Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Dog That Became a Wolf
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Naoya Zenin was acutely aware that he had reached the absolute peak of anger. Not because of anything in particular—or rather, not because of anything he could immediately resolve. It was because of her. That woman. The one with the white hair and the ice technique and the infuriating ability to simply exist and ruin his glorious mission.
I can't catch her. I can't find her. I can't do anything to her.
He didn't know why, but he was certain of one thing: she haunted his dreams. Repeatedly. Deep in the recesses of his sleeping mind, he imagined how he would torture her for humiliating him. How he would force her to speak while he personally oversaw her punishment. Every scenario ended with her broken, begging, destroyed.
And every time, he woke up knowing he couldn't find her.
Scritch. Scratch. Grind.
His teeth ground together in the darkness of his room, the sound echoing off expensive walls that suddenly felt like a cage. The days passed—tick, tock, tick—and the obsession grew worse. Not better. Never better.
Then his father told him to find her.
As if that wasn't already the only thing consuming his existence.
But finding her proved impossible. No information. No traces. She was like a ghost that had briefly materialized into reality and then vanished without leaving a single footprint behind. No way to track her. No method to locate her. Nothing.
Until now.
While Naoya searched for any thread he could use to reach her, the woman had disappeared completely. And in the meantime—
[ZENIN CLAN HEADQUARTERS]
The room hadn't changed. The same oppressive atmosphere. The same suffocating traditions carved into every wooden beam—creak, settle, creak—the same weight of centuries pressing down on everyone who entered. Naoya sat across from his father, acutely aware of the stares.
Not stares, really. The stare. Singular. From his father.
Naobito Zenin's eye fixed on his son with that particular intensity that made lesser men crumble. Naoya wasn't a lesser man. He was a Zenin. He was the Zenin. The future of this entire clan. So he met that stare with practiced indifference, his fingers playing idly with each other—tap, fidget, tap—as if he hadn't noticed anything at all.
Is this supposed to be fun for you, old man?
He wouldn't actually ask that, of course. But the thought was there, burning behind his composed expression.
"You requested Obito to go with you."
Naoya's fingers stopped moving. His face froze for a fraction of a second—still, frozen, thaw—before he could control it. His mouth opened, and words nearly escaped—angry words, dismissive words, the kind of words that felt good to say—but he caught himself. Barely. With tremendous effort.
"Why do I need that dog to go with me?"
Dog. Yes. That was the correct term. To Naoya, Obito wasn't a person. Wasn't a sorcerer. Wasn't even worth the air he breathed. He was a dog. A weak, pathetic dog who didn't deserve any kind of attention or consideration. Playing with him like a doll had been mildly entertaining on days when Naoya felt bad—specifically, on days when he wanted to hit someone—but right now? In this moment?
He wasn't in the mood to deal with something as insignificant as that weakling.
"It doesn't matter." Naobito's voice carried that particular weight that made arguments die before they could be born. "He has a good ability. It will help you find information."
Ability? What ability?
Naoya knew Obito had awakened something at sixteen—the cursed technique that all Zenin waited for, hoped for, prayed for. But he'd never bothered to learn what it was. Why would he? What kind of cursed technique could someone like that possibly get? Probably something low-tier. Something not worth his attention. Someone like that didn't deserve to even be looked at by someone like him.
Why would I waste my time researching the technique of a worthless person?
But his father's expression shifted. That eye—blink, stare, narrow—looked at Naoya like he was stupid. Like he was missing something obvious. Like he was beneath understanding.
The look made Naoya want to scream.
He didn't scream. He waited. He let his father finish.
Naobito sighed—haaaaaah—long and heavy, the sound of a man dealing with someone who should know better. "You don't know anything. He, along with Yuta Okkotsu, fought Geto Suguru. They even forced him to do something suicidal."
Naoya's eyes narrowed—squint, focus, burn—as the information processed. I knew this information. But I don't believe it. Someone like that? That weakling from six months ago? Able to deal with a special grade sorcerer?
Then he laughed.
Ha. HAHAHA. HAHAHAHAHA.
The sound burst from him without warning, pure disdain pouring out with every chuckle. He didn't even try to hide it. Why would he? This was ridiculous. This was absurd.
"Are you joking?" Naoya's voice dripped with contempt. "How could that worm do something like that? I think you're suffering from lack of sleep, Father."
SMACK.
Naobito's hand slammed against the table—CRACK, BOOM, RATTLE—the sound so sharp and sudden that it forced Naoya into immediate silence. The table vibrated—buzz, shake, still—as the echo died in the oppressive room.
"You don't know anything." Naobito's voice was ice wrapped in fire. "He has become strong enough to use reverse cursed technique."
Reverse cursed technique.
Naoya's expression froze. His brain stopped. For a long, terrible moment, he was convinced he was hearing things. It was like listening to a monkey speak like a human. Impossible. Impossible.
"That must be wrong."
Reverse cursed technique. Something only elite sorcerers can do. Even now, is there anyone in the Zenin clan who can use this technique? No. No, there isn't. But you're telling me now that that dog—the one I used to play with—can use this technique?
"That's correct." Naobito's voice remained calm, measured, utterly destructive. "I see you don't believe it, but this is the truth. He has become very strong. In fact, the council is considering raising him to first-grade sorcerer."
First-grade.
Him.
That dog.
First-grade.
Something broke in Naoya's head. Or maybe in his mind. The sound was so loud, so distinct, that he could have sworn everyone in the room heard it—CRRRRACK—like a bone snapping or a wall collapsing. Of course, that was his imagination. But the feeling was real. The anger was real. The fury was real.
He shot up from his seat—whoosh, STAND, creak—his body moving before his brain could catch up.
"You must be joking!"
It wasn't clear what made him angrier. The fact that the dog was now close to reaching his level? Or the fact that the dog seemed to have awakened a technique that put him on the same level? Both reasons, probably. Both reasons, definitely. Both reasons, absolutely. To Naoya, they were the same thing, achieved at the same time, and both made him want to destroy something.
Naobito's expression remained completely uninterested. He picked up the drink that hadn't spilled despite his earlier table-slamming—clink, sip, ahhh—and took a long, deliberate swallow. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of a wise man delivering an undeniable truth.
"I don't care about this anger. All I care about is finding what I want to find. Using his cursed technique, you will search for this woman and find her by any means necessary. And find out who stopped the plan."
SLAM.
The cup hit the table—CRASH, splash, drip—and Naobito's eyes sharpened to daggers.
"I don't want failure."
Naoya stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of command pressing down on him like a physical force. Then, through gritted teeth—grind, creak, pop—he forced the words out.
"Fine. I'll do it."
He turned and left the room—thud, thud, THUD—each step heavier than the last. But leaving didn't mean his thoughts stopped. If anything, they intensified, swirling inside his skull like a hurricane gathering strength.
It's not just that there's a strange woman with strong power and skill who prevented me from achieving glory. No. I was just told that the dog I used to play with as a child is now at the same level as me.
Anyone in the world would be angry at that. Anyone. Let alone someone who valued himself more than anyone else valued themselves.
Anyone.
So when Naoya left, he went directly to Kyoto Academy. It took only two hours—vroom, swish, bump—to reach his destination. He surged through the night like an arrow loosed from a bow, arriving at 4:00 AM with the kind of urgency that only wounded pride could generate.
He entered the academy without permission—creak, step, slide—because why would he need permission? He was Naoya Zenin. Permission was for other people.
And then he saw something he didn't expect.
Stop.
Behind a tree—rustle, crouch, peer—Naoya paused, his body instinctively hiding while his eyes did their work. The training ground stretched before him, lit by the faint pre-dawn light that turned everything shades of gray and blue. And in the center of that ground, movement.
Punch. Swish. Kick. Thump. Block. Whoosh. Duck. Spin. Strike.
The movements weren't integrated—not in the traditional sense. They were something else. Something other. Something that only an expert, someone with real experience, could fully appreciate. The speed, the execution—snap, crack, boom—all of it was unpredictable. Un-telegraphed. This style opposed the concept of predetermined movement entirely. Just chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos that made it impossible to predict the opponent's next move.
To Naoya Zenin, this was absolutely terrible.
Because these movements were extremely difficult to predict. And he was supposed to be good at predicting. It was his thing. His specialty. The 24 Frames technique made him the master of reading opponents, of seeing the gaps between their movements and exploiting them.
But this?
This was different.
The person executing these movements—the person giving off the feeling of precise cursed energy control while throwing these unpredictable punches—was none other than the dog he used to raise. The weakling from six months ago.
How did he become stronger? How did he reach this level? Is his technique powerful enough to make him this strong? What is that technique? How did he train it? Did he learn many skills to reach this level?
Question after question after question poured into Naoya's head like water through a broken dam. He stood frozen—still, silent, staring—watching the young man who used to look at him like a dog now using movement skills that left him speechless.
Especially the cursed energy manipulation. Definitely first-grade level. Even if Naoya didn't show it, he knew quality when he saw it. He wouldn't be the future head of the Zenin clan if he couldn't recognize real strength.
My accuracy and skill at knowing opponents' styles, my speed in reacting to attacks—all first-grade. And still, I can't predict this chaotic movement style.
What made this style special was how it transferred cursed energy through multiple points in the body to increase destructive power. In several moments, the young man exploded the air through his punches—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—like sending bombs into empty space. This style, based on superior cursed energy control, left the user of the 24 Frames technique unconsciously amazed.
And filled with anger before the amazement.
And amazement before the anger.
Thirty minutes.
For thirty minutes—tick, tock, tick, tock, tick—Naoya watched the continuous movement. Watched the impossible transitions. Watched the dog become something else entirely. Finally, when the training session ended, he made his decision.
He stepped forward—crunch, step, stop—and spoke with the same disdainful tone he'd always used. The same style. The same words. Testing to see if his dog from the past was still at the same level. Testing to see if he still knew who the master was.
"Obito."
The young man's body trembled—shiver, shake, still—at the sound of his old name. Then he turned. Then he knelt—thud—on the ground without speaking a single word. Like he was waiting for Naoya to say something.
Like a dog waiting for a command.
Naoya smiled—smirk, curl, gleam—and didn't say anything except to give a direct order: follow. And the boy did. Without question. Without hesitation. Without anything.
This. This right here.
Naoya looked down at the kneeling form with pure contempt. But at the same time, something else returned: the feeling of superiority. Because he understood now. Even with great power, a dog was still a dog. And dogs worked like dogs. They obeyed their masters.
In the car—door click, seat shift, engine rumble—Naoya threw the mission file like a dog trainer throwing a treat to a pet that had retrieved it. Without even looking at the gesture. Without acknowledging the act at all.
Obito caught it—snatch—without showing any hostility.
This alone.
Naoya, sitting in the front seat, smiled with mockery, absolutely certain he would control his little dog. So what if the dog became stronger? He would put a better collar on it. Control the direction of the dog's movement. That was the method he would use in the future. And in the end, the dog would become what it always was: beneath him, serving him.
His eyes drifted to the file, to the woman's image within it. White hair. Ice technique. The one who ruined everything.
When I catch her, I'll make her regret what she did. I'll strip her bare like an insect before killing her. But before that—definitely—I'll torture her.
Naoya smiled—slow, wide, wicked—multiple times during the drive, each smile more brutal than the last. The driver felt those looks, those murderous glances—shiver, gulp, stare forward—but didn't dare say anything. Not that Naoya would care if anyone watched him. He was too proud for that. Too superior. People he looked at with disdain should be grateful he gave them a glimpse of his time.
This is the method I'll use with Obito too. My old dog, who's starting to show so many surprises.
But still just a dog.
Still just mine.
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END OF CHAPTER
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I'm truly sorry for the delay, everyone. I've been busy with some office work, so I had to be late. But don't worry, I'll work harder to fix the mistake. I hope you'll give me more Power Stones in the comments. Finally, a nice review from you would be wonderful.