The room was too large for children. Its high ceilings and papered walls echoed every small sound, the creak of floorboards beneath restless feet, the faint hum of cicadas outside,

the quiet breath of three heirs trapped in the same space for far too long.

This was the Gojo estate, and the adults had left hours ago, their voices fading with the scent of expensive incense. They said something about unity. About tradition. About building bridges for the future.

But the moment the door shut behind them, whatever hope they had for diplomacy among six-year-olds vanished like smoke.

Satoru sat like a prince on a cushion in the center of the room, legs stretched out, back lazily slouched, fingers twirling a strand of snowy hair.

His eyes were wide and startlingly blue, as if he could see through the walls, through people, through time.

Naoya didn’t sit. He paced, arms crossed, mouth curled in contempt. Every step was precise, sharp, as though even walking was a statement of superiority. He hated being here.

It was in the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to Satoru and then quickly away, as if refusing to admit the boy was even worth looking at.

And then there was you. Sitting quietly. Perfectly still, like the only one who understood what this meeting truly meant.

Not just games and introductions, but scrutiny—testing, judgment, pressure. You didn’t speak, didn’t react. And in that silence, you made yourself impossible to ignore.

Satoru glanced sideways at Naoya. “You keep walking like that and you’ll wear a hole in the floor.” Naoya’s lip twitched. “Shut up.”

“Wow. Great diplomacy,” Satoru said, voice sing-song and mocking. “I can really see the clans becoming best friends now.”

Naoya stopped walking, turned, and glared at him. “I don’t need to be friends with anyone. Especially not some smug freak.”

Satoru blinked. “Freak? I’m not the one who acts like a forty-year-old in a six-year-old’s body.”

Naoya’s hands curled into fists. “Say that again.”

“I said—”

Their voices rose. Tension crackled in the air like static, invisible and sharp. And still, you didn’t move. “—go ahead, try something,” Satoru said, unfazed. Naoya lunged.

It wasn’t a fight so much as a flurry of limbs. Naoya tackled Satoru, who fell back laughing as if the whole thing were a game.

Naoya struck with blunt, angry force, but Satoru slipped away from each hit like water, mocking him with giggles and taunts.

“Too slow,” Satoru drawled, dodging a swipe. “And clumsy.”

“Shut up!” Naoya snapped.

Eventually, Naoya pushed away, breathless and furious, his clothes rumpled and his pride scraped raw. Satoru sat back up, hair even messier than before, smirking like he’d won something.

They both turned to look at you. Your presence unsettled them more than any fight. You didn’t boast. You simply watched, quiet as a shadow. It made them nervous, though neither would admit it.

“You didn’t even try to stop us,” Naoya muttered, brushing dust off his sleeve. “Kamo kids must be scared of everything.”

Satoru tilted his head. “Nah. I think they’re just smarter than both of us.”

The silence returned, thicker now. The boys settled back into their corners—Naoya grumbling under his breath, Satoru humming tunelessly.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Eventually, the sliding door creaked open again, revealing one of the elders, eyes scanning the room with that calculating expression only old sorcerers wore.

The adults would call the meeting a success. They would say the heirs had met, observed one another, begun to understand the necessity of cooperation.

But they hadn’t understood. Not yet. What was born in that room wasn’t unity—it was awareness. The beginnings of rivalry. A seed of something heavier, darker.

The kind of knowledge only children of sorcerer clans carried: that peace was a game played by people who didn’t have to fight.

And in that room, beneath paper walls and watching eyes, three heirs learned not how to get along—but how to survive each other.