The Gojo Clan Head—an imposing man of lineage and legend—was rarely known for softness.
His presence alone could silence a room, and his cursed energy had once turned battlefield tides. But there was something… different about the way he looked at the youngest child born under the Gojo name.
At first, it was duty. Shiori was from the main bloodline—another piece on the board of clan politics.
But as the seasons passed, as he watched those shimmering gemstone eyes blink curiously at the world…
Duty gave way to affection.
Whatever Shiori wished for, the clan head gave. Even things he would've once scoffed at.
A particular rice candy? Delivered.
Rarely used scrolls from the sacred archives? Granted.
Time alone in the eastern courtyard to stare at butterflies for hours? Allowed, and personally protected.
"Let him dream," the clan head once said, when an elder questioned the boy's whims.
"He sees the world differently."
And he was right.
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When Shiori turned three, a formal observation was requested by the elders. A tradition for any born under a main family tree. They gathered in the meditation hall, Satoru perched beside his father, bouncing excitedly.
Shiori was called forward, standing barefoot on polished tatami, his hair tousled, his blue crystal-like eyes calm and unblinking.
"Shiori," said the clan head gently, "what do you see?"
The boy turned slowly, eyes drifting around the room—and beyond it.
"…Everything," he whispered.
A murmur rippled through the room. The elders exchanged glances.
"Please elaborate, young one," a monk asked, scribes ready.
Shiori pointed a small hand toward the northern wall. "There's a curse outside. Weak. Feeding on insects. But it's sick."
The elders stiffened.
"Sick?" the monk echoed.
Shiori nodded slowly. "It's leaking. The curse's own energy is twisted—like frayed threads. If a sorcerer tried to absorb or cleanse it directly, it would snap their flow. Like drinking moldy water through a cracked pipe."
Gasps.
"And I can see it from here," Shiori added softly. "Like a black stain melting through silk."
One of the elders whispered, "How far is that curse?"
"Four blocks north," Shiori replied without blinking. "On the roof of the old teahouse."
Minutes later, confirmation arrived: a low-level curse had nested there, just as he described—tainted and unstable.
The hall was silent. No one moved. Only Satoru clapped and shouted, "Shishi smart!"
The clan head did not speak. He only looked down at his youngest son with a gaze half-full of wonder, half-filled with something close to reverence.
Two Years Later – Age: Shiori, 5 / Satoru, 6
By now, it was obvious.
Shiori was… strange. Not in a bad way. Not even in an unnerving way.
But the kind of strange that made seasoned sorcerers lean in and pay attention.
While other children practiced simple cursed techniques or trained their bodies, Shiori spent his days wandering the outer gardens, collecting seeds, scribbling in his little journal, or sketching strange blueprints with sticks in the dirt.
His obsession with soil quality, sunlight angles, and seed infusion techniques confused even the gardeners.
"Is he trying to grow… cursed plants?" one asked.
"No," the head replied, "he's trying to grow something else."
And it wasn't just gardening.
One evening, a blacksmith—summoned for a broken gate repair—was startled when a five-year-old approached and began asking deeply technical questions about temperatures, core metals, and energy conductivity in alloyed cursed tools.
"Is this child… a reincarnated forger?" the man muttered under his breath.
Shiori bowed politely after every answer and whispered, "Thank you. I'll make my own soon."
A week later, he approached the clan head during morning tea.
"Can I have a garden?" he asked, voice quiet but certain.
"A garden?" the clan head raised a brow.
"And a forgery space. Near it, if possible," Shiori added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The elder nearly laughed, but paused when he saw Satoru perk up, mid bite of his rice cracker.
"Shishi is interested in gardening?" Satoru gasped, eyes sparkling.
"Oh! I'll join him!"
And just like that, the next day, two plots were cleared in the southern courtyard—one for the "Garden of Shishi", and the other for a small, rune-marked forge, its flames reserved for a child who had yet to swing his first hammer.
Maids laughed when they saw the two boys waddling across the yard, Satoru holding a watering can upside down, Shiori gently brushing soil between his fingers.
"They're playing," one said.
"No," an old servant whispered, watching from a distance.
"They're preparing."
And deep in the earth, under the garden's surface…
A single seed trembled.
The cursed energy responded to his touch, like it had been waiting.
And within the forge…
The still air hummed faintly.
Something was listening.
The world didn't know it yet.
But the age of technique was about to grow teeth and steel.