Tetsuya had turned five. He had been five for a little while, but because not everyone was, the Mandatory training for all Zenin children his age hadn't started yet.
That might have been the reason for Jinichi training him himself.
Said training was comprised of group sessions, from dawn to dusk, overseen by a grizzled instructor named Haruto Zenin.
A mid ranking clansman with a perpetual scowl and a missing pinky finger. Likely a souvenir from some curse related mission.
Jinichi barely noticed the shift.
Right now, he was off on missions more often than not, his presence in Tetsuya's life reduced to fleeting inspections and curt nods.
No more personal regimens, though the clan itself made sure the boy got more than his fair share of it.
If it bothered Jinichi, he never showed it. Father and son drifted further apart, like shadows lengthening at sunset. Not that they had any real bond anyways.
As far as his mother went, Tetsuya had no way of knowing. And he wasn't about to bring up a potentially sensitive subject to Jinichi himself. That was asking for a beating or something.
The group Tetsuya was in was small.
Six other children, five to seven years old, scattered branches of the sprawling Zenin tree.
None stood out. Apart from being all boys, that is. Seems like no girls were in his own group, or in any other groups, be it discrimination or just weakness.
Probably the first if you asked Tetsuya.
Regardless, training was training. And he wasn't strong enough to dictate what happened to the women here.
One thing was clear from the start, though. Tetsuya pulled ahead almost immediately.
His adult mind, coupled with his child brain, soaked up the martial forms like dry earth drinking rain.
Efficient stances, fluid counters, and the subtle reinforcement of cursed energy. His control grew faster than the others, not to mention his comparatively massive pool of energy.
Haruto noticed, of course. A slight favouritism crept in.
Extra pointers during breaks, a rare "hn." after a flawless kata. Nothing overt, but enough to stoke resentment in the group.
Sparring turned meaner. The other kids leaned in harder when facing him, their jealousy and anger fuel for their curse.
Tetsuya took it without complaint. He had to. He was no real talent compared to the real monsters of Jujutsu, but he had his own advantages.
Monotony defined it all.
Every day was the same. Rise at dawn, a thankfully warm wash, and plain breakfast.
March to the grounds for warm up katas. Group drills, stances, strikes, energy circulation, and even the more recent weapon training.
Then came the midday meal, wolfed down in silence.
Afternoon spars, rotating partners until everyone ached. Evening review, Haruto barking corrections. Collapse into bed, repeat.
The writing lessons tapered off after a few months. The old zenin declared him adequate, able to read clan scrolls without stumbling, write reports in neat kanji, then promptly died.
'There goes that question, I guess. Shame Maki and Mai never met her. They'd probably have bonded or something.'
Tetsuya thought during the short ceremony that happened. It was sad that this was an actual luxury for a Zenin.
After all, only men got real Ceremonies in this clan.
No more rod cracks on his forearms. Whether he wanted to or not.
Just more time to get hit and hit, and the endless grind of turning children into weapons.
The Winter bit deep that year, cold seeping through the shoji screens like a persistent curse.
Training didn't stop. Of course it wouldn't.
Haruto, or rather the servants wrapped them up in heavier haoris and pushed harder, claiming the chill built resilience. Tetsuya's breath fogged the air during morning forms, fingers numb on practice weapons.
One night, after a particularly gruelling session, he couldn't sleep.
The estate was quiet, lanterns dimmed. He slid open the door to his small garden patch and stepped out barefoot, the frost biting at his toes.
Snow was falling. Silent flakes, the first he'd seen in this life. They dusted the ground like powdered sugar, turning the world soft and white under the moon.
For a moment, the adult cynicism cracked. He knelt, small hand tracing lines in the thin layer.
Two dots for eyes, a curve for a smile. A tiny, childish face staring back at him.
He huffed a quiet sigh, breath visible.
'My first snow. Shame I don't have a carrot or something. Sorry frosty.'
Then he went back inside, slid the door shut, and slept.
Half a year passed exactly like that.
Monotonous days blending into one long trial.
He was five and a half now, body leaner, movements sharper.
The group spars had him dominating most matches, cursed energy flowing smoother, reserves bottomless compared to the others.
One day, near the end of an afternoon training, it happened.
They were wrapping up. It was as simple as always.
Then a hammer hit him in the head.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Within moments, he was on the ground, gasping for air and holding his head, as blood started dripping from his nose, and Haruto stared at the sight with a knowing and slightly envious expression.
Tetsuya didn't know it yet, being passed out and all, but this was one of the defining moments where his path as a sorcerer changed for the better.
The Zenin valued two things. Now, Tetsuya Zenin grasped both.