Chapter 3: Money, Weapons, and More Money
My right hand traces a clean, easy arc. My knife is blocked smoothly, sparks flashing for a split second where the katana and the knife cross — but my opponent is already driving a thrusting lunge with his free left hand, the second katana aimed straight at my stomach. Dark green cursed energy flares for a moment like flame, reinforcing and strengthening my right arm enough to deflect the blade. My palm releases the knife handle, and the blade spins through the air, dropping downward. I want to catch the grip with my left hand, drop into a sharp low burst using the advantage of my small frame — but I'm forced to snap backward instead. My teacher has abruptly accelerated, and by my calculations, I won't be able to catch the knife and strike without wounding myself in the process of the counterattack.
"Ho-ho-ho! Excellent reaction, Naoya-sama."
My teacher crossed the katanas in front of him, smiling with satisfaction. Like a wretched old fox. I had never liked that smile — it was unsettling and deeply uncomfortable.
"No need to flatter me, old man Choijuro."
"Ah… I'm still an 'old man' in your eyes, am I? Doesn't my hairstyle make me look younger — what do they call it — *stylish?!*" He tried to gesture toward his perfectly trimmed ash-gray mohawk, which prompted me to exhale with tired resignation. I wasn't going to give him false hope. I would tell him the unvarnished truth.
"Honestly? With it, you look more like a clown than a master, *master.*"
"What would you do without a weapon?"
"A weapon gives an advantage — but it shouldn't define us. It should only be a complement to our own strength."
My teacher nodded — satisfied, silent, calm. He was pleased with my answer, but he had no intention of ending the fight. Neither of us had conceded defeat yet.
I activated the Projection Sorcery technique. My own semi-transparent white figure appeared before me, laying out the path I needed to follow — and if I failed to complete and replicate it within those twenty-four frames in that one second, I would simply freeze in place for a full second. From a low stance, I covered the distance between us smoothly. My fist struck him in the side with the force of a cannonball.
The second passed.
"Argh!" The old man's face twisted in pain, his body tilting slightly away from the force and momentum of the blow — but he didn't lose his composure. He planted his left foot immediately for balance and brought a katana down from overhead, aimed directly at my head.
Projection.
I couldn't see it yet, but I could already feel the necessary path forming in my mind. My foot planted, and I launched into an instant sliding retreat, left hand catching the knife by the handle. In a very low crouch, I planted my right hand on the ground for support, ready for the final burst.
Projection.
I was already emerging in front of my target, rising — and stopping abruptly, because I had "accidentally" aimed far too obviously for my opponent's throat. Choijuro had read the intention and crossed his two katana blades in front of him. The final result: a draw. His blades were dangerously crossed at my neck, and my knife was centimeters from his.
"My apologies, Choijuro-san." I drew it out with a tired, vaguely disappointed tone — performing the impression that I was the one disappointed in myself. Unlike me, my teacher did not share my casual attitude or my air of disappointment. He was very, very quiet. I could practically see a bead of tense sweat rolling down his temple.
"I was too predictable, wasn't I?"
"Y-yes." He answered uncertainly, and we lowered our weapons at the same moment. Exhaustion and shortness of breath hit me all at once. Projection Sorcery was powerful, but it placed a brutal load on the body. "How long have you been able to use your father's technique?"
"Since yesterday. I wanted to show off — make something of a surprise." I put on the most ordinary childlike smile. "The technique itself isn't especially complicated, but the strain on the body is quite terrible. Which is why I can only project it three times in a row within an hour. On the fourth attempt, my body will start giving out even if I execute it perfectly. On top of that, if I fail the execution, I freeze in place for a full second — and in a fight, that's an unaffordable luxury. And even after a perfect execution, I come out of it coughing blood, with every muscle burning or going completely numb from the punishment."
In truth, the technique had one more application — freezing an opponent with a single touch. But I hadn't used that for obvious reasons. One second of inaction, and my knife would have been in his heart. The truth was, I didn't want to win — at least not like that. I had no interest in generating unnecessary rumors about my own genius. Better to let a few "weaknesses" show, ones the instructors could work with. Let them believe that honor, dignity, and respect were things I actually cared about.
A year had passed, and I was now a grand total of nine years old. Yes — nine whole years. In that time, not a great deal of significant things had occurred. I had learned to use Projection Sorcery, more or less conditioned my body, and finally resolved the money question.
As it turned out, my investment had genuinely paid off. Exactly as predicted. After a year, the "lost" billion yen had returned — and brought an additional two hundred to three hundred million into our treasury. I didn't press for the exact figures. What mattered was that our clan had been forced to adapt and accept new methods of income, bound by a particularly favorable contract with Apple Corp. I didn't dig into the details, but the clan's financial manager confirmed that they had secured a percentage from technology sales — a very, very advantageous arrangement. Yes, the percentage was only around four or five points, but the financial group was confident it was the best possible outcome. I wasn't sure why, but they were genuinely curious about my opinion on the matter. Probably because I was the reason all of it had happened in the first place. I agreed. I didn't add much detail — I simply explained that people would be drawn to innovative technology, and that this particular company would remain consistently popular because of its leader and the ideas it championed.
My debt evaporated. The punishment was lifted. My father was proud of me and offered formal apologies. I chose to be gracious about it, expressing that I had understood his reasons for the distrust, the anger, and the punishment, and held no resentment toward him or the clan for any of it.
Outwardly, I might have looked like a genuinely selfless angel made flesh.
Inwardly, I was experiencing something close to pure bliss, savoring a private triumph and laughing, almost viciously, at the entire situation — because my personal anonymous account now held a little over two billion yen. I felt a touch of embarrassment accepting my father's "bonus" — a gift of five million yen for my successful work and contribution to the clan — but I didn't refuse it or play at being a noble, honorable, selfless soul. That kind of performance would have looked far too suspicious coming from someone like me. Everyone could already see that spark of madness and that acquisitive streak in me, which meant any genuinely open assistance on my part was automatically read as a trick or a game.
I was spinning an ordinary military tactical knife in my left palm. America had always known how to make good instruments for killing. Serrated on the spine, and the blade itself I sharpened against a whetstone in my room almost every day. The activity was calming. There would come a time when I'd be testing the knife not on enemies, but on myself. Blood was fuel — or paint for drawing a picture on the canvas of our lives. The philosophical nonsense that rattled around in my head sometimes was truly something.
"Well! I promised you a gift! Let's go, Naoya!"
My father came in without knocking, threw the door open, and planted his hands on his hips with an air of importance. My right hand was holding the tablet, through which I was quietly checking my current balance. I was still working out where to invest next. Pulling in this kind of money had been satisfying, but I needed more — which meant thinking about which business to put the funds into. I needed my balance to keep growing, not sit still. That could wait, though. I instinctively logged out of my account to cut off any possible breach or identification of my personal sum, then swiped to lock the screen.
"Mm. Let's go take a look."
The Zenin clan had an entire underground tunnel network, with specialized rooms, vaults, and training spaces distributed throughout. I had heard that Ogi Zenin — the future husband of Misaki, and future genuinely terrible father of Maki and Mai — trained and refined his swordsmanship down here in private. He didn't particularly interest me. I hadn't signed on as a psychologist or a philosopher, and attempting to change the worldview of someone fanatically devoted to tradition and custom was pointless and thankless work. This place was excellent for meditation, cultivating and developing cursed energy, and accessing the training arena — referred to as the "discipline pit." The clan had somehow managed to lure curses ranked Grade 2 and below into it, kept in check by special barriers that prevented them from crossing a defined perimeter.
Every corridor was immaculate. Walls and floor built from marble. Every meter of flooring was tile laid in a checkerboard pattern. Each step produced the hollow echo of my wooden sandals. Each step sent a vibration through the air, distorting the shadows cast by the dim torches on the walls. I wasn't tracking each shadow. I wasn't looking at the ceiling, the floor, or the walls — I was staring straight ahead, as if in a trance.
What was I trying to see?
What did I want to feel?
What did I want to say?
Nothing. There was nothing around me and there shouldn't have been — but something existed. Some invisible haze. As if someone had left behind cigarette smoke tinged with mint. Or… no. Not quite. The corridor carried a peculiar, interesting, and pleasant smell — like ozone. Like air after rain. There was a faint, invisible pressure here that I could almost reach out and touch.
"Hm… so that's how it is."
"Naoya…?"
"This might sound very strange — not entirely normal — but I think I can taste cursed energy on my tongue." I stuck my tongue out demonstratively and pointed at it. A flicker of cursed energy appeared on my tongue instinctively. Black-green flame, as though I were genuinely tasting it, sampling it, experiencing it directly. The concentration and release of it in front of me was abnormal.
Was that how it was supposed to be?
"I've heard of that phenomenon — but I've never heard of anyone experiencing it passively, in ordinary daily life, without constant stress, a negative emotional state, or standing at the edge of death in the middle of a fight."
Oh. Seriously? I hadn't known that. Or more precisely — that particular fact about this world hadn't stuck in my memory. My recollection of every fragment and detail of this world was far from perfect. Cursed energy was "Darkness" — not to be confused with "Evil." Yes, that aspect wasn't always the most pleasant, kind, or benevolent thing — but within it, one could find comfort, salvation, and strength by accepting that this Dark Aspect existed inside you. By accepting the fact that you yourself were "Evil."
"*Khe-he-he-he…* Is that so?" I quietly, almost imperceptibly tried to conceal my amusement and the silent confirmation. My father heard but said nothing. He understood better than anyone that this profession altered the mind, shaped and built a personality through one's relationship with that power. Training and discipline allowed one to bring such instinctive surges under control. Proven in practice.
Wretched sadists.
Everyone could use it without understanding why — because of instinct alone. We fought, killed, and died for reasons we didn't fully comprehend ourselves. Some simply wanted to feel "alive" through it, and the same applied to Special Grade curses. Only through killing could they find and see their true purpose. I believed that even following feelings and instincts, one could find a particular balance. I had found my own personal understanding of cursed power. It was almost funny to me — but I didn't laugh. I dropped my gaze and walked silently after my father, jaw clenched shut by force of will. My face twisted into an ugly, hideous, nearly monstrous smile — the grin of a madman who had found enlightenment in his own deranged truth.
Massive double gates — nearly five meters tall. An ancient lock, visibly rusted, held together crossing chains. There was clearly some kind of seal on it, though I couldn't parse the runic structure or replicate it. Not my area. An old key ignited in a flame of cursed energy, and at the moment it slid into the lock, I felt a familiar tingle. The flame sank into the lock. Two turns clockwise, one counterclockwise.
"You're permitted to take only one weapon. I won't be explaining the properties of each. Trust your instincts."
*"Instincts?! What the hell do 'instincts' have to do with this?!"* I very much wanted to say that aloud, but I held back the urge. Seriously, who does that? Was he simply too lazy to explain, or was there something more to it? Right — local cursed tools absorbed a portion of cursed energy, which meant their potential was entirely dependent on synchronization. And besides, the clan didn't rely heavily on tools — only technique and raw power. If I chose wrong, I could always find something more suitable later, based on what actually mattered to me in a fight.
I stepped forward and looked around slowly. I didn't allow any excitement or eagerness to show on my face regarding what I was seeing. Nearly everything stored here was of average quality. I had been hoping to find either the Inverted Spear of Heaven — a peculiar dagger or short sword capable of nullifying cursed techniques — or the Katana of Soulslash, a fairly massive blade capable of striking directly at the soul and, as a pleasant bonus, ignoring physical defenses entirely. Both were most likely either hidden or currently in someone's possession. The latter should have been with us, but the Inverted Spear of Heaven had almost certainly been acquired by the Time Vessel Association — a local group of religious fanatics.
Ah, Star Vessel and Tengen. Hmm. What to do about them? That was a problem for later. There was still time. Satoru Gojo had to be around eleven years old right now, which meant I had approximately five or six years. Because the "merger" window and the assassination contract on the vessel would arise at some unspecified point after she was identified and her fate determined. My memories painted a clear picture of that innocent, pure, and beautiful group enjoying life and resting on a beach.
My gaze landed on an unusual katana. It drew me in — both by its appearance and its construction. Some kind of ancient relic. The handle was nothing more than an old steel tube, with no hint of wrapping. The guard was worn but had kept its round shape. When I drew the blade, I saw nothing but deep scratches, surface scars, and pitiful nicks. I lightly bit my index finger and let a drop of blood run along the metal. Blood allowed me to read the memory of a weapon. It had lain here for a long time. A very long time. An otherworldly, foreign, alien sensation — and at the same time, achingly familiar. A sense of kinship.
*You truly are an outcast in this place, aren't you…*
"No, Naoya. Choose something else." My father muttered disapprovingly from behind me, having realized what had caught my eye.
"The material…?"
"Meteoric ore. Its only virtue is durability."
I had thought as much. The weapon was aching, weeping, and suffering. Unable to explain, unable to show or tell, unable to reveal its true face — because no one had ever understood its language. Cursed energy allowed one to "understand" a weapon, but very few could receive an "answer" back. Because, in part, all cursed weapons were born through our own power. Our bodies and souls were the primary component for cultivating this "harvest." We generated "darkness" to erase "darkness."
"It's been here a long time, hasn't it."
"Since the very founding of the clan. No one remembers its history anymore. Extremely durable — but mediocre and unreliable as a weapon. No one in the clan can channel cursed energy through it cleanly: constant ruptures, distortions, interruptions. The katana is still kept here only in case nothing else remains."
"Can I have it? No one uses it anyway."
"Collecting junk?" He asked, tiredly.
"I'm drawn to rare things."
"Collecting junk," my father confirmed calmly, and gave his permission. I didn't argue or try to prove otherwise. I returned the blade to its black scabbard, found a black cord, and fastened it to the edge of the scabbard and through the opening of the guard. I slung the cord over my shoulder, and the weapon settled comfortably across my back.
A couple of minutes later, I felt another very familiar sense of kinship. A black dagger with an unusually curved blade. The very structure of the metal gave the impression not of steel but of stone — like smooth, gentle, pleasant black marble beneath the fingers.
"Not the worst weapon for you — but not the best either. Once the weapon's power is activated, its sharpness, durability, and force increase significantly, but it will demand blood as payment. The stronger the target, the higher the price. It can return to your hand after being thrown, homing in on a source of bleeding. A greedy, unpleasant, and thoroughly inconvenient weapon to use consistently — because to keep it fully active, you need to be bleeding. Maintaining your bond with it."
Was this cosmic irony, luck, or pure coincidence? What my father said was only part of the truth. Bleeding constantly wasn't required. Only maintaining the blood bond.
"I'll take it."
There was no scabbard for it, so the set came with special wrappings that masked the aura of the cursed item. This prevented curses from being spooked by it, allowing a strike when the enemy least expected it. The weapon could be fed not only one's own blood, but another person's.
I was released to rest, with a strict prohibition on immediately beginning to practice with the weapons. My father needed to reconsider my training regimen now that my selection was made.
I returned my attention to the financial side of things. I needed to invest in a stable and substantial business — but the problem was obvious: I was a minor and couldn't independently enter into financial contracts or agreements. Someone would need to sign on my behalf and then transfer full rights to the business once I turned eighteen. Could I find a trustworthy and honest individual who would be loyal to me rather than to the Zenin clan?
Toji wasn't the worst option — but from what I'd heard, he had a gambling habit, and he hadn't contacted me yet. I had a brilliant idea forming, but I was forced to set it aside temporarily: my personal phone rang. An unfamiliar number. I gave my personal number to almost no one, which meant only one thing.
"The bold kid from the Zenin clan?" That voice was impossible not to recognize. Toji Zenin.
"I'm Naoya. Yes."
"Listen, I've got a small… request."
"I'm listening."
The "small request" turned out to be none other than Miss Fushiguro — a woman he had met this year, fallen completely head over heels for, and was already planning to first marry and then have a child with. As it happened, he was planning to leave the clan in the very near future, take her surname, and begin a quiet, peaceful life. The problem had been brewing inside him — or perhaps during the process of making that decision. He might not have remembered my face or my name, but he had genuinely remembered my offer, and my so-called warning, or prophecy.
"You don't need to continue — I understand completely. A bilateral contract. We'll discuss the terms and specifics in person. You help me, I help you."
"I was just hoping you'd throw some money at her and assign her a bodyguard…"
He had been fully intending to deceive me outright and get a complimentary service from a Zenin-adjacent party — not quite the clan itself. Apparently the latest rumors in the clan had reached his ears as well.
"Too simple a solution for a not-so-simple problem, Toji-san." I had the impression he could somehow see my knowing smile through the line, because he exhaled — tired and resigned.
Until Megumi arrived, I still had time to make use of Toji, and after that, I would need to tighten security and save his partner from her fate. I couldn't say with certainty that no one would touch her in the years between now and then. I knew that Megumi would be born in December 2002, and the twins in January of that same year. Until then, having such a useful and capable figure within reach was extremely advantageous. I only needed a safeguard in case he decided to break the agreement.
And yet — I was still genuinely struck by it. That someone had managed to reach this two-meter wall of abrasiveness and change him enough that he wanted a new, quiet life.
Before any threats materialized and her life came under danger, I needed to determine my own future income stream. What kind of structure had been operating stably for a long time, relatively safely, without risking the attention or wrath of the government? Every person occasionally wanted to feel the pleasant rush of a game of chance — and voluntarily, if not always entirely voluntarily, accepted defeat and played again, and again. The time had come to capitalize on human pain, suffering, and desperation for my own benefit. In the end, every person made that decision with at least some degree of awareness, and I bore no direct blame for it. People needed that pleasant dopamine surge in the brain — losing and winning over and over, hoping to turn an unfortunate life into something better and happier.
Was I going to exploit it? If not me, someone else would.
My palm found the appropriate local casino on its own. I swiped through the tablet screen, checking the stock prices — nothing particularly steep or out of reach. All it would take was acquiring the shares, reassigning ownership, and appointing the right trusted person to the right position.
"Future Mister Fushiguro-san — how do you feel about casinos?"