Chapter Fifty-Nine : Shoji Mori ـ past contract
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The man who was bleeding near the tree after being hit by Obito was named Shoji Mori, an unregistered second-grade shaman according to the Zenin clan's classification system. For a very long time, he had been serving this clan in the shadows, lurking in the darkness like a cockroach that only comes out when the lights go off. In addition to that, he was special because he possessed a rather convenient cursed technique that allowed him to increase his physical strength significantly, and the name of this technique was [Transcendent Body].
Creeeeak...
The sound of his bones rearranging themselves echoed through the clearing as he pushed himself off the splintered tree that had caught his fall. Using this ability, his body received a massive boost and essentially reconstructed itself, becoming dramatically younger in the process. So even though he was in his fifties, he possessed a body that looked like someone in their thirties—firm muscles, clear skin, the kind of physique that made people at the gym seethe with jealousy.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
His joints continued to crackle with renewed energy.
But of course, there was always a price to pay for such vanity—this was the jujutsu world, after all, where nothing came free except suffering and an early grave. His physical strength and skills would increase with this transformation, which sounded fantastic on paper, like those infomercials that promise six-pack abs in three minutes a day. However, he couldn't keep fighting for extended periods because at some point he needed to release his cursed energy to ensure his body maintained this youthful state.
It seemed impressive, the kind of ability that would make others think he would live forever, cheating death itself through sheer stubbornness and cursed energy manipulation. Unfortunately for Shoji, this technique also continuously consumed his life force, so he was still aging internally. And with age, his original body would grow weaker, which meant this technique's power would diminish over time—like a phone battery that holds less charge after years of use, except instead of a dead phone, you get a dead body.
Drip... drip...
The blood from his wound continued to stain the fallen leaves beneath him.
Right now, his body was leaning against the destroyed tree that had caught him like a safety net made of splinters and bark. He turned his eyes—still sharp despite his age—toward the young man with those red eyes that seemed to glow in the dim forest light, and couldn't help but exhale a long, weary sigh that carried the weight of decades.
Whoooosh...
His breath escaped like a deflated balloon.
—Such power in that punch. I barely managed to block it—
His eyes gleamed with disappointment, though not because he had been hit by the young man standing before him with those arrogant red eyes that probably saw everything in slow motion.
—But even with that, he wasn't aiming for a killing blow either. It seems he's soft-hearted, or maybe he just doesn't enjoy fighting. People like him won't last long in the world of jujutsu—
He had seen enough battles to recognize hesitation, that tiny micro-second of restraint before impact.
The old man stood before the two of them with significantly more strength than he'd had moments ago—muscles bulging, posture straightening, the kind of physical transformation that would make bodybuilders weep with envy. Meanwhile, Obito sensed something was wrong because through his Sharingan eyes—those beautiful crimson windows to hell—he could see the old man's cursed energy literally rejuvenating itself, like watching a time-lapse video of a withered plant coming back to life.
Fwoooosh...
The cursed energy swirled around Shoji like a protective cocoon.
In the span of a single second, the man's damaged muscles and body began healing on their own—cuts closing, bruises fading, internal bleeding stopping as if someone had pressed the undo button on all his injuries. Additionally, his eyes turned vicious, shifting from the resigned gaze of an old man to the predatory stare of someone half his age. And it wasn't just that—he actually chuckled a little, a deep rumbling sound from his chest that seemed completely inappropriate for someone who had just been sent flying into a tree like a ragdoll.
Hack! Ptoo!
He coughed up some black blood onto the forest floor, watching the dark liquid soak into the dead leaves with what looked almost like satisfaction.
"I'll tell you about my technique," Shoji said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear across his skin. "It's called Transcendent Body. Using it, I can retain cursed energy to keep my body in a youthful state. Unfortunately, as I age, my body grows weaker, which means the technique has become weaker as well."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His fingers drummed against his thigh as he spoke.
Obito's eyes, upon hearing these words, made it abundantly clear that he couldn't care less—they remained flat, uninterested, the kind of look you give someone explaining their stamp collection at a party. But in his mind, he had already figured out why this old man was revealing his technique's name, abilities, and limitations. It was practically screaming "TRAP" in neon letters, so he didn't interrupt, letting the old man finish his villain monologue like a patient audience member at a terrible theater performance.
After he finished, the old man said to Obito, clearly enjoying himself way too much for someone who was about to get beaten into next week, "You didn't stop me. But I can see from your eyes that you understood why I explained my technique's name and also its functionality."
Click.
Obito's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Obito took a deep breath—not because he was confused or nervous, but because he could feel the change in the man's cursed energy and quickly assessed the reason. Within milliseconds, his Sharingan-fed brain had processed all the variables and reached the conclusion that made the most sense. He decided to voice it while looking at the old man properly, the way you look at someone who's about to gamble their entire life savings on a single hand of poker, knowing they're going to lose.
"Isn't this a binding vow?" Obito's voice cut through the forest air like a blade.
Silence.
Even the insects seemed to stop chirping.
He didn't say anything else after that, letting the weight of his words hang in the atmosphere like a guillotine blade. He easily noticed the old man's face splitting into a wide grin while his body continued to expand, muscles bulging, veins popping, the whole transformation looking incredibly painful and slightly disgusting.
"That's right," Shoji confirmed, his voice deeper now, more primal. "This is a binding vow. I can apply it to my cursed technique to increase the efficiency of cursed energy in my body. But unfortunately, this application will only work for ten minutes. After that, I won't be able to use my cursed technique for the entire day."
Crack!
Another bone shifted into place.
Shoji watched the red-eyed user shake his head slightly, as if he was actually enjoying the words that had been spoken—which was bizarre because most people don't enjoy hearing about their opponent's power-ups. But then, just as Shoji finished speaking, the black-haired young man said with that infuriating calmness that only teenagers with too much power possess:
"I can feel that your cursed energy has reached the first-grade level."
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Time seemed to stretch between them.
Obito paused for a moment, then spoke seriously, the kind of serious you get when someone is about to do something incredibly stupid and you're the only one smart enough to realize it. He looked at the old man before him like someone who had seen the future and already knew who would win this little dance of violence.
"Even with this power," Obito said flatly, "you're just wasting your time using this card. It's ineffective and weak enough that I can defeat you even if you use it."
Pop!
Shoji's bones crackled for a moment, the sound sharp in the quiet forest, but he didn't deny the young man's words. Instead, he took a step forward—just one—because his transformation was now complete. His muscles were bulging obscenely, like someone had stuffed watermelons under his skin, and his physical strength had reached its maximum potential. His technique needed a few seconds to reach full effectiveness after using the binding vow.
Swish...
The cursed energy flowed through him like a river breaking through a dam.
From the words the young man had spoken, it didn't seem like he was going to interrupt Shoji's transformation into his ultimate form. That much was obvious to the old man—this kid was actually letting him power up, like a video game boss that waits patiently while you drink your healing potions. It was enough for Shoji to realize that the young man before him was absolutely confident in his victory, confident to the point of arrogance.
And honestly, even Shoji himself knew it was impossible to win.
Smack.
His fist clenched, the sound of skin tightening over knuckles.
The punch he had received at the beginning was proof of the gap in level and talent between them—a chasm so wide that not even his fancy technique could bridge it. Even when he was young, he was certain he couldn't have executed a punch like that with such precision, such economy of motion, such devastating efficiency. The young man before him was definitely first-grade. In terms of cursed energy control, he was also first-grade. His martial arts skills? Also first-grade.
This meant Shoji's chances of winning were absolutely zero, like snowball's chance in hell, like finding a honest politician, like expecting the Zenin clan to treat their members with basic human decency.
Heh.
But that didn't make the old man's smile disappear. If anything, it grew even more ferocious, more manic, the kind of smile you see on people who have completely accepted their fate and decided to enjoy the ride down. It was as if he had been looking forward to this impossible battle his entire life, dreaming of the day he could test himself against someone so overwhelmingly powerful.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a prisoner trying to escape.
Obito recognized this expression—he had seen it before, on the faces of people who had nothing left to lose and had decided to go out in a blaze of glory. He looked at the old man like someone seeing a psychological patient, the kind of look you give the guy on the subway who's having a loud conversation with himself. But at the same time, this didn't make Obito any less cautious.
Whoooosh.
He exhaled slowly, centering himself.
In the end, he didn't want anything more than to appear strong. By behaving this way, he would gain some useful things in the future through an easy method—reputation, fear, respect, the kind of currency that mattered in the jujutsu world. And he wasn't going to lose anything by fighting, so he assumed a simple combat stance.
But even this simple stance was wrapped in tightly controlled cursed energy, the kind of control that only comes from thousands of hours of practice. Even the weakest people could sense the power and the difference between a beginner and an expert just by observing briefly.
Hmmmmmm...
The cursed energy hummed around him like a second skin.
If they examined this cursed energy carefully—the density, the compression, the absolute economy of movement—they would see a master at work. Shoji, after his internal counter had reached its limit, wasn't slow. He pushed off the ground beneath him with tremendous force, and like a bomb that had just exploded, he lunged toward Obito with incredible speed.
BOOM!
The ground where he had stood cratered inward.
The air itself seemed to scream as he cut through it like a missile, his body leaving a trail of displaced atmosphere behind him. Shoji's eyes narrowed as he closed the distance—this kid had a solid foundation, sure, but let's see if he had experience dealing with dirty moves.
—Let's see if you can handle a little dirt in those pretty red eyes of yours, pretty boy—
Without hesitation, he kicked up a massive amount of dust and debris from the forest floor, creating a wave that surged toward the Sharingan user. The cloud spread over several meters, expanding rapidly, obscuring vision completely, turning the battlefield into a brown-gray haze.
FWOOOOSH!
The dust cloud erupted outward like a sandstorm.
—Time for step two—
He gathered his cursed energy in his hand, feeling it pool in his palm like liquid fire, and in a single moment, he tore through the dust wave and struck the spot where the young man had been standing with tremendous force.
BOOOOOM!
The sound was deafening.
The concentrated cursed energy in his fist impacted the air where Obito should have been, creating a shockwave that detonated the dust cloud and sent it scattering in all directions. Shoji stood there, listening carefully, waiting to hear the young man take a pained breath, or dodge the attack, or even try to fight back.
But what he found at the impact site was nothing.
...Nothing.
There wasn't anything standing in that spot. Not a scratch, not a drop of blood, not even a torn piece of clothing. It was as if the young man had simply ceased to exist, like he had never been there at all.
In the next moment, Shoji heard a sound from directly behind him.
Yaaaawn...
The sound was bored, the kind of sound you make when you've just woken up from a nap and are contemplating whether to get out of bed or not. It was the sound of someone who had just witnessed something incredibly stupid and was thoroughly unimpressed.
—When did he get there?!—
Shoji spun around faster than should have been physically possible, his eyes wide, his heart nearly stopping in his chest. He stared at the young man who was now standing barely a meter away from him, then looked back at his previous location, then back at the young man again.
Gulp.
He swallowed hard.
He felt genuine shock—no, horror—because this speed was terrifying, absolutely fucking terrifying. It wasn't just fast; it was teleportation-level speed, the kind of movement that made you question reality itself. Then he heard the young man speak to him in the tone of someone giving advice, not arrogantly like most powerful people would, but calmly, like a warning.
For the last time.
"Stop, old man. I really don't want to hit you. You're too slow and you couldn't hit me."
Slap.
The words hit Shoji like a physical blow.
Shoji's face darkened to an unhealthy shade of purple, the kind of color you see on eggplants and people who are about to make very poor decisions. With a leap, he jumped back several meters, and his cursed energy became even more solid, precise, and powerful—several times more—as if he was charging up his own special attack.
Crackle... CRACKLE...
The energy built within him like a pressure cooker about to explode.
The Sharingan user sighed, that long-suffering sigh of someone who has to deal with difficult people, but he didn't stop him. Shoji gained confidence from this lack of intervention and increased the flow of cursed energy even further. After confirming that his power had reached its absolute maximum limit, he declared:
"You're so arrogant, young man. So full of yourself, so confident in your power. I'll prove to you that your strength means nothing compared to experience!"
WHOOSH!
To prove his point, he vanished.
It was like teleportation—one moment he was meters away, the next he was right beside Obito, who wasn't even looking in that direction. Shoji grinned widely, a savage expression of triumph, and thought while aiming a punch stronger than any punch he had ever thrown before:
—Look at this, young man. I admit you're strong, but it seems you're too arrogant about your power. I'll make you pay for that now. Maybe this will be useful in the future too—
His fist, saturated with cursed energy, cut through the air toward Obito's unprotected side.
—I won't kill you... that would be a waste of your talent—
SWISH!
The punch created its own wind.
But just before it landed, Obito's eyes—which had been single tomoe—shifted to two tomoe. Everything around him slowed down, the world becoming a lazy river instead of a raging torrent. Even the movement of the punch, the trajectory of the punch was determined in a fraction of a second. The old man's body position was fully exposed, every muscle tense, every intention readable like an open book.
And he discovered the weak point—right in the center of Shoji's stomach, where the cursed energy was concentrated most densely.
Tick... tock... tick... tock...
Time crawled.
When all this information came together in his Sharingan-enhanced brain, Obito decided not to retreat. He simply condensed his cursed energy to form a surface defense around his body, like armor made of pure power, and covered the rest of his cursed energy in his fist. He moved his head slightly away from the punch that was approaching in extreme slow motion—millimeters made the difference between broken jaw and clean miss—and his fist collided with the old man's stomach.
BOOM!
Just like the first time.
For Shoji, his attack was definitely going to hit the target. He had used all his gathered cursed energy in this attack to accelerate to maximum possible speed—this was his ultimate technique, his masterpiece, the culmination of decades of experience and training. But suddenly, the young man disappeared.
Then he felt the pain in his stomach.
It was unlike anything he had ever experienced—not just physical pain, but the sensation of all his carefully gathered cursed energy being disrupted, scattered, destroyed. Before he could even process what had happened, a sound escaped his lips involuntarily—a choked cry of agony—and then his body was flying backward.
CRASH!
He hit the tree he had been leaning on at the beginning.
But this time, his body didn't just hit the tree and stop. It tore straight through it, splinters exploding everywhere like wooden shrapnel, and continued backward, slamming into several more trees before finally coming to a stop. Each impact was accompanied by the sound of wood splintering, leaves raining down, branches snapping like twigs.
CRACK! SMASH! BAM!
Tree after tree after tree.
He could barely maintain consciousness, his vision swimming, his body screaming in protest. Through the haze of pain and shock, he could only look toward where Obito was standing, completely untouched, as if he hadn't just thrown the most devastating punch in Shoji's entire life. With the last of his strength, Shoji croaked out:
"You're... a monster..."
Thud.
And the old man, Shoji Mori, lost consciousness completely.
Obito looked at his hand, which was releasing small wisps of smoke due to the friction of the punch, the kind of steam you see rising from a car engine after a long drive. He couldn't help but sigh and think to himself:
—Banda-senpai's boxing style is truly terrifying. And the speed of cursed energy gathering is incredibly smooth—
He couldn't help but praise Banda's boxing style internally, the style that had allowed him to reach this level of precision while throwing punches, the kind of accuracy that could hit a specific cursed energy concentration point in the middle of a high-speed battle.
Pssssss...
The smoke continued rising from his knuckles.
Just as he was about to stop examining his hand, he heard the sound of clapping.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slow, deliberate, mocking.
He looked to the side where the clapping was coming from, and the smile he saw was the smile of someone who had just watched their weapon fire perfectly, the smile of a proud owner observing their attack dog perform. This smile belonged to Naoya Zenin, who was staring at Obito with those eyes that said everything without needing words.
Shudder.
Obito felt disgust crawl up his spine.
He didn't need to think to understand the meaning of that look—it was ownership, it was pride, it was the satisfaction of having a useful tool. He felt genuine revulsion, the kind that makes your stomach turn and your skin crawl. But he accepted it well. Perhaps because of the memories, his behavior was very natural while looking at Naoya with something approaching respect—the respect a soldier shows their commanding officer, the respect a tool shows its wielder.
—Look, sir. I did a great job, didn't I?—
The thought made him want to vomit.
He wanted to throw up deep inside for even thinking this way, for playing this role, for being exactly what Naoya wanted him to be. But he controlled himself at the last moment and took a step to stand beside Naoya, who, after stopping his applause, looked at the spot where Shoji's body lay crumpled among the destroyed trees.
Hmph.
Naoya snorted with disdain.
He smiled contemptuously again, the smile of someone who has just seen garbage taken out, and walked slowly, step by step, toward the body. After confirming that the man was still alive—barely, but alive—he watched calmly as the man's muscular body transformed little by little into mere skin, as an old man's body should be.
Shhhhhh...
The transformation was almost sad to watch.
The height that had been about two meters immediately shrank to an old man barely exceeding 160 centimeters—the difference was shocking, like watching a balloon deflate. Even the thick hair began falling out, leaving bald patches on a head that now showed mostly white hair. His age had finally caught up with him, all the borrowed youth reclaimed with interest.
Naoya looked at Obito and ordered him directly with that arrogant master's tone, the kind of tone that expects immediate obedience without question, to carry the old man's body.
Creak.
Obito's joints protested slightly as he bent down.
Obito heard the command and didn't hesitate at this moment. After doing everything else, he grabbed the body but made sure not to be rough. In the end, when throwing his punch, he hadn't meant to kill the old man—he had only wanted to end the fight with one hit, efficiently, cleanly, with minimal damage. He didn't want to be someone who bullied weak people, especially since he hated this aspect of the original body owner's past, the casual cruelty, the enjoyment of power over others.
But he couldn't help but do this—carry the body, follow orders, play the role.
—The old man understood my advice, my warnings. Even so, he didn't listen. So all I could do was knock him out with one punch and end this matter—
Sigh.
He exhaled his frustration silently.
While Obito carried the body, he examined the strong effects of the old man's technique. All he could say was that it was unfortunate—a good technique that maintained youth, but ultimately weakened over time. It was like having a fancy sports car that slowly loses horsepower with every passing year. And it could be easily canceled if the body suffered major damage or lost its cursed energy—then the body would return to its natural state.
Even weaker than its natural state, due to exhaustion.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Shoji's heartbeat was weak but present.
Shoji woke up several hours later on a hospital bed. He looked around the hospital room and quickly understood that this wasn't a real hospital—the equipment was too old, the walls too worn, the whole place set up by someone specifically for situations like this. He immediately tried to move but noticed that his body was immobile, completely paralyzed.
...Nothing.
Not a single muscle would respond to his commands.
He had suffered tremendous damage after using his special technique. But at the same time, his survival after using it to this degree meant the technique had been stopped before reaching the ten-minute limit. So he thought about the red-eyed user and couldn't help but laugh for a second—a laugh that turned bitter due to the age gap between them, and the experience gap.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
The laugh echoed hollowly in the empty room.
The battle should have been different. He should have been the winner—he was older, more experienced, had seen more battles, survived more encounters. But at the same time, he felt he should be grateful.
Gulp.
He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.
"I should have died," he muttered to himself, his voice cracked and weak. "But he stopped it before the counter ended. It seems he can see cursed energy with those eyes of his. An interesting cursed technique... For some reason, it makes me remember that person's eyes from the Gojo clan, the one who possesses the Six Eyes. Has the Zenin clan finally gained the gods' favor? Have they finally obtained a user of their own special eyes?"
Cough. Cough. Cough.
His weak coughs rattled his fragile chest.
It was pathetic, really—his current state, his situation, his entire life reduced to this moment. But even this pathetic situation made him feel like he understood more clearly why he had lost to such a young man. In the end, this world depended heavily on talent, not on hard work. You could train for decades and still be surpassed by someone with the right genetics, the right eyes, the right bloodline.
But that didn't make the old man feel less bitter.
Click.
The door handle turned.
The door opened, revealing the blond-haired young man, the heir of the Zenin clan, entering with an arrogant smile that Shoji was well aware of and thoroughly accustomed to—the smile of someone who has never been told "no" in their entire privileged life.
Squeak...
The door hinges complained softly.
After Naoya entered the room, he couldn't help but smile at the old man and speak with an arrogance befitting his status, the kind of voice that expects groveling and immediate compliance:
"Do you realize the kind of crime you've committed, you dirty old man?"
Thump.
He threw something onto the bed.
The contempt in his voice transformed into a murderous scowl that could make Naoya look like a killer directly—which he actually was, when you thought about it. "Where is the girl?"
The old man spoke coldly, completely unafraid of death—he had lived long enough, fought enough battles, seen enough death that the concept held no terror for him anymore.
"My granddaughter won't use her technique again. That's final. I told your clan leader this. We agreed on this."
Ha.
Naoya's laugh was sharp and cruel.
Naoya laughed and pulled a document from his pocket, throwing it onto the bed. Shoji caught it and read it while his eyes widened, pupils dilating with shock and horror. He spoke in a voice that sounded shocked and stammering, the voice of someone whose entire world had just collapsed:
"Impossible... How can... You must be lying!"
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
The paper shook in his trembling hands.
The document, for Shoji, was something that destroyed him completely, something that made his eyes—eyes that were accustomed to death, eyes that had been prepared for death—well up with tears. But even so, he controlled himself in the next second, forcing the tears back, forcing his face into a mask of control. He spoke in a voice full of pain, the kind of pain that comes from decades of suppressed emotion finally breaking through:
"Why... Why does my granddaughter have to suffer, you bastard? WHY?!"
Fwip.
He tried to rise, to attack.
Even without sufficient strength, he wanted to hit the young man before him. But before he could do that, Naoya had already spoken:
"You dirty old man—if you raise your hand, I'll cut it off. So use the mercy I'm giving you and tell me where your granddaughter is. I'll give you the hope that she might stay alive after using her technique."
...Silence.
The room went completely quiet.
The old man froze after hearing that, his body going rigid, his mind racing. At the same time, memories from the past began appearing before his eyes, flashing like a broken film reel:
Flashback...
Back then, his granddaughter had awakened her cursed technique, but she wasn't in good condition. She was always bleeding, always coughing up blood, even when she was just a few months old. He tried everything—took her to every hospital, spent every yen he had saved throughout his life, begged every doctor he could find.
But there was no way.
Cough. Cough. Cough.
The memory of her small body shaking with coughs.
When she was six years old, she awakened her cursed technique, which surprised the old man because he hadn't felt her cursed energy before—just a low sensation that made him certain she would never become a shaman at all in her life. So he just wanted her to live as a normal person, away from this cursed world, away from the violence and death that had claimed her parents.
Her parents had died since the girl was born.
Bang.
The sound of their deaths echoed in his memory.
But the moment her cursed technique awakened, the old man felt his granddaughter's energy become so strong that it actually scared him a little—and he was second-grade himself. But then, when she used her technique at that age, blood began bleeding from every part of her body, from her nose, her eyes, her mouth, even her ears.
He was terrified.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The blood wouldn't stop flowing.
He didn't know what to do, so he finally went to the Zenin clan. He knew the clan leader—he had done several jobs with him, performed many dirty tasks for him, killed people who needed killing, disposed of bodies that needed disposing. So he wanted to do anything to save his granddaughter, even if it required selling his soul to these devils.
And there, the clan leader did something that surprised Shoji.
Flash.
The cursed tool gleamed in memory.
He agreed—in exchange, he looked at the girl and used one of his first-grade cursed tools from the Zenin clan's vault, which allowed them to sign a binding vow. Shoji thought that vow would be with him, so he wanted to agree quickly, whatever the price, whatever the cost, whatever the future consequences.
But the clan leader didn't agree to that.
He looked at the granddaughter and said he wanted that binding vow to be with her.
No.
Shoji went crazy.
He wanted to do anything, say anything, but he said that was impossible. But the Zenin clan leader told him he wasn't obligated to help if Shoji didn't agree—his granddaughter was on the verge of death, bleeding out, dying right there in front of them. So Shoji agreed, with the condition that nothing would be done to harm her.
The Zenin clan leader agreed to that.
Done.
The vow was sealed.
After the vow was signed, the clan leader used that cursed tool to heal the granddaughter, and from that time, Shoji forgot the matter because afterward, the Zenin clan leader never ordered Shoji Mori or his granddaughter to come to the Zenin clan. He thought the clan leader had forgotten about this vow entirely, that it had slipped his mind, that maybe, just maybe, they were safe.
Flash forward.
But a few weeks ago, they started searching for him.
He was scared because he received a summons, remembered the binding vow, felt genuine terror for the first time in years. He didn't want anything to happen to his granddaughter, so he hid her. But somehow, they managed to find him.
And now, he had finally managed to read the vow.
Rustle.
The paper moved in his hands.
He hadn't been able to read it at that time because of the Zenin clan leader—he had only been certain that the vow wouldn't harm her in any way and hadn't cared about the rest, too busy wanting to keep his granddaughter alive, too desperate to think about the fine print.
But the contents of the vow now rendered him speechless.
...
His eyes scanned the words with growing horror:
"Using this binding vow, the Zenin clan leader can, at any time, request the use of the other party's technique once per year. But if it's not used in any following years after the first year, the clan leader can remove the condition that prohibits harming the technique user."
No. No. No.
His eyes reddened as he read.
His eyes reddened as he read this vow because he finally understood why the Zenin clan leader hadn't summoned him and his granddaughter before—he had been waiting. Waiting to use her even if it cost her life. That bastard had been aiming for this from the beginning, playing the long game, waiting for the perfect moment to use his pawn.
Crack.
The paper crumpled slightly in his grip.
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End of Chapter.
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Thank you so much for reading this chapter. I hope you'll tell me your opinion in the comments section. Honestly, I'm very sad about this grandfather; I never expected something like this to happen to him. Even while writing this chapter, I felt like crying.But do you know what? For future events, I need to be heartless, so I hope you'll write your review and give me some amazing stones that will give me more power to progress.