Chapter Text
The cold air of the Zenin compound's interior bit at his skin the moment he gasped awake.
"Gah!... Haaa...haaa...haaa..haaah."
His small chest heaved beneath a dark kimono, the fabric crumpling in his fists as he clutched at his sternum. His breath came out in pale, trembling plumes that dissolved into the winter gloom. He stayed still, letting the frigid air drag the panic out of his lungs.
"I'm...alive?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Wide eyes stared at the wooden ceiling beams above, unblinking. Just a moment ago, he, Naoya Zenin, was cut in half—top to bottom—by his accursed low life of a bitch cousin that is Maki.
Goosebumps rose along his bare arms and the nape of his neck. No… that's not correct.
His body trembled—a violent, full-body shudder that rattled the floorboards beneath the thin futon. His jaw tightened. His fingernails dug crescents into his palms. That's right. What he's feeling currently is rage. There's no world in the whole existence where he would ever feel fear towards a woman!
"That bitch…! How dare she! Even though she's only a woman!"
His voice cracked on the last word—childlike and reedy. Not good. He's getting agitated again. His small shoulders rose and fell as he fell silent, forcing a deep inhale through his nose, then another, then another.
Then he began to get up.
His hakama pants dragged against the tatami mat as he pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly before finding his balance.
"Huh?"
The sound came out higher than he expected. He blinked down at his own hands—small, soft, unmarked by scars or calluses. Then at his torso. The kimono sleeves hung past his fingertips.
"Why am I so short?"
Wait… his voice!
His head snapped toward the far corner of the room. A full-length mirror stood against the wall, its wooden frame dark and polished. In a fit of panic, he ran—small bare feet slapping against the cold tatami—and stopped just inches from the glass.
The reflection staring back was that of a child. Pale cheeks and dark hair that are still messy from sleep. Eyes that were unmistakably his but… set in a face too young than he last remembered.
"I'm young again?!"
Only then did he look around his room. The same room from his earliest memories. There, in one corner, a big piano—he hated the thing—with its lid closed. A low shelf stacked with educational books, their spines still pristine and it was practically untouched—he hated those too—and there were even some books still in their packaging.
The tatami was as immaculate as he remembered. Blue curtains over the window. Blue cushions on the chair by the desk. Blue trim along the sliding doors. So much more blue than he remembered. But it doesn't matter. It's probably his memory that's faulty.
He turned his head slowly, taking it all in. Then his lips curved.
"Hahahahaha."
Laughter he couldn't contain bubbled up from his chest. No, he didn't even make an effort to contain it. He threw his head back, his small hands resting on his hips, and laughed until his throat felt raw.
"I'm... truly blessed by the heavens."
For what else could this mean? Outside, snow began to fall past the blue-framed window. Naoya Zenin was killed by Maki and the next moment, he suddenly found himself back in the past. Surely there's no other way to interpret this. This is a sign from the heavens.
He laughed once again for good measure.
In such a good mood, he went out and descended the stairs—his room is on the second floor—into the yard below. The wooden steps creaked softly under his small, quick feet. He's practically jumping around and being giddy, oftentimes laughing to himself just because of how happy he currently is. Each laugh came out as a high-pitched, carefree sound that echoed off the compound's silence.
He stretched his body and prepared to move. The sleeves of his kimono pulled back as he raised his arms toward the gray winter sky. Snowflakes landed on his exposed wrists, melting instantly.
"...W-what?"
His voice was shaky now, so different from his previous bubbly and arrogant voice. His face had gone slack—jaw slightly dropped, eyes wide and unfocused. Just a moment ago, he tried to activate his technique with his cursed energy and it simply didn't respond.
As if it didn't exist.
His hands lowered slowly, trembling.
"No way...no way, no way, no way. This couldn't be!"
He crouched to the ground and began to roughly clutch his hair in despair. His fingers tangled in his own dark locks, pulling it tight. Even though the snow has been falling since a while ago, he could only feel his body getting cold now. The wind picked up for a moment, sending a flurry of white against his flushed cheeks. Then, he began to feel nauseous.
He's... he's going to get killed by Maki again!
He couldn't hold it anymore and puked. A thin watery mess with nothing but stomach acid spilled out from his mouth, melting the snow that had fallen to the ground in an instant. Time stopped feeling like it existed as he stayed on the ground. His body curled inward, forehead nearly touching the frozen ground, breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
"Naoya-sama!" A voice sounded in alarm from somewhere to his left.
It was a man's voice. Naoya lifted his head slowly—his face pale, lips tinged with bile—and saw a man with quite the amount of cursed energy, he noted, wearing a kimono and hakama. The man's sleeves were dusted with snow, as if he has been standing outside for quite some time. The man's brow was furrowed deeply, his posture rigid with concern. An oddity that his subconscious mind picked on given that if he has this much cursed energy, he should either wear white gi of the Hei or Kukuru uniform.
But he doesn't have any energy to care about that. His eyelids fluttered. His head lolled forward. And then he collapsed sideways into the snow.
.
.
.
.
.
Naoya felt his whole body hot with fever. The tatami beneath him was cool but his skin burned beneath the heavy quilt. The feeling of throbbing in his head caused him to feel weak. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes, wet with tears from the fever. His vision blurred—warm lantern light smearing across the ceiling beams above.
And he saw... people surrounding him. A woman sat to his left with rigid posture and dark hair pulled back neatly. A man sat behind her, his shadows falling on the futon, his arms folded.
Naoya looked at the two people in front of him for a long while in silence. Somehow, the woman reminded him of his father. And the man behind her somehow reminded him of his mother. That's the feeling Naoya got from looking at them, even if that doesn't make much sense.
"You're awake, Naoya." The woman began. Her voice was calm and distant. And even through the haze of his fever, he felt irritation at having a woman call him by his name with no formal address.
He glared at her with as much venom as he could muster in his weakened state. His brows pressed down hard, lips curling back slightly, though his flushed cheeks and tear-streaked face weakened the effect.
"Hoho, that's quite the look. It's the first time I've ever seen it on your face though."
The woman laughed at his attempt at intimidation—one hand lifting to cover her mouth, her shoulders shaking lightly. Well, it's no brainer, even Naoya would laugh if a snot nosed brat tried to intimidate him when they're suffering from fever. Well that, or he'll just beat them up.
"W-who the hell are you?" Naoya said with difficulty. His throat was dry as the words came out raspy, barely above a whisper.
All was suddenly silent. The man behind the woman uncrossed his arms slowly.
"... I'm your mother, Naobi Zenin and this is your father, Morinaka Zenin. Did you really forget that, Naoya?"
…What. No, seriously, what. Naoya's feverish eyes darted between their faces—searching, disbelieving.
"No...that can't be. My father is Naobito. And my mother is Naoki. Who are you people?!" He said the last part in agitation. His small body tried to push itself up from the futon, but his arms shook and gave out, leaving him slumped against the pillow.
The woman who claimed to be his mother stared at him with cold eyes. Her hands began scratching her chin, though her expression did not change and remained as cold as ice.
"Perhaps you have been cursed? Or maybe you're just defective?"
"Defective?!" He could feel veins popping up on his forehead at that word. His fingers clawed into the quilt as knuckles turned white.
"Rest for now, I will assign you our best physician. And if they truly detect that nothing is wrong with you, perhaps you might truly be cursed. If that's truly the case, I will grant you the privilege to be personally exorcised by me seeing as you are my son. Now, rest well."
She rose without another word, her kimono sweeping the floor. The man—Morinaka—lingered for a moment, his gaze unreadable, then turned and followed her toward the sliding door. The wooden frame clicked shut behind them.
Naoya has no energy to do anything at that point besides lying down and wondering what the hell is going on.