8 years earlier…
The cold stone of the Gojo clan barracks pressed against Anāman's back, grounding him in the stillness of the hall. The flickering flames along the walls cast erratic shadows, their restless dance mimicking the churn of his thoughts. Power was everything here—a fact driven into him since the day he was brought in at seven. Outsiders like him weren't people. They were potential resources to be shaped or discarded. Tools, not heirs.
The name Anāman felt as foreign as the life he was thrust into. He couldn't remember anything before stepping through the estate gates, holding the hand of someone whose face was already fading in his mind. Had the clan stolen his past, or was there simply nothing worth remembering? The void left in its wake gnawed at him, a silent question he wasn't allowed to ask.
A group of trainees passed by, their uniforms crisp, their heads bowed low. The true heirs among them moved differently, with an effortless arrogance that set them apart. Their techniques were extensions of their identity, inherited through centuries of lineage. Elders praised them as the clan's legacy. Anāman envied their certainty, their place, even as he despised their cruelty. They belonged, and he did not.
A sharp crack echoed down the hall—someone had failed a cursed energy exercise, and the reprimands followed quickly. The Gojo clan demanded precision and ruthlessness, but the price was steep. He'd seen it too many times: children crumbling under impossible expectations, their names forgotten as quickly as their failures. Others fought desperately, chasing the dangling carrot of belonging, never realizing how far the clan kept it out of reach.
He flexed his fingers, scarred and calloused from training. A faint glow of cursed energy flickered along his palm, warm against the cold air. It was the only thing here that felt like his. In the brief moments he wielded it, the world bent to him—not to the clan's rules, not to their elders. Power, he realized, wasn't just strength. It was control. Over others, over fate. Over himself.
But that control was fleeting. His steps, his choices—every piece of his life was dictated by the elders. They called it discipline, but he knew it for what it was: a leash. And yet, in the back of his mind, he nurtured a quiet rebellion. One day, he vowed, this power would belong to him. Not to the clan. Never to the clan.
A door slammed down the hall, pulling him from his thoughts. Shiguro, his sensei, stepped into view, his sharp eyes scanning the trainees as if searching for his next target. Anāman tensed reflexively. The man's presence was suffocating, a reminder of the line between failure and survival. Shiguro's gaze lingered on him for a moment before moving on.
Anāman let out a slow breath, forcing himself to relax. His scars ached faintly as he clenched his fists, old wounds biting into his palms. The flames on the walls flickered again, their light casting restless shadows over his face. If cursed energy was a weapon, he would wield it—but on his terms. One day, he would prove he was more than their tool. One day, he would carve his name into the world, not as Anāman the outsider, but as something more.
The midday sun bore down on the training grounds, turning the dirt beneath Anāman's feet into a scorched, uneven battlefield. He stood in a shallow trench, his arms trembling as he balanced a weighted staff across his shoulders. Sweat soaked his uniform, dripping into his eyes, but he didn't dare falter. Shiguro, his sensei, watched from a shaded perch, his sharp, hawk-like gaze fixed on him with an air of disdain. The man's presence was oppressive, each word delivered with the precision of a blade.
"Lower your stance, outsider," Shiguro barked, his voice slicing through the air. "Unless, of course, that's the best a stray can manage?"
The word "outsider" hit like a punch to the gut, but Anāman didn't react. He'd heard it too many times, always laced with the venomous reminder that he didn't belong. Instead, he bent his knees further, forcing his legs to hold steady under the staff's unyielding weight. The burn in his thighs threatened to buckle him, but he refused to give Shiguro the satisfaction.
"Pathetic," Shiguro sneered, stepping forward just enough for the sunlight to illuminate his sharp features. "The Gojo clan is wasting its resources on you. They could have polished a true heir, but instead, they dragged in... this." He waved a hand dismissively at Anāman, his lips curling in disgust. "A gamble. A project."
Anāman bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, using the pain to steady himself. His cursed energy hummed faintly at the edge of his senses, begging to be used, but he suppressed it. Shiguro's punishments for relying on cursed energy were always worse than the strain of physical exertion.
"You think this is hard?" Shiguro continued, circling him like a predator. "Wait until you're facing a cursed spirit that won't care how much you're hurting. If you crumble under this, you'll be dead in seconds."
The words stung, but not as much as the truth behind them. Anāman's grip on the staff tightened, his knuckles whitening. Around him, other trainees collapsed under their own impossible tasks. Some struggled to stabilize cursed energy fields while enduring strikes from Shiguro's assistants; others were sparring with dummies rigged to retaliate with bursts of cursed energy. Each failure was met with scathing reprimands or harsh corrections. Anāman had endured it all, and yet, the weight of Shiguro's disdain was heavier than the staff on his shoulders.
His vision blurred as the seconds dragged on, but he forced himself to focus. The ache in his legs, the strain in his back, the sting of Shiguro's words—they all blended into a singular, oppressive force. You don't belong. You'll never be enough. The thought clawed at him, but he pushed it down, letting the anger simmer beneath his exhaustion.
"Enough." Shiguro's voice snapped like a whip. "Drop the staff."
Anāman obeyed, the staff falling into the dirt with a dull thud. His body screamed for relief, but he forced himself to stand tall, his muscles trembling under the effort. Around him, the other trainees collapsed in exhaustion, their failure a stark contrast to his quiet resolve.
Shiguro descended from his perch, his boots crunching against the dirt as he approached. He stopped in front of Anāman, his gaze raking over him like a predator sizing up wounded prey. "You lasted longer than the others," he said flatly. "But not long enough. You think that's impressive? You think that will keep you alive?"
"No, sensei," Anāman replied, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Then prove it next time." Shiguro leaned in, his face inches from Anāman's. "Or don't bother coming back. The clan doesn't need deadweight."
Anāman held his ground, meeting Shiguro's gaze with silent defiance. If Shiguro noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he straightened and turned toward the other trainees, ready to deliver more of his cutting critiques.
The sharp crunch of boots on dirt drew everyone's attention. Takumi emerged onto the training grounds, his measured stride and calm demeanor a stark contrast to Shiguro's tension-filled presence. He carried himself with quiet authority, but his expression was neutral, almost unreadable.
"Shiguro," Takumi said, his tone clipped but formal. His gaze flicked briefly to Anāman before settling on the sensei. "I need a word."
Shiguro's eyes narrowed, displeasure flickering across his face. "I'm in the middle of training. This had better be important."
"It is," Takumi replied, his voice firm. He glanced at Anāman again, his expression softening just enough to be noticeable. "Anāman has been reassigned. Effective immediately, he'll be training under me. We leave for the Outer Rim tomorrow."
Anāman's head snapped up, surprise flashing across his face. The other trainees exchanged glances, some whispering quietly. Shiguro's jaw tightened, his glare shifting between Takumi and Anāman.
"He's not ready," Shiguro said bluntly. "You're taking an unfinished tool out of the forge. And let's not pretend this isn't about claiming credit for his progress. All the work, the investment I've made—you'll swoop in and reap the benefits?"
Takumi's expression didn't waver. "This isn't about credit, Shiguro. It's about potential. And Anāman has more of it than you realize."
"Potential?" Shiguro scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "A stray like him doesn't have potential. He has desperation. That's what you're mistaking for talent."
Takumi's gaze hardened, his voice lowering to a dangerous calm. "I don't mistake anything, Shiguro. Anāman's progress speaks for itself. If you couldn't see that, perhaps the issue lies with the teacher, not the student."
The jab landed, and Shiguro's face darkened with fury. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't argue further. Instead, he turned back to Anāman, his tone icy. "You've been handed an opportunity, boy. Don't waste it."
Anāman nodded, the weight of the exchange settling over him like a second staff on his shoulders. Takumi gestured for him to follow, and Anāman fell into step behind him, leaving the training grounds and Shiguro's venomous gaze behind.
Later that day, Anāman adjusted the strap of his equipment pack, his muscles still sore from the morning's training session. The bitter taste of exertion lingered on his tongue as he stepped into the briefing room, a small, dimly lit chamber with faded paper scrolls lining the walls. Two other sorcerers sat waiting, their expressions a mixture of boredom and quiet disdain as they glanced up at him. He didn't recognize either of them, but that wasn't unusual. Outsiders like himself rarely mingled with the full-blooded members of the clan unless it was for work.
Anāman's eyes immediately darted to the older man standing at the head of the table. Takumi. The name was unfamiliar, but something about his presence was disarming. He was tall but not imposing, his robes unadorned, lacking the clan's usual ostentation. His face bore subtle lines of weariness, but his gaze was sharp, piercing. Takumi met Anāman's eyes and gave a small nod, a gesture that seemed almost... considerate.
"Anāman, Take a seat." Takumi's voice was measured, lacking the condescension Anāman expected.
Anāman hesitated but complied, sliding into a chair at the far end of the table. He kept his posture straight, his hands clasped in his lap, every movement calculated to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. His stomach churned, though he wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if this was his first assignment, but something about the setup felt heavier, more deliberate.
Takumi placed a scroll on the table and unrolled it with a practiced flick of his wrist. A faded map of the Outer Rim came into view, dotted with annotations in an ancient script.
"We're heading here," Takumi began, pointing to a cluster of jagged markings that represented a distant, desolate region. "Our mission is to retrieve a cursed artifact—a pre-ark relic believed to enhance cursed energy reserves and development. It's considered extremely valuable and it needs to be collected subtly, without the other clans finding out, which is why this task has been assigned to us."
Anāman nodded silently, his jaw tightening. Fantastic relics, Outer Rim missions—this was leagues beyond the low-risk assignments he'd handled before. Was this why he'd been called in?
Takumi continued, addressing the two other sorcerers. "Our team is small, but that's deliberate. Larger groups draw attention in areas like this. Tenkai and Haruna will handle the primary reconnaissance. Anāman and I will focus on extraction."
At the mention of his name, Anāman glanced up sharply. Takumi's tone was calm, but his words carried an air of finality. There was no room for debate, no questioning why someone as junior as himself had been included in such a high-stakes mission.
"Wait," Anāman finally spoke, his voice breaking the silence. "Why me? I'm only a Grade 2. Shouldn't someone more experienced be handling this?"
The scarred man, Tenkai, chuckled quietly, his gaze flicking toward Anāman with thinly veiled amusement. "Good question, kid. What makes you so special?"
"Potential," Takumi answered before Anāman could react, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. "Anāman has the potential to reach Grade 1 in a few years, with the right guidance. I specifically requested him for this mission to start that process."
Anāman's throat tightened. The words hung in the air, both flattering and suffocating. Potential. He'd heard that word before, from countless others in the clan, always tied to expectations he never asked for. But hearing it from Takumi felt... different. There was no sneer, no veiled threat of failure. Just a matter-of-fact declaration that unsettled him in ways he couldn't explain.
"You requested me?" Anāman asked, his voice softer now, more cautious.
Takumi nodded, his gaze steady. "I've reviewed your file. Your physical ability, your efficiency in low-risk missions—it's clear you've got talent. Talent that shouldn't be wasted."
The words should have bolstered him, but instead, they ignited a strange irritation deep in his chest. He couldn't pinpoint why. Maybe it was the way Takumi spoke to him, as if they had some shared history Anāman couldn't remember. Or maybe it was the sheer weight of those expectations, dragging him down like a stone.
"I don't need special treatment," Anāman muttered, his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.
"This isn't special treatment," Takumi replied, his voice calm but firm. "It's responsibility. You've been given an opportunity. Make the most of it."
The room fell silent, the tension crackling like static electricity. The other sorcerers exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable, before Tenkai leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Well, this should be interesting."
Takumi ignored the remark, rolling up the map and tucking it under his arm. "We leave at first light. Prepare your gear and rest while you can."
As the others rose to leave, Anāman stayed seated, his gaze fixed on the table. His thoughts churned, a chaotic mix of apprehension and resentment. He wanted to feel grateful, but all he felt was... off-balance. Takumi had praised him, chosen him, but why? What did the man see that Anāman couldn't? And why did it bother him so much?
"Anāman," Takumi said, his voice pulling him from his thoughts.
Takumi hesitated, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with his words, an unusual vulnerability flickering across his face. "Do you remember anything from before you joined the clan?"
The question caught Anāman off guard, and he frowned. "No," he said cautiously. "Why?"
Takumi exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "Just wondering. It's... unusual, that's all."
Anāman's frown deepened. "What's unusual?"
Takumi shook his head, dismissing the thought. "Nothing. Forget it." He straightened, his tone regaining its usual firmness. "Get some rest. We leave at first light."
Anāman lingered for a moment, his confusion and irritation swirling together into a knot in his chest. He wanted to press Takumi, to demand answers, but he didn't know the right questions to ask. With a quiet huff, he turned and left the room, the weight of Takumi's words following him like a shadow.
Takumi walked down the narrow hallway, the faint echo of his footsteps mixing with the creak of wooden floorboards. Tenkai followed, his hands casually clasped behind his back, his demeanor deceptively relaxed. The tension between them, however, hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall.
"You've taken an interesting approach with that boy," Tenkai said, breaking the silence. His voice was smooth, laced with a subtle edge. "Promising, sure, but still just a Grade 2. Makes you wonder why you'd assign him to a mission like this."
Takumi didn't break his stride, keeping his gaze forward. "He's got potential. It's a simple decision."
"Potential," Tenkai repeated, his tone half-amused. "That word again. Funny how often it's used to justify throwing someone into the deep end." He glanced at Takumi, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But that's not all there is to it, is there?"
Takumi slowed his pace, exhaling through his nose. "If you have something to say, Tenkai, just say it."
Tenkai chuckled softly. "You obviously care about the boy for whatever reason, but we both know as an outsider his life is always at risk."
Takumi's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. "Anāman will be fine. He's tougher than he looks."
"Maybe," Tenkai replied, his tone turning almost conversational. "But you know as well as I do that 'fine' isn't enough in this clan. He'll need more than talent to survive. Connections. Alliances. Support from the right people."
"And that's where you come in, I suppose?" Takumi said, stopping at a small window overlooking the courtyard. The moonlight filtered through the branches of an ancient tree, casting intricate shadows on the floor. "Spit it out, Tenkai. What do you want?"
Tenkai stopped a few steps behind him, his smile fading as his expression turned calculating. "One of the elder seats is open, as you're well aware. I intend to make a play for it."
Takumi let out a dry laugh. "And you think I can help with that? I burned through what little political capital I had years ago."
"True," Tenkai said, his tone sharpening. "But the people you worked with back then still hold sway. They remember you, even if your influence has waned. A few introductions, a well-placed word here or there—that's all I'm asking."
"And why would I do that?" Takumi turned to face him, his eyes cold. "What's in it for me?"
Tenkai's smile returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You've got a guilty conscience, Takumi. You were part of the vote to bring in outside blood—children like Anāman. You didn't want it to turn out the way it did, but here we are. A broken system, a fractured clan, and a generation of tools instead of people. I know that guilt eats at you. This... this could be a way to balance the scales."
Takumi's expression darkened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "And you? Is this about morality for you? Some grand ideal?"
Tenkai snorted. "Hardly. I need approval from a few key figures, and some of them owe you favors from back in the day. You're the least costly method for me to get what I need. Morality has nothing to do with it."
Takumi shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You've always been practical, I'll give you that."
"Practicality keeps you alive in this clan," Tenkai said with a shrug. "And it keeps the people you care about alive, too."
Takumi's gaze flicked toward the courtyard, his eyes settling on the shadows dancing across the ground. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of Tenkai's words pressing down on him. Then he turned back, his voice low and measured. "I'll think about it. But don't mistake this for anything more than what it is."
Tenkai gave a slight bow, his smile returning. "Of course. Just think about it, Takumi. That's all I ask." With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
The morning sun hung low, casting a pale orange glow over the clan compound. The cool air carried the faint scent of dew, a fleeting contrast to the rigid order of the courtyard. Anāman walked alongside Takumi, his uniform simple yet well-fitted, his strides measured as they approached the gate where their escort waited. Around them, the muted activity of clan members preparing for the day was efficient, almost mechanical.
As they neared the main entrance, a procession caught Anāman's eye. A line of children, no older than seven, moved in eerie synchronization, their faces blank, their eyes glassy. They walked as if on strings, devoid of curiosity or fear. The sight stopped Anāman mid-step, his gaze lingering on the unnatural uniformity. One child, pale and dark-haired, turned slightly, his vacant eyes locking with Anāman's for a fleeting moment. A chill ran through him, sharp and visceral, but he quickly masked it, forcing his legs to move.
"Outsiders," Takumi said, his tone quiet, almost resigned. "They'll go through the rites soon."
The weight in Takumi's voice made Anāman glance at him, but he said nothing. Instead, he stared straight ahead, his expression carefully neutral, though a flicker of unease tightened his chest. It wasn't fear—it was sharper, harder to place, an unnamed bitterness that settled in his stomach.
"They'll adapt," Takumi added, his voice softer now. "Some faster than others. But they'll adapt."
"Of course," Anāman said flatly, keeping his tone detached. He walked with deliberate precision, suppressing the turmoil that churned beneath his exterior. Yet the image of those children lingered, their blank stares haunting the edges of his mind.
Takumi studied him, his gaze lingering as if searching for a crack in Anāman's composure. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but pointed. "You don't have to pretend it doesn't bother you."
Anāman's jaw tightened. "I'm not pretending."
A quiet sigh escaped Takumi. "When I look at them, I see what we've built. The decisions we've made." He paused, his tone hardening ever so slightly. "Decisions I've made."
The words carried a faint weight, and for a moment, Anāman's facade wavered. His brow furrowed, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face. "I wasn't there for those decisions. They're not my concern."
"No, they're not," Takumi replied, his voice edged with bitterness. "But you're living with the consequences, whether you admit it or not."
The statement cut deeper than Anāman expected, striking at a frustration he hadn't fully acknowledged. His lips pressed into a thin line, his silence thick with unspoken resentment. Takumi glanced at him again but didn't press further, turning his attention back to the path ahead.
By the time they reached the gate, the murmurs of the compound had faded. Their escort—a small group of sorcerers clad in muted robes—stood waiting, their faces sharp and impassive.
As Anāman prepared to step through the gate, he cast a glance over his shoulder. The children were gone, their presence erased as though they'd never existed. Yet the unease remained, clawing faintly at the edges of his thoughts. He shoved it down, locking it away behind a practiced detachment.
Whatever he felt didn't matter. There was a mission ahead, and that was all that mattered now.
The transition from the Ark to the Outer Rim was stark, like crossing a line between civilization and chaos. Anāman followed Takumi through the desolate expanse, the rigid structures of the Ark left far behind. The Outer Rim felt like a different world—its air heavy with dust and smoke, its landscape punctuated by industrial ruins, makeshift shelters, and wild, untamed terrain made of trash. The few people they passed eyed them warily, suspicion etched deep into their faces.
They reached the outskirts of a devastated village just as the pale light of morning broke through the haze. Tenkai and Haruna, the other sorcerers assigned to their mission, stood waiting by the village entrance, their expressions grim. Tenkai waved them over with a curt motion, while Haruna kept her focus on a map in her hands. Takumi exchanged a brief, silent nod with them before turning to Anāman.
"Listen carefully," Takumi said, his voice low but firm. He glanced around, ensuring no one else was within earshot. "This place operates on its own set of rules. Outsiders are not welcome here, and the clan's name means nothing. If you show any sign of cursed energy, it'll be a death sentence—not for us but for anyone who knows we're here."
Anāman nodded stiffly, though his mind was already churning. He hadn't expected the tension in Takumi's tone, nor the weight of his words. "Understood."
Takumi's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he continued. "We'll question the villagers one at a time. Keep your distance and don't involve yourself in their lives. We're here to gather information, nothing more. These people have been through enough, and we can't afford to make their situation worse."
Tenkai, leaning casually against a crumbled wall, smirked faintly. "You make it sound like we're the villains here, Takumi."
Takumi ignored him, keeping his focus on Anāman. "No sorcery. No interference where not required. These are the rules, and I expect you to follow them."
Anāman bristled at the implied lack of trust, his jaw tightening. "I don't need a lecture," he muttered, his voice sharp with irritation.
Takumi's expression softened, though the weight of his gaze didn't lessen. "You're young," he said quietly. "It's easy to want to help, especially when you see people suffering. But out here, good intentions can get you—and them—killed."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Anāman looked away, unsure why they unsettled him so much. He was used to detachment. It was practically a survival skill in the clan. Yet Takumi's insistence on rules and restraint gnawed at him, stirring an irritation he couldn't quite place.
"We reconned the area earlier," Haruna said, her voice breaking the silence as she approached with the map. "It's bad. Burned-out homes, many slaughtered, and hardly any people left. Most of the villagers fled, but we found a few survivors hiding in one of the basements."
"Any signs of the artifact?" Takumi asked.
Haruna shook her head. "Nothing yet. Only traces."
Takumi sighed and gestured toward the village. "We'll start with the survivors. Remember, one at a time. Keep it discreet."
The group entered the village cautiously, their movements deliberate as they navigated the charred remnants of homes and shattered lives. Anāman trailed behind Takumi, his senses on high alert. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional crackle of ash underfoot.
When they reached what remained of the village center, a small group of survivors emerged from the shadows of a half-collapsed building. They were gaunt and hollow-eyed, their clothes hanging in rags. Takumi motioned for Tenkai and Haruna to stay back, then approached the group slowly, his hands visible and unthreatening.
"Who's in charge here?" he asked, his tone calm but authoritative.
A woman stepped forward hesitantly, her trembling hands clutching the edge of a tattered shawl. Her eyes darted nervously between the sorcerers, lingering on Anāman for a moment before settling on Takumi. "I suppose... that would be me," she said, her voice thin and shaky.
"Let's talk," Takumi said, gesturing toward a nearby structure. "Alone."
The woman hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Takumi cast a glance at Anāman, his expression unreadable. "Wait here," he instructed, before guiding the woman away.
As Takumi and the survivor disappeared into the shadows, Anāman shifted uncomfortably. His gaze wandered over the remaining villagers—two children clutching each other tightly and an elderly man staring blankly into the distance. Their stoic acceptance of their suffering unsettled him more than any display of fear or anger would have. It was as if they'd resigned themselves to the cruelty of their world.
Tenkai sauntered over, his usual smirk in place. "Not much for conversation, are they?" he remarked, glancing at the villagers.
"They've been through hell," Haruna replied curtly, her tone leaving no room for flippancy.
Anāman remained silent, his thoughts a jumble. The stoic, robotic demeanor of the survivors reminded him too much of the new outsider they'd seen being brought into the clan that morning—eyes glossy, emotions buried under layers of obedience. He clenched his fists, feeling an unease he couldn't quite name.
When Takumi returned, his expression was grave. "They've seen enough. We won't press them further."
"Anything useful?" Haruna asked.
Takumi hesitated, his gaze flicking to Anāman briefly before he answered. "Experiments. Seems like a rogue sorcerer working on something. The survivors didn't understand much, but it's enough to confirm we're in the right place."
"Experiments?" Anāman echoed, his voice quiet but sharp.
Takumi nodded grimly. "It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. The world out here... it doesn't have rules like the clan. Power is everything, and some people will go to any lengths to get it."
Anāman's stomach tightened. He wanted to ask more, to press for details, but the look on Takumi's face stopped him. Instead, he swallowed his questions and fell into step behind the group as they moved deeper into the ruins.
His boots crunched softly against the scorched dirt as the group moved through the skeletal remains of the village. Takumi walked ahead, his presence uncharacteristically muted, while Tenkai and Haruna kept their distance, scanning the ruins with careful, practiced eyes. The air felt heavy, thick with the lingering weight of suffering, and Anāman found himself stepping slower, his gaze drawn to every detail—the collapsed walls, charred remnants of furniture, and the faint, acrid smell of ash.
It was then he heard it—a faint, muffled sound beneath a pile of debris. He froze, his cursed energy instinctively rippling in response. A soft whimper followed, almost swallowed by the oppressive silence. He hesitated, glancing toward the others. Takumi had stopped, looking over the husk of a burned-out building, seemingly oblivious.
Anāman took a cautious step toward the sound, his senses sharpening. As he neared the ruins of what might have once been a home, the faint noise grew clearer. His brow furrowed as he knelt, brushing away loose dirt and splinters of wood. Beneath the wreckage, hidden in a pocket of collapsed beams and plaster, he saw a pair of wide, frightened eyes staring back at him.
A child.
The boy looked no older than seven or eight, his face smeared with dirt and tear-streaked. His thin arms clutched his knees tightly, his body trembling as he tried to make himself invisible. Anāman's initial reaction was purely practical. The mission came first, and Takumi's words from earlier echoed in his mind: don't involve yourself in their lives.
But as the boy's terrified gaze met his, something shifted in Anāman. A deep, gnawing unease rose within him, mingling with a faint, bitter familiarity he couldn't place. He tried to swallow it, to push it away, but the boy's trembling figure held him rooted.
"Stay quiet," Anāman muttered softly, barely audible. He reached for the rubble, his cursed energy pooling in his arms as he tested the weight of the beams pinning the entrance shut. No normal human would have any hope of lifting the weight, most likely requiring heavy machinery. He lifted one of the beams, widening the gap for the boy.
The boy flinched at the motion, pressing himself further into the narrow space. Anāman paused, his expression tightening as he realized the child wouldn't come out willingly. He let out a quiet sigh, then focused his cursed energy into his hands. With careful precision, he began shifting the debris aside and breaking them where needed, making the entrance wider without disturbing the fragile space inside.
"Anāman," Takumi's voice called sharply from behind. He tensed, half-expecting a reprimand, but Takumi's tone carried a note of curiosity. "What are you doing?"
Anāman didn't look back. "There's a survivor," he replied tersely, focusing on clearing the path. A particularly stubborn beam refused to budge, and with a subtle pulse of cursed energy, he snapped it in two.
Takumi approached, his footsteps slowing as he caught sight of the boy. His gaze flicked between Anāman and the child, his expression unreadable. "This is a risk," he said, his voice even. "You're breaking the rules. You're exposing what we are. Our power. Our existence."
"I know," Anāman said flatly, his tone clipped. He didn't stop, his hands working with quiet efficiency. As the last piece of debris fell away, he crouched low, extending a hand toward the boy. The child hesitated, his small frame still trembling, but after a moment, he reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against Anāman's palm.
With a firm but gentle grip, Anāman pulled the boy free, lifting him into his arms with ease. The child clung to him tightly, burying his face against his chest, and for a moment, Anāman stood there, unsure of what to do next. The weight of the boy's small, fragile body felt strangely grounding.
Takumi watched silently, his gaze heavy with something Anāman couldn't quite place. When Anāman began walking back toward the main group, Takumi fell into step beside him. The older sorcerer's voice was low, almost contemplative. "You know what the clan would say about this."
Anāman didn't respond immediately. His focus remained on the boy, whose trembling had begun to subside. Finally, he spoke, his tone neutral. "I'm not worried about what the clan thinks."
Takumi's lips twitched into a faint, fleeting smile. "A dangerous act of rebellion," he said softly. There was no chastisement in his words, only a quiet approval that unsettled Anāman more than any criticism would have.
"It's not rebellion," Anāman said, his voice sharper than he intended. He shifted the boy's weight in his arms, glancing briefly at Takumi. "It's... nothing."
Takumi hummed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable once more. "If you say so."
As they reached the group, Haruna and Tenkai turned to stare, their expressions a mixture of confusion and surprise. Anāman ignored them, setting the boy down gently near the other survivors. The child's wide eyes lingered on him for a moment before he scurried toward a woman who sat hunched against a wall, her arms wrapped around her knees.
"Ma!" the boy cried out, his voice breaking as he ran into her open arms. The woman's face twisted with disbelief, then overwhelming relief as she pulled him close, her fingers weaving through his tangled hair as she sobbed softly.
Anāman stood frozen, watching the reunion unfold. For a fleeting moment, a strange warmth spread through his chest, a sense of satisfaction that felt alien yet undeniably good. He had made a choice, exerted control over the situation, and the result was this—the tangible relief on the mother's face, the boy's trembling frame wrapped securely in her arms.
But then the warmth soured, turning into something bitter that clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn't understand it. The sight of their embrace should have filled him with satisfaction, but instead, it left an ache he couldn't place. His gaze lingered on the boy and his mother for a moment longer, before he turned sharply on his heel, striding away without a word.
Takumi followed him, his steps deliberate but slow. He didn't speak until they were out of earshot of the group. "You felt it, didn't you?" he asked quietly.
Anāman didn't answer. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He kept walking, refusing to meet Takumi's gaze.
Takumi let the silence linger, his tone softening as he continued. "It's unsettling, isn't it? Seeing something you've never had."
Anāman's steps faltered, but only for a heartbeat. He shook his head, his voice cold. "It's nothing."
Anāman quickened his pace, leaving Takumi behind as the bitter taste in his chest lingered. He didn't want to think about the boy or the mother, or why the sight of them had unsettled him so deeply. He had done what needed to be done, and that was all that mattered.
But no matter how hard he tried, the image of their embrace stayed with him, a quiet shadow in the back of his mind.
The tent was heavy with an oppressive stillness, broken only by the faint crackle of the radio. The dim lantern light flickered, casting restless shadows over the fabric walls. Anāman sat cross-legged on the floor, meditating and focusing on his cursed energy. Takumi, hunched over a low table, mapped points of interest relayed through the radio by Tenkai and Haruna, his hand moving with practiced precision over the worn parchment.
The night had stretched thin, and yet Anāman's thoughts refused to settle. His eyes occasionally flicked to the older sorcerer, noting the quiet concentration on his face, the lines of exhaustion etched deeply around his eyes. There was something about Takumi's presence that unsettled him. He exuded authority, yes, but it felt... different. Detached. Like a man who stood apart even when surrounded by his own.
The radio crackled to life again, Haruna's voice cutting through the static with a clipped report. Takumi's pen moved without hesitation, marking a new coordinate with steady precision. Anāman watched the ink blot spread and fade into the map's fibers, his mind drifting back to the day's events—the boy, the mother's tearful embrace, and the hollow pang that had followed.
Power without choice. The words whispered through his thoughts, sharp and unrelenting. He glanced at his calloused hands, his fingers worn from years of wielding blades, the veins mapping their own web of control and consequence. What did strength mean when it wasn't his own? Could it even be called strength if it only served others' ends?
"You're being very quiet," Takumi said suddenly, breaking the silence. He didn't look up from his map, his voice steady but carrying an edge of curiosity.
Anāman shrugged, keeping his tone measured. "Not much to say."
Takumi hummed in response, the faintest note of amusement in his throat. "Thinking about today?"
Anāman stilled. He considered brushing the question off, but something in Takumi's voice pulled at him. "The boy," he said after a pause. "He had nothing. No power, no control. And yet, in the end, he got what he needed."
Takumi's pen paused mid-stroke. His eyes flicked up, studying the younger sorcerer. "And you envy him for that?"
Anāman's hands tightened into a fist. "I don't know," he admitted, the frustration in his voice barely masked. "It doesn't make sense. He was helpless, but things worked out. Meanwhile, I—" He cut himself off, the words catching in his throat.
Takumi leaned back slightly, setting the pen down. The lantern light caught the edge of his face, revealing an expression neither harsh nor soft, but something between. "You're wrestling with control," he said quietly. "With what it means to have strength, but not the ability to choose how it's used."
Anāman frowned, his gaze dropping to his lap. "What's the point of strength if it's just a leash?" he muttered. "If it's nothing more than a tool for someone else's will?"
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the hum of the radio and the faint rustle of the map under Takumi's hand. Finally, Takumi exhaled, a sound steeped in a quiet weariness. "I used to think the same way," he said, his voice low but steady. "That strength was freedom. That if I became powerful enough, I could shape my own life, bend the world to my will."
Anāman looked up, his expression skeptical. "And?"
Takumi's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "And I was wrong. Strength doesn't erase the past. It doesn't fix what's broken."
There was a weight in his tone that Anāman couldn't ignore, a depth that pulled at the edges of his curiosity. "What are you talking about?" he asked, though part of him wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
Takumi's gaze grew distant, his fingers tracing the edge of the map absently. "My son," he said finally. "He was born... fragile. A defect in his genes. The elders called it a 'price'—a consequence of our purity. Generations of inbreeding to preserve the bloodline's strength." His voice grew tighter, the words coming slower. "We tried everything. Every technique, every remedy. Every medicine. But nothing worked. And when he... when he died, my wife—" He stopped, his composure faltering before he forced himself to continue. "She blamed me. But mostly herself."
"I couldn't stop it," Takumi continued, his voice quieter now. "I couldn't protect him, or her. But I swore I'd do something. I thought... if we brought in outsiders, new blood, maybe no one else would have to go through that. Maybe the clan could change."
Anāman's breath caught, his fingers tightening around the blade. "Outsiders," he repeated, the word carrying an unspoken accusation.
"Yes," Takumi said, meeting his gaze. "You're here because of me."
The admission sent a sharp pang through Anāman's chest. He wanted to be angry, to lash out, but all he felt was a hollow ache. "You said you wanted to stop something like your son from happening again," he said slowly, his voice edged with bitterness. "But all you did was trade one kind of suffering for another."
Takumi didn't flinch, though his expression darkened with guilt. "I know. And I've carried that with me every day since. But I still believe—" He paused, his gaze steady. "I believe you can be more than what they want you to be. You have the potential to break the cycle."
Anāman scoffed, shaking his head. "You don't know me."
"Maybe not," Takumi admitted. "But I know what this clan will do to you if you let them. I know what they'll take."
Anāman's gaze dropped again, the blade in his lap reflecting the dim light. "You keep talking about choice," he muttered. "Like it's something I actually have."
Takumi leaned forward slightly, his tone softening. "Choice isn't always obvious," he said. "Sometimes it's just a moment—a decision to act, even when it's against the rules. Like today."
Anāman's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Takumi's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Of course not," he said lightly, though his approval was unmistakable.
The radio crackled, breaking the moment. Takumi returned to his map, his focus shifting back to the task at hand. But Anāman couldn't shake the words, the weight of the conversation lingering long after the tent had fallen silent again. As the night stretched on, the bitterness he'd felt toward Takumi began to fade, replaced by something he couldn't quite name. Perhaps it was respect. Perhaps it was something more.
Several days later…
The barren landscape stretched under a pale, oppressive sky, jagged stone and cracked earth leading to the stark outline of the facility. Rusted steel and crumbling concrete betrayed years of decay, while faint pulses of cursed energy rippled through its walls—a dangerous rhythm that seemed almost alive.
Takumi, Tenkai, and Anāman stood on a rocky ridge overlooking the site. Haruna was stationed further uphill, her sharp gaze scanning the horizon as her cursed energy flickered subtly. The Outer Rim's silence pressed in around them, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind.
"The artifact is in the central chamber," Takumi said, his tone clipped with urgency. He gestured toward a partially collapsed dome at the facility's heart. "The sorcerer inside seems to be working alone, but those reinforced seals suggest outside help. We tread carefully."
"The outer defenses are silent now, but I'd bet the interior won't be so cooperative," Tenkai added, his eyes narrowing as he studied the structure. "Nothing this quiet comes easy."
Takumi turned toward Haruna, who stood alert and ready. "Perimeter duty. Signal us at the first sign of trouble."
"Understood," Haruna replied briskly, her tone sharp and professional. She shot a fleeting glance at Anāman. "And the barrier?"
"I've got it," Anāman replied curtly. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hands against the dirt, his cursed energy rippling outward. A shimmering barrier began to take form, stabilizing into an almost imperceptible dome. As he worked, he muttered, "Emerge from darkness blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure."
Satisfied, Anāman glanced up. Takumi and Tenkai were already descending the ridge, their figures blending into the desolation as they approached the crumbling facility. Its scars were clearer up close—veins of cracks spread across the walls, and the rusted steel door bore deep pockmarks of corrosion. Yet the seals carved into its surface still pulsed faintly, resisting the decay.
Tenkai stepped forward, placing a hand on the door. His cursed energy flared as the seals splintered and dissolved with a faint shimmer of light. "We're in," he said simply. Without hesitation, he and Takumi slipped inside, the heavy door groaning shut behind them.
Anāman remained cross-legged at his post, his focus split between the hum of the barrier and the oppressive energy seeping from the facility. His eyes darted to Haruna's patrol, her figure a steady flicker of movement tracing the ridges. Left behind again, he thought bitterly. Essential but distant, watching from the sidelines. He shook off the frustration, forcing his attention back to the task.
Minutes blurred into an hour. The cursed energy grew heavier, its pulse gnawing at his focus. Haruna's figure had vanished from the ridges—a disruption in her steady rhythm. His frown deepened as unease began to bloom in his chest. The wind had stilled, and the air carried an unnatural weight.
He reached out with his cursed energy, sensing faint disturbances—irregular vibrations in the earth. His eyes scanned the area, landing on a patch of disturbed dirt. Drag marks crisscrossed the ground, faint but deliberate, leading toward a thorny bush at the base of the ridge. A ripped chunk of fabric was caught on its branches, fluttering weakly in the still air.
Haruna. His pulse quickened, his throat tightening. She wouldn't leave without signaling. His hand clenched into a fist as he called out softly, "Haruna?" The sound was swallowed by the unnatural quiet.
The silence pressed against him, thick and suffocating. Something had gone wrong.
Forcing himself to focus, Anāman reinforced the barrier, tightening its weave to contain the cursed energy within the facility. The adjustments required precision, but his hands were steady, even as unease gnawed at the edges of his concentration. Once satisfied, he quickly rose, brushing the dust from his knees.
His gaze shifted to the steel door of the facility, its edges slightly ajar. Shadows pooled in the entrance, and an unnatural stillness emanated from within, darker and heavier than before. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead. The door groaned as he pushed it open and stepped into the unknown.
The steel door creaked open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Anāman stepped inside, the oppressive air thick with the acrid tang of burnt metal and flesh. His cursed energy flickered involuntarily, a reaction to the stifling atmosphere. He advanced cautiously, each step echoing faintly in the silence.
Turning a corner, he froze.
A villager's body hung suspended from the wall, fused grotesquely with jagged white metal. Their face was twisted in an eternal scream, eyes wide and lifeless, as if their final moments had been captured and preserved. Spindly metallic tendrils extended from their limbs, anchoring them to the wall like some cruel, mechanical display. A cube sat embedded in their chest, its crimson grooves glowing faintly, pulsating like a heartbeat. The fading cursed energy radiating from it was suffocating.
Anāman's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. The precision of the horror was almost worse than the act itself—it was deliberate, methodical. This wasn't chaos; it was calculated experimentation.
He forced himself forward, each step revealing more atrocities. Corpses lined the corridor, their forms twisted into monstrous hybrids of flesh and metal. Some still pulsed faintly with cursed energy from the cubes embedded in their chest, as if their suffering lingered beyond death. The deeper he ventured, the more he felt a rhythmic hum grow, resonating with the horrors around it.
And then he saw Tenkai.
The sorcerer's body lay crumpled near a collapsed wall, his chest torn open in jagged slashes. His face was locked in defiance, even in death. Anāman's breath caught. The sight of the once-formidable sorcerer reduced to this twisted heap sent a cold spike of fear through him.
A sudden clash of cursed energy snapped him out of his thoughts. The sound reverberated down the corridor, pulling him toward a massive chamber at the facility's core.
Takumi stood locked in battle with the rogue sorcerer, his spectral chains darting through the air with calculated precision. The rogue sorcerer countered with erratic, deadly movements, his flying saw blade shimmering with cursed energy as it carved unpredictable arcs. Each of Takumi's attacks was met with deft deflections, the rogue's skill and wild energy keeping him on the defensive.
Takumi's movements were controlled but strained, sweat glistening on his brow. His chains split into multiple segments, circling the sorcerer in an intricate dance of containment, but the rogue laughed, his eyes burning an unnatural red. "Persistent, aren't you?" he rasped, deflecting another chain with a flick of his wrist. "But this ends with you."
The saw blade lunged toward Takumi, who dodged narrowly, his chains lashing out in retaliation. The strain was evident in his every motion. For all his precision, the rogue's chaotic style was pushing him to his limits.
Anāman watched, frozen, as his cursed energy flared faintly around his hands. He could feel the cursed energy in the facility intensify, pulsating in rhythm with the rogue sorcerer's attacks.
And then in the back of his mind, he felt the barrier he had created violently break.
A metallic screech made him spin, his cursed energy flaring reflexively. A shikigami lunged toward him, a grotesque amalgamation of sinew and white metal. Its birdlike head glowed with sickly yellow eyes, unblinking and mechanical, while elongated claws raked the air with unsettling precision.
The creature's attacks were relentless, its speed overwhelming. Anāman ducked and rolled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Each dodge felt like a near-death experience, his cursed energy flaring desperately to shield him. He struck back, but his attacks were sluggish against the shikigami's fluid movements. A swipe of its claws tore through his sleeve, slashing deep into his arm.
Pain flared, but he forced himself to stay focused. His technique, Ruinous Gambit, amplified his reflexes but carried a slight delay as he activated it—a flaw the shikigami exploited mercilessly. He cursed under his breath, frustration mounting as he narrowly avoided another swipe. The creature was unrelenting, and with each exchange, his energy waned.
Haruna. This thing must have taken her out, and if it could deal with her, I'm outmatched, he thought bitterly.
Ducking into a side room, he slammed the door shut and hastily formed a barrier. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope. Then the shikigami struck. Its claws tore through the barrier like paper, shattering it in an instant.
Anāman stumbled back, panic and self-recrimination swirling in his mind. If I don't act now, I'll die anyway. But if I move... maybe Takumi has a chance.
The shikigami lunged again, and Anāman rolled to the side, barely avoiding its claws. Gritting his teeth, he bolted for the main chamber. The creature followed, its grinding metallic joints an ever-present threat behind him.
Bursting into the chamber, he saw Takumi struggling to maintain control. The rogue sorcerer's saw blade danced chaotically, forcing him to retreat again and again. Takumi's spectral chains lashed out, wrapping around the rogue's leg, but they faltered under the relentless assault.
Takumi glanced at Anāman, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing with understanding. With a sharp motion, he redirected his chains, creating a momentary opening. Anāman hesitated for only a heartbeat before sprinting forward.
The rogue sorcerer turned, his expression twisting into surprise and rage. "You dare—"
Anāman didn't let him finish. Summoning every ounce of cursed energy he had, the flames of Ruinous Gambit erupted around his fist. The delay was barely noticeable in his adrenaline-fueled charge. His fist connected with the rogue's chest, a burst of cursed energy exploding outward.
The sorcerer's red eyes dimmed as his body crumpled to the ground. The shikigami screeched, its form flickering and distorting before it dissolved into black smoke. The oppressive atmosphere lifted, leaving the chamber silent except for the faint hum of residual energy.
Anāman collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving. His arm throbbed with pain, and his energy was spent, but they had won. Takumi approached, his chains retracting as he surveyed the scene.
"You took a risk," Takumi said quietly, his voice carrying a mixture of approval and concern. "But you gave me the opening I needed."
Anāman nodded, his breath ragged. "I couldn't just watch."
Takumi's lips quirked into a faint smile.
Anāman's gaze remained fixed on the sorcerer's body, his mind replaying the events in a disjointed loop. He felt a faint, bitter satisfaction at their victory, tempered by the weight of the destruction around them. Finally, he looked up at Takumi, his voice low but steady. "I'll make sure I'm better prepared next time."
Takumi studied him for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his tone softening. Together, they turned to the artifact at the centre of the facility.
The artifact was unsettling, to say the least. It was a Cube suspended in the air, an unsettling presence that seemed to defy the natural order of the room. Slightly above a jagged pedestal of white metal, it hovered effortlessly, its edges glowing with faint blue lines that pulsed rhythmically. The cube's surface was smooth, with angular grooves etched into its dark frame, giving it an intricate and machine-like appearance. At its core, two circular energy nodes glowed with an eerie, shifting light, casting faint shadows across the walls.
Anāman approached cautiously, his gaze locked on the artifact. The air around it rippled subtly, a distortion that felt like a constant, oppressive hum pressing against his mind. "What... is this?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Takumi, a few paces behind, studied the artifact with a grim expression. "I'm not 100% sure," he admitted. "But I was told it's a tool, a weapon designed to break someone's mind. It enhances cursed energy reserves and the physical capabilities of its target, but in the process it destroys parts of the brain." His usual composure was strained, his unease obvious in the faint tension at the corners of his mouth.
Anāman's cursed energy flickered instinctively, reacting to the oppressive aura radiating from the cube. The blue flames of Ruinous Gambit danced faintly around his fists, but he hesitated, feeling the artifact's energy clawing at the edges of his consciousness. The closer he drew, the heavier the air seemed, as though it was actively resisting him. "It's not just cursed energy," Anāman murmured. "It's... something else."
Takumi nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on the artifact. "The energy feels alive. Sentient, almost. Whatever it is, it's dangerous. We can't leave it here."
A faint, distorted hum emanated from the artifact, like a low, incomprehensible whisper brushing against his thoughts. Anāman shook his head, forcing the sensation away. "If the clan gets their hands on this..." He let the thought trail off, his fists clenching as frustration and revulsion churned within him.
"You know what they'll do," Takumi said quietly, his tone carrying an edge of warning. "This isn't something they'd just study. They'd use it. On outsiders, on people like you"
Anāman's breath hitched as the implications sank in. He could already imagine the Cube in the hands of the clan—reshaping sorcerers into something unrecognizable, into tools stripped of their humanity. His chest tightened as his thoughts spiraled, a surge of determination rising to meet the dread. "Then we destroy it," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm within him.
Takumi smiled, then nodded. "It won't be easy, but I'll handle the fallout."
Anāman glanced at him, surprised by the quiet resolve in Takumi's voice. "Why are you doing this?" he asked cautiously.
Takumi met his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I was planning to destroy it from the start, when I was handed the mission," He sighed, his brow furrowing. "I already messed up once. Never again"
Anāman turned back to the Cube, his cursed energy flaring as he summoned Ruinous Gambit to its fullest extent. The blue flames roared around his fists, the artifact's oppressive aura pushing back with each step he took toward it. With a sharp exhale, he raised his hand and struck.
The impact was explosive, a deafening crack splitting the air as the Cube shattered into shards of light. The oppressive energy dissipated instantly, leaving the chamber eerily still. Anāman lowered his hand, his breaths heavy and uneven, his eyes fixed on the empty pedestal.
For the first time in what felt like years, he felt a flicker of control—a choice made entirely by him. A step toward reclaiming his agency.
Takumi placed a hand on his shoulder. "That was the right call," he said softly. "But it's just the first step."
Anāman nodded, his gaze lingering on the faint traces of energy fading into the air. "If it means no one else has to be a tool, it's worth it."
As they turned to leave the chamber, the shattered remains of the Cube lay behind them
4 years later…
The courtyard was quiet except for the occasional murmur of distant voices. Anāman stood beside Takumi, the older sorcerer speaking in his measured tone about the specifics of their next mission. Anāman listened, his posture relaxed but his mind alert, letting the words flow over him. He respected Takumi—more than most, anyway—but his thoughts wandered.
The sharp crunch of deliberate footsteps pulled Anāman's attention, his gaze shifting toward the approaching figure. His stomach tightened instinctively as he recognized the severe expression and stiff gait of Shiguro, his former sensei. Memories of brutal training sessions, biting criticisms, and the faint, ever-present air of disdain resurfaced unbidden.
Shiguro's dark eyes swept over them, his lips curling into a sneer as he stopped a few paces away. "Still wasting your time on this stray, Takumi? A pity to see your skills squandered like this. There are real members of the clan who deserve that time. Not some… outsider."
Anāman tensed, his shoulders stiffening. The familiar knot of unease that Shiguro always brought with him tightened in his chest, but he masked it, keeping his expression neutral. Still, he couldn't stop his jaw from tightening.
Takumi remained calm, though his tone carried a sharper edge as he replied. "Funny, considering he was under your instruction before I took him in. And from what I've seen, he's made more progress since."
Shiguro's sneer deepened, his gaze snapping to Anāman. "Is that so?" His tone was low, dangerous, each word laced with venom. "Perhaps your progress has given you ideas above your station, boy. A reminder might do you well."
Anāman's stomach churned, the weight of past intimidation pressing against him like a hand around his throat. For a moment, he felt it—the instinct to lower his gaze, to avoid the confrontation entirely. But then the knot of fear twisted, hardening into something colder. He lifted his chin slightly, his voice steady but razor-sharp. "Station? That's rich, coming from someone who couldn't even do his own job right."
Shiguro's face darkened, his jaw clenching tightly as fury flashed in his eyes. His voice dropped lower, each word laced with menace. "You'd better remember who you're speaking to. Insolence has its price."
Anāman's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "Oh, just fuck off you stupid prick."
The silence that followed was deafening. Shiguro froze, momentarily thrown by the audacity of the response. His face reddened, his fists clenching at his sides, but he didn't immediately lash out. Perhaps it was Takumi's presence or the sheer unexpectedness of Anāman's defiance.
Takumi, sensing the rising tension, stepped forward slightly, placing a firm but nonchalant hand on Anāman's shoulder. "Perhaps, you should take up your concerns with someone who shares them."
Shiguro glared at them both, his anger barely contained. With a final venomous glance at Anāman, he turned sharply and stormed off, his robes billowing behind him.
As the tension in the courtyard eased, Anāman let out a slow, controlled breath. He caught Takumi's gaze, the older man's expression calm but faintly amused. "You handled that better than I expected," Takumi said quietly, his tone carrying the faintest hint of approval.
"Didn't feel like it," Anāman muttered, his voice low. His irritation lingered, though not at Takumi. He glanced down, his fingers brushing absently against the hilt of the blade at his side.
"Still," Takumi added, his voice softening, "standing your ground is no small thing. Especially with someone like him."
Anāman didn't reply, his thoughts swirling with a mix of satisfaction and unease. As Takumi turned to leave, Anāman's gaze lingered on the spot where Shiguro had stood, the ghost of his past fading but not entirely gone.
Anāman stood alone in the courtyard, the tension of the confrontation with Shiguro still thrumming faintly in his veins. The wind tugged at the hem of his robe, carrying with it the muted sounds of the bustling compound. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, his thoughts tumbling over the interaction. Fear had been there—he couldn't deny it—but it hadn't won.
Still, the bitterness lingered. His defiance had felt good in the moment, a small assertion of control in a life where he often felt like a puppet on strings. But now, the thrill of standing his ground was already giving way to a gnawing unease. What had it changed, really? Shiguro would still look at him with disdain, and the clan would still see him as an outsider.
He kicked a small pebble across the stone courtyard, watching as it skittered and came to a stop. A familiar emptiness crept in—the same hollow feeling he'd wrestled with for years. Being strong enough to push back wasn't enough. Not really.
From the shadows of the courtyard, two figures watched him. Anāman didn't notice them at first, too lost in his thoughts. Jun shifted nervously, his gaze darting between his sister and Anāman. Mei rolled her eyes and gave him another nudge. "Go on, Jun. You wanted to do this," she whispered, a smirk on her face, though her own hesitation was evident.
With a gulp, Jun stepped forward, his voice coming out a bit too soft. "Uh, hey, Your Anāman right?…"
Notes:
Thanks to everyone who has commented on the story, especially XanAuthorOfTheNightmare for letting me know line breaks were not being formated properly when I was copying my chapters over from AO3
I have one more flashback chapter planned for later in the story, but I want to know if people like these as the plot relevent points in it can be included in the story without it. Its going to do with the great barrier witch I mentioned once or twice in the story in passing, and it will conect to an improtant JJK character. Let me know what you guys think