Chapter Text
Fushiguro Toji Was a Busy Man
He lived a life in constant motion, his existence dictated by contracts, curses, and chaos. There was always something demanding his attention—commissions to fulfill, bounty hunters nipping at his heels, and a cursed spirit currently at the top of his list.
He could brush off the first two with the ease of someone who had long since stopped caring about the trivialities of life. But the cursed spirit? That was personal. Not because it had wronged him in some grand, cosmic way, but because it was a matter of pride. And Toji's pride was the only thing he had left, the only thing he hadn't let the world strip from him.
Still, as he stalked through the rain-drenched streets of a nameless town, his mind wandered—unbidden and unwelcome—back to a time when pride was a foreign concept. A time when he wasn’t Fushiguro Toji, the infamous Sorcerer Killer, but Zen'in Toji, the clan's shameful secret.
It wasn’t long after his tenth birthday when Toji learned that curses weren’t the real monsters. Monsters wore human faces.
He stood in the sprawling courtyard, broom in hand, his thin frame trembling under the weight of exhaustion and malnutrition. The sky above mirrored his emotions—a sickly gray, thunder rumbling ominously in the distance. His clothes clung to his body, drenched from the rain that had begun hours ago and showed no sign of stopping.
The broom felt foreign in his hands, as though it wasn’t meant for him. But that didn’t matter. Nothing ever belonged to him. Not the clothes he wore, not the food he ate—if you could even call it that—and certainly not his name.
"Zen’in" was a brand burned into his skin, a curse he carried.
The courtyard was a mess, scattered with weapons and training equipment abandoned by the elite sorcerers who had scurried away at the first sign of rain. And now, predictably, it was his job to clean up after them.
“Freak!”
A voice ripped through the downpour, harsh and grating. Toji barely had time to react before a hand clamped around his arm, yanking him forward with such force that he stumbled, his bare feet scraping against the stone ground.
“You let the equipment get soaked?!” The sorcerer’s voice was shrill with rage, but beneath it was something worse—disgust. “Do you have any idea how much this shit is worth?!”
Toji didn’t answer, his teeth grinding together as he tried to wrench his arm free. The cursed energy that burned against his skin made him bite back a hiss of pain.
“More than you’ll ever be!” the sorcerer snarled, dragging him closer.
“You’re lucky we even let you clean up after us,” the man sneered, his lip curling. “You’re not even worth the dirt under my shoes, and you think you can slack off?”
“It was already raining,” Toji muttered, his voice low but defiant.
The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”
Toji looked up then, his emerald eyes blazing with a fire that refused to be extinguished. “I said it was already raining. So maybe you should shove that broomstick up your—”
The slap came fast and hard, snapping Toji’s head to the side. The metallic taste of blood bloomed in his mouth as he staggered, but he didn’t fall. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
The sorcerer was on him in an instant, grabbing the broom from Toji’s hands and swinging it like a weapon. The wooden handle cracked against Toji’s shin, sending pain lancing up his leg.
Toji clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. The Zen’in didn’t just want him to suffer—they wanted him to beg. And he’d die before he gave them that.
“If you can’t even clean, you’re nothing but a waste of flesh we’re forced to feed!”
Toji’s laugh was low and bitter, his lips curling into a smirk despite the pain. “Feed? You mean the scraps I scrape off the floor? The same shit you wouldn’t give to a dog?”
The sorcerer’s face twisted in fury. The broom was yanked from Toji’s hands, the handle swinging down with a sharp whistle before cracking against his shin. Pain exploded through his leg, but Toji refused to cry out.
“You’re giving yourself too much credit,” Toji hissed, glaring through the rain-soaked strands of his hair. “You don’t feed me anything.”
The sorcerer didn’t hesitate. The metal bristles of the broom scraped across his mouth, splitting the skin at the corner of his lips. The metallic tang of blood filled Toji’s mouth, more familiar to him than the taste of food.
He stumbled but kept his balance, his breathing shallow as he straightened. “That the best you’ve got?”
The sorcerer’s eyes burned with contempt. “You insolent little—”
The handle of the broom jabbed into Toji’s throat, cutting off his air. He gasped, choking as he was shoved to the ground, his back slamming against the slick stone.
“Insolent things like you don’t get the luxury of speaking,” the sorcerer sneered, a boot pressing down on Toji’s chest. The pressure was enough to make his ribs groan in protest, but Toji’s glare didn’t waver.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Toji rasped, his voice hoarse but laced with venom. “When you told me to clean this shithole, it was already fucking raining.”
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” the sorcerer hissed, his face inches from Toji’s. “You think you can talk back to me and get away with it?”
Toji spat blood onto the stone at their feet, his lips curling into a defiant smirk. “I think you’ve got too much time on your hands,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady.
The sorcerer’s boot dug deeper, but Toji didn’t falter.
“You should’ve moved faster,” the man retorted, reaching down to grab Toji by the collar. He hoisted him up with ease, their faces mere inches apart. “You’re getting punished.”
The words didn’t scare Toji. They never did. He’d heard them too many times to count. But that didn’t mean he welcomed what was coming.
Toji smirked, blood staining his teeth. “Fuck you.”
Before the sorcerer could react, Toji spat, the glob of blood and saliva landing on the man’s cheek. It was a small victory, fleeting and reckless, but it was his.
The slap that followed rattled his skull, his vision blurring for a moment as he hit the ground once more.
“Seven days,” the sorcerer said, his voice cold and detached. “You’re going to the pit for seven days. Let’s see if you’re still so smug when the cursed spirits are done with you.”
The words sent a chill down Toji’s spine, but he didn’t let it show.
“Hopefully, you don’t come out alive,” the sorcerer said, his lips curling into a sneer as he turned and walked away. “Fucking freak.”
Toji didn’t move for a long moment, his body aching and his mind racing. He hated the cursed spirits, hated the way their grotesque forms twisted and slithered in the shadows, waiting to devour him.
But he hated humans more.
Cursed spirits would kill him because they didn’t know any better. Humans made him suffer because they could.
Seven days.
Toji clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he pushed himself to his feet. Seven days to survive. Seven days to fight. Seven days to spit in their faces when he walked out of that pit alive.
He wiped the blood from his lips, his smirk returning despite the pain.
He'd been through worse.
And he had.
But that didn’t make it any easier.
The Disciplinary Pit wasn’t just a punishment—it was a death sentence. A cavernous room beneath the estate, filled with low-grade cursed spirits that were barely contained by the seals etched into the walls. It was a place meant to break people, to remind them of their place.
Toji had been there before.
The memory of those dark, suffocating days clawed at the edges of his mind as he was dragged toward the pit. He could still hear the guttural growls of the cursed spirits, feel the oppressive weight of their presence pressing down on him.
But this time was different.
This time, Toji wasn’t just fighting to survive. He was fighting out of spite.
As they shoved him into the pit, the heavy iron door slamming shut behind him, Toji forced himself to his feet. His body screamed in protest, every bruise and broken bone a reminder of the beating he’d just endured. But he didn’t care.
The cursed spirits emerged from the shadows, their forms twisting and writhing in the dim light. They were hungry, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent.
Toji clenched his fists, his lips curling into a feral grin. “Come on,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The spirits lunged, their grotesque forms converging on him like a tidal wave of malice. But Toji didn’t back down. He met them head-on, his body moving on instinct, every punch and kick a defiance of the fate they had tried to force on him.
By the fifth day, Toji was barely holding on. The once-ceaseless adrenaline that had driven him to fight and claw for his life was waning. Blood, both his own and that of the cursed spirits he had defeated, stained his torn clothes, forming a second skin of dried gore and sweat. His breaths were shallow, every inhale scraping against his throat like sandpaper. His body was littered with wounds—bite marks, slashes, and bruises in every shade of purple and green. But the worst wound of all was the bone-deep ache of hunger.
The Zen’in clan might have fed him scraps before, but in the Disciplinary Pit, he was given nothing. No food, no water. Just the cold stone floor, the oppressive darkness, and the cursed spirits that wanted to rip him apart.
And he had survived. Five days of hell.
The Disciplinary Pit was a cavernous hellhole, barely illuminated by the faint, sputtering glow of cursed energy that leaked from the writhing forms of its occupants. It stank of damp stone, rotting flesh, and fear. By the fifth day, Toji was barely holding on.
His body was a canvas of injuries: deep claw marks carved across his back, bite wounds that bled sluggishly, and bruises that painted his skin in shades of sickly purple and green. Every breath he drew felt like sandpaper scraping against his ribs. His hands, cracked and caked with blood—some his own, some not—trembled from sheer exhaustion.
But Toji didn’t care. Pain had been his closest companion long before he was thrown into this pit. What kept him alive now wasn’t hope or determination. It was spite. Pure, unrelenting spite.
Spite for the cursed spirits that circled him like vultures, waiting for a moment of weakness. Spite for the Zen’in clan that had thrown him into this pit to die. Spite for the world that seemed hell-bent on crushing him.
The metal doors groaned open, their hinges screeching like a wounded animal. Toji’s head jerked up instinctively, though his vision swam, and for a moment, the darkened pit felt like it was spinning around him.
He couldn’t even summon the energy to prepare himself. His body tensed automatically, his instincts screaming at him to fight or flee.
But he didn’t move.
Another cursed spirit, perhaps. Another test of how much further he could be pushed before breaking.
Except it wasn’t.
Toji’s heightened senses caught the scent of alcohol first, sharp and acrid even over the stench of blood and decay. Then came the sound of boots echoing against the stone floor, each step deliberate and unhurried.
A human.
Toji’s lips curled into a weak snarl. He didn’t care who it was. If they’d come to mock him, to gloat over his suffering, they’d leave with bruises of their own.
But when the figure stepped fully into view, Toji froze.
It was Zen’in Naobito.
Naobito was a peculiar sort of man. Unlike the others in the clan, he didn’t go out of his way to torment Toji, at least not physically. That didn’t mean he was kind—far from it. His fascination with Toji was cold and clinical, like a scientist observing a particularly intriguing lab rat.
At times, he’d even let Toji lash out at the clan’s other members, giving him a rare opportunity to vent his rage. But Toji knew better than to see it as mercy. Naobito wasn’t sympathetic. He was amused. Watching Toji fight back was entertainment, a break from the monotony of clan politics.
And now, here he was, standing in the doorway with a bottle of sake in hand and a smirk on his face.
“Still alive, eh?” Naobito drawled, his voice carrying a faint slur, no doubt from the sake bottle he held loosely in one hand. His gait was casual as he descended into the pit, his sandals clinking softly against the stone floor.
Toji didn’t respond immediately. He watched the man approach, his emerald eyes calculating and cold.
Naobito wasn’t like the rest.
He didn’t beat Toji senseless for the sheer joy of it, nor did he starve him outright. If anything, Naobito seemed... amused by Toji. Fascinated, even.
But Toji knew better than to mistake amusement for kindness.
“You look like shit,” Naobito remarked, stopping a few paces away. He took a long swig from his bottle, the amber liquid catching the faint light.
Toji’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Did you come all the way down here just to state the obvious?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.
Naobito chuckled, a low, almost musical sound. “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just wanted to see if you were still breathing. Can’t let my dear nephew die on me, now can I?”
The words were laced with mockery, but Toji didn’t rise to the bait. He was too tired, too broken to care. “Why are you here, Naobito?” he asked flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.
Naobito shrugged, his expression one of exaggerated nonchalance. “Being a good uncle, of course. Someone has to check on you, especially since your father can’t be bothered.”
Toji’s jaw tightened at the mention of his father, but he kept his expression neutral. “How thoughtful,” he said dryly, his eyes flicking to the sake bottle.
Naobito caught the glance and smirked. “Want a sip?” he teased, holding the bottle out just far enough that Toji couldn’t reach it even if he tried.
Toji didn’t bother answering. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “If you drink any more, I’m running for the door.”
Naobito laughed outright at that, a genuine, hearty laugh that echoed through the pit. “Go ahead,” he said, taking another long drink out of spite. “I’d love to see you try.”
Toji didn’t move. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. His body was too weak, his reserves of strength nearly depleted. But that didn’t stop him from glaring at Naobito, his disdain evident in the set of his jaw.
It was then that he noticed it—a presence trailing behind Naobito, faint but unmistakable.
“There’s a cursed spirit behind you,” Toji said, his voice flat.
Naobito turned slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, you noticed. Sharp as ever, Toji.” He gestured lazily to the spirit, a grotesque, clam-like creature that hovered just out of reach. “Meet my new pet. Took it off your old man. He wasn’t too happy about it, but what can he do? I’m the better brother.”
Toji’s eyes narrowed. “A tamed cursed spirit?”
Naobito gestured lazily, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “A clam spirit. Quite handy, really. It can store anything safely inside its shell. Expensive, too. Your old man paid a fortune for it.”
Toji’s stomach twisted, though his expression remained impassive.
Naobito grinned, clearly enjoying the reaction—or lack thereof. “You should see the way sorcerers look at you when you’ve got a tamed spirit like this. Almost makes you respectable.”
Toji said nothing, his gaze fixed on the spirit. His mind was racing, though his body remained still.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Naobito continued, taking another sip of sake. “Your father pours all that money into a cursed spirit, but can’t even spare a second glance for his own son.”
Toji’s fingers twitched, curling slightly into fists.
“Don’t look so grim,” Naobito said with a laugh. “You’ve survived this long, haven’t you? That’s more than anyone expected from a freak like you.”
Naobito turned to leave, his laughter echoing through the pit. “Don’t die on me, Toji. It’d be such a waste.”
The door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the pit.
Toji’s gaze lingered on the spot where Naobito had stood, his thoughts churning. He wasn’t angry at Naobito, not really. The man was just another piece of the Zen’in clan’s rotting puzzle.
But the cursed spirit—the one his father had cared enough to buy, to tame, to keep safe—that was different.
Toji’s lip curled in disdain. That spirit had received more care, more attention, than he ever had.
A low growl snapped him back to the present.
The cursed spirits in the pit were restless, emboldened by his momentary lapse in attention. They surged forward, their forms grotesque and shifting, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
Toji staggered to his feet, his body screaming in protest.
Seven days.
He clenched his fists, blood dripping from his split knuckles as he prepared to fight once more.
The Zen’in Estate lay shrouded in darkness, its grand halls silent save for the faint rustling of leaves carried on the wind. The building was a labyrinth of cold stone and wood, sprawling endlessly under the night sky.
Somewhere in its depths, a 19-year-old Toji stalked through the corridors, his steps deliberately soft against the tatami mats.
Toji was no longer the boy who had endured years of torment in the Disciplinary Pit. He had grown stronger, sharper, and far deadlier. His once gaunt frame had filled out with hard-earned muscle, and his emerald eyes gleamed with the lethal confidence of someone who had survived the worst life had to offer.
He was leaving this place tonight.
Forever.
But not before settling an old score.
The Zen’in Cursed Warehouse was a cavernous space, dimly lit by the faint glow of protective talismans lining its walls. Shelves upon shelves were crammed with cursed tools, each one radiating a faint, malevolent energy. Toji’s breath was steady as he prowled through the aisles, his keen eyes scanning for something useful.
His fingers brushed against the hilt of a blade, its cursed energy humming faintly beneath his touch. He didn’t know its name or its history, but he could feel its power. That was enough. He tucked the weapon into his belt, his movements smooth and practiced.
A faint sound reached his ears—the shuffle of footsteps. Toji froze, every muscle in his body taut as he listened. The steps grew louder, accompanied by a low, mocking chuckle.
“Stealing from your own family, Toji? Tsk, tsk.”
Toji didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice. Zen’in Naobito stepped into view, his expression alight with cruel amusement. The man’s kimono was loose and disheveled, his ever-present sake bottle swinging from his hand.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Naobito continued, his grin widening. “After all, you’ve always had a knack for disappointing this family.”
Toji’s grip tightened on the blade at his side, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “What do you want, Naobito?” he asked flatly, his voice as cold as the air around them.
Naobito leaned against a nearby shelf, his sharp eyes raking over his nephew. “Oh, I was just curious. It’s not every day someone breaks into the cursed warehouse. Thought I’d see what you were up to.”
Toji’s expression didn’t change, but something dark flickered in his eyes. He turned away, his footsteps echoing as he moved toward the exit. He didn't bother giving an explanation to his motives, it's not like his uncle would genuinely give a shit.
Instead, he lets his voice echo through the cold warehouse, his intent set in stone. “Stay out of my way, Naobito.”
He had a feeling Naobito knew even if he didn't say anything, Naobito’s laughter followed him into the night, mingling with the whispers of the wind.
The room was lavish, a stark contrast to the desolation Toji had endured during his time in the clan. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the scent of incense lingered in the air.
His father lay on the grand bed, his face serene in sleep. But Toji knew better than to mistake tranquility for benevolence.
This man, who called himself his father, had been anything but.
Toji’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he set the dagger down beside him. He had taken precautions earlier, slipping a non-lethal dose of a sedative into his father’s evening drink. It wasn’t mercy—it was practicality. He didn’t want the man to wake up prematurely and ruin his plans.
“Sleeping peacefully while the rest of us suffer,” Toji muttered, his voice dripping with contempt.
The room wasn’t empty for long. A familiar presence made itself known, and Toji didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“You’ve grown bold, nephew.”
Zen’in Naobito’s voice was unmistakable, smooth and tinged with amusement. He stood in the doorway, a bottle of sake dangling loosely from his fingers. His eyes sparkled with something between curiosity and mischief as he took in the scene before him.
Toji didn’t flinch. “You’re not exactly known for punctuality,” he said flatly, his gaze fixed on the bed.
Naobito stepped inside, his movements unhurried. “Well, I couldn’t miss this, could I? The prodigal son returns to settle old scores.”
“I’m not here for him,” Toji said, nodding toward his father’s unconscious form. “I’m here for it.”
Naobito raised an eyebrow as his eyes followed Toji’s gesture. There, nestled in the corner of the room, was the tamed cursed spirit—the clam that had once been a source of envy and hatred for Toji.
“Oh,” Naobito said, a grin spreading across his face. “This should be good.”
Toji didn’t wait for permission. He moved toward the cursed spirit, his steps deliberate. The creature stirred, sensing his intent. Its shell creaked open slightly, revealing the treasures it guarded—gold, jewels, and artifacts of immeasurable value.
“You don’t deserve this,” Toji said, his voice low and venomous.
He wasn’t speaking to the spirit.
With a swift motion, he drew the dagger and plunged it into the cursed spirit’s shell. The creature let out a high-pitched shriek, its body convulsing as the curse was exorcised. Its form disintegrated into ash, and with it, the treasures it had guarded spilled onto the floor in a glittering cascade.
Naobito let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together in mock applause. “Well, that’s one way to make an exit,” he said.
Toji didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the treasures, his expression unreadable. “I’m leaving,” he said simply.
Naobito tilted his head, intrigued. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Toji confirmed, his tone devoid of emotion.
Naobito stepped closer, his sandals clicking softly against the floor. “About time. Thought you’d rot here forever.”
Toji glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Naobito’s. “I won’t be sending postcards.”
Naobito laughed again, the sound sadistically amused. “Shame. I’d love to hear about how you’ll navigate the big, bad world on your own.”
Naobito stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the scattered treasures. “You should take some of this with you,” he said, his voice almost casual. “Consider it severance pay.”
Toji’s lip curled in disdain. “I don’t need it,” he said coldly. “I’ll make more on my own.”
Naobito laughed again, the sound grating against Toji’s nerves. “Such arrogance,” he said, shaking his head. “You really are your father’s son.”
He moved to the bedside, pulling a small blade from his sleeve. The motion was casual, almost lazy. “You won’t mind, will you?” he asked, gesturing toward the unconscious man on the futon.
Toji stared at the blade, then at his father. He knew what Naobito was about to do.
“No,” Toji said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Go for it.”
Naobito’s smirk widened. “No love lost, huh?”
“He’s not worth it,” Toji replied, turning his back to the scene.
Naobito grinned, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Spoken like a true Zen’in.”
Toji scoffed as he turned away, his back to the room as Naobito approached the bed. He didn’t need to see what would happen next. He refused to give his father the dignity of acknowledgment in his final moments.
“You’re not even going to watch?” Naobito teased.
“No,” Toji said simply, his voice cold. “He doesn’t deserve that much from me.”
“He was never meant for this position,” Naobito said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. “Not with a reject like you for a son.”
Toji clenched his jaw, not taking the obvious bait, his back still to the room. “At least you won’t be as pathetic as he was.”
Naobito chuckled. “Fair enough.”
The sound of the blade plunging into flesh was sharp and final, followed by a gurgled breath that quickly faded into silence.
Toji walked out of the room without looking back, the weight of his freedom pressing down on him like a storm. Behind him, Naobito stood over the lifeless body of his brother, the new head of the Zen’in clan.
By morning, the Zen’in estate was abuzz with rumors.
The 26th clan head was dead, and Toji Zen’in was gone. The whispers pointed to the son as the murderer, though no one dared voice the accusation outright.
Zen’in Naobito took the seat as the 27th clan head, his ascension met with silence rather than resistance.
Toji didn't regret a single thing from that night.