Chapter Text
The air hung thick and heavy, a blanket of damp earth and the unsettling scent of pine needles decaying. Tsumugi, her delicate peach eyes scanning the inky shadows, pulled her threadbare cloak tighter. Beside her, her younger brother, Muzan, shivered, his light blue eyes wide with a fear that mirrored her own. Their breath plumed in the frigid night, the only sounds a symphony of rustling leaves and the distant, mournful cry of an unseen owl.
“Are you sure this is it, Ane-Chan?” Muzan whispered, his voice a fragile thing against the vastness of the forest. He clutched the worn hem of her sleeve, a small, trembling anchor in the overwhelming darkness.
Tsumugi nodded, her gaze fixed on the gnarled, ancient oak that loomed ahead like a skeletal sentinel. “Yes. Grandfather’s map was clear. The twin oaks mark the path to the old logging trail, and the carriage… it should be just beyond.”
They pressed on, their footsteps crunching on fallen twigs and damp moss. The moon, a sliver of bone, offered little illumination, forcing them to rely on the flickering light of a single, dim lantern Tsumugi held aloft. The forest seemed to press in on them, the trees like silent, judging spectres, their branches clawing at the bruised sky.
Then, through a break in the dense foliage, it appeared. A hulking, shadowy form, vaguely equine, hitched to a carriage that seemed to bleed into the darkness. The carriage itself was a relic, its wooden wheels half-buried in the soft earth, its once-ornate carvings now obscured by grime and years of neglect. And atop its flatbed, shrouded by a moth-eaten canvas sheet, was the object of their terrifying pilgrimage.
“There it is,” Tsumugi breathed, her voice barely a whisper, a mixture of relief and dread. She approached the carriage cautiously, her hand extended towards the sheet. It was heavy, stiff with age and what felt like centuries of accumulated dust. With a grunt, she pulled, and the fabric tore away with a sound like rending flesh, revealing the trunk beneath.
It wasn't just a trunk. It was a monstrous creation, carved from what looked like a dark, unknown wood, its surface intricately etched with symbols that seemed to writhe in the faint lantern light. A brass lock, tarnished green with age, held it fast. Even in the gloom, a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from within, a silent vibration that resonated in their bones.
Suddenly, a long, drawn-out howl ripped through the stillness of the forest, closer this time, chilling them to the core. Muzan yelped, burying his face against Tsumugi’s leg.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a pack of wolves,” Tsumugi whispered, though her own peach eyes were wide with a worry that betrayed her calm tone. “Come on. We’re almost rid of it.” She tugged at the trunk, the sheer weight of it almost pulling her off her feet.
Muzan, still trembling, reached out to help. Together, grunting with effort, they managed to slide the trunk off the carriage and onto the damp earth. It thudded with a sickening resonance that seemed to echo through the very ground beneath them. They dragged it, inch by agonizing inch, towards a gaping maw in the earth—a pit they had spent the better part of the day digging, their muscles aching, their hands raw.
The hole was deep, a dark, hungry mouth ready to swallow its forbidden meal. With a final, desperate heave, they pushed the trunk towards the edge. It tipped, teetered for a heart-stopping moment, and then plunged into the depths with a dull, echoing thud. The silence that followed was profound, heavy with the weight of their monumental task.
Tsumugi reached for a shovel, her fingers brushing against the cold metal. Beside her, Muzan, still shaken, stumbled. His foot caught on a loose root, and with a cry of surprise, he tumbled forward, disappearing into the darkness of the pit.
“Muzan!” Tsumugi cried out, her voice a sharp gasp of terror.
And then, from the depths of the hole, from the trunk itself, came a sound that was both ancient and terrifying: a deep, rhythmic drumbeat, resonating through the earth, slow and deliberate, like the beating heart of some colossal, awakening beast. Each beat vibrated through Tsumugi’s very bones, a primal summons.
“Tsumugi, it’s after me!” Muzan’s voice, muffled and tearful, echoed from the darkness below.
Tsumugi scrambled to the edge of the pit, peering down into the impenetrable blackness. “Grab on!” she urged, extending her hand, her fingers outstretched, desperate to find his. She could vaguely make out his pale, terrified face in the sliver of moonlight that managed to penetrate the depths. His small hand, shaking uncontrollably, found hers. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, Tsumugi pulled, her muscles straining, her feet digging into the soft earth. Slowly, agonizingly, Muzan was hauled from the pit, his face streaked with dirt and tears, his light blue eyes wide with unfathomable horror.
“Run! Run!” Muzan cried, scrambling to hide behind his sister, his small body trembling violently. The drumbeat intensified, a steady, relentless rhythm that pulsed in the very air.
But Tsumugi, though her own heart hammered against her ribs, knew they couldn't. “No, Otouto,” she urged, her voice a little shaky but firm. “We have to finish this. Come on. Help me bury it.” She gestured frantically to the shovels, the earth still loose around the edges of the pit.
Muzan peeked out from behind her, his eyes darting to the hole, then to the ominous, throbbing trunk within. “What if someone digs it up?” he whispered, the question laced with a child’s innocent, yet terrifying, understanding of the unknown.
Tsumugi’s jaw tightened, her peach eyes hardening with a grim resolve. She picked up a shovel, its weight a comforting solidity in her trembling hands. “May Kami-Sama have mercy on his soul.”
As the words left her lips, the air around them shimmered, not with heat, but with a palpable, otherworldly chill. The drumbeat reached a crescendo, a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the forest. Behind them, the trees seemed to warp and distort, and then, with a terrifying, whooshing sound, a swirling vortex of jungle green erupted from the ground. It was a kaleidoscope of vibrant, impossible colors, swirling with an unnatural energy. Vines, thick and sinuous, seemed to reach out from its depths, their tendrils grasping at the air. The stench of damp earth and exotic, unknown flora filled their nostrils, overpowering the familiar scent of pine.
Before they could even scream, before they could even comprehend the impossible sight before them, the vortex expanded, its verdant maw opening wide. A powerful, unseen force gripped them, yanking them off their feet. Muzan’s cry was cut short, swallowed by the roar of the swirling portal. Tsumugi felt a sickening lurch, a sensation of being pulled through an impossibly narrow space, her vision blurring into a dizzying kaleidoscope of green and black.
Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the vortex vanished, leaving behind only the silence of the forest, the lingering scent of damp earth, and the empty space where two terrified siblings had stood moments before. The only evidence of their presence was the newly disturbed earth around the freshly buried, drumming trunk. And deep within the forest, far away, the mournful howls of the wolves began anew, their cries echoing through the vast, dark emptiness.
The summer of ’69 hummed with a lazy warmth, the kind that made the asphalt shimmer and the cicadas sing their relentless song. For Yoriichi, it was the soundtrack to freedom, the wind in his long, burgundy hair, now tied back in a messy high ponytail that danced behind him like a fiery banner. His maroon-red eyes, usually serene, held a glint of easy contentment as he pedaled his beat-up bike down the cracked suburban street, the sun-kissed visage of his hanafuda earrings swaying gently with each turn of the pedal.
“Hello, dear,” a soft voice drifted from Mrs. Ubuyashiki’s porch. The black-haired woman, her light purple eyes gentle, offered him a warm smile as she cradled her baby, a tiny bundle with small tufts of black hair, to her breast.
Yoriichi slowed, his voice polite. “Hi, Miss Ubuyashiki.” He offered a small wave before continuing on his way.
Further down, from her manicured garden, Mrs. Botan called out, her voice a melodic chime. “Good afternoon, Yoriichi-chan!” She was a pretty woman, her laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
“Hey, Botan-San,” Yoriichi responded, a faint smile gracing his lips. He liked Mrs. Botan. She always had a kind word.
At the intersection, Ishi, a burly man with a perpetually grease-stained uniform and kind brown eyes, held up his hand, signalling for the sparse traffic to stop. “All yours, Yoriichi,” he called out, his black hair falling across his forehead.
“Thanks, Ishi-San,” Yoriichi yelled back, grateful for the brief pause that allowed him to cut across without hassle. He was almost there.
But just as the factory gates came into view, a familiar, unwelcome sound broke the peaceful hum of the afternoon. The grating screech of bicycle tires on pavement, the guttural laughter that always seemed to promise trouble.
Rengoku Hachijurou, a fiery comet of blonde hair that faded to red, leading the charge, his yellow eyes gleaming with mischief. Trailing behind him were his usual cronies: Mikazushi Kaito, a slender figure with slick black hair and cruel blue eyes, and Hayashi Kaze, a pale shadow with stark white hair and unsettling green eyes.
“Get him!” Kaze’s voice, sharp and reedy, cut through the air like a whip.
Hachijurou let out a booming laugh, a sound that grated on Yoriichi’s ears. “Prepare to die, Tsugikuni! Hey, Tsugikuni, what’s the rush?” He pedaled harder, his blonde hair with its fiery ending streaming behind him like a tail.
Kaito howled with laughter, his blue eyes shimmering with malicious glee. “He’s goin’ to his dad’s factory! Yoriichi wants his daddy now!” The taunt was a familiar one, a barbed arrow aimed straight at Yoriichi’s quiet nature.
Yoriichi ignored them, pushing his legs harder, the chain of his bike groaning in protest. The factory, with its tall brick walls and the faint, comforting scent of metal and oil, was his sanctuary. He pedaled with a desperate urgency, the taunts of the trio echoing in his ears, spurring him on.
Finally, with a last burst of speed, he reached the double doors of the factory. He dropped his bike with a clatter, not bothering to prop it up, and burst inside, the relative coolness of the interior a welcome relief from the sweltering heat and the tormentors outside.
Through the glass panel of the door, he could see Hachijurou, his expression a sneer of contempt. “Go ahead, Tsugikuni. Run to Daddy. We’ll be waiting.” The blonde hair with a fiery ending seemed to glow with triumph as Hachijurou snickered, his friends echoing his amusement.
Yoriichi slammed the heavy door shut, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. He leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep, shaky breath. The taunts still stung, but for now, he was safe. He was in his father’s factory, and for the moment, that was all that mattered.
Yoriichi bit his bottom lip, the sting of the recent chase still prickling at him. He let out a soft sigh, the factory’s familiar hum of industry a low, comforting thrum around him. He ambled through the bustling workspace, his maroon-red eyes scanning the scene.
Men and women, their sleeves rolled up, moved with practiced efficiency, their hands a blur of motion. The rhythmic thud of machinery, the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional sharp snap of a cutting tool – it was a symphony of creation. Rolls of cloth, vibrant and muted, were transformed; some were fed into massive washing machines that churned with soapy water, others were guided through the precise needles of sewing machines, the intricate threads weaving patterns of everyday wear.
He began to ascend the creaking wooden stairs that led to his father's office, the scent of fresh fabric growing stronger with each step. The door was ajar, and as he reached the top, he paused, a faint smile touching his lips at the sight within. His older twin brother, Michikatsu, was seated in a worn armchair, his long, spiky black hair with its distinctive burgundy tips cascading down his back. Kneeling before him, her nimble fingers deftly weaving through his dark locks, was Tamayo, her petite frame a contrast to Michikatsu’s broader build. Her dark brown hair framed a face of gentle concentration; her light purple eyes focused on her task.
“Hello, Yoriichi-San,” Tamayo murmured softly, her voice a soothing melody as she hummed a quiet tune, her fingers continuing to braid Michikatsu's hair with an almost meditative grace.
Michikatsu, his maroon-red eyes unreadable as always, glanced up. “Otouto, you’re here way earlier than I thought.” His tone was flat, almost bored, but then his gaze sharpened, taking in Yoriichi’s disheveled appearance, the faint streaks of dirt on his clothes and the lingering tension in his shoulders. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, crossed his features before he continued, “Those boys again, I take it?”
“Yeah…” Yoriichi frowned, the memory of Rengoku Hachijurou’s taunts still fresh.
Tamayo pursed her lips, a hint of displeasure in her gentle eyes as she deftly secured the end of Michikatsu’s braid with a tie. She looked up at Yoriichi, her expression filled with quiet sympathy. “Those boys need to stop picking on you.”
"Otou-Sama won't be happy if he finds out those boys are still picking on you." Michikatsu let out a sigh, a rare display of something akin to exasperation. He then turned his head slightly, admiring the neat braid Tamayo had woven into his hair, a faint, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes.
Tamayo smiled sweetly, her gentle fingers lightly touching the newly finished braid before she leaned her head against his shoulder, a picture of quiet affection.
Yoriichi frowned, the weight of his brother’s words, and the implied disapproval of their father, settling on him. He simply nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken understanding between them.
Tamayo’s gaze shifted to Yoriichi, her gentle purple eyes thoughtful. She then muttered softly, almost to herself, “Is it because you are friends with Rengoku’s girlfriend, Uta?” The question hung in the air, delicate as a spiderweb.
Yoriichi’s cheeks bloomed a warm cherry red, a blush that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. The mere thought of Uta, with her bright obsidian eyes and quick smile, made him feel a giddy lightness in his chest. “We’re just friends…” he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively.
Michikatsu, who had been idly admiring his braid, let out an almost exasperated groan, a low, rumbling sound that spoke volumes of his twin’s transparent denial.
"For the love of— Otouto, you need to stay away from her." Michikatsu's voice was sharper now, a definite edge of frustration. He wrapped an arm around Tamayo, pulling her into a loving hug before standing up and helping her to her feet. Her light purple kimono, soft against her frame, fluttered prettily around her like butterfly wings as she moved. "I get she and you are friends, but one day you're going to get hurt because of Rengoku and his goons." He snarked, his maroon eyes narrowed slightly.
Yoriichi looked down at his scuffed sandals, his earlier blush fading to a dull flush of shame. He didn't argue, just nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of his brother's harsh but undeniable truth.
Tamayo then gently took Yoriichi’s hands in hers, her touch soft and reassuring. A softer smile bloomed on her already gentle face. “Listen to me, Yoriichi-san, I’m sure things will all work out.” Her light purple eyes were full of genuine concern. “I just… I think it’s best that you avoid a further confrontation with Rengoku and his friends.” She tilted her head slightly as Michikatsu, beside them, muttered under his breath, “Goons. Rengoku and his stupid ass goons.”
Yoriichi nodded, a silent agreement to her sensible advice, even as a knot of resentment began to form in his stomach.
Tamayo let go of Yoriichi's calloused hands, her fingers then lacing with Michikatsu’s. They exchanged a brief, comforting glance before turning and leaving the office, walking down the creaking wooden stairs. Yoriichi heard their footsteps recede, then the soft murmur of their voices as they waited by the main entrance of the factory for him.
Yoriichi numbly followed, his mind replaying Tamayo’s words, Michikatsu’s warnings. The thought that he shouldn’t be around Uta, that his friendship with her was a source of trouble because of her boyfriend and his friends, made something inside him clench. He shouldn't have to avoid someone he cared about. It made him somewhat… angry?
Tamayo’s soft smile widened as Yoriichi caught up to them, his expression still a mix of frustration and quiet contemplation. Michikatsu huffed, but a wry grin, surprisingly warm, touched his lips as he looked at his younger brother.
They stepped out of the factory, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. The first thing Yoriichi noticed was the glaring absence of his bicycle. His heart sank.
And then he saw them. Hachijurou, Kaito, and Kaze were lounging by a gnarled old oak tree at the edge of the factory grounds, their faces a mix of boredom and anticipation. Hachijurou’s eyes, yellow and sharp, immediately locked onto Yoriichi.
“Just because you’re a Tsugikuni,” Hachijurou snarled, his voice dripping with venom, “doesn’t mean you can hang around my girlfriend!” He took a step forward, his fists clenching.
The words were barely out of his mouth when a blur of motion erupted beside Yoriichi. Michikatsu, his face a mask of cold fury, lunged forward. A sharp crack echoed through the air as his fist connected squarely with Hachijurou’s nose. The blonde-haired boy let out a pained cry, a choked gasp, as he tumbled backward, a string puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. He landed in an undignified heap on the dusty ground, clutching his face.
Kaito and Kaze, who had been snickering moments before, froze, their eyes wide with shock. They exchanged a terrified glance, then, without a word, turned and bolted, their bikes abandoned as they disappeared around the corner of the factory.
Tamayo gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. For a moment, she looked ready to chide her boyfriend, her gentle nature instinctively rebelling against the sudden violence. But then, her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Hachijurou writhe on the ground, and a silent acknowledgment passed between them. The bratty boy named Rengoku Hachijurou had, she concluded, deserved it.
Yoriichi’s eyes widened in surprise, a jolt going through him at the sudden, swift act of retribution. Then, a wave of something almost smug washed over him, a flicker of dark satisfaction at the sight of the self-righteous bully tossed so ignominiously to the ground.
“You’re a jerk, ya’know?” Michikatsu snarled, his voice low and dangerous, his gaze fixed on the groaning Hachijurou. Tamayo, her expression now firm and unwavering, nodded her agreement as she stood just behind Michikatsu, a silent pillar of support.
Hachijurou, blood dripping from his nose, scrambled to his feet, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pain and incandescent rage. “I’ll get you back! You bastard!” he shrieked, clutching his now-bleeding nose. He shot one last venomous glare at the Tsugikuni brothers before turning tail and running, a pathetic figure disappearing down the street.
Tamayo, for a fleeting moment, let her usual gentle composure slip, a tiny, almost triumphant and deeply smug grin playing on her lips as she watched Hachijurou flee. It was a side of her Yoriichi rarely saw, and it was surprisingly… satisfying.
Michikatsu let out a low snicker, the sound rough but laced with amusement. He then turned his attention to Yoriichi. “I’ll be staying at Tamayo’s for the night, will you be okay to spend the night alone?” His tone was casual, but his eyes held a flicker of concern.
Yoriichi nodded, a small, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. Being alone was a familiar state, a quiet constant in a house that often felt too large and too silent.
“Great! We’ll see you tomorrow!” Michikatsu grinned, reaching out to playfully ruffle Yoriichi’s already messy burgundy hair, a gesture of brotherly affection. He then grasped Tamayo’s hand, their fingers intertwining naturally, and with a last wave, they walked off into the distance, their figures silhouetted against the setting sun.
Yoriichi watched them go, a sigh escaping him. He didn't want to go home just yet, not to the hushed tension that often permeated the air between his patriotic, demanding father and his meek, perpetually worried mother. The thought of the quiet, slightly stifling atmosphere of their house was unappealing.
As he stood there, caught between the retreating figures of his brother and Tamayo and the looming presence of his empty home, a peculiar sound reached his ears. A rhythmic drum, deep and resonant, pulsed through the air. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard – almost enchanting, certainly compelling. It seemed to emanate from somewhere beyond the factory, drawing him in with an almost irresistible pull.
Curiosity, a potent force in his quiet life, tugged at him. He began to follow the sound, his maroon-red eyes scanning the surrounding area. The drumbeat seemed to lead him towards a derelict construction site just a few blocks away – a forgotten patch of churned earth and skeletal scaffolding, left unfinished and overgrown with weeds.
The drumming grew louder, guiding him to a section of freshly disturbed dirt near the edge of the site. Something was half-buried there, its corner barely visible. Yoriichi knelt, his fingers digging into the loose earth, uncovering a heavy, ornate wooden box. It was caked in grime, but as he brushed away the dirt, he saw intricate carvings that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
He pulled it free, the box surprisingly heavy. As he flipped it open, revealing a vibrant board game inside, a stern-looking construction worker in a hard hat, who had been taking a break nearby, looked up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. His gaze lingered on Yoriichi, then on the mysterious box in his hands.
Without a second thought, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through him, Yoriichi snapped the box shut, tucked it under his arm, and bolted. He ran, not looking back, the rhythmic drumbeat now echoing in his ears, a prelude to an adventure he couldn't yet comprehend.
Yoriichi slipped into the quiet house, the heavy front door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the stillness. He moved through the dimly lit hallway, the familiar scent of lemon polish and stale air filling his nostrils. The factory, the chase, the confrontation, the strange box – it all felt like a dream now, a vivid, unsettling memory.
He drifted into the lounge room, a space usually reserved for his father’s quiet evenings with the newspaper or his mother’s occasional tea with a neighbor. It was furnished with heavy, dark wood and plush, if slightly faded, armchairs. He walked over to a large, ornate wooden cabinet, its top usually cluttered with family photos and decorative knick-knacks. He found the ‘rules drawer’ – a specific compartment his father always used for instruction manuals and various small, mundane objects.
With a gentle tug, the drawer slid open. Inside, nestled amongst old board game instructions and a tangled mess of forgotten playing cards, was the Jumanji game. He pulled it out, his eyes drawn to the mysterious tokens within. His fingers, still calloused from years of helping at the factory, carefully selected two: a dark, polished piece that looked like a stylized Keratin Oni, its fierce expression somehow muted by the smooth wood, and another, gleam of metallic Kitsune, intricately crafted and shimmering faintly in the dim light. They felt cool and smooth against his skin, unexpectedly heavy.
He lifted them, examining them closely, when a soft voice startled him, causing his hands to jump. The tokens slipped from his grasp. They clattered against the wooden surface of the cabinet, a dull thud that seemed to resonate louder than it should have. And then, impossibly, miraculously, they weren’t where they fell. Like magnets to an unseen force, the Keratin Oni and the Metallic Kitsune slid across the polished wood, drawn by an invisible pull, until they clicked into place at two distinct starting points on the game board.
“Honey… Is that you?” His mother, Akeno, called out softly from somewhere deeper within the house, her voice a gentle tremor in the quiet.
Yoriichi’s heart gave a small lurch. He quickly shoved the Jumanji game under the heavy mahogany coffee table, its unexpected weight causing a slight tremor in the furniture. He then walked towards the formal dining room, drawn by the familiar drone of his father’s voice.
Shinji, the undisputed lord of the Tsugikuni household, stood at the head of the polished dining table, his posture rigid, a sheaf of papers held meticulously in his hand. He was reciting, or rather, rehearsing, a speech. “Hard work, determination, a cheerful outlook—attributes that have exemplified the spirit of our home since our forefathers first settled this town. Despite the harshness of our native clime and the granite of our soil… we have—”
“Prospered,” Akeno, his Okaa-Sama, subtly added, her voice a gentle hum from where she sat at the table, her hands folded meekly in her lap. She offered a small, encouraging smile.
Shinji glared good-naturedly at her, a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I knew the whole damn thing this morning.” He grumbled, adjusting his spectacles.
“I’m sure you’ll do lovely, dear,” Akeno nodded, her tone unwavering in its quiet support.
Shinji let out a theatrical sigh, then straightened his tie. “All right. Let’s go.” He announced, expecting immediate compliance.
As he turned to leave the dining room, Akeno’s voice, soft and hesitant, stopped him. “Shinji… We have to talk to Yoriichi.” Her head was lowered meekly, her gaze fixed on the tablecloth.
Yoriichi, who had been setting the dinner table with an almost robotic precision, placing heavy silver cutlery next to pristine porcelain plates, felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He bit his bottom lip, the subtle tremor in his mother’s voice confirming his unease. He continued to arrange the napkins, pretending not to hear, yet every word resonated within him.
Yoriichi picked at his food, the silverware clinking softly against the porcelain plate. Dinner was a quiet affair tonight, punctuated only by the sounds of chewing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
“Well, we’re on our way,” Shinji announced, pushing back his chair slightly and nodding to Akeno, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return.
“Okay…” Akeno began, her voice a soft murmur, “I told your father what you told me yesterday. It wasn’t just Rengoku Hachijurou, no?” Her eyes flickered to Yoriichi, then quickly away.
Shinji let out a sigh. “Look, if I’d known that, Yoriichi, I wouldn’t have—” he trailed off, seemingly addressing an invisible confidante, perhaps rehearsing a conversation he’d already had.
“It’s okay, Otou-Sama…” Yoriichi mumbled, his gaze fixed on his plate.
Shinji cleared his throat, his voice taking on a more formal, almost oratorical tone. “But I want you to know I am proud of you. I mean, you faced them, even though you were outnumbered. And since you took it like a man, your mother and I have decided that you’re ready to go to the Cliffside School for Boys. There.” He reached into his suit jacket pocket, pulling out a glossy brochure for Cliffside Academy for young boys, its cover depicting stately stone buildings nestled amidst verdant hills. He pushed it across the table towards Yoriichi.
“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Akeno added, her smile loving, though her eyes held a hint of her usual worry.
Yoriichi stared at the brochure, his mind reeling. The words didn’t compute. “You don’t want me living here anymore?” he asked, the question escaping his lips before he could stop it.
“Yoriichi…” Akeno sighed, a note of exasperation in her voice.
Shinji, however, forged ahead, oblivious to Yoriichi’s shock. “It’s always been the plan that you go to Cliffside when you were ready. I mean, Tsugikunis have been going to Cliffside ever since the 1700s. Even your Uncle went there.” He spoke with a pride that left no room for debate.
Yoriichi picked up the brochure, his fingers tracing the familiar architectural lines. His gaze snagged on a prominent photograph. “Look at this. Tsugikuni Hall.” His brow furrowed in a frown.
“It’s the main dormitory,” Shinji responded, a note of paternal pride in his voice.
Yoriichi’s frustration brewed, bubbling to the surface. “Oh, this is great. Kids are on my case here because I’m a Tsugikuni. Just wait till I’m living in a building named after me.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.
Shinji’s expression hardened, his reply was stern. “It was named after my father.”
“Good. Why don’t you live in it?” Yoriichi snarked, the anger now fully taking hold.
Shinji scoffed, a disbelieving huff. “I did! I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for my years there.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna be who you are. Maybe I don’t wanna be a Tsugikuni!” Yoriichi blurted out, the words hot and sharp, cutting through the polite dinner table atmosphere.
“You won’t be. Not till you start acting like one,” Shinji growled, his eyes blazing with a fury that mirrored Yoriichi’s own.
“Shinji—” Akeno interjected, her voice a desperate plea.
“Get your coat!” Shinji commanded, his gaze unwavering, indicating for Akeno to grab her coat.
Yoriichi was livid. “I guess I’m not ready for Cliffside then!” he yelled, pushing back his chair so abruptly it scraped against the floor.
“We’re taking you there next Sunday! And I don’t wanna hear another word about it!” Shinji scowled, his face a mask of controlled rage. He spun on his heel and stalked out the front door, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“You won’t! I’m never talking to you again!” Yoriichi screamed after him, his voice cracking with emotion.
From the car, Akeno’s muffled voice called out, “Shinji—”
“Don’t!” Shinji huffed, yanking open the car door and sliding into the driver’s seat. He slammed the door shut with a resounding thud, then barked at the chauffeur, “Get driving!” The engine roared to life, and the car pulled away, leaving Yoriichi standing alone in the doorway, his chest heaving with impotent fury. He turned and stormed into his room, throwing open his suitcase and furiously packing, clothes spilling messily onto the floor around him.