PROLOGUE;
reminiscence of the past
chapter title taken from the song by: yuki kajiura
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"You're still not getting it, why aren't you getting it?"
Harsh and unforgiving. Those were the exact words a six-year-old [Y/n] would use to describe the man who was, unfortunately, his father.
A harsh, and broken figment of a man who never once loved him as a father should since the moment he was born into this cruel world, since the day his mother died in a bed that was dyed a little too red.
"Again, [Y/n]. Pick it up again. You are no son of mine if you continue to stumble around like this. This is pathetic! You are pathetic."
An unforgiving man with a relentless sense of perfection. That was the image—the mask his father would put on in front of everyone with no exception. And for that, no matter what, the most pathetic man in [Y/n]'s eyes would always be his father.
[Y/n]'s family, his clan—the [L/n]'s were once one of, if not, the most respected clans to exist, standing right beside the names of Gojo and Zenin, shoulder to shoulder.
But for many long years, centuries even, there was not even one sign of the clan's inherited technique manifesting in anyone. And maybe, to make things even worse, the clan's power was waning each and every year, growing weaker and weaker.
A fallen clan, naught to be respected but to be laughed at. They had become a cautionary tale for the other clans of how low a once respected clan could go.
His father, the head of the clan, wasn't as strong as the others from each clan, and that made him all the worse, all the more pathetic. They called him weak. They called him a humiliation.
[Y/n] agreed with all those things, but not for the same reason. He never voiced anything out, though.
Because he wasn't strong, not yet anyway. Even though his grandfather said he had the potential to house the inherited technique, it still had yet to appear.
It would, one day, but he had to wait. He had to be a patient boy, even when time ran short, even as sand slipped through the hourglass.
The sun had dipped below the horizon when their training finally came to an end. There was so much sweat that his clothes clung to his body like a second skin.
Today was training as usual. Loud yells came from his father's lips, sharp pain blossomed from his entire body, and a headache rang inside his head.
Today was training as usual, or so he thought.
[Y/n] breathed heavily, filling air into his lungs like a dying man as he looked down at his hands; trembling, blistered, and marred by splinters from the usual intense practice with his father.
None of that was the problem.
The problem, lay on his torso—a deep gash, oozing blood at an alarming rate. He might die from this, he thought in chilling horror, his breath quickening at the realization.
"Father," he called out to the only person in the room with him, his voice desperate and quivering. "I need immediate medical attention, please."
"No."
Father's answer was cold and unyielding. "Injuries are a part of training, they exist to weed out the weak." And here [Y/n] thought he had already seen everything from his father.
He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
He had always given it his all. Pushed himself to the brink every time they trained, always. But still, here he was, abandoned by the person who should have cared.
"But Father, this isn't," he stuttered, "this isn't a minor injury–"
"–So? If you can't handle a little pain, then you are no son of mine, [Y/n]," his father says with narrowed eyes, a disdainful sneer slipping out of his parched lips.
His heart sank, those words cutting deeper than any blade ever could.
So he sat down and stayed silent, facing away from the door as he looked down on his bleeding wound, mind torn between the pain in his side, and the heartbreaking words spewed by his father.
He had no medical training, and paralyzed as he was, he knew he still had to do something, anything to dress the wound. "What should I do...?" he muttered.
[Y/n] gingerly pressed a hand against the gash, and flinched as pain surged through his body like a tidal wave. Everything hurt, and he went and closed his eyes with his hands clenched as frustration and desperation filled his head.
He doesn't know how much time passed, but a miracle did happen.
The pain disappeared.
It wasn't quick, but it definitely wasn't slow either. It trickled away like drops of rain, before it simmered to a halt. He opened his eyes wide open.
The wound is gone, barely a scratch, actually. No one would have believed anything was there if not for the blood all around it.
No one in the clan can reverse their cursed energy into positive energy, as his father once told him. But... he did just that.
"Impressive."
He whipped his head around, saw the burning gaze his father set on his healed wound, and shivered. His father looked almost happy, elated even. It was strange.
He gulped, and silence reigned in the room. A beat passed, and another, before his father's face gave way to a more neutral expression.
"Change your clothes. Then, get some dinner. We will go to your grandfather's by midnight. He must know everything about this."
He blinked, then slowly pushed himself to stand up. He had a bad feeling about this, about everything concerning this actually. So, he asked, "But... why?"
"Why?" his father sneered at his innocent question, a crazed look in his equally piercing [e/c] eyes.
"I will not answer such stupid questions, [Y/n]. You know this."
He stood up straighter, lifting his chin as he retorted back, "It isn't a stupid question."
Father tilted his head, ever so slowly, at him before a half-smile appeared on his face. "Your grandfather will answer your questions, [Y/n]. Now, go."
[Y/n] would always regret listening to his father that day.
He would regret following his grandfather to the basement. He would regret that he didn't run away the moment it presented itself.
[Y/n] would regret.
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Sweat clings to him, even when he awakes from his too-long dream. A memory of years long past, a nightmare of a place he calls home.
But he isn't home; he hasn't been home ever since he moved to the dormitory inside the school.
Here, he is far, far away from the control of his disgusting family.
Even when we're not there, his father said to him the last time they met, we need you to remain respectful of the other clans. Be sure to not sully our clan's name, [Y/n].
[Y/n] audibly clicks his tongue at the memory, running a hand, tracing the phantom wound on his torso.
"Hm?" As he pushes himself off the bed, mind still lingering between sleep and wakefulness, [Y/n] notices the blinking from his phone on his bedside. A notification from who...?
He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose once he sees the message.
Nanami:
[L/n]-san, you're probably asleep right now, so text me back when you're awake. Yaga-sensei wanted to see you about a new mission, it seemed important.
[Y/n]:
I'm awake now.
Thanks, Nanami.
Something twitches inside his chest, a hideous squirming that feels satisfaction from the prospect of a new mission, a new excuse to use his powers to kill.
He ignores it.
Holding back an exhausted yawn, he swiftly and methodically changes into his uniform, making sure to ignore each twitch of glee from the thing inside his chest.
[Y/n] turns off the lamp of his room with a gentle tap of a button on the wall, and before he leaves, he doesn't forget to pick up his sheathed dagger–the weapon he has never parted with for so, very long.
"Time for yet another mission," [Y/n] says to himself as he closes the door shut with a click. "This better be good."
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! author's note !
hihi! welcome to this silly little jjk fic of mine. have a cookie and i hope you enjoy reading about this soon-to-be unhinged type of mc ehe. (this first chapter has been completely revamped from the asscrack it was before)