Kamo Itsuki met Zen'in Naobito's gaze, his own expression unreadably calm. He took a deliberate sip from his cup, the fragrant wine a stark contrast to the heavy matter at hand.
"Clan Head Naobito," he began, his voice even and measured, cutting through the lingering scent of food and perfume. "The Prison Realm is not a commodity. It is a cataclysm waiting to be triggered. Its value cannot be measured in gold or favors."
He set the cup down with a soft click that echoed in the suddenly quiet hall. The dancers had withdrawn. Only the family heads and their immediate kin remained.
"I propose no exchange in the traditional sense," Kamo continued. "I propose a transaction of security. You hand the Prison Realm over to me, and in return, you receive several assurances."
He raised a finger. "First: My public endorsement of the Zen'in Clan's sovereignty and traditional holdings. No incursions from the Kamo family, and my influence used to dissuade others."
A second finger. "Second: One favor. A single, non-lethal application of my expertise—be it in cursed technique research, barrier crafting, or the resolution of a... delicate matter—to be called upon at your discretion, within reason."
He paused, letting the terms hang in the air. They were generous, leveraging his growing reputation as the man who had matched Gojo Satoru. But they were also clear: this was not a negotiation over price, but over the safe custody of a weapon of mass sealing.
"The alternative," Kamo said, his tone cooling several degrees, though his face remained placid, "is that I leave here today empty-handed. And the Prison Realm remains in your vaults. A treasure that will make the Zen'in Clan the brightest target in the jujutsu world. Every ambitious curse user, every rival clan, every remnant of Kenjaku's will... they will all look here. The safety you feel within these ancient walls will become your cage."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes now holding a glint that had nothing to do with the candlelight. "I am not here to bargain for a tool. I am here to remove a lit fuse from a powder keg. The question, Clan Head, is whether you wish to be paid for handing me the fuse, or if you wish to hold onto it and see what happens."
The silence that followed was profound. Zen'in Ogi and Naoya looked visibly agitated, their disdain for Kamo warring with the cold logic of his threat. Naobito, however, merely stared into his sake cup, his face a mask of stoic calculation. He was weighing tradition against survival, pride against prudence.
Before Zen'in Naobito could formulate his response, a voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and brimming with youthful arrogance.
"Kamo-dono." Zen'in Naoya stepped forward, his posture rigid with a pride that bordered on insolence. "I am Zen'in Naoya."
Naobito's eyes flickered but he did not reprimand his son, allowing the interruption. It was a test, perhaps—a way to gauge Kamo's temperament.
"Though we are of similar age, I am only a Grade Two sorcerer," Naoya continued, his chin held high. "I have always aspired to reach Special Grade. I would like to take this rare opportunity to seek your… guidance. To see the true gap between us."
'Knowing you're only Grade Two and still being this arrogant… being handsome really isn't a free pass,' Kamo thought dryly. Objectively, Naoya was talented for his age. But the chasm between Grade Two and the echelons where Kamo and Gojo resided was not a gap—it was an abyss.
Naoya's expression was one of fierce, almost petulant determination. Kamo decided it was a kindness, in its own way, to show him the scale of that abyss.
"Since you wish to test my strength," Kamo said, his smile faint and devoid of warmth, "very well. Let us move to the courtyard."
Naoya immediately strode out, his movements quick and confident. Kamo, however, did not rise from his seat.
As the others watched, perplexed, Kamo simply raised a hand. A single, perfect droplet of crimson blood welled on his fingertip. With a flick, it sailed through the open shoji doors into the courtyard.
In mid-air, it twisted, expanded, and reconfigured. By the time it touched the gravel, it had solidified into a perfect, silent copy of Kamo Itsuki.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Naoya snapped, his face flushing with indignation as he pointed at the clone, then back at the real Kamo, who remained seated at the table.
"I've just finished a meal. I'm not inclined to move," Kamo explained, his tone one of casual dismissal. "For a session of… guidance, my clone will suffice."
The message was a slap: You are not worth my full attention.
Naoya's jaw tightened. Protest was useless against such blatant disregard. He turned his fury toward the clone.
"You think a mere copy can handle me? I'll dismantle it completely!" he vowed silently.
Without further preamble, he launched himself forward, cursed energy crackling around him.
Projection Sorcery!
The air around Naoya seemed to fracture into a grid of 24 frames per second. He became a series of stuttering, impossible movements, closing the distance to the clone in a blink, his fist aimed to shatter its impassive face.
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