Chapter 1: Adaptation
Before stepping out of my room, I decided to straighten my clothes first. Traditional attire — worn equally for training and everyday life. Under the black kimono was a white button-up shirt with long sleeves. The ensemble was completed by light gray hakama trousers and waraji sandals. Comfortable enough, loosely cut, but I still couldn't get used to this "long skirt." I've always preferred practicality and simplicity. A plain t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers would suit me far better — but this was the local dress code, and standing out within the clan wasn't worth the trouble.
A servant was already waiting at the exit. Her face was familiar, but her name wouldn't come. The funny thing was, neither my previous life nor my current one helped me remember it. It wasn't that I had forgotten her — it was more that the original personality had never considered her worth noticing or remembering.
Wait. Right. Got it.
"Misaki… -san…?"
"Yes, my lord?"
Ah. The manga and anime never mentioned her name — only the fact of what she would do. Well then. Hello, future mother of the twins who will be the reason this clan tears itself apart. What a bitter irony the present situation held. Kill her and be done with it — but that wouldn't solve the clan's problems, or my future. That kind of act would only prove my cowardice, desperation, and depravity. The fastest route to protecting myself, guaranteed to solve all my problems, right?
Confusion was written across her face — a question, an incomprehension. As far as she could recall, I had never once addressed her respectfully, with the "-san" suffix attached. The most common neutral-polite honorific, the one that creates the impression of equals. It almost made me laugh. Like a fish thrown onto dry land, unable to understand why it's been released into an atmosphere it doesn't belong in. Unsure how to react to the change. A trap, mockery, or some cunning game — right?
"Ha-ha-ha-ha, don't worry. I've had a complete shift in perspective today — toward the world and the atmosphere around me — and I see no point in asserting my importance before someone as humble as yourself, Misaki-san. I merely wanted to confirm that I still remembered your name. Though certain members of the clan prefer not to concern themselves with the names of our brave, delightful, beautiful, and diligent servants."
I radiated venom, sarcasm, and cheerfulness in equal measure, then walked calmly forward along the wooden floor toward the training ground. Silence behind me — but I could practically feel her bewilderment against the back of my neck. She didn't know whether it was a lie, a game, or sincerity. I gave her no hints. I didn't want to come across as some bright, noble hero, given my reputation.
As it happened, I was something of a local "genius." I had learned to sense cursed energy earlier than almost anyone else and could channel it through my body with at least moderate precision. Naobito Zenin — my father — had decided to cultivate certain unpleasant character traits in his child from the very beginning of conscious thought. He needed a strong heir who would strive to be stronger, faster, and better than him. And so he had instilled the truth of what was right and what was not within the Zenin clan from the earliest age. No need to worry, sympathize, or care about anything insignificant. Those qualities were weakness. Every sorcerer here was supposed to be selfish, ambitious, and entirely self-focused — because those were the qualities that attracted others. People were drawn to them, wished to serve them or simply be near them. Strength attracted. Naobito understood better than anyone that it wasn't only cursed technique that mattered, but the character of a leader.
In this world, there were no "righteous" sorcerers. Everyone carried their own particular shade of gray. Their own personal reasons for fighting for what they believed in. Using power purely for good was impossible — precisely because of the obviously dark nature of our energy.
I wasn't an outright local scoundrel, but I already displayed my arrogant, dominant, and unrestrained nature. The inheritance obligated me to demonstrate the difference between myself and others. There was simply no longer any point in asserting myself by diminishing the women and girls of the clan.
"A waste of time…" I accidentally voiced the thought out loud, tiredly, and finally stopped in the center of the training ground. I settled into a fighting stance before a training dummy and began the standard drill.
A straight right punch into the torso, driving upward from below. The left delivering a clean hook to the side of the head. I didn't stay stationary — periodically breaking into short lateral sprints. A leg sweep flowing into a tight clinch; breaking distance, then slipping sharply backward only to close the gap again and drive the edge of my palm straight into the neck. My body tingled pleasantly. My heart beat out a steady, rhythmic drumbeat. Warm. Free. Light. The heat fed the soul, and hot blood demanded an outlet.
As it turned out, I had a particular daily schedule I was expected to keep. The Zenin clan's compound was a military camp for forging sorcerers. The stronger the body, the stronger the spirit. That was why continuously refining physical condition was essential — improving not just the quality but the quantity of cursed energy. My own reserves weren't exactly small, but they had certain limits. The local archive made it clear that the most reliable way to increase them was through the negative emotional spectrum: meditation, developing an awareness of its nature, or through extreme situations on the border between life and death.
Grueling training allowed one to feel that negativity while simultaneously strengthening the body — one negative traded against two positives, right? Not quite. These methods were agonizingly slow in improving both flesh and spirit. No one tried, experimented, or attempted to create something more effective. Because they were afraid — and because they had no desire to go against their own customs, order, and rules.
I didn't know how much time had passed since the drill began, but my palms were already coated in thick blood that had formed improvised "gloves" around them. My breathing was heavy, and my body was sheened in a light sweat.
Nearly all martial arts required wounding, breaking, or damaging the body so that it could adapt. That method wasn't for everyone, but personally it suited me — because of the nature of my power. I needed to improve my regenerative capacity by stimulating the red bone marrow. The wounds would serve as a catalyst, signaling the body to improve. It was convenient when the body could receive direct commands from the mind or soul. Blood wouldn't merely flow out — it would begin not only regenerating tissue but producing additional useful material for creating weapons, defense, or healing. And, gradually, it would make the bones harder and more flexible.
Misaki had quietly decided to help me. She interpreted my indifference to the injuries as a silent command. And the fact that I was simply staring at my open palms might have given the impression I was waiting for assistance. I didn't stop her, and I let her wrap my palms in bandages.
"Naoya…? Overdid it?"
That voice was impossible not to recognize. My father. He wore a light gray haori over a dark blue yukata, black hakama, white tabi, and zori sandals. His long, thin English-style mustache gave the impression he enjoyed twirling it in his spare time while striking a thoughtful sage's pose. He asked curiously, with a note of inquiry — while almost imperceptibly evaluating at the same time. His palm rested on his chin.
Misaki pretended not to notice the arrival of the senior figure. Direct action was needed on my part to save face — because I was responsible for her. The way one is responsible for a personal object or tool.
Ugh. Had I mentioned that the local feudal culture was starting to turn my stomach? She had even put my sandals on for the previous me. If that wretch had once felt some pleasant sense of dominance and power over a weaker soul, now I felt nothing but revulsion toward myself. Because I was some spoiled, pathetic child who couldn't perform such a simple action on his own?
"Just a little," I answered all the same. My free left palm smoothed my hair back, which allowed the blood to nearly tuck the bangs into place entirely. A few strands still hung over my forehead, but I didn't particularly care about that right now. "Enough. Stand back."
A simple command — carrying no anger or hatred, toward her or toward myself. Just a dry statement of fact. Misaki quietly closed her eyes, inclined her head in a low bow, and stepped back behind me.
"Something changed in you. Something I can't quite place — or am I imagining it?"
What a terrifying perceptiveness. To spot a fluctuation, a fleeting detail, a fault that only he could see, almost at first glance. They say a parent can easily sense when their child has been replaced — even if the child looks virtually unchanged on the surface.
"Ah, that…" I almost concealed the feigned awkwardness, scratching the back of my head and performing a look of mild embarrassment. "I happened to run into the clan's 'mistake,' and it… shook me, to put it mildly. That encounter — if you could even call it that — seems to have changed me from the inside. Our culture, traditions, and hierarchy have always been built on the idea that the best Zenin is the one who possesses cursed energy and techniques. But that doesn't apply to him."
My father exhaled — tired, almost resigned — and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. He relaxed instantly and accepted it, but at the same time began quietly correcting my understanding of what I had witnessed. Because a strong heir shouldn't attach importance to insignificant figures. The next sentence confirmed it.
"You shouldn't give it too much weight. He is an Anomaly. The sole exception in our system. He earned our respect through a kind of strength that almost no one in this world can attain."
"But he's useful to us, isn't he?"
"I see where you're going with this, Naoya. The Heavenly Restriction can't simply appear in someone else."
"I wasn't talking about Toji. Or anyone like him."
"Then what were you talking about?"
"May I…" I began carefully, shaping an equally careful question in my head. "…stop expressing contempt and hatred toward people who might be useful to us?"
"Of course you may! Why wouldn't you?!" His smile stretched into something sharper, and his smirk grew a shade more cunning. "Already thinking about gathering your own retinue?"
"Perhaps. I don't think Toji-san can be easily 'tamed.' His gaze, and the aura around him — both said without words that he couldn't care less about almost everything around him…" I trailed off at the end, and in the manner of my father, placed my palm thoughtfully on my chin and looked away.
Naobito let out a short laugh at the realization of my audacity — and what was an almost laughably childish ambition: taking into service a soul as willful as Toji Zenin. He nearly teared up. I held my expression with dignity, but it still stung — my father looked at it as nothing more than a child's whim.
"That's true. No one expected he could simply let go of his hatred for our clan like that. A handsome salary likely plays no small role…" He casually tossed the idea of bribery my way, but I didn't take such an obvious bait. Toji Zenin wasn't so easily bought. If it were that simple, the clan head and the council would have leveraged him to strengthen their influence long ago.
"Well then — that's settled. You already sense cursed energy well enough. That means it's time for you to learn my technique. I want to pass it on to you. Listen carefully and watch…"
Ah, yes. Projection Sorcery. His signature. It divided a single second into twenty-four frames; once programmed, the user followed those movements precisely. Anyone touched by the user was also forced to follow the rule of 1/24th of a second — or be frozen in place. The problem lay at its root. Two obvious weaknesses made the technique vulnerable against powerful opponents. Special Grade curses, for instance, could be faster, or possess the reaction speed to predict the trajectory. That was exactly how my father would die — and exactly how a future version of me would lose to Maki.
I stood calmly in place, my gaze following my father in an easy, detached way as he launched into a burst of movement using his technique. He closed the distance between us almost instantaneously and appeared at my back.
"You were… watching me, Naoya?"
Damn it. What an idiot I am. I had instinctively accelerated my perception, cycling blood from the brain to the eyes. The swollen, strained veins were all the proof needed of my blunder — my carelessness, my lack of caution. I calmly turned my head over my shoulder toward him. My father waited with a stern, serious expression, clearly expecting an explanation.
"Y-yes…?" Denying it was pointless. He'd seen. I needed to invent a convincing story. Think, think, think. Got it. "Father — the moment you started moving, everything around me felt like it slowed down. Like it distorted and became… sharper?" I pushed a little more blood to the brain, deliberately inducing overload. Blood welled instantly from the corners of my eyes, followed by a bloody cough I caught against my palm.
"Distorting and accelerating your perception of the surroundings by instinctively flooding cursed energy into the brain? Hmph. Interesting. You truly are a unique and talented child, Naoya. Learn to control it. Analyzing an enemy's attack will serve you extremely well."
Inwardly, I exhaled with relief and nearly cheered. Excellent. The theory itself was simple — but putting it into practice to achieve what my father had demonstrated would require thoroughly conditioning my body for the strain ahead.
I didn't try to argue or offer any contribution to his technique. I was seven years old. I couldn't know better than my father. The right move was to accept this gift quietly and be grateful. Feigning gratitude was easy. Concealing the horror at what training would entail? Impossible.
As it turned out, Toji's brother by the name of Jinichi was responsible for physical conditioning within the Zenin clan — and that muscle-bound brute of a man ran me like a dog across the entire hall. Hundreds of squats, hundreds of push-ups, leg stretches, arm stretches — it felt like someone wanted to tear me in half. Jinichi surveyed my resolve in silence and with complete indifference, then offered a calm and measured:
"…Well done. Your abnormal endurance and resilience appear to be a consequence of the cursed energy's influence during your internal shift. Just as Naobito-sama predicted."
Ugh. So that was why he'd driven me so mercilessly today. They wanted to gauge the limits of my endurance? Well, how convenient. Almost everything unusual happening to me could be attributed to the fact that I had "changed," and that change had accelerated the flow of cursed energy through my body and soul.
I was released to rest. Evening had arrived; the sunset was sinking pleasantly behind the horizon, and a cool breeze wrapped itself blissfully around my damp, dirty, exhausted body. Misaki handed me a towel and announced, in her near-indifferent manner, that the traditional bath would be ready in five minutes. The household staff carried out this standard routine nearly every day — providing everything necessary for the clan's continued prosperity.
"Prosperity, hm…"
A strange and foreign nostalgia settled over me — for a past that no longer held much meaning. The blame lay with the petals of the tree known as the sakura. They drifted through the air, and one of them alighted by chance onto my right palm. The sakura embodied the transience of life, fragility, beauty, and renewal. The ancient tree — nearly a hundred years old — standing at the center of the clearing was both a landmark and a warning. Everyone must do their utmost to ensure this fleeting life is not spent in vain. In the name of the clan, you must make your contribution and prove that you genuinely deserve to be here.
"What a joke." My palm smeared the petal, tore it apart, and let it go, while a predatory smile attached itself to my face on its own. For one person, it was truth and profound value. For another — absolute nonsense. The smile faded, disappeared, and sank into an endless, indifferent void. My personal "babysitter" was still trailing behind me, and I now had an opportunity to send her somewhere far away.
"Misaki — you're free for the evening. You may rest."
"Thank you, my lord." She bowed deeply and left, and I finally exhaled with relief.
Everything after that was straightforward to the point of being dull. Found the local bathhouse, met a couple of clan members inside it, and confirmed the existence of their advanced brainwashing system — calibrated to the level of the Middle Ages. The era of proud and "worthy" samurai who lived for the clan, while simultaneously exploiting their status to oppress the servants who were simply doing their jobs.
"More heat! A man could freeze in here!" One of them knocked on the wall, a second one burst out laughing like a horse, while a third quietly poured a ladleful of water over his own head. The temperature was over sixty degrees Celsius and that wasn't enough for him? I was wearing nothing but a white towel around my waist.
"Are you cold, Daiki-oni-san? Perhaps I can help?!"
"Huh—?!" The man stared at me with bulging eyes. His distorted face and the smell of sake made it clear he was drunk. Someone had mentioned earlier that one of the clan members was celebrating a birthday today. "Naoya?! Ha — you're alright, kid! Not shaken at all, just sitting there! Not like the others!"
His face was beet red and satisfied, dark hair flopping carelessly into his eyes. I was honestly surprised he recognized me at all. I couldn't pin down his age precisely — somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, most likely. The faces here all looked more or less the same. So forgettable. I was probably just as red from the heat, but I held myself steady. Hardening myself. The body and spirit refreshed alike.
I grabbed a bamboo whisk — first in one hand, then the other — and proceeded to give him an improvised massage, slapping his back, arms, legs, and backside with moderate force. Between the heat, the steam, and the alcohol, he passed out completely. His clanmates had to drag him out and carry him back to his room.
After changing, I headed back to my own. I didn't bother with anything and simply dropped backward onto the bed.
The first day had passed more or less pleasantly. Tomorrow I needed to make plans. Observe, listen, and use the information to my advantage. In the meantime, I would find a way to get access to economic data. Japan itself didn't particularly interest me — but other countries? My plans required money, and the fastest route was to invest in something with potential. I needed to look at local stocks and company earnings. Who knew? Maybe even here, it would be possible to predict a rise or a fall. Very few people understood that money alone could resolve most problems. I was no exception.
I settled comfortably under the blanket and fell asleep quickly.