Chapter Text
The house was too quiet again.
Zanka walked down the long, lacquered hallway, listening to the echo of his own footsteps bounce off the polished wood.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The sound was the only proof he existed inside this place.
The Nijiku estate stretched wider than most training grounds in the district rooms branching endlessly, sliding doors leading to more sliding doors, hallways that felt like they looped into each other. A stranger could get lost here. But Zanka wasn’t a stranger. He had lived inside these walls his entire life, and still, the house felt foreign to him.
Tall wooden beams towered overhead. Lanterns cast dim pools of light across the floor. Scrolls lined the walls, paintings of past Nijiku Hell Guards, their stern faces inked with precision and pride. Zanka could feel their painted eyes follow him as he walked.
Another step, another echo.
The air smelled faintly of incense, his mother’s choice but never enough to feel warm. It was more like the scent burned in shrines or funeral halls.
Sometimes Zanka wondered if the whole estate was a shrine. A shrine to a family that worshiped expectations instead of each other.
He passed by the dining room. The long rectangular table sat untouched, perfectly polished, set for people who would never use it. Zanka had never once seen the entire family sit there together. They lived under the same roof, but each one moved like a separate spirit haunting their own corner of the estate.
Kyouka was likely locked in her study, practicing some new memorization drill.
Goka was probably in the lower wing, training until the floorboards shook.
Mother floated around like a ceremonial ghost, speaking softly, rarely making eye contact.
And Father…
Father was always in his office.
Zanka didn’t go looking for any of them. He had learned early: the Nijiku siblings did not knock on each other’s doors. They passed like silhouettes. Their voices echoed only in training halls.
His footsteps continued down the hallway, slow, soft, lonely.
He paused halfway down the corridor and slid open the door to the courtyard.
Outside, the garden looked painted, carefully arranged rocks, a koi pond glowing faintly beneath the lanterns, maple leaves drifting across the stepping stones. It was beautiful, the kind of beauty nobles bragged about when guests visited.
But the garden always felt too big for one child.
Zanka remembered playing here alone when he was younger, trying to entertain himself while Kyouka disciplined her techniques and Goka sharpened blades for fun. Their mother would watch from a distance sometimes, silent, hands folded in her lap, like an observer instead of a parent.
No one ever picked him up when he fell.
No one brushed leaves out of his hair.
No one said, “Come inside, it’s getting cold.”
He learned early how to be quiet.
How to listen and to stay out of the way.
He slid the door shut again.
Near the end of the hall, a row of framed portraits stared down at him. Former Hell Guards from the Nijiku lineage, all captured with the same emotionless expression. Great warriors. Noble defenders.
Perfect, disciplined, untouchable.
Their eyes made Zanka uneasy. They always had.
Passing them felt like moving through a trial like he was being silently judged on every breath he took.
He kept his posture straight and kept his steps even as his face always appeared blank.
He had practiced that expression since he was little.
A door slides open
“Zanka.”
His father’s voice cut through the silence, calm, deep, precise. A voice that didn’t rise, didn’t soften, didn’t waver.
Zanka froze mid-step, then turned.
The sliding door to his father’s office was open only a fraction, but enough to reveal Lord Nijiku standing inside—tall, broad-shouldered, arms behind his back. His expression was unreadable, as always.
“Yes, Father.” Zanka bowed.
“Come.”
There was no warmth in the word. No invitation. Just an order.
Zanka stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The office was dim, lit by one lantern hanging near the corner. Shadows filled the room like thick smoke. Two crossed spears hung behind his father’s desk—the weapons he’d used as a Hell Guard years ago, still polished, still deadly-looking.
Stacks of papers lay on the desk. Training reports. Assignment logs. Records of Hell Guard operations. His father was a man who spoke little but observed everything.
Lord Nijiku sat.
Zanka remained standing.
“Tomorrow is your first day at the Hell Guard Training Academy.”
Zanka’s stomach tightened, not in fear, not exactly, but in that tense anticipation he’d been raised to hide. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“Yes, Father.”
“You will perform well,” his father said. “The Academy instructors will not coddle you. They do not bend for privilege. You will work harder than the others. You will exceed them.”
Zanka stared straight ahead.
“Yes.”
“You will rise to the top of your class,” his father continued. “As Kyouka did. As Goka did. You will not sully the Nijiku name.”
Something in Zanka’s chest pinched. He forced his breathing to stay steady.
“Yes… Father.”
His father looked him over slowly, like inspecting a blade for flaws.
“Your form is better,” Lord Nijiku said. “Your stance has improved. But your spirit—” a pause “—is still too soft.”
Zanka’s throat tightened.
That meant disappointment.
It always meant disappointment.
“You will train tonight,” his father said. “Under me.”
Zanka didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t shift his weight.
“Yes, Father.”
“You are dismissed.”
Zanka bowed deeply, backed up two steps, and slid the door shut behind him.
Returning to Silence
As he walked back through the halls, the house felt heavier. The lanterns seemed dimmer. Even the portraits on the wall felt more judgmental than usual.
He reached his room and stepped inside.
The air was still. The futon neatly folded. The wooden floor cool beneath his feet. His window overlooked the garden, now washed in the faint glow of early evening. He stood there for a moment, staring.
Tomorrow, everything would change. Tonight, his father would push him until muscle failure.
And somewhere between the two, he was expected to become someone worthy of the Nijiku name.
Zanka sat slowly on his futon. His heart felt too loud in his chest.
The house was massive.
Grand.
Beautiful.
But it felt like a cage made of polished wood and silence.
Almost like a marble prison.
And tomorrow, he would step into a new world, still controlled, still watching him, still expecting impossible things.
He lay back on the futon, staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the distance, a door slid open. Somewhere else, a blade clashed in training. But in Zanka’s room, there was nothing but silence.
The kind he’d been raised in. The kind he was expected to become.
Zanka lay still for a moment, staring at the carved designs in the ceiling, patterns he had traced with his eyes since childhood. They were familiar, almost comforting, but tonight they only reminded him of what was coming.
Training with his father.
Not the first time. Never the last. Always brutal. Always cold. Always a reminder that he existed to become something, not someone.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to Goka.
Goka trained every day, before sunrise, after dinner, sometimes deep into the night when the house was quiet and the servants whispered about “dedication” with an edge of fear. If anyone in the family embodied the perfect Hell Guard, it was him.
Zanka pushed himself up, tension already buzzing under his skin. Sitting still only made him think, and thinking made the dread worse. His bare feet hit the polished floor. He left his room quickly, almost running through the endless hallways that swallowed sound and warmth. The lights were dimmed for nighttime, but the house never felt any softer; its silence pressed against every wall.
Down the grand staircase, he nearly collided with a servant carrying a polished metal tray. Steam curled from a bowl beneath the lid.
He stopped her. “Is Goka training today?”
The servant blinked, startled to even be addressed. “Yes, young master. He’s in the east training hall.”
That was all he needed.
He turned and hurried down another long, empty corridor until the enormous wooden doors came into view, tall enough to intimidate, heavy enough that opening them always felt like entering forbidden territory.
He tested one door quietly, easing it open just a crack.
Warm light spilled through. The room was massive, stretching farther than most people’s entire homes. Tatami and reinforced flooring covered the ground. Weapons lined the walls.
And in the center, Goka.
He moved with practiced precision, katana slicing clean arcs through the air. Sweat darkened his uniform, clung to his forehead and neck. Every swing landed with a loud, guttural groan, the kind that echoed across the entire hall. Sharp, disciplined, almost inhuman.
Zanka watched from the gap in the doorway, chest tightening a little. Not from fear, he was used to fear. This was something heavier.
Expectation.
The unspoken message carved into every corner of their home:
This is who you must become.
Goka’s blade slammed against the wooden dummy, splintering it slightly. He didn’t pause. He reset his stance, breathing hard, muscles sharp under the lamplight.
Zanka’s fingers curled around the edge of the door. A tiny part of him wanted to step inside. Another part wanted to run back to his room and pretend he never looked.
Goka drove his sword down again, and the impact echoed like thunder in the vast room.
Zanka flinched but didn’t look away.
The training tonight would be brutal. He already knew that. But watching his brother like this, the perfect son, the ideal Hell Guard made the weight of it settle deeper into his ribs.
Tomorrow, he would start the Academy.
Tonight, he would survive his father.
And right now, watching Goka train was the closest thing to a warning he would get.
Zanka watched him move sharp, relentless, unbreakable and something twisted in his chest. Admiration, the kind he would never voice aloud, the kind that felt wrong to even feel. Goka was everything the Nijiku name demanded: powerful, disciplined, untouchable.
But admiration didn’t erase the truth.
Goka never looked at him with warmth. Never with pride. Only with anger or disappointment. And sometimes though Zanka hated himself for noticing it, something that resembled jealousy, sharp and bitter.
Every time they passed each other in the halls, Zanka kept his head down, eyes on the floor, because meeting Goka’s stare always felt like stepping into a punishment he didn’t earn.
He had zoned out too long.
The rhythmic sound of sword strikes had stopped.
Slowly—terrifyingly, Zanka lifted his gaze just enough to see Goka turning toward the door, sharp eyes locked directly on him. Anger flickered in that stare like a spark ready to burn.
“What,” Goka demanded, voice carrying across the enormous room, “do you want?”
Zanka jerked upright, looking down immediately, heart thudding against his ribs.
“I—I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to— I was just—” His fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, gripping until the seams strained.
Goka stepped closer, the heavy sound of his boots hitting the mats with no hesitation, no softness. “Why were you watching me?”
Zanka’s throat tightened. He pressed his chin down, staring at the floorboards. “I wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to interrupt your training—”
Goka clicked his tongue sharp, irritated and turned away. No patience. He wiped his blade on a cloth, movements brisk, dismissive, already walking toward the exit.
Panic jolted through Zanka’s chest.
He reached out instinctively. “Goka—wait!”
His brother paused but didn’t turn fully, shoulders tense beneath the lamplight.
Zanka swallowed, forcing the words through the knot in his throat.
“I… have training tonight. With Father.” He hesitated. “Do you have… any advice?”
Silence followed. A long, cold silence.
When Goka finally spoke, his voice was deep and harsh, as if the words were being dragged out of stone.
“Don’t embarrass the family.”
Zanka’s breath hitched.
Goka kept going, tone like ice. “You were born into strength. So act like it.” He didn’t soften, didn’t offer comfort. “If you can’t handle Father’s training, you shouldn’t be calling yourself a Nijiku at all.”
The words hit heavier because they were expected because Goka wasn’t saying anything the house itself didn’t whisper every day.
Then Goka added, quieter but more cutting:
“And stop clinging. You’re not a child.”
Zanka held his breath as his brother pushed past him, steps steady, not bothering to look back.
The door closed with a deep, echoing thud, leaving Zanka alone in the vast training hall, small against the size of it, small under the weight of everything he was supposed to become.
Zanka stood frozen where Goka left him, the words echoing louder now that the room was silent.
“…you shouldn’t be calling yourself a Nijiku at all.”
He whispered it to himself, barely a breath, but it felt like someone else had spoken it inside his chest. It stung, worse because he believed it. Worse because it sounded like something their father would say too.
His fingers tightened at his sides.
Maybe that was why an idea slid into his mind, sharp and reckless.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he turned toward the towering wooden doors. He placed his hands on them and pushed one open, slipping inside the training hall fully.
The air was colder in here. Brighter. Unforgiving.
He took a step, then another, eyes wide. The room stretched out endlessly, so large it felt like it swallowed him whole. Rows of training dummies in different states of destruction littered the floor. Weapons lined the walls in neat, perfect rows. The ceiling was high enough to make him dizzy if he looked too long.
He stepped around the dummy Goka had sliced straight through, the cut clean and deep—an impossible reminder of how far behind he really was.
He swallowed.
His gaze drifted to the wall of weapons.
Real ones.
His hand lifted before he even chose one. Something pulled him forward, curiosity, longing, desperation, maybe all three. He reached out and hovered his fingers over a katana wrapped in a protective cloth.
He hesitated.
Then he curled his hand around the hilt.
The weight surprised him immediately, nothing like the wooden practice sticks he was used to. This felt real. Heavy. Dangerous.
Slowly, almost reverently, he pulled the cover off.
“Waa…” he breathed, voice small, awed.
The blade gleamed under the bright lights, so polished he could see his own stunned reflection staring back. His mouth fell open slightly. His eyes widened, drinking in every detail, the sharp line of the edge, the perfect balance, the way the metal caught the light like water.
He’d never held a real katana before.
Never been allowed to.
He lifted it with both hands, testing the weight, the balance. It felt… right. Like something he wasn’t supposed to touch but had always been meant to. His heart beat faster, not with fear, but with something close to excitement, something that curled warm and electric in his chest.
He had no idea how long he stood there, staring at his reflection in the blade.
But for the first time all day, maybe for the first time in his life, Zanka felt the smallest spark of something he almost didn’t recognize.
Possibility.
Zanka approached the untouched dummy as though it were a sacred thing because to him, it was. A perfect test. A perfect opponent. A perfect reminder of everything he wasn’t allowed to be.
He tightened his grip on the katana, spacing his hands exactly how he remembered seeing Goka do it. Firm, but not tense. Controlled. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, spreading his weight the way instructors on the training scrolls always said: grounded, centered, unshakable. His shoulders eased down; his spine straightened.
For a brief moment he looked almost like a real Hell Guard.
He inhaled deeply through his nose… exhaled through his mouth…
The katana angled forward, just a few degrees upward level with the dummy’s wooden head.
Then the thoughts crept in.
Heavy, biting, familiar.
You shouldn’t be calling yourself a Nijiku at all.
Don’t embarrass the family.
The words crawled under his skin. Tensed his jaw.
Then—something snapped.
A raw, involuntary scream tore from his chest as he lunged forward.
His blade struck the dummy’s arm cleanly, wood splintering in a violent explosion of shards. They flew past his face like brittle, broken fingers. The second strike cracked through the central post, a deep, dull groan echoing around the enormous chamber.
Wood shavings spiraled down through the bright lantern light.
But he didn’t stop.
He moved again, slicing upward, downward, across, diagonal. Each hit came faster, heavier, the sound of steel biting wood echoing like thunder trapped in a box.
Another crack—
Another splinter—
The post buckled, then snapped entirely.
When the dummy finally collapsed into a heap of fragmented beams and shredded limbs, the silence afterward felt impossibly loud. Only the hum of the lights and the faint metallic smell, the scent of sap mixed with iron lingered in the air.
Zanka stood over the wreckage, chest rising and falling sharply. His eyes flickered with something wild. Something desperate. Something hungry.
He lowered the blade slowly.
For just one breath, he felt…
powerful.
But the moment passed. His shoulders fell slightly.
“That was good.”
Zanka twisted so fast he almost dropped the katana.
Kyouka stood just a few feet away.
She blended perfectly into the sharp bright glow, tall, elegant, utterly composed. Her Hell Guard uniform was pristine, deep crimson armor plates polished to a mirror shine. On her right arm, the insignia of the Red Horns Squadron One Commander burned like a mark of superiority.
Her expression was calm. Neutral. But her eyes were piercing, the kind that made Zanka’s stomach knot instantly.
“But…” she continued, stepping closer, “…never good enough to beat Father.”
Of course she’d say that.
Her words landed cleanly, efficiently, like one of her own sword strikes. Zanka straightened quickly, lowering the katana to his side as if caught doing something wrong.
“K-Kyouka,” he said, trying to sound casual but failing as his voice thinned. His eyes flickered over her uniform—the one he wanted so badly someday. “Um… how’s Hell Guard work lately?”
She seemed to consider whether the question deserved an answer.
Then she spoke quietly, eyes drifting over the ruined dummy.
“Busy,” she said. “It always is. The Ground is never stable. Beasts, disasters… it only gets worse every year.” She glanced at him again. “But command has been smooth.”
Of course it had. She made everything look easy.
“Goka,” Zanka tried again, swallowing as he rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s… uh… finishing his training soon, right?”
Kyouka nodded once, sharp and confident.
“He’s in Final Hell Guard Assessment,” she confirmed. “If he passes the beast purge next week, he’ll graduate. He’s already among the best in his squad.”
Zanka wasn’t surprised. Everyone in the family excelled.
Everyone but him.
“He’ll definitely make it,” she added, tone unwavering. “Graduation is practically guaranteed.”
Her eyes traveled briefly to the katana in his hands.
“And you… start the Academy tomorrow.”
Zanka stiffened.
It wasn’t encouragement.
It wasn’t pride.
It wasn’t even acknowledgment.
It was just a reminder.
A reminder of expectations. Of pressure. Of the invisible leash around his neck.
But her gaze softened a fraction, barely noticeable, like a tiny crack in stone.
“Train hard tonight,” she said. “Father won’t tolerate hesitation.”
Then she stepped back with smooth, commanding strides. As she paused at the door, just for a heartbeat.
Without looking back, she added, “And don’t leave the room in this condition. It’s disgraceful.”
The doors closed softly behind her.
Zanka stood alone again in the enormous hall, katana trembling in his grip, the shattered dummy at his feet.
The room felt colder now.
Much colder.
The last light of the day slid off the garden walls like it was retreating like even the sun wanted to get away from the Nijiku estate before night fell.
By the time the moon rose, bright and sharp and cold, Zanka was already standing in the center of his room while three servants moved around him with silent efficiency. They dressed him in a deep navy hakama, tightening each tie with precision and smoothing every wrinkle. Another servant knelt to strap the bokken at his hip, its polished wood gleaming faintly under the lamp.
When they finished, they bowed in perfect sync.
“You are prepared, young master.”
Zanka nodded, swallowing the dryness in his throat.
Two more servants stepped forward, waiting for him to walk so they could escort him through the sprawling house. Their sandals made almost no sound, but Zanka’s heartbeat filled every quiet hallway. The walk felt endless corridors stretching on and on, lantern shadows flickering across old paintings and family crests carved into the walls.
The training hall was across the estate, a place rarely entered by anyone but the head of the family.
When they finally reached the shoji doors, both servants knelt on either side. Their hands touched the floor as they slid the doors open in unison.
A breath of cold air hit him.
Zanka stepped inside.
The doors slid shut behind him, soft, final.
The room was colossal. Lanterns flickered high above, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished floorboards. The space felt hollow, quiet, almost sacred in its emptiness.
At the far end…
His father knelt in a perfectly rigid seiza. Hakama immaculate. Face unreadable. Eyes sharp and dark as obsidian.
Those eyes locked onto Zanka.
Unblinking. Measuring. Judging.
Zanka forced his legs to move.
He crossed the floor, each step echoing until he reached a respectful distance and sank into seiza. His spine straightened automatically, palms resting on his thighs, fingers pressed together. His shoulders tightened under the pressure of being watched like prey under a blade.
His father finally spoke.
“You’re late.”
Zanka’s breath caught. “…I—I apologize, Father.”
“You waste time making excuses already?”
The words were soft. Too soft. The colder they were, the deeper they cut.
“No. Father.”
A low hum of disapproval left the man’s throat.
“Tomorrow you enter the Academy. The Nijiku name will precede you. It will also crush you if you fail.” His father lifted his chin slightly. “Do you intend to embarrass this family?”
“N–no, Father. Never.”
“We shall see.”
Nothing more was said.
His father rose smoothly to his feet.
Zanka copied him, slower, less graceful.
Both drew their wooden swords.
Zanka adjusted his grip, so careful, not to hold it too tight or too loose. Feet shoulder-width apart, posture straight despite the tension knotting in his stomach.
For a moment, the room was so silent he could hear the faint rustling of the lantern flames.
Then.
A blur.
His father shot forward, bokken slicing through the air with terrifying precision. Zanka lifted his sword just in time—
CRACK.
The blow reverberated through his arms, forcing him back a step.
“Your guard is weak,” his father spat. “Again.”
Zanka steadied himself.
They clashed again—
CRACK.
CRACK.
THUD.
Zanka stumbled, the heel of his foot slipping on the polished floor. His father didn’t wait. Another hit, sharp across his ribs, almost knocked the breath out of him.
“You leave yourself open. Again.”
Zanka gasped and pushed up, raising his sword.
He attacked this time, quick, sharp, trying to remember everything he practiced earlier. But his father’s movements were faster. Harder. Exact. Military perfection carved into bone.
A strike landed against his thigh. Another across his forearm. Another on his shoulder.
Each one burned.
No praise.
Only corrections spoken like insults:
“Too slow.”
“Your stance is sloppy.”
“Your eyes wander.”
“Put strength into it, or don’t bother swinging at all.”
Zanka’s muscles trembled. His breath grew uneven. But he didn’t stop.
Not stopping was the only thing he was good at.
His father pivoted suddenly and aimed at Zanka’s wrist.
CRACK.
Pain shot up his arm. His fingers spasmed.
The bokken fell from his hand and clattered across the floor.
The sound echoed through the huge room.
His father’s expression didn’t change. Not a flicker of emotion.
“Pick it up.”
Zanka clenched his teeth, bent down, and grabbed the bokken with his aching hand.
As he stood again, his father said, voice low and cutting:
“If you grip your sword like a frightened child again, I will break that hand to remind you how a Nijiku is supposed to hold steel.”
Zanka swallowed, sweat dripping down his spine.
“Yes, Father.”
“Again.”
And they continued.
Strike after strike, bruise after bruise, correction after correction.
Until Zanka’s shoulders went numb. Until his legs nearly buckled. Until his lungs were raw from gasping.
But he kept standing.
Zanka barely had a moment to breathe before his father lunged again.
There were no pauses. No warnings. No time to anticipate anything.
Only the sharp bite of wood.
His father moved like a blade himself, precise, unhesitating, merciless. Every strike had purpose. Every correction was delivered with force.
CRACK.
A hit across Zanka’s ribs. He wheezed, folding for a heartbeat before forcing himself upright again.
“Stand properly,” his father barked. “What are you doing? Fighting? Or cowering?”
Zanka straightened immediately, trembling. “Fighting, Father.”
“You call that fighting?”
Another blow—this time to the thigh. Zanka’s leg buckled, but not fully. He caught himself.
His father circled him like he was inspecting a defective weapon.
“A Nijiku does not stagger,” he said coldly. “A Nijiku does not gasp for air like a wounded beast. Lift your sword.”
Zanka’s fingers stung, knuckles red and swollen around the wooden hilt. But he lifted it anyway.
His father lunged.
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
Each strike pushed him back a step across the vast empty floor. His father advanced without mercy, closing the distance, driving him, testing his balance until his heels nearly touched the wall.
Zanka tried to counter. Tried to swing with proper form, proper angle.
But his father parried effortlessly and struck harder.
“Predictable.”
Another strike.
“Sloppy.”
Another strike, high, clipping Zanka’s shoulder hard enough to numb the entire arm.
“Your sister learned faster than this.”
Another strike—low, sweeping his stance out from under him.
Zanka hit the floor on one knee, teeth slamming together from the impact.
But he didn’t drop his sword this time.
His father’s shadow covered him.
“Up.”
Zanka pushed off the ground, legs shaking violently. His breaths scraped through his throat like sand.
His father’s expression remained indifferent. Not angry, not cruel, just coldly unimpressed.
“Again.”
They clashed.
Zanka put everything he had into the next exchange. All the lessons he’d memorized, all the movements he’d studied, all the anger boiling in his chest—one second, he landed a good strike.
He hit his father’s guard cleanly. Proper angle. Good footing. A sharp, loud impact.
It should’ve meant something.
But his father didn’t praise him.
Didn’t even blink.
Instead.
He struck Zanka across the chest with a brutal downward blow. The air was punched out of him. Zanka stumbled back, wheezing, vision spotting at the edges.
“Do not get ahead of yourself,” his father said. “One decent strike does not make you strong.”
Zanka clutched his chest with his free hand, trying to breathe.
His father stepped forward again.
“Stop relying on luck. Stop hoping your opponent will go easy on you. A Hell Guard does not wait for mercy.”
Another hit. Zanka barely blocked it. His arms screamed with pain.
“A Hell Guard does not fear pain.”
Another hit, across the back this time, sharp and punishing.
“A Hell Guard does not tremble.”
Zanka’s entire frame was trembling.
He tried to hide it, straightening, steadying his grip, forcing his muscles to lock into place.
But his father saw everything.
He always did.
“You disgrace this family when you shake,” he said quietly, voice colder than the steel they weren’t allowed to wield inside the hall. “If this is the best you can do, then your sister was correct.”
Zanka’s breath hitched.
“Correct about what…?” he whispered before he could stop himself.
His father stared at him.
“That you may not be suited for the Hell Guard at all.”
The words cut deeper than any blade.
His hands tightened around his bokken until his knuckles whitened.
His father didn’t give him time to process the sting in his chest.
“Lift your sword,” he ordered. “Or leave this room and tell the servants to burn your training gear.”
Zanka jerked his bokken back into a ready stance, ignoring the fire in his wrists, ignoring the bruises blooming across his ribs, ignoring the ache in his legs.
He raised his chin.
His father lunged again and Zanka met him head-on, refusing to fall.
Even if he broke trying.
His father’s blade stopped mid-swing.
Not because the exchange was over, not because Zanka had landed something good, not because he’d shown promise but because his father had already decided he’d seen enough.
The wooden swords clattered apart, and the room fell still.
Zanka stayed on the floor for a second, chest scraping the tatami with each ragged breath. Sweat stung his eyes. His arms trembled. Everything hurt.
But the panic hurt worse.
He pushed himself up quickly, too quickly, almost stumbling as he stood.
“Father—w-wait,” he said, breath shivering. “Please, let’s go again. I can do better. Just—just one more time—”
His father didn’t even turn fully toward him. Just a cold glance over the shoulder, heavy with disappointment.
“No.”
Flat. Final.
“But—”
“I said no.”
Zanka fell silent, but desperation drove him forward.
“Please. I’ll fix my stance—my timing—just let me try again, I promise I—”
His father snapped.
“Enough!”
The force of the shout hit Zanka like a physical blow. His whole body jolted, breath catching. His fingers curled tight at his sides to hide the way they shook.
And his father saw it.
Of course he saw it.
A slow, disdainful exhale escaped him.
“That look,” his father said sharply. “That pathetic, frightened look. You look just like your mother when she’d fail to meet the family’s standards.”
The words landed with a burn that crawled under Zanka’s skin.
He didn’t know if he wanted to speak or disappear. His throat wouldn’t choose either.
His father stepped closer, gaze harsh and unyielding.
“Your brother never looks like that,” he continued. “Your sister doesn’t either. They don’t crumble the moment someone raises their voice. They have discipline. They have composure.”
Zanka felt the comparisons like stones piling onto his chest, each one heavier, each one sinking him deeper.
“And you—”
A scoff.
“Shaking like a terrified child, begging for chances you haven’t earned.”
Zanka tried to steady his voice, but it cracked anyway.
“I’m trying,” he whispered. “Father, I really am—”
“Trying isn’t enough,” his father cut him off bitterly. “Not for this family.”
His father turned toward the doors.
Zanka panicked.
“Father!” he shouted, hurrying after him. “Don’t walk away—please—give me another chance! I can do better—I’ll train all night, I’ll—”
His father didn’t even glance back as he slid the door open.
Zanka stumbled after him, nearly tripping over the wooden threshold.
“Father! Please—wait!” He reached out as if he could physically pull the moment back.
But his father’s stride didn’t slow. Not once.
They entered the hallway, their footsteps echoing. Servants paused mid-task, eyes flicking toward the scene. Zanka following a few desperate steps behind, his father rigid and unyielding.
“Father—please listen to me, I’m sorry—just tell me what to fix—don’t ignore me—”
His father walked on, silent and cold, as if Zanka weren’t even there.
Zanka’s breaths grew uneven, his chest tight with rising panic. He tried again, voice cracking, “Father! Please—don’t just walk away from me—!”
Still nothing.
Servants exchanged glances, some pitying, some uncomfortable but none dared intervene.
Zanka felt something hot sting behind his eyes, humiliation burning under his skin.
“Father!” His voice echoed down the corridor. “Please!”
But his father didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even acknowledge him at all.
Just kept walking until the distance grew wider and wider until Zanka’s steps slowed and finally stopped, his arm dropping helplessly at his side.
The silence that followed hurt more than any bruise, any strike, any failure. Because being ignored felt like the cruelest cut his father had ever dealt him.
Zanka kept calling for his father long after he’d vanished down the corridor. His voice echoed through the marble hall, thin, cracking, desperate.
“Father—wait, please—!”
Only silence answered him. Silence, and the distant shift of servants pretending not to stare.
He took another stumbling step forward, breath trembling, trying to see if maybe—maybe—his father had stopped around the corner. Maybe he’d come back. Maybe he’d say something that wasn’t disappointment or anger.
But the hallway was empty.
A cold draft moved through the house, brushing against his damp hair. Zanka swallowed hard, chest tight. He tried again, voice softer, smaller:
“Father…?”
Nothing.
Then the soft slide of a shoji door broke the silence.
Zanka turned.
His mother appeared in the hall, framed by warm light behind her. She wore a flowing midnight-blue kimono robe embroidered with pale cranes, the fabric hanging loose around her shoulders. A small ceramic wine cup rested delicately between her fingers, half-raised as if she had paused mid-sip.
Her expression was unreadable, tired, serene, and distant in that particular Nijiku way, as if emotion were something kept locked behind silk and bone.
“Zanka.”
Her voice was soft, but it carried through the hall with effortless authority.
He froze, breath caught in his throat.
She took a slow step toward him, the hem of her robe whispering across polished floors.
“Don’t yell.” she said, tone even, almost gentle. “It’s late. Your brother and sister are probably sleeping.” Her eyes flicked to the servants lingering nearby; they bowed their heads and retreated instantly down the hall. She continued, “There is no need to make such a scene.”
The words weren’t cruel. But they weren’t warm either. They slid over him like cool water, leaving no place for comfort to cling.
Zanka lowered his gaze immediately.
“…I wasn’t— I just— Father, he—”
“I know.”
She didn’t let him finish. She rarely did.
Her wine cup lifted slightly, the pale liquid inside catching the moonlight from the high windows.
“You should go to bed,” she said quietly, looking at him the way one might look at a flickering lantern, dim, wavering, but not worth adjusting. “Tomorrow is your first day at the Academy. You’ll want to be rested.”
Zanka’s fingers curled into fists. His throat burned with words he wanted to say.
Wanted. But didn’t.
“Yes, Mother.” he murmured.
She gave him a small nod, polite, practiced—then turned away without another glance. Her silhouette drifted back into her room as gracefully as she’d appeared, the door sliding shut with a soft click.
Zanka stayed standing in the hallway long after she was gone.
Moonlight spilled across the floor. The training aches pulsed through his arms. The sting of his father’s words still echoed like a blade ringing after the strike.
Slowly, he exhaled.
Then he turned toward his room, walking alone through the cold, cavernous halls of the Nijiku home. It’s marble floors shining, its silence crushing, every step reminding him:
Tomorrow, he would have to be perfect or he would be nothing at all.