Chapter 4: The Clan and the Curses
It seemed as though nothing remained in my life but grueling training. I had grown accustomed to the discipline pit by now. Experience was what I needed — a real understanding of the nature of Curses. Naobito, my father, had anticipated this hunger. The instrument he placed in my hands was a direct answer to my thirst for power — a necessary weapon for exterminating creatures.
My right palm lazily rolls the dagger. The blade, stained with my own blood, dances between my fingers, cutting through the air for milliseconds in a dangerous red-black arc — the mark of cursed energy being released. I had named it Red Fang. Bloodthirsty, insatiable — as if ripped from the maw of a monster whose thirst could never be quenched.
The steel walls of the enclosure periodically slide apart, admitting curses into this improvised arena. Second grades aren't distinguished by speed, but their treachery lies in unique techniques. A giant octopus with fanged mouths lining its tentacles spews acid. A shaggy, naked gnome-like creature grips a rusted, reeking axe and closes in from the other side. A fin belonging to some unknown fish, pushing through the very surface of the walls and floor, literally tears open the physical structure of the room.
It was no surprise that Toji Zenin had passed through this. These things were only dangerous to those who allowed fear to surround them. Give in to panic, and they'd overwhelm you with numbers. That was precisely why the Zenins went through this trial under supervision. The only way to survive was to submerge the mind in cold stillness. Not retreat — analyze. For every enemy movement, a counter. Choose the best option without hesitation. Move, control the distance, and never allow the enemy to breach your sphere of influence. When your speed and strength surpass the enemy's, the fight stops being a fight — it becomes a ritual.
A genuine slaughter.
A step to the side — the spit of acid flies past. The dagger thrown cleanly into the creature's mouth. A jagged fin comes hurtling toward me in an erratic line. I calmly calculated the trajectory: it was aiming for my legs or my groin, trying to bring me down. Irrelevant. My left fist crashes into the floor with a boom, crumbling the concrete tiles and grinding the curse into dust. The ugly shaggy gnome lets out a ridiculous battle cry and charges at full speed. A leap, the rusty axe raised overhead —
"C-C-C-HA-A-A!"
A sharp rotation around my own axis, a burst forward to meet it. Time seemed to warp, its pace slowing. My cursed dagger materialized at my bleeding wrist, forming from the clotted blood. The opponent missed. I ducked beneath the blow, carving an arc through space that split the curse clean in half at the midsection. The last enemy dissolved slowly into black miasma.
"That's enough, Naoya."
Naobito Zenin watched from the entrance to the discipline pit. He had no interest in taking his supervisory role seriously — he simply sat on the floor, unhurriedly taking pulls from his flask.
"There's nothing left here to challenge you. And the rank-and-file clan members are no longer your match," Naobito set down the flask. "You're growing too fast. Sending you on full assignments is still premature — but leaving you to stagnate will only do damage. You've given me quite the problem, Naoya."
"Is something bothering you?" I drawled with a smirk, spreading my arms in a deliberately provoking gesture. I was going for innocent, almost simple-minded — but my father grimaced as if he'd bitten a lemon. My smiles always grated on his nerves. In them, he saw either a snake's nature or a fox's.
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" he muttered. "I just need to figure out how to push you further. Standard exercises are useless, and increasing the physical load won't accomplish anything — the body can't be tricked past the limits of age."
He was right. Partially. That was my deception: blood magic — my hemomancy — had already done its work. I had reinforced my skeleton and woven my muscle structure into a complex defensive network, drawing on a concept from my previous life. My skin had become something like living Kevlar: light, flexible, but extraordinarily durable. I didn't need a mountain of steroid-fueled muscle to possess crushing strength. A balanced, natural physique concealed a monstrous potential beneath its surface. A quality "instrument" mattered more than the image of a strongman. I didn't look like some inflated kid who lived on protein shakes and injections — my body looked entirely natural, even and proportional. From the outside, the musculature was difficult to see. Take the clothes off, and the difference became immediately apparent.
At this point in time, only Toji — "Still-A-Zenin-For-Now" — could afford to walk around looking like a two-meter giant and feel completely comfortable in it. Every one of his muscles had its proper purpose.
Ah. Perhaps I was still a little envious of his build.
The Heavenly Restriction was both a curse and a blessing, in every sense. For Toji, it had been a curse that he had quietly, voluntarily turned into a blessing. The irony was that Toji would soon acquire another "Curse" — one he would name a "Blessing." Without Miss Fushiguro, the simple easy life had finally lost all meaning for him. Leaving this brutal, blood-soaked world only to collapse straight back into it — his own old habits and the thrill of the hunt had become the anchor that dragged him under.
"I need assignments, old man. Experience — not just in combat, but in the political machinations of the Zenin. Working hours: missions with a bodyguard. Free hours: time in the clan. If things start going sideways, I'll fall back and let the guard cover the retreat. I promise not to throw myself at uncharted ranks, and to gradually 'build relationships' within the family."
That last part came out of my mouth sounding like a joke, and for good reason. The Zenin clan was obsessed with power and hierarchy. There were no friends here — only rivals clawing for a larger piece of the pie. I was an exception, being one of the three sons of the clan head. I existed outside the system; my path to the top was laid out by right of birth, and that was precisely why they despised me. Those who had already reached their ceiling looked at me like wolves, barely holding back their snarl. I saw it in every glance they cast my way.
Envy was just one of the sins on which this house was built.
The rank system the clan had adopted from the Sorcerer Council ran from fourth grade to Special Grade — a dry scale that determined your value as a resource.
"Already drafting your own schedule? Fine. So be it."
I was given the green light. My task now was to maintain stability and wait until my body had hardened enough to advance to the next level without risk to mind or body. At last — small, but genuine freedom. I'd had days off and free time between training sessions before, but this was something entirely different. Here, I could independently govern my own schedule, barring direct orders and mandates from the Zenin clan council.
I put Red Fang, wrapped in its bandages, into the cabinet. The sealed meteoric katana — ancient and visibly worn to the point of ruin — still stood beside the bed. My father hadn't lied: without awakening its true form, the blade remained mediocre and unwieldy scrap metal. My current "level" was insufficient to harness its power. Like a game item sitting in the inventory without the stats needed to equip it. I had not yet earned it.
I glanced briefly at my wrist. A titanium Rolex — reliable, durable, austere. I always wore it with the face turned toward the inside of my wrist. Not out of modesty, but out of a disinclination to put wealth on display. This accessory was the single detail that revealed my financial standing. Unnecessary attention was the last thing I needed. I had no use for "friends" bought by the glitter of gold. What I needed were loyal partners.
I understood better than most: money was not a foundation of trust, only a business formality. True loyalty was born from shared interests and from what each party expected to receive from the alliance in the future.
Lunchtime. Rank-and-file Zenin members ate in the common dining hall. My brothers and I were no exception, though our status allowed us to take food to our quarters. My older brother, Takahashi, was two years my senior. His potential was solid-average — but he already had his own technique. He vibrated, distorting his presence in space. In combat, this made him elusive, transforming him into something like a ghost — yet his gift was double-edged. To land a truly devastating blow, he had to freeze for an instant, gaining solidity and becoming vulnerable.
"Still can't get through a day without meat, Takahashi?"
The dining hall operated entirely by rank. Black tables for the servants, white for us. A visible boundary between the elite and the instrument. Takahashi sat at a white table, resembling a wiry mountain of muscle. Dark circles under his eyes and a straight dark green haircut gave him the look of an antisocial misfit. His face radiated a combustible mixture of boredom and extreme exhaustion, completed by black, flat, dead eyes like a fish.
"Ah… Naoya? You're early today." The lazy wretch took a moment to respond — not because he was slow, but because he was perpetually lost in his own head. Rest, meat, and his own thoughts submerged him in something approaching a trance, broken only by the start of training.
"Found time for lunch and some actual conversation," I said, taking my seat. "We've never had the chance to talk like human beings. 'Hello,' 'how are you,' and 'see you later' — that's the full extent of our interaction."
"W-we're not exactly great at conversation, Naoya…"
My younger brother, Kenta, was a year younger than me. A pleasant face, dark hair kept in a standard athletic cut. Passive, reserved, radiating no trace of authority — he simply went with the current, doing what he believed was right: training, trying not to disappoint Father, and obeying without question. That was exactly why Naobito had written him off as a leader prospect from the start. Without ambition and a hunger for power, you were nothing more than a soldier in this clan. A tool.
His technique, Mirage, created three mirror copies of himself within a one-meter radius, capable of absorbing a strike or standing in for him. The obvious weakness — fragility: a copy vanished the moment it made contact, requiring constant regeneration, concentration, and expenditure of cursed energy.
"And who is, Kenta? You're my family. But this endless competition gets exhausting."
"What are you after? What do you want?" Takahashi asked bluntly, tensing immediately. Kenta dropped his gaze nervously.
The two of them didn't particularly get along. The younger brother's softness drove Takahashi absolutely mad — his perpetually pitiful, weak bearing. Because of it, Kenta was pushed around by anyone who felt like it, mocked behind his back. The younger one saw and heard everything, but said nothing. He didn't aspire to be the greatest of the Zenin — he simply wanted to be "good." Too naive for this world.
"Me? Nothing. I just wanted to get to know you better. That's all."
"You're lying," Takahashi said evenly, not breaking eye contact, crunching into a well-seared steak.
It hadn't worked. No matter how hard I played at innocence, no one in this family fell for the "friendly fox" routine. My older brother was a thoroughgoing realist. He saw true intentions, because he had no capacity for pretense himself and always moved in a straight line. That was precisely why a leadership role would never suit him — Takahashi lacked flexibility and breadth of perspective. Sometimes you had to look not only forward, but notice everything happening around you.
"All right, all right — I concede. Call it… a small request. Our devoted servants do their work nearly flawlessly, and I'd prefer that our 'resources' didn't suffer at the hands of people who need to assert themselves. If one of the staff makes a mistake, don't be quick to side with the clan. Just hear them out and consider the situation from outside. Surely you don't enjoy watching people be mistreated for simply doing their jobs?"
It took considerable effort to keep a straight, serious face while choosing my words.
"What's in it for us?" Takahashi muttered.
"Agreeable bonuses. Unlike you, I've been given the right to leave the estate and go into the city. I can bring back anything — from simple trinkets to custom orders. Who knows? Perhaps you have your own 'private wishes.'"
"And what do you get out of it?"
"Almost nothing. I value peace. I find it irritating when ignorant people generate unnecessary noise just to perform a hollow demonstration of power. We are the elite of this society, and it doesn't suit the Zenin clan to sink to the level of petty thugs proving their worth by degrading the weak."
"Interesting. Decided to become a protector of the downtrodden? The council and Father won't approve."
"I know. In Zenin, status is traditionally affirmed through impunity," I countered. "But the clan won't intervene if someone's behavior taints our name and dignity. I'm not asking you to become 'righteous souls.' Just demonstrate basic decency. Observe, and cut down conflicts that blow up from nothing. It's time to aim for something higher than medieval barbarism."
"…which you inherited as well," Takahashi interjected.
"But chose not to embrace. Growing up helps you see things from the outside. I'd recommend trying it. At the very least, you'd have a will of your own. The right to choose."
On that note, we finished. No refusal came — which meant my proposal had been noted.
The chicken soup was excellent, and I decided to stop by the kitchen to make a small adjustment to the second course. The local culture was obsessed with rice and curry, but I was desperately missing spices from a previous life. In full view of the astonished head cook and her assistants, I stepped up to the stove — calmly, unhurriedly, almost carelessly inquiring about available ingredients. Japanese cuisine loved heat, and I had nothing against that, but sometimes that scorching flavor simply became too much. I wanted something different.
Milk, cinnamon, a few drops of oil. Rice tossed in the curved bowl of the wok, lifting above the flame, drinking in the sauce. A finish of cabbage leaves for freshness and a pinch of dill. Soft and gentle rather than the predictable greasy mass of spices. One should love food, not merely fill the stomach.
I decided to eat right there, which clearly made the staff nervous. To ease the atmosphere, I had every one of the kitchen workers try my "masterpiece." Just a spoonful each.
"You taste it, and you're reminded of…" I caught myself, finding the right word in time. I was nine years old — talk of "past lives" would mean nothing here. "…a book."
"A… what book?" One of the assistants asked, momentarily forgetting herself. The head cook immediately silenced her with a lethal look. The girl caught herself and, nearly blanching, corrected course: "N-Naoya-sama?"
"About a doctor who tried to make the world a little better," I answered, swallowing another spoonful of rice and accepting a filled mug from one of the kitchen assistants. Chilled orange juice. Absolute bliss.
"The pay was meager, but he loved what he did. He came home exhausted each night, still believing he was making a difference. I imagine you can already guess — a story like that doesn't end happily."
The kitchen went silent in a way that felt physical. They waited for the turning point, the lesson that breaks a person free from the grip of the system. Because when you convince yourself that you "owe" someone help, you become a slave to it. The bitter truth is that people are selfish. They see only what they want to, and hear only what doesn't wound their pride. Facts and evidence are powerless against the human refusal to acknowledge reality.
"But then a tragedy occurred," I continued. "A seven-year-old boy stepped off the curb on a green light, and a heavy, expensive car hit him at full speed. The body was thrown dozens of meters. Nearly every bone was shattered — but he survived. Call it a miracle or a curse, but he arrived at the hospital still breathing. That doctor and his team spent seventy-three hours at the operating table. No sleep, no food, not a sip of water. They rebuilt the boy piece by piece, so he could do more than simply exist — so he could live. And through sheer force of will, they won. The boy survived. Yes, there was now more metal in his skeleton than bone, but he could walk, think, talk — and above all, breathe."
I scooped the last spoonful of rice, chewed slowly, and swallowed. I pushed the empty bowl aside, folded my hands in front of me, and leaned forward. The servants froze. They stared at me with barely a blink, braced for punishment for their moment of weakness, or some whim of mine.
"The story ended happily, right? For the boy, at least." I paused, and then a near-mocking smile played at my lips. "But do you know what the boy's mother said when she burst into the ward and embraced her son with tears in her eyes?"
My tone became demanding. I waited for an answer as though this were not a story but an exam — one where silence was not permitted.
"'Thank you, Kami-sama! Thank you for saving my son!'" I squeaked in a thin, theatrical imitation of a woman's voice.
The smile vanished.
"So the difficult, noble, honest work was simply overlooked. It's far easier to credit the rescue to a 'mystical miracle' than to acknowledge a human being. Can you imagine the rage and hollowness that doctor felt in that moment? He looked at that woman, exhaled with exhaustion, and — delivered a devastating right hook to her jaw. Clean knockout."
"Pfft—!" One of the assistants couldn't hold it and burst out laughing into her palms. I snapped my fingers at once, pointing directly at her.
"She understands. And then? Scandal, dismissal, and a blacklist. But his nurse partner had filmed the entire thing, which split public opinion straight down the middle. One side was obviously furious. The other had nothing but respect." I pressed my palm to my chest. "This story carries a lesson — less for you, and more for… us. You cannot treat those who do their jobs with honesty as if they are owed neither gratitude nor dignity. Yes, money matters — but sometimes a person only needs to hear a simple 'thank you.' And I… am grateful for your work."
I dipped my head in a short but sincere bow. The kitchen fell into a deafening silence.
"My lord!.. You mustn't!.." One of the assistants immediately fell to her knees, forehead touching the floor. The second nearly toppled backward, catching the edge of a table at the last moment — a crash of metal cookware rolled through the kitchen. The head cook stood motionless, like a mute statue, as tears slowly made their way down her cheeks. This was probably the first time in their lives that an "aristocrat" — however minor a figure I was — had shown them genuine respect. I had spoken from somewhere sincere, without a drop of venom, and that was precisely what had disarmed them.
"N-Naoya-sama… you…"
"No need for thanks," I interrupted her, gently but firmly. "I only said what I felt needed saying. But don't forget: I am still your lord. I will not tolerate laziness, irresponsibility, or foolishness from anyone who decides my goodwill can be exploited for personal benefit. Remember that once, and for good."
I pinned them in place with that, immediately redirecting these "living instruments" back into their proper function. The world operated on two levers: the stick and the carrot. I had simply demonstrated the second one. Simple manipulation, for the purpose of building bridges and starting rumors about my "kindness." Some among the elders would consider it weakness. I didn't care. I simply enjoyed cooking and wanted the food to match my tastes. From now on, every recipe and every ingredient would come from me personally. I wouldn't be creating extra work. Hypocrisy didn't suit me.
Life settled into a pleasantly stable rhythm after that. As promised, I was assigned a bodyguard for exorcism missions. The assignments went predictably and without incident. Between outings, I worked within the estate: studying the archives, reading, and keeping an eye on the local rabble to make sure they didn't cross certain lines.
Members of the clan still occasionally spoke poorly of the servants, kicked a slave in the back, ordered someone to kneel and then stepped on their hand or head for the slightest misstep. Slavery flourished in Zenin — and that was not a metaphor, however much I wished it were. Feudalism still reigned here, stripping women of voice and opinion alike.
I quietly listened to those who had been wronged, logging every discrepancy in a notebook. I analyzed those who considered such behavior normal, dissecting their motives like a pathologist:
Those with a name crossed out and a sad face drawn next to it — these were the ones who inflicted suffering for pleasure. Pure sadists.
Those with a name underlined and a question mark — these were the ones who imitated the majority. A herd without independent thought.
Those with a name highlighted and a happy face drawn next to it — these were the ones carrying an unfamiliar weight. They would never admit it publicly, but alone with me, out of some cautious fear of my status, they opened up. Compassion was still alive in them.
My analysis only confirmed what was already obvious: the Zenin clan's traditions couldn't be perfectly instilled in every member without exception. Empathy was a basic human trait — but here it was expected to be concealed, sealed away deep inside, classified as weakness. And the weak, as everyone in this clan knew, served no purpose.
The freedom I had was proving useful in developing the blood art. As it happened, where sorcerers arrived, what was needed wasn't heroes — it was cleaners. Curses rarely left their prey alive. What remained for us was to eliminate the aftermath of nightmares made real: piles of dismembered bodies, severed limbs, skeletons gnawed down to the bone and stacked in grotesque mounds. The last was particularly horrifying — a sight reminiscent of the aftermath of an acid bath.
My bodyguard, Makoto, was a surprisingly positive young man — calm and energetic. The secret to his composure was simple: a couple of "special" tablets before each assignment, to dull the stress and burn out the fear. He was skilled in swordsmanship — first grade was unmistakable in his movements. His blade moved in tandem with his body: clean, direct, elegant. However, in a trance state, he became erratic — too eager and reckless. My suspicion was that Father and the Council had chosen him for exactly that reason. Those qualities made him the ideal bait for a serious opponent while I made my retreat.
Upon entering a building, I released a small sphere of blood from my palm onto the floor. Its purpose was simple: to absorb, gather, and draw the residual life from the dead bodies. No point wasting a resource. The dead had no more use for blood. For me, it served as a way to scan the space for survivors. Though across two dozen missions, I hadn't encountered a single one.
The carnage in these places didn't frighten me. The experience of a doctor from the Marvel world had left its mark — granting a cold steadiness. At the conclusion of each assignment, the sphere quietly rolled back to my foot. One step, and the compressed, concentrated source of energy burst open, absorbed through the sole directly into my circulatory system.
The twenty-second assignment. An abandoned hospital exuding a nauseating stench of decay. An ordinary civilian in this place would have felt only a crushing dread and the urge to flee without looking back — but I saw something else. At the entrance, a dangerous crimson whirlpool pulsed in the air. The doorframe was lined with two vertical jaws, row upon row of teeth extending endlessly inward. This living mechanism breathed, leaking saliva and thick blood. The strangest part was a sensation of kinship — I felt a closeness to this entity, as though our powers shared a common structure.
My bodyguard didn't even unsheathe his katana. He couldn't see the trap. A bad sign — an illusion of that caliber, invisible even to a first grade, promised nothing good. Walking in was willingly stepping into the maw of a monster. But curiosity and the hunger to understand the nature of that kinship outweighed caution. Fine. I had a contingency and a plan for when things went very, very wrong.
"Something came to mind from…" I caught my tongue just in time, nearly letting slip details of my past as a hemomancer. "…from a book. I think I'll have time to tell it before we run into whatever's waiting inside."
I could never have imagined that this building was occupied not by some common monster, but by a Special Grade Curse.
I should have been more careful.
Well. Thank you, Satoru Gojo — the world produces creatures like this for no reason except to balance out the fact that you exist.