Chapter Text
“He’s here.”
Clan members have always spoken heavily about Zen’in Toji. Naoya does not understand why, with his little hands curled into balls by his side and a look of defiance in his eyes. When he’d ask, they’d reply: ‘He has no cursed energy.’
It logically didn’t make sense.
If a sorcerer’s value was decided upon their cursed energy - the volume, the control, and the technique - then Zen’in Toji would be worth nothing. Yet, the way the elders and sorcerers treaded the ground when he was mentioned, much less in their presence, Naoya assumed he was like that child prodigy of the Gojo clan.
His father, Zen’in Naobito, told him that his worth and by association, their clan’s, was dependent on his jujutsu skills. Naoya remembers the day when Naobito brought him before the family records, scarred but strong hands tracing each Zen’in clan head’s family ties. Each one had a son just as great as them, some even bearing the hereditary technique that ran through their blood: Ten Shadows.
‘We cling only to momentary greatness. It is then within our right to seize power and teach those weaker than us who they should truly obey.’ He had murmured, his red gourd still clinging loosely to his side. His eyes were downcast, mourning something that didn’t truly belong to him. When they had left the clan archive room, Naobito immediately burst into an outrage, summoning Zen’in Shizuko, Naoya’s mother, and demanding she prepare the dining hall for guests. Naoya doesn’t remember the guests, but he remembers finding Shizuko hysterically kneading a ball of dough that had gone unserved.
He glanced at his instructor, a wizened clan elder, and asked for permission to continue his literature lesson another day. He wished to see Zen’in Toji, the man who was treated with the same disgust as the disciplinary pit of curses. Naoya had never personally been to the pit, often praised for his obedience and intellect as a result of the lack of discipline. He had only heard the occasional rumor from a scarred sorcerer who had failed to obey clan orders - or worse, failed a mission - about the monsters within.
Grade 3 and semi-grade 2’s were the norm, hiding in the shadows and corners for the pit’s cover to close before pouncing, they had described with a shiver. Some said that curses they had previously exterminated had reappeared in the dark and sunless pit of despair while others claimed they had even witnessed a grade 1 curse slumbering deep within the caverns. Naoya wonders if Gojo Satoru, the exalted once-in-a-lifetime prodigy could survive a night within the pit. Most were only served with several hours of isolation, with the most severe of punishments lasting twelve hours. Those sentenced to the latter category often made it out with punishing injuries and a mind too broken to disobey.
Shizuko had once knelt before Naobito, a long time before Naoya had begun even leaving the Zen’in compound, and begged for him to spare Naoya from the pit. An older clan member just older than his parents had told him that Shizuko was once a promising sorcerer before taking up the responsibility of the clan head’s wife. The boy does not doubt that his mother had been through the pit before - some of the clan prided themselves on their survival of the pit, calling it a rite of passage for all Zen’in sorcerers. Leaving the pit meant entering as a boy and emerging as a man.
“Yes, you may, Naoya-sama. We shall continue this lesson tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock sharp.” Daichi-sensei approved, closing the book with a snap. His black hair had long faded away to white, despite the fact that he was 42 years old. But he was fortunate to have survived for so long. Many in the clan do not see their children even begin education, and thus most married and birthed early. Daichi-sensei had a wife and four children, all significantly older than Naoya, and he bore the battle scars of a grade 2 sorcerer and the callouses of a calligraphy artist. “See you tomorrow.”
“You as well, sensei.” Naoya rose and bowed, a slight one compared to Daichi-sensei’s deep bow. Status was hammered into each facet of Zen’in life and a slip up could send one back onto the field for months. Naoya was regarded as a high ranking member of the clan, second only to his father, clan elders, and other branch family heads. Women naturally held the lowest positions, with the exception of Lady Shizuko as Naobito’s wife. She was to be greeted but never addressed, unlike others who were promptly ignored. Daichi-sensei was to succeed one of the clan’s elders next year, but his assignment was continually postponed due to said elder insisting on another few months of power.
The Zen’in clan compound was huge, even larger in the eyes of eight year-old Naoya. Wooden beams painted in a rich red supported the roofs of the main sect’s buildings. Intricate carvings served as support beams and carefully drawn rock gardens kept the landscape serene. He passed by the meeting hall, where a meeting was still in session, judging by the lulled shouts of Naobito passing through the screen doors.
Where could Zen’in Toji be? Naoya scans his surroundings for a man who is said to be the height of a living curse, his hair a mop of black to hide sordid eyes. He takes a great deal of time to search for the man, roughly half an hour, but comes up with no results. For a brief moment, he considers giving up his search, but a shadow peeks around the corner of the training halls, paired with the slow click of sandals against wood.
The first thing that comes to Naoya’s mind when he sees the shadow’s owner is fear. Then respect as realization dawns on him.
Zen’in Toji is before him, in all of his rumored vileness. His kimono is black, stained either from blood or shame, as he brushes past the young clan heir. His eyes, a similar color to his hair and robes, caught Naoya’s brown ones. They are hollow, filled with nothing but a desire to kill. A desire to kill oneself, but a desire to kill nonetheless. His arm is haphazardly bandaged as it hangs at his front and his hair is a mess just as bad as a sorcerer’s fresh out of the pit. But he radiates strength and authority, his frame hulking with pure muscle. Naoya knows that despite his injury, the man is strong enough to destroy a good portion of the compound and get away with it too. But he does not even move in the direction of destruction, as if bound by some compulsive force that forbids him from doing anything but march towards that rusted weapons shack that only rodents and Zen’in Toji calls home.
If this was Zen’in Toji, the weakest man in the entire history of the clan, then what would that make Naoya, the heir apparent to said clan? In front of the cursed spawn of his father’s older brother, Naoya feels insignificantly unremarkable. Not even worth sparing a glance, and yet, Zen’in Toji gives him a chance to be seen.
“Move it, kid.” He rasps out between dried lips, nearly bodying Naoya in the process of walking. “I don’t have time for your stupid antics.”
Naoya quickly steps to the side, eyes still locked onto Toji’s retreating back. His head feels dizzy from all the pressure of his presence and his knees are nearly shaking from the weight of his own thoughts. He is lucky the few clansmen who were on the compound were in the meeting hall, otherwise he would’ve received another scolding from Naobito for improperly establishing his rank.
He should’ve stood his ground, furrowed his brows, and demanded respect from the lowest ranked member of the clan. Despite Toji’s status as the son of a direct descendant of the previous head of the Zen’in clan, his cursed energy - or lack thereof - demarcates him as a grade four ‘sorcerer’ with the dishonor of cleaning up others’ messes and taking on near-suicide missions. Naobito described Toji as insignificantly weak, his cousin Jinichi scoffs at even the slightest mention of his younger brother.
But Toji isn’t weak.
Naoya is old enough and smart enough to tell when to pick a fight and when not to pick a fight. Even if his opponent doesn’t have any cursed energy, just reading their movements is enough for the jujutsu prodigy. His martial spirit knows that Toji could manhandle him easily, even if they were the same age.
He thinks he admires the man.
“Naoya!” Shizuko exclaims as she finally finds her son, arms moving to hug the young boy but flinching when a memory reminds her of her place. A new bruise has blossomed across her face, an ugly shade of purple that stands out against old yellowed marks. Her makeup remains immaculate, but her robes tell a far different story. “Why are you here? This is the Kukuru Unit training grounds. You should- no, that is fine. But leave, before your father finds out.”
Had Naoya truly wandered that far? The boy’s mind drifts for another second longer before he reaches out a hand to his mother’s face. The pale foundation covers most of the old bruises and splotches over the new one, but it’s a miracle that he hadn’t noticed Shizuko’s wounds until now. Likely all inflicted by Naobito, he thinks, but doesn’t consider much else to his mother’s wounds. Punishments were always deserved, the clan head always declared with a degree of haughtiness. It was safer to discipline an innocent clansman than to let a guilty one go unscathed.
Call Naoya sick and twisted for applying the same logic to the mother who had birthed him, but he doesn’t doubt his father’s words. To him, those words may as well have been personally delivered by the Shinto gods with all the authority Naobito has in the Zen’in clan.
It is only when Naoya and Shizuko arrive back in the main complex does Naoya see the extent of his father’s fury.
A smashed set of teacups and a teapot lay on the wooden engawa with a young woman sprawled right beside them. Blood drips from her nose and onto the floor, but no one moves to assist her. Naoya does not recognize her, but the small sachet on her hip tells him that she belongs to the Haru clan, a small branch family recognized only to be maidservants and cooks for the main family.
Shizuko steps a bit closer to Naoya, instinctively moving to shield her son from the violence despite the said source of the violence living within their walls. But she knows her place and that Naoya should not be hidden from Naobito’s sight when enraged. When he was drunk, that was worse, but the boy had enough sense to accompany his father’s ceremonial drinking at meetings.
There, in one of the flowered courtyards with a pond just large enough to house a koi, Naobito pauses to take a swig of his red gourd. He turns, scanning his surroundings for any defiant clan member that should be taught their place, before his eyes land on Naoya. He raises a hand and beckons the young boy to come closer, to leave his mother.
The boy obeys, finally taking a deep bow before his own father, who is two steps below him on the engawa. “I greet the clan head.” He repeats the same greeting drilled into him by two years of etiquette lessons. “Did you call for me, father?”
Naobito scoffs, a hand absentmindedly rising to smooth out his mustache. The elders in the meeting hall have long exited, with some standing just beyond the courtyard, a careful eye kept on the rampaging clan head. Many have sworn their loyalty to Naobito, but the clan’s politics and their intentions are something even a child like Naoya could see the existence of. One wrong step and the clan head could be deposed of.
But there was nothing to criticize yet. Women were not treated as equals in the Zen’in clan, closer to possessions and objects than they are human beings. One of the Haru clan’s ranks mattered even less so than that of a wife of a sorcerer, as they were incapable of utilizing their cursed energy compared to a sorcerer’s wife who could at least fight. And besides, the unnamed girl had made a mistake first. It was fully within Naobito’s rights to punish her, so long it wasn’t excessive. But excessive was a judgment imposed by the very same clan elders whose platform had been built on stripping those very same women of their identity.
“Oversee the next clan meeting at my side. It’s time for you to understand the court and more importantly, the values the Zen’in clan holds close.” Naobito drawls, his eyes laser focused on the first person to break free from their surroundings. He silently dares anyone to assist her and meet the same fate, if not worse. Sorcerers would be sent directly to the disciplinary pit and regular clansmen would be stripped of their rank. “Meet me in my study after dinner. And someone, clean this mess up.”
Naoya nodded politely, eyes darting off to the side as he watched two men quickly dart in and carry the Haru clan girl away, with another coming in to sweep up the shattered remains of an undoubtedly priceless tea set.
Silently, he feels an echo of pride within his heart despite the grimness of the situation. His father had recognized him as necessary to the clan through his order for Naoya to attend future meetings. While he had long been recognized as the heir of the Zen’in clan for his fated inheritance of his father’s technique, he had yet to bear the responsibility of an heir and as a result, failed to be respected by elders as the heir.
He moves to leave, giving his father another bow as a goodbye, before making his way to the clan’s archival room. Naoya cannot attend the private meeting with his father unprepared, he notes as he remembers the first time that had happened. He was promptly kicked out from Naobito’s personal study and told to reflect upon his actions in the very public clan archive he was standing in now.
His chest swells with an indescribable amount of self-pride at his own growth. Mistakes, many praised, were a one-time thing for the young genius of the Zen’in clan. He could adapt to any situation and was highly intelligent, with his only limitation being his age. If only they had Six Eyes and Limitless running through their blood, then Naoya could’ve usurped the Gojo clan’s dominance in the Heisei era. But the chance at Ten Shadows and the presence of the powerful Projection Sorcery technique was enough for them to dominate the Kamo clan, at the very least.
Naoya suspected that his father was likely going to discuss the clan’s political atmosphere tonight, but also that he was going to be severely drunk. While it didn’t necessarily equate to incorrect or slightly-off information, Naobito’s drunken state was a Naobito that Naoya didn’t want to deal with.
He notices a relevant book on the fifth shelf of the second case of the fifth row. He stretches upwards, his heels arching and straining in an attempt to reach the tantalizing fruit of knowledge, but nearly falls flat on his butt with indignity after several moments of trying.
“Need a little help, Naoya-sama?”