The warm water enveloped him, a comforting embrace that smoothed away lingering tension, even though his soreness had long since faded.
Steam curled lazily in the air as he let himself sink deeper, his mind gradually loosening from the trance-like focus that had held him captive earlier.
His journal sat nearby, its pages dense with hurried scribbles of theories and formulas—thoughts only he could decipher. For now, it remained closed, its contents temporarily set aside.
With a quiet sigh, he reached for the soap bottle.
Then—he stopped.
A flicker of movement, subtle but unmistakable, caught the edge of his vision.
There, nestled among the toiletries, was a Tsukumogami.
It had latched onto an unused soap bottle, its form barely perceptible to most—but to his eyes, as clear as day.
A cursed spirit, weak but lingering, its faint consciousness clinging to existence.
He picked it up.
Studied it.
Then—he ate it.
Faint exhilaration washed over him, sharpening his senses with that familiar clarity he had begun to crave.
Akai hummed in satisfaction, licking his fingers clean before reaching for an actual bottle of soap.
He still had a bath to finish, after all.
.
.
.
Akai stood before the mirror, tugging at the folds of his formal kimono until they sat just right.
The fabric, crisp from recent tailoring, rested on his shoulders with the same familiar weight. This wasn't about etiquette or tradition—it was simply routine now. A quiet ritual that felt... correct.
Satisfied, he slipped his journal and pen into his sleeve, tucking them away with practiced ease. His round glasses followed, hidden but within reach.
Then—three sharp knocks.
A servant.
"The elder has called for you."
Polite. Restrained. The perfect image of a well-trained attendant. But beneath the carefully measured tone, there was something else—something bitter.
Disdain.
To anyone else, it would have been a deliberate insult, a subtle act of defiance. To Akai, it was background noise. The clan's petty games meant nothing to him anymore.
He stepped to the door and pulled it open.
The servant stood rigid, gaze locked onto him, unmoving.
Akai raised a brow. "Why are you still here?"
A flicker of something ugly twisted the servant's features—just for an instant. One of them, then. The ones who found quiet joy in looking down on him.
"I was ordered to make sure you obey Elder Takahiro's summons," the servant said, tone even, practiced—his contempt neatly folded between the words.
Beneath the polished mask of duty, the servant's eyes flickered—calculating, performing. He wanted credit. He wanted to be seen as the one keeping the "troublemaker brat" in line.
Akai caught the flicker, noted it, then discarded it. A meaningless detail.
But then—something shifted.
The undercurrent of malice stilled, replaced by something far heavier. The air thickened, saturated with tension, as if raw bloodlust had bled into the space between them.
Akai spoke, tone light, almost idle. "Then why didn't you wait for me to come out before informing me?"
A simple question. Nothing more than curiosity.
Yet, within the Hyūga, it was a deviation.
Protocol dictated that a servant waited outside, silent and patient, after knocking until their superior chose to acknowledge them.
To convey the information first—without permission—was an unspoken breach of order, a subtle but deliberate misstep.
To Akai, it was nothing more than a passing thought.
To the servant?
The red-white gaze bore into him—cold, unblinking. Like it could flay flesh from bone, unravel his soul one delicate thread at a time.
His voice faltered. Just slightly. "I—I was only following orders. I was told to ensure you didn't... skip training."
Akai tilted his head. "Are you alright?"
The concern in his voice was genuine. That was what made it worse.
The servant stiffened, trembling despite himself.
"Your voice is shaking a little," Akai added.
It was almost cruel.
The servant misread it entirely. His breath hitched. His blood ran cold.
"Kneel."
The word slipped from Akai's lips without thought, effortless, weightless—an afterthought.
But the servant thought about it.
His knees hit the floor before he even realized he'd moved. Spine locked. Head bowed. Sweat prickling at his temple.
Akai stepped forward. One step. Another.
The servant squeezed his eyes shut.
And then—
A tap.
Featherlight, against his right shoulder.
Even Elder Genzou—the former clan head—had only two. A fly-head curse clinging to his foot. A caged bird spirit orbiting his form.
But this servant?
He was infested.
Curses swarmed him, thick and writhing, clinging like parasites. Twisting around his limbs. Burrowing into his back. Digging talons deep—not just into flesh, but into something more vital.
Akai exhaled. Blast.
A single pulse of cursed energy, precise and controlled. Not a strike. Not an attack. Just… removal.
No need to pluck them one by one. Too many. Too tedious. And besides—if he made a habit of it, the clan might start whispering.
Might start wondering if the sickly young lord had finally lost his mind.
Almost instantly, the servant felt it.
The weight. The tension in his jaw. The unseen pressure coiled around his ribs.
Gone.
The anger—the quiet, simmering resentment—dissolved like mist beneath the sun.
The fear, the loathing, the indignation that had felt so righteous, so justified… faded into nothing.
Like they had never belonged to him in the first place.
Even his body felt lighter. The stiffness in his joints? Vanished. The dull ache in his muscles? Erased.
He could breathe.
His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Akai.
And for the first time, he truly saw him.
Not as the defect child. Not as the Hyūga's arrogant small fry.
Just… a boy.
His red-white gaze, once so menacing, so detached, held no scorn, no silent judgment.
It simply was.
Steady. Neutral. Observant.
Then Akai spoke.
"I hope you're not pushing yourself too hard."
The servant swallowed. "Y-yes. Thank you for your concern, Young Lord."
.
.
.
Akai's footsteps echoed softly through the halls, a steady, unhurried rhythm against polished wood. His expression remained unreadable, unchanged.
The same could not be said for the servant beside him.
Once so eager to sneer, to impose authority where none existed, he now walked with quiet reverence.
His tone had softened. His gestures held newfound care.
Every word he spoke carried the weight of someone who had glimpsed something beyond his understanding—something that refused to let him remain the same.
Akai, as always, paid it no mind.
His long kimono sleeves were secured with a tasuki, ensuring they wouldn't hinder his movements. His usual haori was absent—there was no need for it here.
Soon, they arrived.
The Training Hall.
With a smooth motion, Akai slid the door open and stepped inside.
And there they were.
Genzou.
Hiashi.
Takahiro.
Neji.
Hinata.
All present.
The servant lingered only for a moment before lowering his head. "I shall take my leave."
No further words. No hesitation.
He simply left.
The moment he stepped inside, their gazes shifted to him.
The Training Hall pulsed with quiet intensity—bodies moving in fluid synchronization, feet gliding across the polished floor, breaths controlled and measured. The steady rhythm of discipline.
Hiashi's voice carried effortlessly through the space. "Now then. Begin the demonstration."
Neji and Hinata stepped forward first.
Neji's strikes were sharp, honed to perfection. Precision incarnate.
Hinata's movements, though softer, carried a controlled grace—fluid yet firm, no hesitation in her form.
Akai stood back, watching. Observing.
But his focus wasn't solely on their technique.
The caged birds were multiplying.
They weren't here before. Not like this. But now, they flickered into existence, circling like restless shadows. Each one born from Neji's emotions.
Hatred.
It wasn't killing intent—not yet. But it was close.
Then—Akai's turn.
Genzou and Hiashi had never truly evaluated him before. This would be the first time they witnessed his mastery of the clan's most revered taijutsu.
He moved fluidly, each strike crisp and deliberate, fingers poised in the signature Gentle Fist form. Every motion executed with precision, every stance controlled, his body tracing the patterns drilled into his memory.
Takahiro's voice cut through the silence. "Acceptable."
Which, from him, was as close to praise as one could get.
Akai had little time to dwell on it.
The next phase was sparring.
Hiashi's voice sliced through the air. "Begin the sparring."
Neji and Hinata stepped into position.
Hinata held steady, but the faint tremor in her fingertips betrayed her nerves.
Neji, by contrast, was composed—too composed. His expression held something unreadable, but his body spoke louder than words. He was waiting. Poised.
Spiteful.
Hiashi gave a subtle nod.
"Start."
Hinata moved first. A controlled dash, a palm strike aimed for Neji's ribs.
Neji shifted, sidestepping with effortless ease.
His counter was swift—a sharp thrust toward her shoulder.
Hinata barely deflected it, but Neji didn't give her room to breathe. His strikes came faster, relentless in their precision.
Left.
Right.
Chest.
Abdomen.
Hinata's arms moved in frantic precision, intercepting each blow, but the gap was clear.
She was being pushed back.
Neji's voice was cold. "You're hesitating!"
The words cut sharp, carrying more than just frustration. A buried resentment, a bitterness that twisted beneath the surface—like he thought Hinata was mocking him with her reluctance.
Then—his next strike slipped past her guard.
A sharp hit to her stomach.
Hinata staggered.
Neji didn't stop.
A second strike—her ribs.
A third—her right shoulder.
Hinata coughed, struggling to steady herself, her balance wavering.
Neji exhaled slowly. Raised his hand.
For the finishing blow.
But then—
Bloodlust.
Akai's eyes flickered.
He saw it.
The caged birds hovering above Neji multiplied—darker, more violent, their forms twisting with something uglier than before.
And in the next instant—
Neji's palm shot forward.
Straight for Hinata's heart.
"Hey..."
A hand caught Neji's wrist mid-strike.
The blow never landed.
Silence crashed over the hall.
Hiashi's eyes widened—just slightly.
Genzou's fingers twitched, the incomplete activation of Neji's curse mark fading into nothing.
Neji's expression twisted, frustration boiling beneath his skin.
And Akai… Akai was smiling.
He could see it now. Clearly. The flickering aura wrapped around Neji, twisting and writhing like a living thing.
Cursed energy.
Neji wasn't even aware he was using it. His anger, his resentment—it was draining his chakra, warping it into something else.
A spark of curiosity flared in Akai's mind.
Passive Subtraction...?
A fitting term, he decided. A phenomenon for those ignorant of cursed energy yet wielding it unknowingly.
He turned his gaze to Hinata.
Fear. Confusion. But no cursed energy.
So why Neji?
"Can you turn off that bloodlust a little?"
Neji yanked his hand away. "What do you think you're doing?" His voice was sharp, edged with irritation.
Akai tilted his head. "Hm? Not much. Like I was saying—can you turn it off?"
A pause.
"Your bloodlust, that is."
Neji's fists clenched. "...Why does that have anything to do with you?"
"Does it matter?" Akai's voice remained light. "Please turn off your bloodlust."
Turn off your bloodlust.
Turn off your bloodlust.
Turn off your bloodlust.
Akai's words keep repeating no matter how Neji reacted.
Neji's brows furrowed. "What even... are you trying to do?"
He had expected something else—an accusation, a reprimand. Maybe even outrage that he had dared to go too far against the heiress and almost killed her.
But when he really listened to Akai's tone, there was no anger. No threat.
Just... curiosity.
Neji hesitated.
This child is strange. Elder Genzou seemed to think the same.
It was as if, deep down, Akai didn't actually care whether that strike had landed on Hinata or not.
But Neji shook the thought away. It was absurd.
Still, something in Akai's words unsettled him.
His breath hitched.
Frustration churned in his chest, replacing his confusion with something sharper. Something personal.
"If you think you can do better," Neji said coldly, "then fight me yourself."
Akai blinked. Then—he smiled.
"Oh? I never said that but... Now that's interesting."
Before another word could be spoken, Hiashi stepped forward.
"Enough."
The single command cut through the tension like a blade.
All eyes turned to him.
But his gaze was locked on one person—the only red-eyed boy in the room.
"Akai."
A pause.
"Explain yourself."
"Explain, you say...?" Akai murmured, his voice trailing off.
Hiashi's gaze sharpened.
Something about Akai's tone—it was different.
Usually, Akai was like Neji. Cold. Formal. The weight of his hatred carved so deeply into his being that it shaped the way he spoke, the way he carried himself.
Whenever he addressed Hiashi, it was always with that same restrained politeness, that same distant, grown-up detachment.
But now…
Now, he was speaking as if none of it mattered. As if the weight of the past, of everything that had transpired, was nothing more than an idle thought.
And yet—
Hiashi could still see it. The memory burned into his mind.
That moment.
The moment Akai's hatred had blazed to life, reflected in his crimson and white eyes. The way his curse mark had glowed a searing, unnatural green.
The image was vivid, unshakable.
Akai, gritting his teeth even through the agony of the seal, his gaze filled with nothing but pure, unfiltered loathing. It was apparent that hatred burned even more than the pain from the mark looking at his expression.
And now, that same boy stood before him, smiling like it had never happened.
Akai's gaze flicked to Neji, then back to Hiashi.
"Why not?" His tone was light, almost amused. "I'm curious about something. And sparring... isn't that normal?"
.
.
.
To be continued.