The chamber was built for intimidation.
A round hall of black stone, lit by hanging lanterns that swayed just enough to make shadows ripple across the walls. At its center lay a polished table carved in a perfect circle, lacquered in black so that faces reflected faintly on its surface. Around it, seats were arranged with meticulous order: no one above or below, no one visibly superior — yet everyone knew that hierarchy coiled invisibly in the room like a serpent.
The Higher-ups presided silently, their pale robes pooled at the far end of the circle. Their presence was less human than ritual — symbols of order, guardians of tradition. They would rarely speak. The real war was fought among the clan heads.
Kenzou Hoshigaki sat with his cane across his lap, Renji a step behind his shoulder. His thin body looked fragile under the weight of ceremonial robes, but his eyes — sharp, cold, threaded with steel — never wavered.
Across from him lounged Naobito Zen'in, his fan flicking lazily as though this entire gathering were a farce. Beside him, the towering presence of a Zen'in bodyguard — a brutal reminder of the clan's physical power.
A seat away, a scion of the Kamo Clan, polite mask fixed in place, every word he spoke weighed with careful deceit. Behind him, a bodyguard watched silently, cursed energy coiling like smoke.
And at the far end, a representative of the Gojo Clan — not Gojo Satoru himself, but an older relative, white-haired, his presence calm yet smug, as though simply being Gojo blood made the outcome predetermined.
The silence stretched until it snapped.
Naobito tapped his fan against the table. "Three months now since the Takashiro began their… experiments. Rumors spread like weeds. Some say they cultivate curses. Others whisper… binding vows with outsiders." He smirked, eyes narrowing on Kenzou. "You're close to them, aren't you, boy?"
A ripple ran through the table. Heads turned.
Renji stiffened, but Kenzou's expression didn't shift an inch. His voice was soft, smooth, cutting.
"Close?" He tilted his head faintly. "If proximity alone equated to alliance, then the Zen'in would already be in bed with every curse festering in the shadows of their own compound."
A sharp intake of breath. Several bodyguards moved subtly, cursed energy stirring.
Naobito's smirk faltered into a thin line. "Sharp tongue for one so brittle."
"And yet," Kenzou said, leaning on his cane, "it cuts all the same."
The Higher-ups did not intervene. They never did. Words were weapons; the blood drawn was political.
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The Kamo scion smoothed his robes, voice silk. "Infighting will serve none of us. If the Takashiro are indeed trafficking in curses, then surely cooperation is wiser than division."
"Cooperation?" the Gojo representative's lips curled. "That word always tastes false when spoken by a Kamo. Tell me — is it the same cooperation your clan used when experimenting with blood manipulation on children?"
The politeness cracked for a heartbeat. The Kamo scion's smile grew thinner, eyes flicking with venom. "History is the burden of the strong. We carry it so that weak clans are not crushed under its weight." His gaze drifted, deliberately, to Kenzou.
The barb was clear: the Hoshigaki were not yet centuries-deep like the big three. A young clan. A fragile thread in the tapestry.
Renji tensed, hand curling at his side. But before he could speak, Kenzou lifted a hand slightly, silencing him. His voice rang clear.
"The young survive because the old grow complacent. Roots rot when left unchecked. Perhaps it is time for the new to prune the ancient."
The silence that followed was heavier than steel. A declaration, veiled as a proverb. The Hoshigaki were not here to bow.
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The Higher-ups finally stirred. A voice like dry paper filled the chamber.
"Balance is paramount. The Takashiro are under scrutiny. But know this: curses rise in number. If clans cannot hold their territories… society will assign them to others."
A threat. A promise.
The Zen'in chuckled darkly. "Then let us pray the Hoshigaki's courtyard of children grows into warriors quickly. Otherwise, their land, their technique, their future… will be in need of stronger stewardship."
Renji's jaw tightened. Kenzou did not flinch. Instead, he let the threat hang in the air, his silence a blade sharper than reply.
Because in silence, the imagination worked harder than any retort.
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When the meeting adjourned hours later, no resolution had been reached — but the air was thick with intent. Alliances hinted at, rivalries sharpened, curses rumored.
As Kenzou and Renji left the black-stone hall, lanterns guttering behind them, Renji spoke low.
"They're circling us. Like wolves. Waiting for the first weakness."
Kenzou's cane clicked softly against the stone floor. His eyes, weary but burning, reflected the faint light.
"Then we give them no weakness to bite. We will show them that even a frail thread, woven correctly, can bind an entire tapestry in place."
And in the shadows behind them, unseen, a presence stirred. Not a clan. Not a human. Something darker. The rumors of Takashiro curses were not just whispers.
They were real.