.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
14 October 1600, Gojo Clan Estate, Kyoto
The wind had shifted.
In the past thirty days, the world had lurched so violently it felt like it had spun off its axis.
Fushimi had burned. Gifu had fallen. Mitsunari had fled Ōgaki Castle like a man trying to outrun his own failure. The highlands of Akasaka were in Eastern hands, and if one believed the soldiers' drunken stories, it had been Zenin-dono who'd led, her shikigami towering five meters tall, breathing both fire and water and vengeance. They said she'd summoned a wind so strong it cracked a Western officer's skull in his kabuto. They said she moved like a storm and vanished like smoke. They said she laughed when she killed.
Ridiculous. But in war, truth mattered less than belief, and people believed in her.
Meanwhile, the Hattori clan had begun creeping east from Iga, ready to snap shut over Sekigahara like a trap. Date Masamune's banners flew over the Tōkaidō, pinning Mori's forces in place. And in the middle of it all, somewhere between legend and liability, stood him.
Seijiro Gojo.
The bastard who'd guessed Mitsunari's move before Mitsunari made it. Who'd seized the one piece no one had dared to touch: the heir. Hideyori Toyotomi, smuggled out from beneath the siege at Fushimi and delivered to Osaka while the Western lords still argued over whose fault it all was. Half the country wanted Seijiro dead. The other half needed him too much to admit it.
But facts remained: Seijiro had acted without orders.
A scandal, a betrayal, a treasonous stunt, depending on which old bastard you asked. Not the Gojo clan, not formally. Just him. That Gojo: the one with too much power and not nearly enough patience, the one they couldn't punish outright, not yet.
But at least the heir was safe. Osaka was secure. One disaster, for now, was off the board.
Rain clung to him as he stepped through the gates of the Gojo estate, soaked from the waist down, a storm having chased him the last mile from Osaka. He let the shōji door slam shut behind him, harder than necessary, and shrugged off his mud-caked haori onto the tatami without a word. Water streamed from his hair, trailing down the angles of his face; he gave a quick shake, flinging the worst of it to the floor, ponytail loosening at the nape.
And even now, with half the country sharpening swords behind his back, he was still doing this.
Still pouring cursed energy into that stupid wooden comb.
His fingers curled around it, careful, as if the thing might break. He'd been feeding it cursed energy every day for months: morning, night, on horseback, on the floors of inns, barns, silent Osaka rooms. Over and over: Infinity. On. Off. On again. His face felt like hell, and the purple under his eyes was probably permanent, but with the Six Eyes, he could see it: the cursed energy was settling in, like roots.
Almost there.
He crouched on the floor, coaxing another flicker of cursed energy into the camellia when he heard the footsteps behind him. He didn't look up, just raised a lazy hand and gestured behind him. "Go ahead," he muttered. "Climb up."
There was a pause, then the soft rustle of movement, and a moment later, a small, familiar weight landed on his back like a silent little monkey, and two arms looped around his neck in something between a hug and a chokehold.
"Too tight," Seijiro grunted, voice muffled. "I still need to breathe, you know."
Shima, perched firmly on his back, said nothing. She just clung to him, face buried against his shoulder like she was trying to merge with his spine. Her grip told him more than her words ever could: she was happy he was finally back, even if her face didn't show it. Not that her face ever showed anything.
He reached behind to brace her knees. "Hang on," he said. "I'm not stopping."
And he didn't: he kept walking even as Shima started braiding his damp hair with small, clumsy fingers, even when one of her geta slipped off and clattered across the floor, he didn't break stride.
Behind them, Payo appeared and followed at a polite distance, lips pursed with a grandmother's concern and a war strategist's exhaustion. "Gojo-dono," she called behind his back, voice calm and measured. "If I could—"
"You can't," he called over his shoulder, adjusting Shima's weight with a grunt.
"You haven't even heard—"
"Ishida-dono wants a miracle, and he's shocked the kami haven't delivered it. Karma, I say," he snapped. "That's what you get for pissing off Tokugawa-dono. And yes, the Gojo will send support to Sekigahara—once we've cleaned up our own mess."
His pace didn't slow. The halls narrowed, the garden gave way to stone, and soon the ancestral wing loomed ahead; he stopped in front of the shōji leading to his mother's quarters.
Payo quickened her steps to catch up. "It's not that," she said breathlessly. "There's another letter. Ishida-dono wants the Kamo clan secured. And the spear raised at Fushimi. To complete the barrier."
Seijiro stiffened. Shima adjusted her grip, playing with a lock of his hair now knotted by rain. He inhaled, closed his eyes, counted backward from five, then he turned—slowly, deliberately—to face her. "I've negotiated with that old fox three times last month. Always the same old song. 'When the war reaches Kyoto, the Kamo will rise to defend it.'" He spat the quote like poison. "And now? I return from Osaka to find their main estate empty."
Payo blinked. "...Empty?"
"Empty," he confirmed, voice flat. "Every gate unguarded. No servants, not even a token sorcerer on patrol. Tell me, Payo—does that sound like a neutral clan to you?"
Silence. Only the soft sound of Shima, still combing his hair with all the solemnity of a court lady preparing an execution. Payo didn't speak; she processed the implication in her mind just like him.
Seijiro closed his eyes again. Exhaled. Ground himself. "It's fine," he said softly. "Don't panic. Not yet."
But he already was, because if the Kamo had moved without a sound… There was only one direction they could've gone. North. Toward the Eastern Army. Seijiro didn't need the spear to hold Kyoto, didn't need the damn barrier, not really. But if the old fox had figured out what that cursed weapon could do—really figured it out—and brought it to Tokugawa...
Well. Then he had a real problem.
His fingers curled around the comb. And a moment passed. Then, with a glance toward the door, he asked, almost too casually, "He's inside?"
Payo blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "Eh? Ah, yes, but—Gojo-dono, he's young and frightened, you should—"
"Perfect," Seijiro said, forcing a thin smile and tightening his grip on Shima's legs. "It'd be strange if he weren't."
He slid open the shōji door and stepped into the only room in the entire Gojo estate where even silence felt afraid to breathe. Shima slid down from his back without a word and stepped to the side, as if sensing what this moment was, and Payo followed, steps soft and nervous.
The room had not changed, but nothing about it felt the same anymore.
Atsuhime sat on her futon, just as she always did, facing the narrow band of engawa visible through the half-opened shōji; her eyes were unfocused, locked on some far-off thought only she could see. A slight figure wrapped in silk, her shawl slipping off one shoulder as if even her body no longer remembered how to hold warmth; the morning light spilled like gold across her, brushing the edge of her cheekbone.
Outside, just past the panels, a single camellia had bloomed early. Reckless. Doomed. The kind of bloom that died young and didn't survive the first frost.
Once, the most beautiful and smart woman in Kyoto; now the ghost of that beauty, dressed in trapping memories.
She didn't turn when the door opened. She never did. But the boy kneeling beside her did.
He was folded small, head bowed low, forehead pressed to the tatami floor. His little hands trembled against the mat, and when he looked up—just briefly—and met Seijiro's gaze, his eyes went wide in recognition. He quickly dropped back down, bowing so deeply it looked painful.
Seijiro paused in the doorway, blinking. "So it's true," he murmured. "They found someone. Finally."
A new Gojo-sama. The future of the clan.
He stepped in once and stopped. The boy didn't move, didn't breathe; he just stayed there, a tight bundle of small nerves wrapped in black ceremonial kamishimo several sizes too big.
Payo leaned in close, standing on her toes to whisper near Seijiro's ear. "Gojo Souta," she said softly. "His parents were killed during last year's Zenin raid. In the courtyard. We traced his bloodline—there's a connection to the main branch. Distant, three, maybe four generations back, but… plausible." A beat. "He's five."
Five.
The same age Seijiro had been when his father, Akiteru Gojo, had dragged him into the sun and called him heir to a legacy soaked in blood. Barely steady on his feet, already an offering on the altar of a family that didn't recognize him. Five years old and kneeling to fate. Alone.
How poetic. How fucking precise.
Seijiro lowered himself to one knee in front of the child. The boy flinched. "Look at me," he said, firm but not unkind. "Raise your head."
A pause. Then, slowly, Souta lifted his head, eyes down and body stiff. Seijiro reached forward, brushed the mess of white hair from his forehead, and tilted his own head to better study the boy.
Round cheeks, still soft with baby fat. Blue eyes like the morning sky, clear, wide, too open for a Gojo child; nothing like the cruel cold frost Seijiro carried. That same wild hair, messy and unruly, sticking out at odd angles. Too much of it. And underneath it all, the hum of an innate cursed technique. Dormant, unmanifested, but present, like a seed under snow. The Six Eyes worked well enough to see that much.
Seijiro looked him over as if he were a weapon being inspected. He would do. "Chin up, kid, you're the heir of this clan now," he said plainly. "Like it or not, it doesn't matter. Always keep your eyes up." No words of comfort, no pretty lies. There was no time left for any of that.
Souta swallowed hard. "Y–yes, Gojo-dono."
"Name," Seijiro prompted, though he already knew.
A breath. A tremor. And then, quieter— "Gojo Souta," the boy whispered.
"Louder."
He yelped. "Gojo Souta!" The words came in a tumble, tripping over themselves.
Before Seijiro could reply, Shima appeared at the boy's side. She gave his head a clumsy pat, then left her hand resting there, like a flag planted, as if she'd decided, without words, that she was his sister now, and that was final. Souta startled at the contact but didn't pull away.
Seijiro let the smallest of smiles crack through his exhaustion, as kind as he could make it, then turned his gaze toward the woman on the futon. Atsuhime hadn't moved; her gaze remained fixed on the garden, her mouth softly humming some forgotten tune.
He closed his eyes for a moment, long enough to gather the last pieces of himself that still hoped and bury them for good. I hope you're listening, he thought. His voice dropped, quieter now. "Souta," he said. "That woman—" he nodded toward her, "—is your mother now."
The temperature in the room dropped like a stone. Payo inhaled sharply. Shima stepped back a pace, brows drawn. Souta twitched and began to shake. Atsuhime blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. Her gaze didn't move from the garden. But something in her posture—an angle, a breath—shifted.
And then the storm began.
Seijiro took a step closer. "Did you hear me?" he asked, tone colder now. "I said he's your son."
Atsuhime's hum fractured and slowly, unnaturally, her head turned, as though every motion pulled her from somewhere far, far away. Her eyes found Seijiro first, then the boy, clouded and trembling. "What… did you say?" she asked, voice ragged.
"I said—"
Her lip trembled. "What… what lie is this? I have no children. No—no sons. I buried them. I buried them both—!"
Her cries built to a pitch, unmoored, half-mad, as she rose to her knees in a flurry of movement that startled Souta; the boy jerked back, fear breaking over his face before he bolted and reached blindly for Payo. She caught him tightly, whispering soothing nonsense, rocking gently.
Atsuhime's voice rose into something frantic. "Liar! My children are gone! That thing—he's not mine, he's not mine! He's a liar, take him away!"
Seijiro closed the space between them in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of her, gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. She twisted in his grip, tried to slap his hands away, but he held firm; he couldn't afford kindness, not anymore.
Her hands beat against his chest. "Mother—Mother, listen to me—"
"No! No! You—you died—you—he is not!"
"Listen—!"
Her scream met his. "You're not my son!"
Seijiro's breath caught, and for a heartbeat, he almost let go. Almost. "Enough!" His voice boomed across the chamber, louder than he ever had in this house. Atsuhime faltered. "I'm not asking! Look at him!"
Her eyes flicked past him. Wild, lost, uncomprehending. She spat at him, so Seijiro gripped her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks, and forced her head toward the boy cowering in Payo's arms. "His name is Souta. He's five. He's lost everything, and he needs you," he said, shaking her. "He is your son now, do you understand? Yours to keep alive."
Her nails scraped his arms, feet kicking, head thrashing. Then: a tear. One. And then more. Atsuhime blinked slowly, dazed.
"You were the flower of the capital. The brightest woman in Kyoto, the pride of the Gojo clan. You remember that?" he whispered. "You were the woman who taught me nonsense about flowers because those were the only things you could remember—! You said spring always came back. So come back."
Her mouth moved, but the words were broken. "I—my children—" she sobbed.
He cut her off. "You once stood beside Akiteru and never faltered. We need that woman. I'm leaving, do you hear me? And that child—" he looked over his shoulder, voice breaking, "that boy will carry our name after this war. And I will not let him do it alone because you're too broken to see straight," his hands trembled, and his grip on her face tightened. "I'm not asking for a mother anymore, but he needs one."
She thrashed, still held in place by her son's hands, but something in her eyes flickered. "I—I don't—" She was still resisting and shaking, still tearing at him.
So he shouted in her face. "Be his mother!" he hissed. "Don't you dare run from this again, or I will drag you back into sanity with my own hands. It's the only thing I've ever asked of you."
He let go and sat back on his heels, hands limp at his sides, chest rising and falling. The silence that followed was deafening. Even Souta had stopped crying. Atsuhime stared at him for a long, long moment, her hands trembling in her lap. Then—slowly—she turned. Her gaze fell on the boy. For a second, nothing. Then—
A sob caught in her throat and broke. "…My son?" she whispered.
Payo's arms loosened, and Souta blinked up, frozen.
"My son," Atsuhime repeated, stronger now. And then—arms open. "Come here, my little one."
It was unthinkable.
A softness returned to her face, and for the first time in twenty years, there was something behind her eyes that wasn't void. Souta looked at Seijiro, just once, and hesitated. Then stepped forward. At last, he ran and flung himself against her, nearly knocking them both over, clinging to her like a child starved for warmth. Atsuhime cradled him close, like she'd been waiting her whole life for that moment. Rocking, kissing his head, brushing his white hair back. Whispered his name. Called him precious.
Seijiro watched the warmth that should have been his. He felt nothing, then everything. He had imagined that, once, a thousand times, as a child, she might hold him like that, call him son. She never had, and now, here it was, for someone else. He smiled, faint, hollow at the edges. Good. Maybe it was better this way.
Payo stepped beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Shima quietly sat beside him on the other side, head resting on his arm.
Seijiro exhaled slowly. "You'll stay with her," he told Payo quietly, gaze still fixed forward. "From now on and until the end of your days, don't let her forget again who she is. Remind her. Every day. Hit her if you have to. That's your duty."
Payo nodded once as her grip on his shoulder tightened. "I will. For as long as I draw breath."
"She's his mother and the matriarch of this house now," he added, voice low, "And when the time comes, that boy comes first." He stood slowly, watching the child melt into the arms of a mother who had not been his.
"Even before me."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The Kyoto Jujutsu Training Ground had once been a ruin, just months ago. Charred wood, shattered stones, ghost stories clinging to its name like soot. But now, on a crisp October afternoon, the main dojo pulsed with cursed energy and the slow, steady rhythm of instruction.
Or, well. It had been.
Then, the shōji slammed open with a bang, and then came the singsong yell, followed by the unmistakable sound of geta clacking wildly on wood. "Rensukeeee~! We brought refreshments~!"
Two sake bottles swayed dangerously between Seijiro Gojo's fingers. Behind him, balancing a small tray of ceramic cups as if it were a sacred relic and she a very distracted kami, Shima followed in silence, looking like a shrine maiden about to curse the tea ceremony.
A thump.
Across the dojo, Rensuke deliberately dropped a manuscript on the floor with all the grace of a man considering self-exile. His one remaining hand twitched, clearly restraining itself from throwing something, anything.
Rensuke turned. Slowly. The glare was already loaded. "You wanted this to be an academy," he said flatly. "You don't get to interrupt lectures. Again." He gestured behind him with a glance.
Three students looked up, slightly dazed.
Seijiro blinked. "Am I interrupting?" he asked, grinning and unbothered, then bowed dramatically, a foolish, exaggerated incline at the waist. Apologies, noble scholars. Your headmaster momentarily forgot himself." He waltzed forward and dropped the bottles on the low table in front of Rensuke. "One last drink before I go off to glorious war," he said, voice light. "Come on. Humor me just once, old friend."
In front of them, three sets of eyes blinked in unison. One had wide, eager eyes. Another, a flat, unimpressed stare. And the third— "Shishō!" Musashi shouted, practically glowing in a, for once, dry uwagi. His copy of the manuscript—upside down—flopped onto the floor. "You're back!"
Seijiro flared his haori with a dramatic flourish. "My most valiant disciple," he declared, "I trust you've absorbed the sacred annals of cursed technique history?"
Musashi nodded so hard his braid bounced. "Every syllable!"
The girl beside him narrowed her eyes and didn't bother hiding her irritation. The third student, uncertain whether this was a test or a fever dream, shifted awkwardly. "Ah," Seijiro pointed vaguely, looking at the girl as if his brain had just caught up. "And you must be... Suzuka?"
The girl didn't even blink. "My name is Kiyo," she bit out.
"Of course it is," Seijiro lied, utterly unfazed. "Study hard, Kiyo. Remember the history of jujutsu, or you'll end up like him—" he thumbed at Rensuke, "—missing a limb because you pissed off someone smarter than you."
Rensuke reached the fallen manuscript with a heavy sigh. Prayed. And gave in. He gestured to the students. "All of you," he said, dry as autumn grass, "out. That's the end of the lecture."
Musashi lingered by the table as the other two gathered their things. Kiyo rolled her eyes on the way out. The other boy gave Seijiro a half-curious, half-terrified glance like he wasn't sure if he was looking at a teacher or a myth. Seijiro watched them bow with real and genuine respect at Rensuke and leave the room, arms crossed, satisfied. Quietly, he thought: One day this place will be full.
And all because Rensuke refused to quit, even missing a limb.
He threw an arm around the shinobi's shoulders with performative affection. "To our dedicated sensei and eternal taskmaster," he said solemnly. "May you live long enough to read the jujutsu manuals you wrote."
"Don't touch me."
"Shima, the sake," Seijiro ordered gently.
Rensuke didn't look up as he poured the first round of sake into the small cups that Shima had carefully set down. She nodded once at Musashi, who took it as a formal command and sat cross-legged, back straight, hands folded. A perfect little warrior.
He nodded furiously, his braid bouncing like a dog's tail. "I tamed it, Shishō! Just like you said. I totally managed to control that water dragon!"
Seijiro leaned in, raising a brow. "You did? What'd you name it again?"
Musashi puffed his chest with the pride of a general recounting a heroic blunder. "Seiryūka!"
"Hmm." Seijiro, mouth already full of sake, swallowed and raised a finger. "Too refined. I was hoping for something like 'Watery Doom Viper Slash: Heaven's Parting.' You disappoint me."
Musashi gasped, scandalized. "That's too long!"
"Then shorten it to Doom Noodle. I won't stop you."
Rensuke gave a soft groan, shifting slightly to wriggle out from under Seijiro's arm. "You're unusually cheerful for someone about to walk into a war," he gave him a sidelong look. "Should I assume things went well with the heir?"
Seijiro's smile stayed, but the lines at the edges didn't move. "Oh, wonderfully. Mother and son, bonding already. A perfect match, truly. She called him son, didn't she?" he said lightly. "That's already more than she ever gave me."
He downed his sake in one swallow. Shima refilled it immediately, still silent. Her expression didn't shift, but her foot tapped once beneath the table, a subtle warning to stop being an idiot and pretending. Seijiro ignored it.
Rensuke didn't push. "Are the men ready?"
"Ishida-dono sends two letters a day, sometimes three. Always the same thing—asking when the Gojo clan will stop sending polite excuses and actually join the main front." Seijiro rolled his eyes. "So: tomorrow. We march tomorrow. Provisions are set. Horses ready. Even the dumb banners with the family mon. All set." He stretched his legs, head tipping back. "Hideyori-dono's in Osaka. One less corpse on my conscience."
"And apparently," Rensuke muttered, "Zenin-dono leveled the Akasaka highlands with a ten-foot shikigami that breathes fire, ice, and tea."
Seijiro choked on his sake. "Don't say that in front of him—" he jerked a thumb at Musashi. "He might believe Kaoru Zenin rides a dragon, if you tell him. Anyway!" he added quickly, "you've got half an hour. Gather your things. Ukita-dono wants you under his banner. Time to earn that absurd battlefield name you gave yourself."
Shima lifted one finger and pointed at Musashi's feet.
"Musashi of the Flowing Blades!" Musashi sprang up, saluting with comically exaggerated formality. "I must prepare my bokken—Dokkō and Nikkō—for the moment of destiny! They must shine as true warriors for when I will face my legendary rival with honor!"
He marched out, braid flaring like a banner, leaving a long silence in his wake.
Then—
"…He means the Lightning God, doesn't he?" Rensuke asked dryly. "Mentions him weekly. Daily, actually," he muttered.
Shima nodded gravely.
Seijiro watched the empty doorway with an amused, slightly tired expression. "He's got a crush, and it's not even mutual. Or is it?" he said at last, sipping again, then chuckled. "Kami save us all when they meet again on the battlefield."
"Poor bastard," Rensuke muttered.
They stayed in the dojo long after the last cup had been emptied. Outside, the wind had turned sharper, ruffling the banners that hung half-furled from the training ground's eaves. Autumn was claiming the edges of Kyoto with gold and dry leaves, and the night was growing long. For once, the Kyoto Jujutsu Training Ground was quiet: no sparring, no stomping footsteps from overexcited students, no Musashi bursting in to announce another signature move with a name far too long for a battlefield.
Seijiro leaned back on one arm, fingers idly toying with something in his sleeve. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled it out: the comb. Not lacquered, not gold. Just old sugi wood, painted with tiny camellias. But now, laced through the grain, was a pulse of cursed energy like a heartbeat, barely perceptible unless you were attuned to it. He tossed it once into the air and caught it again as if it wasn't the most cursed object he'd ever put his soul into.
"Took me months," he said softly. "But it's getting there." He looked down at it. "Pretty, isn't it?"
Rensuke leaned over, squinting. "You're seriously planning to give that to Zenin-dono? On the battlefield?"
"Maybe," Seijiro murmured, rubbing a thumb along the teeth. "It's not finished. Don't know if I'll make it in time or if I'll still be around to hand it over."
That last part landed with the softness of a brick. Shima, sitting cross-legged nearby, jabbed him in the ribs in a pointed scolding. Rensuke's jaw tightened. "I swear," the shinobi muttered, "if you make one more joke about dying—"
"Oh, come on," Seijiro scoffed, waving a hand. "You two look like you're about to cry. You really think there's anyone in this country who can kill me?"
Rensuke slowly raised one eyebrow. Just one. He said nothing. Just kept that eyebrow arched, the very picture of smug certainty, as if to say Yes, she's short, fights with shadows, and you have an idiotic, mutually destructive obsession with her.
Seijiro groaned. "Don't give me that look—she's cute." A pause. "Fine, yes, maybe she has a slight chance, but probably she won't." He winked. "Maybe she sees this lovely face—" he gestured broadly to his face, "—and spares me out of love. I'll just be extra pretty."
"You look like shit," Rensuke deadpanned. You've been working yourself into the ground over that thing. You've got shadows under your eyes deep enough to drown in. And your hair's a disaster."
As if on cue, Shima rose from her cushion, stepped behind Seijiro, and—wordlessly—untied his messy low ponytail. His snowy hair spilled loose. She made a small sound of judgment, then began combing her fingers through it with sharp, decisive strokes. Seijiro raised his brows but didn't protest as she tied it again, tighter and cleaner this time. A war general's knot. When she was done, she gave it one small pat and nodded, satisfied.
Seijiro reached back, touched the knot, then glanced up at her. "Trying to make me cute again, hm?"
Shima didn't answer. But she sat beside him, chin tilted stubbornly, like she was still mad.
Rensuke exhaled. "Well. I suppose it's time we go."
"Oh, right," Seijiro turned to him with a foolish smile. "You're not coming."
It landed like a stone. The shinobi's face went blank, the faintest twitch in his jaw betraying his disbelief. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You heard me," he repeated lightly, though his tone didn't match his words.
"No," Rensuke said flatly. "I didn't. Because that would mean you've lost your kami-damned mind. I assumed I was going—"
"You assumed wrong," Seijiro clarified, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm going. You're staying here."
"The hell I am. You don't get to decide that, I'm your second," the shinobi snapped, standing up half a step before forcing himself back down. Not rage, not yet. Confusion, maybe. "And I've followed you since we were five, through shit neither of us talks about. And now you're just—"
"Yes." They stared at each other, then Seijiro sat back, poured another cup of sake, and said, "I need you here to guard something more important than me."
There was a pause on the other side. A long one. Rensuke's mouth opened, then closed. His eye flicked sideways. "You're going to use the arm thing as an excuse, aren't you?" he said bitterly. "I have one arm, not a brain injury."
"I was going to," Seijiro turned toward him, expression calm. "But no. That's not it." He looked around. The dojo, the papers, the echoes of laughter that still lingered in the walls. "I'm leaving this place to you," he said. "You're great with kids, and you're a better teacher than I ever was anyway. They worship you like a favorite uncle. Congratulations, you're a sensei. Teach them right," he added, his lips still curved in a bitter smile, "and maybe the next war won't need monsters like us. If I don't come back, let this be what I leave behind."
Rensuke muttered something very ungrateful under his breath, then glanced toward the door where Musashi had vanished moments ago. "...That's a hell of a thing to drop on a one-armed man. You're trusting me with the next generation of sorcerers."
"You've always carried more than most with less," Seijiro replied, reaching into his sleeve and pulling out a scroll, a plain little thing bound in twine. "Here," he said, handing it over. "Just... contingencies. For the next bastard who inherits Six Eyes and Limitless. Mistakes. Warnings."
Rensuke opened it, eyes scanning. "'Learn Reverse Cursed Technique or the kami will fuck you sideways,'" he read aloud. "Seriously?"
"I warned you," Seijiro shrugged. "I'm not a teacher."
Rensuke flipped the page. His face paled. "These are... these are Musashi's haiku."
"He insisted," Seijiro said, utterly unapologetic. "Who am I to say no to a poet?"
Rensuke groaned into his single hand. "I'll take care of it," he muttered. "All of it. Kami help us."
There was another silence. Then they finally laughed as beside them, Shima huffed and scooted closer to Seijiro, folding her arms and burying her face against his kosode. She didn't say a word, didn't look at either of them, just buried her face with cheeks puffed out in the smallest pout imaginable.
Her signature cursed technique: maximum sulk.
"Oi," Seijiro muttered, ruffling her brown hair slowly and absent-mindedly. "We've been over this."
No answer, but he could see the protest forming in her posture, even if it never made it to her lips.
Seijiro sighed and tapped her nose. "You're not coming. This isn't a trip to the hot springs, Shima. It's war, and I'm not going to lose sleep knowing you're out there," he said firmly. "You're going to study, and read, and grow up terrifying. Just like I told you. I expect you to blackmail at least three daimyō by the time you're sixteen."
That got a reaction, barely: a stronger pout and a glare. She curled closer into his sleeve.
"Stick with your grandmother and the new Gojo-sama." His voice dipped with that last word, but he kept going. "He'll need someone... patient. Try to be a good sister." Shima blinked, slowly. "No stabbing. And don't use violence." Another pause. "Too much violence. Promise me?"
Shima glanced away. Then, reluctantly, nodded, just barely. It was the saddest, most stubborn nod he'd ever seen, just enough to be technically obedient. "That's my girl," Seijiro whispered, letting her lean into him again, silent, small, like a second shadow. He raised one last cup of sake and drank it in a single smooth motion.
They could hear the sound of movement beyond the walls—men loading carts, preparing horses.
"I've never said it," Seijiro murmured, "but if this is it… if tomorrow's the last time I walk onto a battlefield…"
Rensuke cut him off as he poured them both one last cup. "Don't start."
Seijiro chuckled as Shima yawned quietly and buried her face in his sleeve. Everything was in place. In its own crooked, ridiculous way... everything was ready. He had done all he could. Rensuke. Shima. The training ground. Atsuhime. Payo. Souta. Somehow. It'll hold, he thought.
He could go now.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
At dawn on the 15th of October, Seijiro Gojo departed Kyoto with thirty of the clan's jujutsu sorcerers and warriors, bound for the Western Army encampment toward the misted mountain pass of Sekigahara. Among their supplies was a curious wicker basket, heavier than it looked.
No one noticed it shifted once on the cart. No one thought to check it.