From that moment on, Elder Takahiro took it upon himself to personally oversee Akai's training.
The next morning, Akai sat in his dimly lit room, pen gliding across the pages of his journal.
Sketches of curse spirits filled the worn paper-some grotesque, their forms writhing with unnatural malice, others strangely elegant despite their twisted existence.
Absentmindedly, he plucked a wisp-like curse from the air, popping it into his mouth. The faint bitterness dissolved on his tongue as he chewed, his focus never wavering.
Outside, morning light bathed the Hyūga estate in warmth.
But in this room-where shadows lingered, where ink bled into parchment-the sun had no place.
And then-
SLAM!
The door burst open with enough force to rattle the walls, and a flood of blinding sunlight sliced into the dim room like a merciless blade.
"HISSSSSSSS."
THWACK!
A sharp strike landed on Akai's head.
"You're not a vampire. Stop hissing."
Before he could even register the pain, a firm hand seized his collar.
"From this moment on, you're going to train."
The next thing he knew, he was being unceremoniously dragged down the wooden hallway.
His bare feet skidded uselessly across the polished floorboards, his resistance half-hearted—more for appearance than actual protest.
His red-white eyes fluttered open sluggishly, still heavy with sleep.
The household was already alive with morning activity.
Servants halted mid-step, their gazes flicking between each other in barely concealed shock. The usually composed Elder Takahiro, hauling a four-year-old like a misbehaving cat, was not a sight they had expected. Some whispered behind their sleeves. Others quickly looked away, choosing the safer option of pretending not to see.
From the shadowed corners of their meeting rooms, elders watched in silence, their expressions unreadable. A few exchanged disapproving glances, though none dared to intervene.
Further down the corridor, Neji came to an abrupt stop.
His brows lifted, just slightly.
Even he, with all his self-control, was a bit taken aback.
Meanwhile, Akai merely sighed, letting himself be dragged along without resistance.
Truly, mornings were vile.
.
.
.
Akai stood in the training hall, still dressed in his sleeping yukata. His sleeves hung loosely at his sides, swaying slightly with each half-hearted movement as he practiced the Gentle Fist against a wooden mannequin.
His strikes were precise, fingertips grazing tenketsu points with effortless accuracy. He saw no need for excessive force-if the technique worked, why waste energy? Efficiency over exertion.
THWACK!
A familiar fist landed atop his head.
"Do it properly."
Akai blinked. "I am doing it properly."
"You're hitting like an old lady."
"I respectfully disagree."
"Then do it again."
THWACK!
THWACK!
THWACK!
And so, the cycle continued-lazy strikes, thwack!, slightly-less-lazy strikes, thwack!-
A never-ending loop of correction and consequence, stretching far beyond what Akai considered remotely necessary.
THWACK!
"This time I did nothing wrong."
"I know, I just feel like hitting you"
His fingers throbbed, his palms tingled with the sting of repeated impact, and his arms grew heavier with each motion.
Yet, with a head full of 💢💢💢 on them, he kept his breathing steady, unwilling to betray even the slightest strain.
Just when he began contemplating the merits of faking unconsciousness to escape this torment-
Footsteps.
The steady, deliberate kind that commanded attention without a single word spoken.
Akai turned his head and met the gaze of the clan head.
Hiashi Hyūga entered with measured steps, his presence casting a heavy stillness over the room. Behind him, two younger figures followed-Neji, his expression composed and impassive, and Hinata, her posture hesitant, uncertain. And behind them, a shadow of the past-an elder of the previous generation, the former clan head himself.
Genzou Hyūga.
Takahiro exhaled sharply through his nose before addressing Akai.
"Enough. Take a break."
Akai felt his very soul ascend.
"Go wash up. You're free to leave."
Ah, sweet, merciful release.
"But we're doing this again later."
Ah, cruel, merciless fate.
Akai swallowed his suffering. He wanted to curse. But-he reminded himself-he was a kind-hearted, gentle, incredibly handsome young man. And as such, he did what any virtuous soul would do.
He insulted Takahiro. Deeply. Thoroughly.
...In the safety of his own mind.
I understand, Elder! I shall wait for your next teachings!
"I hope you have constipation, you old fu-"
THWACK!
"You're mixing up your words and thoughts again, you idiot."
From the sidelines, a small, muffled pfft- broke the silence.
Every head turned toward Hinata.
The normally timid girl, realizing she had just laughed out loud, went rigid before promptly shrinking behind her father, face burning red.
Hiashi glanced at her. Then at Akai. Then sighed.
Takahiro, utterly unfazed, turned back to Akai.
"Go. Do as you're told."
With the weight of a thousand sufferings upon his soul, Akai complied.
.
.
.
Akai trudged toward his room, his sleeping yukata damp with sweat. The thought of collapsing straight into bed was tempting, but his stomach had other plans.
Without hesitation, he diverted toward the kitchen.
The moment he stepped inside, a hush fell over the room.
Chefs and servants froze mid-task, some whispering amongst themselves.
"Young Lord Akai?"
"Wasn't the order to stop serving him breakfast in his room?"
"So the rumors are true... he's no longer terminally ill?"
Akai ignored them.
His eyes landed on the single fridge, just above which sat a sack of toast.
With practiced ease, he pulled out two slices, a jar of butter, and a knife. A toaster sat nearby, gleaming invitingly, but he barely spared it a glance.
"Too long."
Without hesitation, Akai spread the butter over the untoasted slices, stacked them together, and took a bite.
The head chef approached. Unlike the others, he wasn't a Hyūga. And unlike the others, he smiled.
"Young Lord Akai," he greeted. "I noticed you weren't at breakfast with the Clan Head and the elders."
Akai continued chewing his sad, untoasted toast.
The chef chuckled. "Do you usually skip it?"
Akai swallowed. "Mm."
"Well, there are still some leftovers. They're warm. Would you like some?"
Akai wasn't listening.
His gaze had locked onto something else.
A cursed spirit.
A caged bird, its form twisted and wretched, clinging to the chef's shoulder.
Without a word, he gestured for the man to bend down.
The chef blinked, confused but compliant. "...Like this?"
Akai reached out.
And with a light tap on the shoulder-
He crushed it.
To anyone watching, it was nothing more than a casual touch. But to the chef-
His right shoulder felt... lighter.
The lingering soreness from the day before had vanished.
"...What was that just now?" the chef started to ask.
But when he turned-
Akai was already gone.
At the kitchen entrance, he took another bite of his sandwich of nothingness.
Except-
It wriggled.
His eyes flickered. His hands, his mouth-stained deep purple.
Fresh blood seeped from the curse sandwich he had bitten into, thick and unnatural. His emotions dulled, his cursed energy swelled-an ever-expanding presence, pressing outward, coiling through the air.
He could cover the whole area with it now.
Should I eat all of them later?
Akai moved swiftly.
Whenever he passed a servant burdened with a fly-head or caged birds clinging to their sides, he flicked his cursed energy-effortless, precise. If the servant was polite enough, he would tell them to bend down, allowing him to pluck the curse spirit himself.
Consider it a service.
A professional courtesy, unlike the hushed whispers trailing behind his back.
And all those curses?
They ended up in the same place-his mouth.
And he felt great.
Not in some crude, drug-like euphoria. No, this was clarity.
With every swallowed curse, his cursed energy swelled, expanding through his body like a slow, controlled burn. His mind sharpened, his thoughts smoothed into crisp precision-like the perfect dose of caffeine, one that didn't spike his blood pressure.
This was balance. This was focus.
Satisfied, Akai finally headed back and washed up.
His body ached-not from training, but from the repeated thwacks mercilessly delivered upon his skull. And worse, the dull soreness in his muscles, a lingering punishment for being forced to strike that damn mannequin with proper force.
At first, he had planned on a quick shower.
But in the end, he found himself filling the bathtub instead.
He stood there, draped in nothing but a loosely wrapped towel, watching the warm water surge from the faucet.
Then-his thoughts wandered.
His journals. His notes. His theories on cursed energy.
Once, he had dismissed the idea of infinite cursed energy. Lapse, Subtraction, Dual Subtraction-the logic made sense. Addition was pointless when applied to cursed energy.
But...
"What about Multiplication?"
The water overflowed.
He barely noticed until warmth licked at his foot.
Snapping out of his daze, he reached forward and shut off the faucet.
But-he didn't step into the bath.
His mind was racing. His hands were itching.
Still half-naked, towel secured around his waist, he rushed into his bedroom.
His journal lay on the desk, waiting.
Snatching it up, he grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled:
(-2) × (-2) = 4
"If cursed energy is a negative force..."
"Then wouldn't multiplying it by itself result in something else entirely?"
"Would it just become... chakra?"
He concentrated.
The cursed energy inside him stirred.
A lapse is activated slowly at first, then aggressively turns inwards. The flow that rotated out, was now reversed.
And then-
Nothing.
No power-up. No strengthened body. No sudden transformation into an indestructible being.
Instead-his soreness vanished.
His concentration broke. His eyes widened.
This Multiplication technique... it lasted only a brief moment. But its purpose was clear.
Healing.
"Like Mystic Palm."
The same principle, but far more potent.
This wasn't chakra.
Chakra promoted gradual regeneration of the cells. It relied on tenketsu, on pathways.
But cursed energy had no such constraints.
His Multiplication didn't just heal-it restored. Instantly.
Unlike the fish he tried to use Mystic palm on yesterday, his body didn't burn to crisps due to the overloaded regeneration promotion of cells via Chakra.
And if it could heal...
"Could it attack?"
A slow grin spread across his lips as he wrote down his final note:
"Reverse Cursed Technique."
.
.
.
To be continued.