriness in front of him. He hears footsteps approaching, and something inside him wants to laugh at the fact that he’s losing to this brocon who can’t seem to shut up about his brothers.
Something inside him wants to know whether it’s all true then, all those stories he’s seen.
He scoffs, warm blood trickling down his chin. Maybe it’s all the blood loss that makes him think this way.
Those footsteps stop, and Naoya closes his eyes.
However, instead of the searing pain he’s been expecting, there’s a soft touch on his head.
He doesn’t know what shocks him the most, that touch, or the curse’s next words.
“Do you promise not to hurt Yūji?”
The curse’s voice is calm, but he understands the finality in those words.
Naoya takes a peek at him. He can’t really see the curse’s expression, but his hand is still there, slowly stroking Naoya’s hair. It’s a foreign sensation, one he can’t stop himself from leaning into. There’s a sigh from above him.
“Do you promise?” the curse repeats.
Naoya hums, his eyelids feeling too heavy. He tells himself it’s only because he values his own survival, and if the curse chooses to believe Naoya’s words, it’s no one else’s mistake but his own.
“I do,” he whispers, and falls as darkness envelopes him.