.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The oppressive mist that had strangled Iga for weeks didn't vanish so much as retreat; slow, resentful, dragged back inch by inch as the cursed energy thinned and unraveled. It peeled away from the trees, and sunlight, weak at first, then steadier, finally stabbed through the gray, catching on damp leaves and turning the world from monochrome into something normal.
Almost.
To the north, where the delegations had camped in rigid formation—Zenin on one side, Gojo on the other—the air shifted with it. Not relief, just a cautious quiet, the kind that came before a scream.
They had expected the worst, assumed it, even. They had expected bodies, a broken relic, or worse, no relic at all.
So when two figures finally emerged from the trees, alive, upright, and moving together, the camp blinked.
Kaoru's crimson kosode cut through the softened haze like a slash of paint while Seijiro's white hair caught the light like a blade. Between them, carried with the reverence of something too dangerous to treat casually, was the Three Star Spear, the Mitsuboshi no Yari, wrapped so tightly in layered talismans that the paper fluttered like feathers around a caged beast.
The handiwork was unmistakable: clean, arrogant, overengineered.
Gojo.
The first reaction was not cheers. It was astonishment so plaim it looked like suspicion.
Harunobu's expression tightened, his grey eyes narrowing on the pair as if he expected the illusion to dissolve. Alive; mostly unscathed; and inexplicably… cooperative. Not cordial, this was still enemies' territory in every sense, but moving with the practiced, efficient rhythm of people who had been forced to rely on each other.
Kaoru spoke first, voice clipped and professional as she gave the briefest account: nature spirit, corruption, shrine, spear. No embellishment, no praise, just facts as always. Seijiro, predictably, added nothing useful and somehow still managed to look smug.
Rensuke tilted his head, as if double-checking what his eyes were telling him. "They didn't kill each other," he muttered, half to himself.
"Wonders never cease," Harunobu replied, but his gaze had already snapped to Kaoru's shoulder and the bandage crossing her chest dark with dried blood. His composure cracked for a fraction of a heartbeat, then it sealed again, sliding back over worry. His jaw set. "But I'll be damned if I trust a Gojo again with Kaoru-sama."
He strode forward, not rushed but inevitable, placing himself between Kaoru and Seijiro with the subtlety of a drawn line. He bowed once, deep, formal, the respect of a retainer directed at a clan heir, then lifted his head and let the glare do the rest.
"Gojo-sama," he said, voice low and edged. "What did you do to him?"
Kaoru's mouth twitched. Of course Harunobu would phrase it like that, as if the only possible explanation was that Gojo Seijiro had committed some unspeakable offense against her honor, her body, her existence.
Seijiro, lounging as if he hadn't spent the last day inside a hostile kekkai, flicked a glance at Harunobu and smirked. "Stand down, samurai," he said, light. "I did what you couldn't, kept him alive." He nodded toward Kaoru with exaggerated courtesy. "Try guarding him better next time."
Harunobu's hand twitched toward his katana.
The Gojo heir crossed his arms, tilting his head with mock politeness. "Now, why don't you sit? You look like you're about to bite someone."
Kaoru stepped forward before steel could become politics. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, not from embarrassment alone, but from sheer irritation at how fast men could turn her life into a contest.
"Enough," she snapped. "Both of you."
She caught Harunobu's forearm, grip firm, the only physical boundary that mattered, stopping him.
"We don't have time." Her gaze cut between them. "I'm fine, 'Nobu. The priority is returning the spear to the Kamo estate, neutral ground, witnessed by both delegations." She let the word neutral land like a warning. "And we leave Iga territory immediately, before the Hattori decide the mere presence of a Gojo talisman here is an insult they can't tolerate."
Harunobu didn't move for a moment; his eyes stayed on Seijiro, hard as flint. Then he relented by a fraction, stepping back, the way a man stepped back from a cliff edge he had walked to on purpose, but his hand remained close to his katana, and Kaoru didn't miss the way he angled his body, shield-first, without thinking.
Seijiro's smirk widened, delighted by the tension as if it fed him. "Lead the way, Pretty Boy," he drawled, gesturing for Kaoru to take point as if they hadn't just returned carrying the single most politically destructive artifact in the country.
Kaoru shot him a look that could have gutted a lesser man, then turned and motioned for the march to resume.
The unity was thin, pragmatic, stitched together with necessity and held in place by the spear on Seijiro's back.
Behind her, Seijiro kept pace with a strange quietness, the talisman-wrapped Mitsuboshi no Yari a constant weight in her mind. Not just physical: symbolic.
A loaded match held over dry grass.
Because everyone knew what this looked like.
The Zenin and the Gojo were already at each other's throats, both blaming the other for the spear's disappearance, for the corrosive kekkai choking Iga; the Hattori were Zenin allies, and placing the spear here, erecting a kekkai barrier in their territory, wasn't just sabotage.
It was practically a declaration of war.
And with Seijiro being the only sorcerer known to have successfully activated the Mitsuboshi no Yari before, under Fushimi Castle...
If the Zenin wanted a villain with a plausible method, they had one. And if the Gojo wanted to point a finger back, there was only one other plausible suspect in their eyes—
Kaoru Zenin, the other prodigy. Strong enough to do it. Controlled enough to hide it.
Chaos. Accusations. A feud that eat itself alive while someone else quietly counts the benefits.
Kaoru didn't speak any of that aloud, not with so many ears around, but she felt it in every sideways glance between Zenin and Gojo sorcerers who should've been comrades and were instead counting each other's hands.
The march toward Kyoto was tense and careful; they took longer routes, skirted roads, avoided open sightlines. It should have felt safer with daylight returning and the mist thinning.
It didn't.
Not encountering any Hattori patrols was, in Kaoru's mind, the most suspicious thing of all. They should have been swarming, offended, furious, demanding explanations at swordpoint.
Instead: nothing.
By late afternoon they reached a modest village nestled in the hills between Iga and Kyoto, wooden buildings weathered by time, narrow streets smelling of rice and ordinary life. The sight of a small hatago, a low inn with sagging beams and a faint scent of freshly steamed mochi, felt almost surreal after damp tents and cursed fog.
The innkeeper nearly panicked at the arrival of so many armed, half-mad nobles, but gold and authority were universal languages. Rooms were limited; only two private quarters were available, reserved for the heirs.
But that night, neither room would serve the purpose it was meant for.
Because on the central hall, the two delegations gathered around shared food, shared sakè, shared exhaustion and what began as rigid politeness slowly loosened into something livelier, not really peace but a brief, strange camaraderie born of surviving the same nightmare.
Victory—no matter how temporary—had a way of bridging divides.
The Mitsuboshi no Yari was placed under mixed watch: Gojo and Zenin sorcerers together, equal numbers, an arrangement meant to ensure neutrality or at least to maintain the appearance of it.
Everyone pretended this was rational, and everyone knew it was theatre.
Seijiro, of course, made theatre his natural habitat: he was at the center of the hall, sakazuki in hand, voice loud enough to conquer the room as he retold their fight with the corrupted nature spirit. Every detail grew larger with each telling.
"And there he was!" Seijiro proclaimed, gesturing dramatically. "Zenin-sama, standing tall, crimson kosode billowing like a kabuki hero, his Divine Dog leaping through the air! Truly magnificent." He threw a grin toward the Zenin side. "I almost applauded, but before I knew it I had to save his ass."
Some of the younger Zenin sorcerers laughed despite themselves; some looked scandalized. Rensuke stared into his sakazuki like he'd seen this exact disaster coming since childhood.
Kaoru didn't stay long enough to be pulled into the current; her head wasn't in the hall. It was still in Iga, still at the shrine, still at the spear, still on the ledge of what it meant that she and Seijiro had functioned like a unit. There were things she needed to process, and the noise downstairs felt more suffocating than celebratory.
She retreated to the modest room provided for her, and, as always, Harunobu followed without being asked.
The room was sparse but clean. Tatami that smelled faintly of grass; a thin worn out candle; a small basin. Nothing luxurious or comforting.
Kaoru exhaled, easing the kosode off her shoulders; the blood-streaked fabric pooled at her elbows. She unwound the bandages, still dark with dried blood, tight around her chest and shoulder. The wound had closed, leaving only a faint scar thanks to her Reverse Cursed Technique.
Harunobu stood nearby with hands clasped behind his back, eyes respectfully averted.
But that was just etiquette; he knew every secret she had, every lie she lived.
Still the only person on earth she trusted blindly and the only one who would look at her and tell her, plainly, when she was being an idiot.
"Masanari Hattori tried to poison me. Then shot me," Kaoru said, voice neutral as she unwound the last strip of fabric. "The arrow was his, precise, as poisoned." Her fingers paused. "I wouldn't be here if Seijiro hadn't…" She cut herself off, as if the sentence tasted wrong. "It doesn't matter. My Reverse Cursed Technique handled it. I'm fine."
Harunobu's brows furrowed as his posture tightened. "Fine?" he repeated softly, and somehow it was worse than shouting. "Kaoru-sama, you were separated from the group, injured, and alone with him." Guilt edged his words, the kind that had lived in him since the day he'd been assigned to her mother, and then to her, as if the job was a vow he could never complete well enough.
"I failed you," he said quietly. "He should not have—"
Kaoru turned, meeting his eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You didn't fail me, 'Nobu." Her voice softened, because with him she didn't have to perform. "You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You got the group out safely. You got the group to safety and waited for us. You did well."
Harunobu's jaw clenched. "And what if you hadn't been able to return?" he asked carefully. "What if the Gojo heir—"
"'Nobu," Kaoru interrupted again, gentler this time. "You trusted me to come back. I know how hard that was for you." She swallowed, then added, quieter, "Don't carry guilt that isn't yours. If anything, it was my decision to pursue the spear. I don't regret it."
Harunobu's jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod, accepting her words. His gaze stayed on her bandages, on the faint scar, on the proof that she had bled while he had been elsewhere. "And yet," he said at last, voice steady, "something's still troubling you, Kaoru-sama."
She froze mid-step, thumb rising without thought to her lower lip, as if holding herself in place. Her eyes drifted to the far wall, but she wasn't seeing it.
What's troubling me?
The spear; the alliances; the way the Kamo elder smiled; the feeling that the moment they stepped onto Kamo grounds, the fragile teamwork would become a weapon used against them.
Her hand stilled, the pad of her thumb resting just against her lip.
Is it him?
The thought struck worse than Masanari's arrow.
Seijiro Gojo?
Not the boy in the main hall laughing too loudly, but the one in Iga with his back pressed to hers, voice quieter when he admitted simply his eyes hurt.
I think... he's very lonely. Lonelier that he lets on. Maybe lonelier than me.
Kaoru cursed softly, the sound barely audible, but Harunobu heard it. "It's nothing," she said finally, shaking her head as if she could shake the unease out. "You should go downstairs. You've earned a break." She forced a faint smile. "Soon we'll be back in Nagoya-go and you'll have your hands full."
Harunobu's expression didn't change much, but his attention focused.
"Your son," Kaoru added, softer. "Seven now, right?"
The tension in his shoulders eased at the mention, just a little. "Yes," he said, and the pride warmed his voice despite himself. "Yoshinobu. Seven and full of energy. Still convinced he'll follow in my footsteps." A pause, then, because Harunobu was Harunobu—"In service to you, Kaoru-sama."
Kaoru's throat tightened; it shouldn't have, but it did. She had always been first in Harunobu's life, even though she had no right to be. He had a wife, back in Nagoya-go. A child.
And yet Kaoru, Kaoru and her burden and her secrets and her duty as the clan heir, always pulled him away from it, as if destiny had decided his family was secondary.
A prickle of guilt stirred.
"Then you should let him be wrong," Kaoru murmured, attempting lightness. "Let him be a child. He'll have time to figure there's a better life outside of the Zenin," her smile warmed, and she adjusted the collar of her kosode. "You'll need all the rest you can get. Once we're home, he'll keep you on your toes."
Harunobu watched her for a long beat, then spoke carefully, as if choosing words that wouldn't bruise her pride. "Kaoru-sama," he said, voice steady but kind, "even you should rest." He hesitated, then continued, quieter, "You and Gojo Seijiro are young and around the same age after all. In the same cage, with different bars. You've been through more than most would endure in a lifetime. There's no harm in feeling... sympathy for him."
Kaoru's cheeks warmed despite herself. "Sympathy," she echoed, dry. "For Gojo Seijiro." The thought was absurd, and yet… She forced a laugh, brushing it off. "And here I thought you couldn't stand him."
Harunobu's mouth quirked, almost a smirk, rare on him. "I didn't say you had to like him," he replied, and there was the father-figure bluntness she trusted. "But you're not stupid." A pause. "Also, you've tolerated him far better than most."
Kaoru stared at the door for a long moment, her thumb brushing absently against the faint scar on her shoulder. Tolerated, she thought with a wry smile. Is that what we're calling it now?
She forced a laugh, brushing it off. "And here I thought you couldn't stand him."
"I don't," Harunobu said simply, deadpan. Then, because he knew her too well, he added, "But don't confuse one night of necessity for safety. The moment politics returns, he'll be your enemy again."
She nodded, because that was the truth she'd been repeating to herself anyway.
Harunobu bowed at the threshold. Not as a servant but as the man who had raised her in all the ways her parents hadn't. "Rest," he said again, as if it were an order. "Or come down."
When he left, the sound of laughter downstairs filtered through thin wooden walls, cups clinking, voices rising, Seijiro too loud at the center of it.
A brief illusion of normalcy.
Sympathy.
The word lingered. Could someone like her, hiding in plain sight, living inside bindings and a fabricated identity, afford to let her guard down? Masanari Hattori had tried to kill her. Twice. Once with poisoned food, again with an arrow meant for her skull. Her survival felt less like victory and more like refusal by now.
You're the heir of the Zenin. That's all that matters.
A boy. A perfect prodigy. A shield for the family's honor.
She could almost hear her mother's voice, her father's, the chorus of expectations that didn't care whether she was human under the title, reminding her of the cost of failure.
It wasn't love, it had never been love.
Kaoru exhaled sharply and loosened her high ponytail, letting her black hair cascading for a moment over her shoulders, down her back; the relief was brief. Even alone, she couldn't keep it down long.
Her life wasn't hers. It belonged to her clan. To her father.
And yet—
In Iga, she had breathed. Back pressed to Seijiro's in equal in exhaustion, equal in burden.
He hadn't needed to save her, not once, but twice.
And she hadn't needed to laugh with him, even once.
Maybe, just maybe, she had let her guard down in his presence because, for a fleeting moment, they had been equals. Just two young heir shouldering the impossible expectations of men who saw them as tools. It had been... startling. And perhaps comforting.
But sympathy? Kaoru shook her head firmly. No. She had been injured, tired, and vulnerable. Nothing more.
Whatever happens, I'll choose the Zenin. That's the way it's always been.
Her stomach twisted with the dread of what would come next.
The spear would be at the center of a storm, a tug-of-war between their clans. Seijiro wanted the spear for the Gojo clan, to strengthen Kyoto's defenses and protect the Toyotomi heir. She wanted it secured for the Zenin clan, to ensure advantage to the Tokugawa faction. The Hattori would see Iga's violated territory and demand blood. The Kamo would smile and call it neutrality.
Respect wouldn't matter, trust wouldn't matter.
The laughter below grew louder, pulling her back to the present.
Kaoru tied her hair back into its usual high ponytail, except it was crooked and messy without Harunobu's touch. Her hands steady now, face composed, her crimson kosode pristine again. The heir returned to the mask.
Fine, she thought, standing straight. Let's see what relaxing looks like.
The common room of the hatago, downstair, was bright with candlenlight and louder than it had any right to be. Low tables were crowded with steaming bowls and skewers, sakazuki filled with sakè clinking in quick succession, and for one fragile night the Zenin and Gojo sorcerers pretended their grudges were just old stories someone else had written.
Near the entrance, Harunobu sat with a few Zenin men, posture relaxed only by degrees. His katana still rested within reach—of course it did—but his shoulders weren't as high as they usually were; his gaze flicked to the stairs the moment Kaoru appeared, and he inclined his head, just slightly.
Kaoru returned the nod; she knew that look. Not pride, Harunobu didn't indulge in that openly, but smug approval that she'd taken his advice and rejoined the living.
Her eyes swept the room: a few clansmen lifted sakazuki in greeting, some bowed with softened formality. Nobody rose, nobody made a show of it. Kaoru preferred it that way; too much ceremony in a place like this felt like a costume party with knives. She took two steps toward Harunobu—
—and then stopped.
A voice rose above the din, deep, loud, and obnoxiously theatrical.
Seijiro.
Kaoru spotted him immediately because he made it impossible not to. He had somehow claimed the most visible table in the room without moving a single chair, surrounded by Gojo and Zenin men alike, all hanging on his every exaggerated word like moths to a flame that would absolutely burn them. He lounged as if the inn belonged to him, kosode shoved up to his elbows, strong forearms planted on the table. His hair was tied loosely at the nape, silver spilling over one shoulder in a way that looked deliberately careless and probably took ten minutes of his time anyway.
And because the universe had a cruel sense of timing, he was not only being loud.
The innkeeper's daughter hovered nearby with a tray, young and nervously diligent, cheeks pink from the attention of too many important guests.
Seijiro turned to her as she poured sakè, smile easy and perfectly placed. "Ah! You're saving us all," he told her, voice pitched just low enough to sound like a compliment. "I was told this inn serves the best sake on the road to Kyoto. I didn't realize it also served the loveliest host."
The girl's eyes widened like someone had struck a bell inside her. "G-Gojo-sama—!"
"Just Seijiro is fine," he said, as if the concept of hierarchy was optional. He tilted his head, softening his grin into one almost courtly. "Or… if you're bold, you can call me whatever you like, I've been called worse by better people anyway."
The girl blinked, flustered, and nearly sloshed sake onto the table.
Seijiro's eyes widened in mock alarm. "Careful! If you trip carrying those cups, I'll have to catch you. And then everyone will gossip. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
Her face went scarlet. "I won't trip!"
"I believe you," he said, utterly shameless.
Kaoru paused at the foot of the stairs, watching unimpressed; then she kept walking, expression flat in the way only a Zenin heir could manage. Of course. If it has ears, he'll charm it. She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull.
Seijiro noticed her then because he noticed everything that could turn into entertainment. "And then I told him—'Bite down, Pretty Boy!'" he declared, slapping his palm on the table for emphasis and mimicking his own heroic delivery with a dramatic flourish. The men around him burst into laughter. "I counted to three and—"
Kaoru's brow twitched.
She changed course, cutting cleanly through the crowd of rowdy onlookers and marching straight toward his table like she was about to arrest. "—and then you didn't count to three," she interjected, slicing through the laughter. "You yanked it out without warning. Maybe the Gojo clan never taught you numbers."
The room erupted again, louder, sharper, delighted by the audacity of the Zenin heir correcting the Gojo prodigy in public. Heads turned, sakazuki paused midair, and even the innkeeper's daughter froze, clutching her tray like a shield.
Seijiro's attention snapped fully to Kaoru, surprised for half a heartbeat, then clearly entertained; his smirk widened as he leaned back against the bench, draping his arm lazily along the backrest as if inviting the room to witness this properly.
Oh. The Pretty Boy emerges from his lair.
"Well, excuse me," Seijiro drawled, dripping im indignation. "I didn't count to three and I saved your poor shoulder. You're welcome, by the way." He reached for the tokkuri with theatrical ease, poured himself a cup, then lifted it toward her like a challenge. "C'mon, prodigy. Don't tell me you don't know how to have fun."
Kaoru crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. Is he drunk?
She studied him; too composed to be truly drunk, too loud to be sober. And there was his posture, too: the way he leaned into the room's energy like he belonged here, like laughter was as natural to him as breathing. It sparked an unwelcome pang of envy.
How does he relax so easily? How can he laugh when the spear is sealed ten steps away under mixed guard and the nation is one rumor away from civil war?
The sorcerers around the table quieted just a little, eager anticipation the air.
Kaoru scoffed softly and let her arms drop. Then, before she could overthink it, she stepped closer, slid onto the bench opposite him, and snatched the sakazuki from his hand.
Seijiro blinked.
Kaoru tilted her head back and downed the drink in one smooth motion.
The alcohol burned her throat, biting, but she didn't flinch. She set the sakazuki down with a deliberate clink and met his gaze.
There. Happy?
For a brief moment, his smirk faltered, his hand remained suspended in midair where the sakazuki had been, as if he hadn't been informed it was no longer his property.
He blinked at her as if he'd just watched a tiger politely eat from someone's palm.
Then his mouth curled into a wide grin.
"Well, well," he murmured, leaning forward. "Zenin-sama does know how to have fun after all. Not just all duty and discipline, huh?" He laughed, drumming his knuckles against the table like an excited child. "I'm almost disappointed. I was enjoying the idea of you scowling forever."
Kaoru arched a brow. "Careful," she said, voice dry. "You might become a better person if you're exposed to me long enough."
Seijiro's grin turned sly. "That sounds like a threat."
"It is."
Someone snorted into their sakazuki. Harunobu, across the room, looked like he was actively choosing not to intervene for the sake of Kaoru's sanity, though his eyes remained focused as a drawn blade.
Seijiro tapped the table with one finger. "Alright then, Pretty Boy. If you're going to sit at my table, you have to contribute."
Kaoru stared at him. "I contributed. I drank your sakè."
"That's theft."
"Consider it compensation for my shoulder."
The table roared with laughter. Seijiro put a hand to his chest like she'd wounded him. "You wound me, Zenin-sama. I'm a generous host."
"Is that so? You just flirted with the innkeeper's daughter like you were auditioning for a Noh play."
Seijiro's eyes widened, affronted. "That was polite. She was nervous and I was being kind." He leaned in, elbows on the table, bright as a festival lantern. "And you were watching."
Kaoru's expression didn't change, only because she refused to give him that satisfaction. "The whole room was watching since you're so loud."
"Ah," he said solemnly, as if considering a philosophical truth. "So your problem isn't that I flirted. It's that I didn't flirt quietly. Finally. Honesty."
Kaoru exhaled through her nose, then, because she was apparently determined to destroy his reputation, she reached for the tokkuri and poured herself another cup.
Seijiro's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Planning to drown your dignity tonight?"
"Unlike you, I won't get drunk with only a couple of cups," Kaoru replied, and drank.
Seijiro watched her swallow, eyes narrowing, pleased, annoyingly so. "Look at you," he said, voice softer but still amused. "Trying to be normal for ten minutes. Now we're bonding."
Kaoru made a displeased sound. "We are not—"
Seijiro cut in smoothly, planting his elbow on the table and extending his hand toward her, palm open, fingers loose but inviting. "Let's see if that shoulder of yours is really healed. A match between men, Pretty Boy. What do you say?
The room erupted again, the laughter ringing louder this time.
Kaoru stared at his hand as if it had personally offended her ancestors. "You're out of your mind."
"Been told that before," he replied cheerfully. "Frequently. Usually by my father. Occasionally by my retainers. Sometimes by strangers I've just met." He shrugged. "It's a popular opinion."
"And you're physically stronger than me."
"Definitely."
"So what's the point?"
Seijiro's eyes gleamed, utterly shameless. "The point is I want to see your face when you lose."
Kaoru's lips twitched, irritation flaring; she should refuse, retreat to the safety of her role, the stoic Zenin heir, the perfect weapon, the boy who never plays.
But Seijiro was watching her like he genuinely wanted her to say yes. Not mocking or cruel just eager like a boy daring another boy to climb a roof.
It was infuriatingly infectious.
With a resigned sigh, Kaoru rolled up her sleeve, exposing her pale forearm, her fingers curling firmly around his. "Fine." Her lips curved into a faint, defiant smile. "But if I reinjure my shoulder, I'm stabbing you."
Seijiro's grin widened. "Deal. If you win, I'll even let you pick where."
Kaoru blinked. "That's not—"
Seijiro's grin softened, almost imperceptible. "Come on, that's the spirit." He leaned forward, lowering his voice into a mock whisper. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle."
Kaoru's gaze sharpened. "You already proved you're a liar."
He laughed, delighted, and tightened his hand around hers with steady warmth. "And you proved you're fun when you're not busy being terrifying."
She planted her elbow on the table to better clasp his hand; his grip was bigger, warmer, annoyingly sure. The crowd leaned closer, the room humming with anticipation. Harunobu shifted subtly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Kaoru as if willing her to remember she had an injury and a political crisis and a life worth more than a stupid contest.
Kaoru ignored him.
She knew she had no chance in a contest of raw strength. I can't win. I'm going to lose. The thought echoed in her mind, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to meet his icy blue eyes, his smirk daring her to back out.
Her brows furrowed, but she couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. This is stupid. Why the hell did I agree to this?
She knew the answer. Pride. Pride wouldn't let her walk away, not in front of her men, and certainly not in front of him.
And for one ridiculous moment, she wanted to be a young boy.
Across from her, Seijiro tilted his head, silver hair falling in soft disorder. He studied her face with a strange, intent attention, trying to memorize the angle of her mouth when she wasn't scowling.
The Zenin heir not scowling at him was a rare eventi after all.
The faint tremor in her hand didn't escape his notice, nor did the way she held on despite it.
What a stubborn idiot, he thought. He's going to lose.
Testing her grip, he tightened his hand just slightly. Her palm was smaller than he expected, cool against his.
Why did you agree to this, Zenin Kaoru? Why do you take everything so damn seriously?
Kaoru Zenin. Impossible. She was everything a prodigious clan heir should be, serious, disciplined, composed to a fault. And yet, here she was, willingly stepping into an obviously unfair match.
He wasn't entirely sure why that made him… stupidly happy.
Rensuke, being his shinobi self, appeared beside the table like a ghost, silent as snowfall and Kaoru startled despite herself.
"Do you have to materialize like that?" she muttered in irritation. "Like some damn vengeful spirit."
Seijiro chuckled. "At least he's impartial. You wouldn't want me declaring victory prematurely."
Kaoru shot him a look. "I'm more concerned about you losing with dignity, Gojo-sama."
He leaned closer, grin wicked. "Dignity is for people who aren't strong."
Kaoru's eyes narrowed. "And yet you still feel the need to prove it."
Seijiro blinked, then laughed because she'd landed a clean hit. Damn him, Seijiro thought. I enjoy this too much.
Rensuke hovered his hand over theirs, unaffected by the drama unfolding before him. "Ready?"
They both nodded, breaths steadying as mutual stubbornness settled.
"Go."
Seijiro pressed down immediately.
Kaoru's arm gave a fraction under the pressure and her shoulder flared with a hot reminder of the injurt. She didn't show it; she clenched her jaw, resisting, muscles burning.
He isn't holding back. Of course he isn't.
Seijiro watched her struggle and felt a twinge of guilt, maybe. Or admiration. He didn't ease up; the Zenin heir would hate mercy more than pain.
This isn't a fair fight, he admitted silently, Too stubborn for his own good.
Kaoru's eyes flicked to the shadow beneath their arms, mind working even as her body strained. Her cursed energy pooled instinctively.
Just one opening—
The shadow beneath Seijiro's elbow rippled, deepening unnaturally. He felt it a heartbeat too late, elbow slipping as the surface betrayed him.
"What the—" he began, but Kaoru moved.
His elbow lost traction, his balance wavering. She seized the moment and shoved with everything she had, and their hands slammed against the table with a resounding thud.
Kaoru's victory, sharp and clean.
The room fell silent.
Seijiro blinked at their hands like the universe had broken a rule. His elbow hovered awkwardly above the table, his wrist bent in an awkward angle of defeat. Slowly, his gaze moved to Kaoru, who was staring at her own hand in stunned disbelief.—
—and then, to his astonishment, something in her snapped loose.
A soft, breathy laugh escaped her, small at first, like something she hadn't meant to let out. It grew, spilling out in waves as her shoulders shook; she pressed a hand to her mouth, cheeks flushing, trying to stop it and failing completely.
Seijiro looked up at her as if he'd been struck, because the stoic Zenin heir, the one who never cracked, was laughing. Not the polite chuckle of performance.
Real. Unrestrained. Honest.
And it was—he hated the word even as it formed—beautiful. The kind of laugh that lit up her face in a way he hadn't thought possible.
"Really?" Seijiro stared, dumbfounded, his thoughts scrambling to catch up. He's laughing at me?
It annoyed him. It shouldn't exist on her face. Kaoru Zenin wasn't supposed to smile like that.
The room erupted.
Zenin men roared with triumph, pounding the table while Gojo men groaned and laughed in equal measure. Harunobu's expression softened into something dangerously close to approval, though his arms stayed crossed as if he refused to be seen enjoying anything reckless Kaoru every did.
Kaoru released Seijiro's hand, still fighting to compose herself. Her laughter faded into lingering chuckles, her face warm in candleslight. "It seems," she said, voice steadying, "that my shoulder is in perfect condition after all, Gojo-sama. Unlike your dignity"
Seijiro snapped out of his daze, his own face warming uncomfortably, not just from the sakè and he hated how obvious it felt. With an offended huff, he flicked his ponytail back as if the motion could restore his dignity. "You cheated."
Kaoru shrugged, smile turning coy. "You never specified rules. Poor planning. Your fault," she replied, tilting her head with mock innocence.
Rensuke, impassive, stepped forward like a judge who hated his job. "Victory goes to Zenin-sama," he declared. "For this round."
"For this round?" Seijiro echoed, eyes narrowing. "Oh, no. Absolutely not." He leaned forward, grin returning with renewed menace. "Rematch. Tomorrow."
Kaoru's brow arched. "You want to lose twice?"
"I want to win," he corrected, then pointed at her sakazuki. "And I want you to drink again, because I think it makes you less terrifying."
Kaoru snorted, turning away. "And turns out you're not scary, Gojo-sama. You're just loud." She paused, glanced over her shoulder, and delivered the finishing blow with perfect Zenin calm. "And too fond of hearing yourself speak."
Seijiro's gaze lingered on her face a beat too long without thinking as the table howled.
He realized, with the sudden discomfort of honesty, that he wanted to see that expression again.
Wanted it badly.
His grin froze for half a heartbeat as he stared, dumbfounded, then laughed, real, delighted, and pressed his palm to the table like he needed something solid.
"Fine," he said, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. "Enjoy your stolen glory, Zenin-sama. I'm letting you have this because you're injured."
Kaoru's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, her smile softening as if she were about to say something more. Instead, she just tossed over her shoulder, "Never trust a Zenin, Gojo-sama."
As Kaoru walked away toward Harunobu, Seijiro watched her go. His eyes tracked the line of her shoulders, the way her kosode moved, the way she carried herself like a blade pretending to be a boy pretending to be a man—
—and he frowned, like the thought irritated him.
Never trust a Zenin, huh? he thought, leaning back on the bench.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as he drummed his fingers lightly on the table, his gaze fixed on the spot where she'd stood.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath with a faint, self-deprecating smile that no one noticed over the noise.
That stupid laugh—
Where the hell has it been hiding?