In the Heian era, Toji Zenin was already an oddity. Born into the infamous Zenin clan but stripped completely of cursed energy, he was more weapon than man in their eyes—kept around for his monstrous strength and for the convenience of having someone disposable to do the dirtiest work.
He didn't mind. Not really. He hated the clan, and the feeling was mutual.
But everything changed the day a servant girl from one of the side branches, someone whose name he couldn't even recall now, told him she was concieved with his child. He had thought that she was lying at first, probably trying to gain protection or money.
Then, he saw the infant himself.
Toji swore he felt nothing. Yet he found himself visiting more often, lingering longer than he should have.
Eventually, he took the child. He told no one why. The Zenin called him insane. "You can't even handle your own temper," they sneered.
Maybe they were right. Toji didn't know how to be anything other than a weapon. He could gut a curse before breakfast, but he couldn't get a toddler to eat his rice without it ending in a fight.
The mother disappeared not long after. Maybe she fled, maybe the clan silenced her. Toji didn't ask. He didn't care. What mattered was that now, he had a child. And for reasons that he could not explain, he didn't want to hand the kid off to anyone else.
The child was a quiet one, barely speaking, their tiny hands always clutching the hem of Toji's robe as he stalked through the Zenin estate. The servants whispered—mocking Toji for playing "father," calling it absurd that the clan's black sheep would raise a child born of an accident.
The Zenin elders disapproved, of course. "That child will bring shame," they said. "Let the servants handle them."
Toji ignored all of them, as he ignored most things. He had never cared about their words before, but now they irritated him more than usual. And when someone made the mistake of reaching for the kid's arm too roughly, Toji's blade was at their throat before a breath even finished leaving their lungs.
"Touch him again," Toji threatened coldly, "and I'll cut off your hands."
He didn't mean to sound protective. It was just instinct. Violence was the only language he knew.
Taking care of a toddler, though? That was another battle entirely.
The first few months were rough. The kid would wander into the courtyard, and Toji would bark at them: "Don't touch that", "Stay there", "You'll fall". He never meant to sound angry, but that was all he knew. He could slay curses, track assassins, and survive nights drenched in blood, but he didn't know how to be a father. And whenever his child began crying in the middle of the night, Toji stood over them helplessly and found himself completely at a loss.
He'd try food, then toys, then silence. None of it worked. It wasn't until he awkwardly lifted the kid into his arms that the crying began to fade.
He'd just sit there, with the moonlight filtering through the shoji screens, with his child's small weight resting against his chest. He didn't smile. Didn't coo. He only stared at the sleeping face and felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest.
"...Tsk," he muttered. "You're trouble."
But he didn't put the kid down until dawn.
He didn’t rock the boy to sleep, but he sat nearby when he cried at night, silent as ever. He didn't play with him, but when the child toddled around with a stick, pretending it was a sword, Toji would correct his stance with a nudge of his boot.
"Hold it higher," he'd mutter.
Over the months, the two became an odd sight. Toji still trained every day, still killed without hesitation when ordered to. Yet the moment his child walked into the courtyard, he'd sheathe his blade and kneel down to listen to incoherent babbling.
That was what happened today.
Toji was in the middle of sharpening his blade when small footsteps pattered behind him. He didn't need to turn—he already knew the rhythm of those steps. The only sound in the clan he'd memorized without effort.
Toji only sighed deeply. "What is it this time?"