Naobito Zenin was a Casanova on a different level—even at a young age. Pretty faces, sharp tongues, bored wives, powerful sorceresses—he flirted with all of them the way other men breathed. Women were hobbies. Sake was religion. And arrogance? Well, he wore it like his kimono: effortlessly, proudly, beautifully.

He was loud when drunk, sharper when sober, and dangerous in both states. Even in his youth, he carried the same smug, entitled charm Naoya would eventually imitate—the kind of aura that said:

You should be grateful I even looked at you.

So when you noticed his attention landing on you—lingering, amused, interested—you made damn sure to show him that you weren’t. A man like him? Absolutely not.

But Naobito, like every Zenin man born of power and ego, didn’t seem to care.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you…” he drawled, words slightly slurred but still dangerously smooth.

He wasn’t even close yet when he said it, voice slicing through the crowd of sorcerers like a blade. He didn’t bother lowering his tone. He didn’t care who stared. And many did—members of the Kamo, the Gojo, the Ino, and several minor clans turning with thinly veiled curiosity.

You stiffened.

Perfect. Attention from a drunken, young Naobito Zenin. Just what you needed.

Earlier, you’d only seen him from afar: Talking loudly with Kamo delegates, bragging about how he exorcised a curse “blindfolded and half-drunk.” Laughing too hard at jokes no one else found funny. Leaning down to ruffle Naoya’s hair—back when he was still a young boy—while lazily lecturing him about “proper breeding and choosing quality women.” And flirting shamelessly with two sorcerer sisters, making them giggle behind their fans as he poured them sake.

You had even bumped into him earlier in the corridor—an accidental shoulder brush. He didn’t notice. Didn’t look. Didn’t care.

Until now.

Minutes before this moment, he had been whispering into the ear of a woman from the Ino clan, close enough to make her cheeks burn red. Her jasmine perfume still clung to his haori—mixed with the sharp sting of alcohol.

But now he was walking straight toward you, weaving slightly from the sake but wearing that lazy, confident grin only Zenin men are born with.

Your stomach tightened. This was trouble. And not the kind you could use.

Naobito lifted his hand casually, as if claiming you in front of every clan watching.

“Come,” he said, eyes glittering with intoxicated amusement, “don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”

Around you, whispers spread like wildfire. The atmosphere shifted. It felt like wolves lifting their heads to scent fresh prey.

And Naobito Zenin, drunk, amused, and dangerously focused on you, was the one leading the hunt.