Two weeks had passed in a gruelling blur.
From dawn until dusk, Tetsuya's world narrowed to the same stone paved circle in the training grounds.
Jinichi's orders were simple and straightforward.
Sense his cursed energy, control it, and flare it outwards. No breaks except a hurried midday meal.
Plain rice, miso soup, and a few vegetables made for a day's meal, unlike the lavish meals the elders probably ate.
Maybe a slice of meat or two if he was lucky.
Or rather, it made for a disappointing meal when you're someone used to pizzas and fast food like Tetsuya.
Sleep came in exhausted heaps on his futon, body aching, mind replaying every failed attempt like a cursed loop.
Around the one week mark, something clicked.
He could sense his energy now. Consistently. Not just a fleeting spark, but a steady undercurrent, cool and thrumming beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.
Negative emotions still fueled it, but he now could reach for it on command, feel its shape and depth without forcing a flare.
Jinichi noticed. Of course he did.
The man would appear at random intervals.
Arms crossed, scowling as usual, and he'd grunt out a single word: "Again."
No praise. No acknowledgement. Just noticing, cold and clinical.
By the end of the second week, Tetsuya could hold it continuously.
Flare it outward in controlled bursts. Weak, unrefined, but stable.
Of course, he still couldn't control his ce well enough for a proper reinforcement, or to use his nonexistent cursed technique, but for simply releasing it outwards, it was enough.
That afternoon, as Tetsuya demonstrated a continuous flow of cursed energy, Jinichi stood motionless at the circle's edge.
For the first time, he didn't say anything. His eyes narrowed, focusing, not on the display, but inward, as if tasting the air.
He could sense it now. The boy's cursed energy reserves.
They were not small. No. Far from that.
Tetsuya's reserves were higher than his own.
That was talent. The kind of raw potential that, with proper training, could push toward the Grade 1 sorcerer territory with time.
Fast progress, too. Faster than most Zenin brats dragged through the same regimen.
Jinichi showed nothing. No flicker of pride, no shift in his bored expression. He simply nodded once.
"Enough for today." he said. "Katas start tomorrow. Basic forms. You'll try performing them with reinforcement. Fail, and we repeat until you don't."
Training continued as normal. Except now the routine included precise sequences of movements.
Tetsuya learned the clan's foundational stances. Low sweeps for balance, sharp thrusts mimicking sword strikes, blocks infused with faint cursed energy to "harden" the limbs.
His small body protested every repetition. Muscles burning, breath short, but the cursed energy made it bearable.
Barely.
One last thing Tetsuya was slowly getting aware of was that Jinichi was itching.
Itching to start beating him up, that is. That was why he was pushed even harder than he should be. Clearly, no son of his should be untrained and weak.
But Tetsuya was damn sure his cousin Naoya was lazing around, though.
Then again, Naoya was probably talented enough to get away with slacking.
As evening fell and the grounds emptied, Jinichi walked the cedar corridors toward his private quarters, footsteps heavy and even.
Servants bowed and scattered at his approach.
'The brat's a little monster in the making. Just like that Naoya brat.'
The thought carried no warmth, just factual assessment.
Progress this rapid at four years old wasn't common.
Most Zenin children took months longer to reach consistent control, let alone flare capacity that hinted at substantial reserves.
Talent, in the Zenin way of thinking, boiled down to two things above all:
The sheer volume of cursed energy one could store, and whether an inherited cursed technique manifested.
Techniques were prized. The legendary Ten Shadows, the reliable Projection Sorcery, and even his own, Missile Fist. Simpler, but more than what the typical sorcerer had in their arsenal.
Even without one showing talent in fighting, a high CE pool marked someone as valuable.
Useful. A potential Grade 1, maybe higher if the stars aligned.
The boy was outpacing the curve. More talented, in that crude metric, Jinichi and the majority of the clan are less than Tetsuya.
Jinichi reached his door and slid it open.
He scoffed under his breath, the barest curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, gone in the next instant.
'Obviously, he'd be talented. He's my son. After all.'
The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing away the thought.
He never considered that the boy he'd left bruised and starving in the dirt for weeks might one day resent the very blood that made him talented.
Neglect wasn't cruelty in Jinichi's world.
It was the norm. He was raised this way. And so did his predecessors.