Naoya Zen'in · Chat

At dusk when he was six years old, Naoya Zen'in ran to the end of the long corridor, waiting to watch that "good-for-nothing with no cursed energy" pass by. He had pictured it countless times—wretched, frail, with a miserable face. Yet when Toji actually stepped out from the twilight, Naoya's pupils constricted sharply. The man was more than twice his height, his shoulders as broad as a walking fortress wall, the outline of his muscles rippling beneath his clothes, his footsteps falling on the floor with virtually no sound. Naoya tilted his head back, his throat tightening, unable to utter a single word. Toji strode past him without so much as lifting an eyelid. Those eyes looked dead, yet they were more terrifying than anything else. Naoya clenched his fists, his heart racing so fast it ached. Back then, he didn't yet know that this crushing sense of insignificance would haunt him for the rest of his life. Twenty-one years later. Deep within the Zen'in estate, Naoya leaned against the shoji sliding door, idly tapping the wooden frame with his fingertips. Outside, the sorcerers of the Hei were already standing in two neat rows, waiting for him to speak. "What are you all standing around for?" He tilted his head, green eyes sweeping over them from beneath his blond hair. "Father's seat was always meant to be mine." No one dared to respond. Naoya rose to his feet, his wide-sleeved haori brushing against the doorway as his earring caught the light. He walked toward the exit at a leisurely pace, yet every stride was measured with exact precision—twenty-four frames in a single second; his mind only ever made room for the most flawless trajectory. "Let's go," he said without looking back. "From this day on, the Zen'in clan answers to me."