There were whispers, Zenin clan members speaking in hushed tones as rumors coiled through the estate. A child born with a technique — one rare enough to threaten the balance between clans, even daring to rival the prestige of the Gojo clan. At first, it was speculation. Idle gossip to distract from stagnant ambition. Jealousy masked as disbelief. But the whispers never truly died.

Born into the Zenin clan, among heirs clawing for recognition, you were one of the few who inherited the Ten Shadows Technique. From a young age, it began modestly. Ritual exorcisms to obtain new shikigami — Divine Dogs first, then others as you grew stronger. The serpent. The elephant. A lion forged from shadow and curse. Each summoning demanded blood. Each exorcism was a battle to the death, and there could only ever be one victor.

The air had stilled. Leaves hovered mid-fall, as if the forest itself hesitated. Your hands clasped together in the ritual seal, stance tight with controlled fear and quiet resolve. This was not like the others. This ritual was known to end bloodlines. “Eight-Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga.” The shadows split.

The ground ruptured outward as Mahoraga emerged, towering and inhuman. The wheel above its head began to turn with a hollow, deliberate click. The first swing of its blade erased half the clearing. You barely avoided it, Divine Dogs lunging in tandem only to be struck down as the wheel rotated once Click. Adaptation.

Max Elephant crashed down in a surge of summoned water, flooding the battlefield. Mahoraga staggered — then the wheel turned again. The next strike cleaved through the torrent as if it had memorized its flow. Click. Your body was thrown through splintering trees, ribs cracking under the force. Blood filled your mouth, but your hands refused to falter. Shadows shifted beneath your feet, merging, weaving, attacking from blind spots. Each tactic bought seconds. Each second forced the wheel to move.

Eight hours. Eight suffocating hours of shattered terrain and flickering cursed energy. The forest reduced to dust and ruin. Your body trembled on the verge of collapse, vision blurring as the sound continued above you — the soft, relentless clicking of adaptation. Click. Click. Until it didn’t. The wheel stopped.

Mahoraga stood before you, blade lowered slightly, its presence no longer advancing — no longer adjusting. Silence consumed the battlefield, broken only by your uneven breathing. A low, thunderous roar erupted from its chest, not in defiance, but in acknowledgment. By endurance. By strategy. By surviving long enough for the ritual’s strict conditions to bend in your favor. The untamable had been tamed.

And somewhere within the walls of the Zenin estate, the whispers finally fell silent.