Chapter Text
The clan meeting had been an absolute circus of mediocrity—or, in Naoya’s refined terminology, “a masterclass in how to waste perfectly good oxygen.” You trailed three respectful paces behind him down the long, echoing corridor of the Zenin estate, arms laden with his sheathed katana and a precarious tower of scrolls that threatened to topple at any moment.
Naoya didn’t bother moderating his volume; subtlety had never been his strong suit.
“Did you see Ogi’s face when I asked him to explain his strategy?” he drawled, voice bouncing off the polished walls like a taunt. “The man preaches honor like he invented it, yet he looked exactly like a constipated bulldog that just realized the treaty it signed was written on toilet paper.”
You shifted the weight of the scrolls to your other arm, lips twitching as you kept your gaze fixed ahead in perfect servant decorum—except for the dry amusement lacing every syllable.
“That’s unfairly cruel to bulldogs, Naoya-sama. At least they’re loyal. And they don’t break into a full-body sweat when someone asks them a question that requires more than three brain cells.”
Naoya barked out a laugh so loud and sudden that a passing servant nearly dropped their tray of tea cups. They scurried away faster, cheeks flaming. Naoya slowed his stride until you fell into step beside him, his shoulder brushing yours in a rare moment of casual equality. An unspoken privilege he granted only when he was in a particularly good mood, or when he wanted a better view of your expressions.
“God, yes. And what in the nine hells was that new Hei recruit trying to pull?” He stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, planted his feet wide, and flailed his arms in an exaggerated imitation: elbows locked, wrists limp, knees knocking together like a newborn foal on ice. “Is this the legendary Zenin stance now? The Drunken Octopus Discovers Gravity?”
You pressed your lips together to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, adopting the gravest expression you could manage while watching the heir to the Zenin clan flail like a broken windmill.
“Ah, yes,” you said, nodding with scholarly solemnity. “A highly secretive form passed down through generations of warriors who specialize in dying spectacularly within the first ten seconds of combat. Very elite. The recruitment standards are clearly soaring.”
Naoya’s smirk widened into something dangerously delighted, eyes glinting with the pure, unfiltered joy of shared cruelty. He resumed walking, hands clasped behind his back like a general reviewing particularly disappointing troops.
He snorted, glancing sideways at you with something that might have been fondness if he were capable of admitting it
“You,” he declared, voice warm with approval, “are absolutely terrible.”
“I prefer keenly perceptive, Naoya-sama,” You inclined your head in mock deference “Besides, I learned from the very best. You do set an impossibly high bar for pettiness and theatrical disdain.”
He snorted, resuming his stride with a swagger that dared the world to comment. Somewhere down the corridor, another servant scurried out of sight, clearly deciding that whatever errand they had could wait until the young master’s mood had passed.
And you followed, three step behind again, close enough to keep feeding the fire, far enough to keep your head.
For as long as you can remember, the Zen’in estate has been your cage—sorry, your home.
You weren’t a "treasured daughter." You certainly weren’t part of the "main lineage." You were an investment. A receipt in the clan’s ledger.
Purchased from a destitute family of non-sorcerers because your Cursed Technique was deemed "administratively useful." A support-type ability: Harmonic Stabilization. You could buff other sorcerers, smooth out their rough energy spikes, and fix their sloppy control. The elders called it "ideal for the shadows." In Zen’in speak, that translates to: Servant + Battery Pack + Spare Parts.
And naturally, growing up as a glorified accessory meant surviving the childhood of the clan’s crown prince of arrogance.
The cicadas were in full riot, a shrieking, saw-blade chorus that turned the midsummer air into soup. The Zen’in estate courtyard baked under a sun that felt personally offended by anyone doing manual labor. You: barely taller than the broom in your hands were engaged in the ancient and utterly pointless ritual of sweeping leaves that were still enthusiastically falling from the trees overhead. Every swipe just rearranged the chaos.
From the cool, shaded luxury of the engawa, where the young masters were allowed to lounge like spoiled cats, a voice sliced through the humidity like a thrown kunai.
“Oi. Discount bin.”
You froze mid-sweep, bristles hovering over a particularly stubborn maple leaf. No need to look up. Only one person in the entire clan called you that. Zen’in Naoya, age ten, draped in miniature silk finery that probably cost more than your entire existence, chin propped on one palm, legs swinging idly. His face wore its usual expression: mild disgust, as if the world had personally let him down by continuing to exist.
“I heard your parents sold you for one sad little bag of rice and a third-rate Cursed Tool,” he announced loudly, ensuring every servant within earshot could enjoy the show. “Is that true? You’re cheaper than the ugliest koi in the pond—and those things look like they lost a fight with a mud puddle.”
You straightened slowly, every vertebra popping in protest from the heat. Broom clutched like a staff, you lifted your eyes and arranged your face into the blank, dutiful mask all low-born servants mastered by age eight. Inside, though? Pure, glittering venom.
“Actually, Naoya-sama,” you said, voice syrupy enough to attract ants, “it was two bags of rice. Premium short-grain. Please don’t undervalue the clan’s shrewd investments.”
Naoya blinked. Once. Twice. The insult skidded off you like water off oiled paper. His mouth twisted—half scowl, half involuntary smirk. He made a sharp, ugly snort that sounded like a constipated crow.
“Hah. Two bags. Don’t let it inflate that empty head of yours.”
You bowed with flawless, excruciating precision, the kind drilled into you since you could walk. “I wouldn’t dream of it, young master. I’m simply relieved to be worth more than the average pebble in your garden. Some of those are quite… decorative.”
You resumed sweeping with renewed vigor, sending a small cloud of dust drifting pointedly toward the engawa. Naoya watched you for a long moment, legs no longer swinging. A strange little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—almost like he’d tasted something unexpectedly spicy and wasn’t sure if he hated it or wanted more.
He didn’t pick up a rock that day. Didn’t call for the guards to “teach the mouthy trash a lesson.” Just sat there, staring, until one of his nursemaids hustled him inside for afternoon lessons.
Small victories in the Zen’in estate were measured in absences: no bruises, no rocks, no public humiliation. Today counted as a triumph. You allowed yourself the tiniest curve of a smile as you attacked the next pile of leaves.
The cicadas screamed on, oblivious to the fact that a ten-year-old tyrant had just met his first real verbal sparring partner. And hadn’t quite hated losing.