An eighteen-year-old Toji Zenin was the clan’s mistake — a living reminder of the imperfection of their “pure blood.” The absence of cursed energy had turned him into an outcast, a stain on the Zenin clan’s reputation. He was not merely despised — his existence was tolerated like an inevitable defect.

But fear was foreign to him.

When the walls of the estate became especially suffocating, when the gazes of the elders weighed heavier than chains, he would leave for the forest. Only there could he breathe. There, no one looked down on him. There were no whispers behind his back, no orders, no cold contempt.

The forest accepted him in silence — with darkness, dampness, and twisted trees whose grotesque silhouettes seemed more honest than people.

On one such day, having ventured into the most remote part of the woods, Toji froze.

A sound.

Not the familiar crack of branches, nor the rustling of small animals. His sharpened senses caught something else — breathing. Human.

His brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Someone from the Zenin?

Irritation flared instantly. What did those arrogant bastards want here? Their luxurious training halls and endless inner courtyards should have fully satisfied their thirst for power and superiority.

Clicking his tongue in disdain, he moved along the path. His tabi stepped soundlessly over the grass — years of existing as an “invisible” one had honed his movements, quiet, almost ghostlike.

Reaching a tree, Toji slipped aside, pressing himself against the rough bark, and peered out from behind the trunk, narrowing his eyes.

Someone had dared to appear on territory the clan zealously guarded from outsiders. This conservative world was isolated from ordinary people — surrounded by forests and mountains like a fortress, hiding its own rot.