A small child stirred awake on a futon embroidered with gold threads. His body felt heavy, his mind hazy.
"...Where am I?" he murmured softly, his voice that of a four-year-old.
He blinked at the ornate room around him — tatami mats, sliding doors, and the faint scent of incense.
Then, he caught his reflection in a polished mirror. Short golden hair, fair skin, and sharp, almost regal eyes that didn't fit his tiny frame.
He frowned in confusion. "Who... am I?"
A flood of memories slammed into his mind — clan gatherings, cursed techniques, arrogance, cruelty. None of them were his.
Outside, distant voices echoed through the hallway — proud, harsh, commanding.
The paper door slid open with a soft shfft.
A middle-aged servant bowed deeply.
"Naoya-sama, breakfast is ready. The clan head awaits."
He hesitated.
Naoya… that name again.
He stood shakily, his little feet padding over the cool floor. The servant straightened, eyes lowered, yet the faint tremor in his voice betrayed unease — fear, even.
He followed the servant down a long hallway lined with calligraphy and ancestral portraits. The faces in those paintings all had stern expressions, piercing eyes, and countless weapons displayed like trophies. Every corner screamed of pride and legacy.
Finally, they reached a large chamber.
An older man sat near the head of a long table, a cup of tea resting beside him. His posture was relaxed, but his presence filled the room — quiet dominance that came not from volume, but from certainty.
The boy stopped short.
He knew this man — not from his own memory, but from the ones that didn't belong to him.
Naobito Zenin. His father.
"You're late," Naobito said without looking up. "A future head of the Zenin clan should at least know punctuality."
The boy hesitated. "...Sorry."
That single word made Naobito finally glance up. His sharp eyes narrowed.
"Sorry?" he repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time. "Since when do you apologize?"
The boy froze, unsure what to say. He looked down, fiddling with the sleeve of his robe. "I just... didn't mean to make you wait."
Naobito studied him in silence for a long moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken judgment.
"Sit," he said finally.
The boy obeyed. The meal was simple — rice, miso, grilled fish — but his appetite was gone. Still, he forced himself to eat, aware of his father's gaze on him the whole time.
Normally, the boy in these memories — the real Naoya — would talk constantly, mocking servants or bragging about his future as clan head. But this new Naoya sat quietly, eating in measured bites, occasionally glancing up with uncertain eyes.
It didn't go unnoticed.
Naobito poured himself more tea. "What's gotten into you? Cursed energy training too tiring?"
The boy shook his head. "No... I just don't feel like talking much."
"Hmph," Naobito muttered. "First manners, now modesty. Next you'll be thanking the servants."
"I... already did," the boy said honestly.
That made Naobito pause, mid-sip. His sharp eyes flicked toward the servants lined along the wall, who quickly looked away.
Naobito set his cup down slowly. "Don't tell me you're sick."
"I'm fine," the boy said softly.
For a moment, the clan head simply looked at him — and then, in an almost imperceptible shift, his tone softened.
"Eat well. Training begins again tomorrow. I won't have my son looking frail before the elders."
"Yes, Father."
The words came naturally, yet foreignly — as if borrowed from a memory of someone else's child.
Naobito gave a final nod, rising from the table. "If this is your idea of rebellion, Naoya, it's a strange one."
Then he was gone, leaving the room in silence.
After breakfast, the boy wandered the Zenin grounds.
Sunlight filtered through the bamboo, casting dappled shadows on the stone paths. He passed a few older children sparring with wooden swords, their shouts echoing in the courtyard. They didn't greet him. They didn't even look at him — only stopped for a moment, whispered, and continued.
He couldn't tell if they feared him or hated him.
Maybe both.
In the garden, he sat by the koi pond, hugging his knees. The water rippled faintly as fish brushed the surface.
The reflection that looked back at him — golden-haired, perfect, unblemished — felt wrong.
It was as if he were wearing someone else's skin.
He touched his face uncertainly. "Naoya Zenin... that's who I am now?"
The name tasted strange on his tongue.
A gentle breeze stirred his hair. The koi circled lazily beneath the surface, unbothered by the turmoil above.
For a long while, he stayed there — a small boy in a golden robe, staring into a pond that refused to tell him who he truly was.
And though he didn't know it yet, that quiet moment of stillness would be the last peace he'd have for a long time.
He glanced to his side, watching the older men sparring with each other in the name of training.
"Why are they so brutal? Do I have to fight like them too? What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?" Naoya thought, a sigh escaping his lips.