Chapter Text
It was a quiet morning. Trees bowed beneath the weight of the morning dew, and somewhere nearby, running water murmured softly. Distant chirps from the birds could be heard, signaling the start of a new day.
But unlike the birds, a few people had been awake long before dawn.
Hushed whispers broke the air as two gardeners could be seen eyeing something, or in this case, someone.
"Less looking, more working man." One of them muttered, though the scolding lost its bite with the flush creeping up his cheeks.
"I mean, can you blame me?" A giddy voice whispered back, face just as red. “He rarely leaves the house, so this is the only time I get to—well—worship him..”
“Stop it, he can hear you!” the first one hissed.
Both workers stopped whispering when they noticed the person they were staring at has stopped walking.
The air stilled. And slowly, the figure turned in their direction.
Zanka Nijiku.
The third son of the Nijiku family, the youngest and the only one amongst his siblings to have been presented as an omega. The Nijiku name is synonymous with elegance, and Zanka embodied it effortlessly. From the straightness of his posture to the unhurried way he walks, speaks, even breathes. Everything about him carried a quiet refinement.
Yet what caught most people first was his beauty.
Unlike his siblings, who favored their father, Zanka had inherited their late mother’s features. Smooth, pale skin unmarred by scars. Gentle eyes framed by naturally long lashes. Ashy hair kept immaculate, soft enough to look like it would slip through one’s fingers. His scent was wonderful too. Reminding others of freshly laundered sheets, still warm from the sun. It has a calming effect on the people around him, but Zanka always said it’s because of his secondary gender.
Paired with his composed demeanor, it was enough to make anyone stop in their tracks.
And then there were his eyes.
A clear, striking blue— soft, yet arresting. The kind that invited attention without demanding it, drawing people in the longer they lingered. They often held warmth, sometimes curiosity. Those same eyes were now fixed on the two gardeners.
Zanka regarded them for a brief moment before offering a small smile.
“Thank you for your hard work.”
Startled by this, both workers could only stutter out a synchronized, “Of course!” before quickly turning back to their tasks, shears snipping leaves far more aggressively than necessary as they whispered under their breaths.
“He’s a goddess…”
“So beautiful…”
Zanka paid them no mind.
He crouched beside a small bush, attention settling elsewhere. Nestled among the leaves were the flowers he had been tending to for almost three years— peonies.
Carefully, he cupped one bloom, a faint smile tugging at his lips. They were growing well.
It was also thanks to the maids who tended to them, listening to Zanka diligently and exactly following through his plans as he had instructed that it worked. He remembered the countless night spent researching, pouring over books and notes until his eyes ached. Learning how to cultivate the perfect soil, carefully mapping out schedules for the maids on when to water them and when to check on them, even checking the pH levels himself whenever he was permitted outside.
All of it, just for this.
Zanka felt his chest grow lighter at the sight of the results. The effort had paid off. He should thank the maids properly for their help.
Send them and their families out to a resort island, maybe? Sounds nice…
Lost in his own thoughts, he failed to notice the footsteps approaching from behind.
“Zanka.”
Zanka casted his gaze away to where the sound was, the calm in his expression shifting only slightly. “…Nee-san.”
As he stood, he brushed the dirt from his kimono, deliberately avoiding her gaze. Only then did he notice Goka behind her, arms crossed.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Goka said. “You know how weak you are.”
Ouch.
“And what are we supposed to do if you suddenly pass out during the marriage interview?”
That made Zanka perk up, brows furrowed.
“What marriage interview?” Zanka asked, finally looking at Kyouka.
Kyouka herself looked confused, only showing it by the slight twitch in her eyebrows. “Did father not tell you? it was from Hatano-sama.”
Some of the tension eased from Zanka’s shoulders, though the unease remained. “..Father turned down the marriage proposal.”
Both of his siblings paused.
They exchanged a look, surprise flashing plainly across their faces. And Zanka had to bite back a smirk at the sight— but it didn’t last. Their expressions darkened quickly, disappointment settling in its place.
Kyouka sighed.
“How long are you going to keep this up, Zanka?” His name was uttered with disgust, like it was something blasphemous just to even think about.
Her gaze shifted to the flowers. Zanka took a step, subconsciously trying to shield them away from her eyes.
“Those flowers. You grew them for father?”
Zanka gripped his kimono. Although it sounded like a question, he knew it was anything but that. Still, he felt it in himself to nod.
“Foolish acts like this is why father is soft on you.” Kyouka scowled, “Just because you are father’s favorite doesn’t mean you can keep hiding behind pretty little gestures.”
The omega’s shoulders stiffened.
“You are of age,” she continued, voice sharpening. “Yet you linger here, playing gardener while the rest of us carry the family’s responsibilities. Do you think the world will indulge you forever?”
Goka clicked his tongue. “You’re an embarrassment,” he added flatly. “Weak body, weak will. No wonder why father keeps on shielding you.”
“An omega like you should at least understand their role,” Kyouka said.
It took everything in Zanka not to turn his head away from them. Their scents bled into the air— wilted flowers left too long in water, with something sour and rotten beneath it. Rotten eggs? Maybe. His inner omega recoiled instinctively, hackles rising despite himself.
“If you can’t be useful, then the least you could do is be compliant.”
The air went still.
Ah…
If there was anything that Zanka truly hates in this world it would be stupid traditional values like that. Omegas being weak? Give him a break. Zanka had heard that word all his life—omega—always paired with expectations he had never agreed to. Be quiet, be small. As if weakness were something written into his blood rather than imposed by people who needed it to be true.
Stupid. How utterly stupid.
For a moment, Zanka said nothing. He simply loosened his grip on his kimono, exhaling slowly— like he was steadying himself after a mild inconvenience before smiling at them.
“If being an omega excuses me from becoming like you, then I’m grateful for it.”
Wohoo! I said it!
Kyouka’s eyes narrowed. Now it was her turn to say nothing. Only staring at him, lips pressed together into a thin line. The two scents that mingled in the air almost made Zanka drop to this knees, so he tried to stop inhaling as much air as possible.
Kyouka’s glare lingered. “…Enjoy your delusions while you can,” she said at last, voice low. “Father won’t be here forever.”
She turned away before Zanka could reply, sleeves snapping softly as she walked past him. Goka followed without a word.
Only then did Zanka exhale.
It took him a few minutes to steady himself, his hand drifting to his chest, patting gently as he focused on calming his breathing and his scent. The faint tremor beneath his ribs slowly eased before he feels sharp eyes on him. Zanka looked up towards the second-floor windows. His siblings were there, speaking with someone else.
It was their stepmother.
But her gaze was set on Zanka, eyes filled with distain.
Heat flared in Zanka’s chest.
Seriously, he could feel himself overheat with anger. Is that even a thing? he doesn’t know. If it wasn’t, then he would be the first one in history to faint from feeling anger. His scent—from warm blankets to damp ones— just soured more, making him even more annoyed.
Father married a new woman after mother’s death. But ever since she was added to the family, it just felt like my life has turned into the worst. Now that I didn’t have to fully worry about my health 24/7, I’ve found myself having to worry about both my siblings and stepmother basically bullying me! Have they forgotten that this was MY house too?
Thoughts jumbled in his head, feet moving before he fully realized it. By the time he stopped, he was standing in front of a familiar door. Looking down at the cherry blossom designed door had Zanka sighing, trying to calm himself down before sliding it open, greeted by the sight of a familiar back.
My only ally in this damned family…
Before he could say anything, the person turned around, gruff voice filling the empty room.
“Did you and Kyouka fight again?”
Zanka felt himself relax, shoulder slumping as a small smile crept onto his face.
“Father,” he greeted.
He crossed the room to where his father sat, sitting down next to him in a seiza position. The faint smell of tobacco lingered through the air, Zanka watched as a trail of smoke came out of his father’s kiseru. “Who told you that? news surely does spread quickly.”
“I could tell,” His father chuckled. “It’s been a week since your last fight with her, I would’ve been surprised if you came here for something else.”
Zanka pouted. “We were not fighting. She was getting annoying and I merely responded.” he paused. “Like how humans would normally converse.”
“Oh, Zanka,” his father laughed softly.
The sound alone warmed him.
“You’ve grown into quite the spoiled child, haven’t you?” the man said, his tone was fond and affectionate.
Zanka grinned at that, the tightness in his chest easing just a little. Moments like this were rare comforts he held onto.
“…Zanka,” his father continued, the shift in his tone was subtle but unmistakable, like he was treading on ice. “Another marriage proposal has come for you.” Zanka stayed silent, allowing his father to continue.
“It’s the son of an old friend,” the man explained. “A good man. There’s nothing about him to criticize.” His eyes softened at Zanka. “Could you try and meet him?”
“Have you told them about my condition?” Zanka asked quietly.
“…No.” His father admitted.
Zanka’s smile turned faint and brittle. “Because they wouldn’t want to meet me if they knew,”
“I don’t want to deceive them, though.” he added after a moment.
With this body of mine…
Silence hung the air.
Finally, his father spoke. “Zanka, you will need both wealth and power in order to receive adequate medical care and have a happy life.”
He didn’t say it outright, but Zanka understood.
So the past won’t repeat itself.
“An old man like me can’t protect you forever,” his father continued gently. “I know I’ve been persistent about these proposals. Perhaps it annoys you.” He smiled softly. “But I only want you to be happy, my son.”
Zanka had spent his entire life relying on his father.
There had never really been a choice.
Growing up sick meant learning limits before he even understood what they were. While other children his age ran barefoot through courtyards, chasing one another until their laughter rang against the walls, Zanka watched from behind paper screens and open windows. He had wanted to join them, desperately so.
But every time he tried, it ended the same way. A fever. Weak knees. His father’s worried voice calling his name as he was carried back inside. Eventually, the invitations stopped coming. Everyone knew Zanka was fragile. Everyone knew better than to let him overexert himself.
So, he learned to stay still.
If his body would not cooperate, then his mind would. He buried himself in books while the seasons passed outside his window. History, literature, mathematics— anything to keep his thoughts from drifting toward what he could not have. When studying was no longer enough, he turned to the arts. Instruments that did not require him to stand for long periods. Etiquette that taught him how to sit properly, speak gently, and smile at the right moments. It slowly became second nature to him.
Being an omega was already a lot— but a male omega? According to the news, there were fewer than fifty left in the world. A number spoken with fascination, pity, or quiet disdain depending on who told it. How rare can that even be? Zanka had once thought. And yet here he was. Make that list fifty-one, world.
He was lucky. He knew that. These past few years had been kinder than his early childhood ever was. His health had stabilized and his days were no longer spent entirely in bed. His family had put in all the expense, effort, and care when it came to him.
For that, he was endlessly grateful. And because of that gratitude, he had made himself a promise; to never become a burden.
If he could not run, then he would be useful. If he could not fight, then he would be refined. If he could not live freely, then he would live correctly. Every lesson, every quiet hour spent indoors, was done with that vow in mind. All of it to fulfill his father’s single wish.
To get married and to be happy.
But even so, Zanka hesitated.
Why do I even need to get married? And even if I do, will there really be someone out there who would love me unconditionally?
…
“With the Nijiku family’s honor,” his father continued, snapping Zanka out from his thoughts. “And your good looks— which heaven bestowed upon us, we’ve received many marriage proposals. So I’m sure you will meet someone who will love you and protect you.”
Zanka’s fingers curled into the fabric of his kimono.
“…Please let me think about it.” he murmured, gaze lowered.
“I’m sorry,” his father said. “Perhaps I’m not considering your feelings enough.”
Zanka’s head snapped up, shaking quickly.
“No—no, you are,” he said at once, standing abruptly. “You’re completely right.” Zanka paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “By the way, Father… could I go into town for a little while?”
“To town?” his father echoed, brows lifting slightly. “For what reason?”
Zanka scratched the back of his neck, eyes sliding away in a way that was far too practiced. “Er… just because.”
“Hmm.” His father hummed, fingers coming up to rub his chin. “How are you feeling today? Does anything hurt?”
“I’m fine!” Zanka answered quickly, almost too quickly. “These past few weeks I’ve done nothing but rest. I swear.”
His father gave him a look. “Didn’t you only just recover from the flu last week? You should just stay home.”
“Last week!” Zanka protested, holding up his fingers as if counting the days would help his case. “Seven whole days, Father. Please? Besides, Follo will be coming with me.”
That earned a soft laugh.
“…Alright, alright. Very well.” His father let out a sigh, already conceding defeat. “Just don’t overdo it. Come home as soon as you’ve finished your errands.”
Zanka’s face lit up instantly. “I will!”
──────── ──────── ──────── ────────
The streets were alive.
Every time Zanka set foot in town, it felt the same, overwhelming in the best way. Voices layered over one another, laughter spilling freely through the air as merchants called out to passersby. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with incense and street food, warm and inviting. People moved everywhere— children darting between stalls, couples strolling hand in hand, travelers haggling loudly with shopkeepers. Life unfolded openly here, it felt so free.
Zanka could never grow tired of it. He doubted he ever would.
“Who would’ve thought Father would actually let me come to town,” Zanka said with a grin, turning to the person walking beside him. “Right, Follo?”
Follo, ever steady at his side, allowed himself a small smile. “Right.”
They came to a stop in front of a shop tucked between two busier stalls. Its shelves were lined with vases of every shape and size— tall porcelain pieces painted with delicate patterns, sturdy clay ones stacked near the entrance. Towards the back, half-hidden behind a hanging curtain, Zanka could spot pots and buckets piled neatly together.
“This place is fine,” Zanka said, glancing around. “Can I stay around here?”
Follo considered the surroundings before nodding. “Alright. I’ll return once I’ve finished my task.”
He paused, gaze sharpening slightly. “Please don’t wander.”
“I won’t,” Zanka promised, shaking his head.
“And avoid the sun,” The beta added, already slipping into habit. “Conserve your strength as much as possible. If you feel unwell, tell me immediately— I’ll carry you home.”
“There’s really no need for that,” Zanka said quickly, heat rushing to his face. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
Follo’s expression softened at the sight.
“Just doing my job,” he said gently. “Don’t push yourself, alright?”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the flow of the crowd, leaving Zanka standing among polished ceramics and the hum of passing voices.
“He really is a worrywart,” Zanka murmured to himself.
…Well, whatever.
His attention drifted back to the shelves.
Rows of vases gleamed under the shop’s light. One slender piece, painted with falling cherry blossoms, caught his eye. It reminded him of the door to his father’s room. Pretty, but no. The peonies were far too vibrant for something like that. He shifted his gaze to the vase beside it, its color soft and muted.
That would suit them better.
And yet, the image of the peonies unbidden in his mind. Plucking them felt wrong. They had grown with care and patience. To take them now—only to watch them wilt—made his chest ache. Maybe he could show them to Father instead, now that wouldn’t be so bad.
It wouldn’t be a gift, exactly. But at least they wouldn’t be left to die.
Father…
The thought pulled him further inward, remembering his father’s wish.
To get married…that would mean marrying someone who would accept him for who he is. Someone his father would acknowledge.
“That sounds nice,” Zanka found himself whispering.
Suddenly, the light vanished. At first, Zanka thought it was a passing cloud. But something felt off, his gut instincts were basically telling him to move. Now that he thinks about it, why was the shop so empty?
He turned.
Three figures were already looming over him, far too close, far too large.
“Who—?”
Before Zanka could finish his sentence, something struck the back of his head. Darkness swallowed his vision whole.
──────── ──────── ──────── ────────
His head throbbed.
Sound came first— dull, distant, like it was being forced through water. A high ringing filled his ears as consciousness dragged him back, inch by agonizing inch. His mouth felt dry. When he tried to open his eyes, darkness greeted him.
“…Is this him?”
Zanka jolted.
Pain flared through his skull as he lifted his head too quickly, breath hitching when the realization set in. The room he’s in was dim, shapes barely visible beyond wooden bars. Figures stood on the other side— five, maybe more.
He tried to move.
Nothing.
His wrists were bound tightly behind his back, rope biting into skin. Panic surged as he attempted to speak, only to be met with resistance— a gag knotted cruelly at the back of his neck, fabric damp against his mouth.
No—
His breathing grew shallow.
Is this really happening? How far am I from home? Is Follo safe? Am I—
Light exploded into the room.
Zanka recoiled with a sharp hiss, eyes squeezing shut as pain stabbed behind them. White flooded his vision, leaving spots dancing wildly as his heart pounded against his ribs.
“Oh, he surely is a beautiful one,” a voice drawled. “Ain’t that a waste?”
Zanka forced his eyes open, vision blurring as it adjusted. A man stood before him, leaning casually against the bars. The man was clearly older, mid-forties, maybe? He had a ponytail and a rough stubble that decorated his chin.
His gaze crawled over Zanka like hands.
The man straightened. “Where’s Wonger?”
“He just came back,” another voice replied lazily. A bald man gestured toward the door. “Look.”
Footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate. Zanka’s eyes flicked toward the sound and froze.
Blood.
It was everywhere on this man.
Dark stains soaked into the man’s yukata, splattered and smeared like some grotesque pattern. It clung to his sleeves, his chest, his hands. The iron scent reached Zanka even from behind the bars, nauseating. Strapped at the man’s waist was a katana, its sheath stained near the edge. Zanka’s gaze lifted, trembling, from the weapon and up. Trying to see the man’s face even just a little. He gasped.
The man was already staring at him.
If Kyouka’s eyes were sharp, these were merciless. It was cold, empty. Blood streaked his face, dried and fresh mingling together, his expression utterly unreadable.
Zanka’s breath caught, feeling his body go cold.
What the hell.
“Hey— go rinse that blood off outside. You’re filthy,” the man with the ponytail said, nose wrinkling. He paused before adding casually, “…Did you finish it?”
The bloodied man nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Didn’t even put up a fight.”
A bark of laughter followed. “Hah! We couldn’t kill the bastard for days and you finished the job in one?” The other man shook his head. “They weren’t lying when they called you a legend.”
Zanka felt something inside him drop as soon as the man’s gaze shifted on him again. It felt like the floor had vanished beneath his feet.
“I wasn’t expecting to be giving you another job so early but here we are,” the ponytailed man continued lightly, pointing at Zanka. “Kill him.”
The words barely registered.
Die? Just like that?
His chest constricted, breath stuttering against the gag.
“Client said not to kill him right away,” another voice cut in. “Keep an eye on him.”
A pause.
“Oh yeah… you can do it by nine,” the ponytailed man added as he turned away. “Shame. An omega like that would sell well.” He shrugged. “Whatever. The client paid enough. Do it clean and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”
Zanka’s eyes trembled as they lifted to the figure staring back at him. Wonger. Zanka reminded himself.
Blood still clung to him, dark and tacky. He didn’t move nor did he blink, just stared through the bars at Zanka.
“Got it,” Wonger said.
“Alright,” the man with the ponytail clapped his hands sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. “I know you idiots can’t afford a prostitute,” he barked, “But don’t you dare touch this one.” his eyes flicked towards Zanka for one last time. “This guy will carve you into pieces if you do.”
A few men scoffed, but no one argued. They soon filed out of the room, laughter echoing down the corridor, leaving Zanka alone with the bloodied man.
Wonger was seated across from him now, a shallow basin resting in front of him.
When did he even get that?
Zanka watched, heart pounding, as the man scooped water and splashed it over his face. Blood washed away in dark rivulets, staining the floor before disappearing into the cracks. Again and again, until his skin was clean.
Zanka took the moment to truly look at him.
His hair was long, longer than anything Zanka was accustomed to seeing, tied and styled in a way that felt foreign. It reminded him of a guest his father had once entertained, someone from far away, though the difference is that this man’s hair fell even farther down his back. He wore a yukata, though it hung loose and ill-fitting on him, as if it had been taken out of necessity rather than care. Zanka’s gaze drifted to the katana resting casually against the wall. It was placed close enough to be reached in a heartbeat should anything go wrong. This guy’s really the big deal, huh?
Scratch that, this guy absolutely reeks.
It wasn’t just blood— though that alone was suffocating enough, clinging to the air and to the man himself. Beneath it was something stronger, flooding the room without restraint. An alpha’s scent. It pressed against Zanka’s senses like a physical weight, crawling under his skin and making his stomach churn.
An alpha, Zanka thought bitterly. Of course he is.
Wonger glanced up, only then did he seem to realize Zanka had been staring.
He smiled.
From within his sleeve, he produced a dirty banana leaf wrapping and unfolded it. Two onigiris rested inside, though it lacked its usual nori wrapping. He looked back at Zanka.
“Want one?”
Zanka shook his head immediately.
Wonger shrugged and bit into one without comment.
Silence stretched. The sound of chewing felt far too loud in the small space. Zanka’s wrists ached behind his back; his breathing felt shallow. When Wonger finished, he licked his thumb, then smiled again. It still didn’t reach his eyes.
“So,” he said mildly, “What’d ya do to earn a death sentence?”
Zanka glared at him.
If I weren’t gagged, I’d answer, you lunatic.
It was like the alpha could understand Zanka’s thoughts because he finally stood and reached into his obi, a key dangling from his hands.
The door creaked open. In the next instant, he was right in front of Zanka.
Too fast. Before Zanka could recoil, arms closed around his head. His breath hitched— then the pressure at his mouth disappeared as the gag was loosened and dropped.
Air rushed in violently. Zanka gasped, lungs burning as he dragged in breath after breath.
“Well,” Wonger said lightly, smiling down at him, “Aren’t you a pretty one? Pale as a ghost, though.”
Zanka swallowed hard, eyes locked onto his.
There was nothing in there. No curiosity. No malice. No pity. Just pure emptiness. Is he even human?
Zanka hated it.
“So?” Wonger prompted.
“I—!” Zanka shook his head quickly, “I didn’t do anything. I swear. There’s been a misunderstanding— please. Can you help me get out of here?”
The bloodied man straightened. “I can’t,” he said simply. “I was hired to kill you. Not free you.”
Zanka’s heart sank.
“…What time is it?” Zanka asks, Wonger was already turning away.
“Dunno.”
His back was to Zanka now. Who knows if nine pm could be soon? What if it was a few minutes away? Every footstep away made Zanka more desperate.
“Please,” Zanka said, voice breaking despite himself. “Is there any way you could help me?”
Wonger finally stopped by the door, head tilting in thought. “Maybee..” he hummed before finally looking back at Zanka. “If you can pay me more than they are, I’ll switch sides.”
Hope flared briefly. He wants money? Sure! He can give him that!
“Okay,” Zanka said quickly. “I don’t have the money on me, but I can pay you when I get home. I promise—”
“I can’t trust that,” the alpha replied smoothly. “Your kimono looks like it wouldn’t even fetch half of what I’m being paid.” He shook his head. “So no.”
“Hah..?” This guy can’t be serious.
“I’m serious. I don’t negotiate without payment.”
”But—“
Footsteps approached with laughter accompanying it. It was the sound of men returning, sending a chill straight down Zanka’s spine.
The door was scraped open. Zanka could only take one last look at Wonger, who had an expression that only screamed choose wisely before being blocked by the newcomers.
“Give me the key, kid!” one of them said to Wonger, grabbing the tiny key aggressively.
Three figures stepped inside, their shadows stretching long and crooked across the stone floor, swallowing Zanka where he sat. The air thickened instantly and literally. Zanka could smell sweat, alcohol, something sour and hungry. Zanka’s pulse were roaring in his ears as he shrank back on instinct, shoulders pressing uselessly against the wall.
“Try to be quiet, okay?” One of the men said softly, almost kindly, as if offering advice.
Zanka understood it a second too late.
Hands grabbed at him roughly and his breath punched out of his lungs as his back hit the floor. Panic surged, hot and blinding. No. No, no, no—
He thrashed.
His legs kicked wildly, heel connecting with someone’s shin hard enough to earn a sharp curse. Fingers dug into his arms, trying to restrain him, and Zanka turned his head and bit down hard. The taste of blood filled his mouth as a man yelped, recoiling.
“Fucker—!”
“Hold him still!”
Zanka screamed, the sound tearing out of his throat as his body fought on instinct alone. He kicked again, nails scratching uselessly at skin and cloth, every movement desperate and unrefined. He wasn’t strong enough. He knew it. But he refused—refused—to stop.
Another blow came, knocking the air from his chest.
That made Zanka stop for a few seconds, but those few seconds were enough for the men. Someone pinned his legs, another pressed his shoulders down. His arms were wrenched above his head, wrists trapped against the floor. No matter how much he twisted, how much he struggled, he couldn’t move.
He couldn’t breathe.
The room spun, noise fading into a dull roar as his vision blurred. Above him, the ceiling came into focus— cracked wood, unfamiliar stains. It felt distant. Everything did.
Is this it?
Will I really die here?
The thought came quietly, terrifyingly calm.
Is this how I would lose my chastity?
Even if I do make it back alive, I doubt someone would want to marry me..
I’m sorry father..I wasn’t able to fulfill your wish..
Zanka could feel the back of his eyes start to burn.
I was born for nothing.
His body went still, not because he wanted it to but because it had nothing left. His chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, soaking into his hair.
A shadow suddenly fell over his vision, face appearing upside down in his line of sight. They were smiling?
Zanka’s breath hitched.
It was Wonger.
His expression was relaxed, almost cheerful, eyes glinting with something sharp and unreadable.
“Yoo..” He said lightly, voice cutting cleanly through the chaos. “Listen.”
The hands on Zanka paused.
“I was told to cut off anyone who touches him,” Wonger continued, tilting his head slightly— why did he look bashful? “So…can I?”
One of the bigger men scoffed. “Will you shut up?! Don’t get cocky just because people call you a legend,” he barked. “I dare you to try! I’ll have you know I’ve killed more than ten peo—”
A small thud interrupted him.
Not because of the sound. But because his arm was no longer attached to his body.
The scream that followed was immediate. Another man tried to stand, panic flashing across his face, mouth opening as if to beg. He barely made it halfway up before Wonger set his eyes on him.
Something struck the floor beside Zanka with a wet, hollow thud.
For a heartbeat, Zanka didn’t understand what he was looking at.
Then the smell hit him.
Blood—thick and metallic—spilled across the floorboards, soaking into the cracks.
A leg.
A severed leg laid twisted at an impossible angle, toes still curled, sandal clinging uselessly to it. The scream came a moment later, raw and animal, tearing through the room as the man collapsed back down, clutching at nothing.
“W-wait—!” another gasped, scrambling away on his hands, eyes wide with terror. His arm stretched out toward Wonger, shaking violently. “We haven’t even done anything—!”
“I’ll cut a limb for every time you touch him,” Wonger said pleasantly. His katana tilted in his grip, blade darkened with fresh blood, catching the dim light as if it were nothing more than a decoration. His smile didn’t waver, if anything, it softened, almost indulgent.
The room dissolved into chaos.
Men screamed. Someone retched. Bodies dragged themselves backward, leaving streaks of red across the floor as panic overtook pain. The air was thick with iron and fear, every breath Zanka took burning his lungs. Their scents were just too much.
Another man tried to fight back, keyword: tried, because both his hands were immediately sliced off by Wonger’s katana. The cut was too precise and smooth, like it was drilled into the man’s head from a young age.
Zanka went still. His body refused to move, locked in place as his eyes traced the scene— the writhing men, the blood pooling at his knees, the way Wonger stood above it all without a hint of urgency.
He never hesitated, not even for once.
.
.
.
This man would kill a person without blinking.
That realization made Zanka shudder.
Zanka’s thoughts scattered, fear clawing up his throat, threatening to swallow him whole. One wrong word. One wrong movement. One misplaced breath and he would be nothing more than another stain on the floor. Just a corpse in a cold jail cell.
No.
He couldn’t let that happen. He can’t just die here.
He needs to live.
If strength wouldn’t save him, then worth might.
Zanka swallowed hard, heart pounding as a single, desperate thought cut through the terror.
He needed to make himself valuable.
Anything. Anything at all. What do I have? What’s my worth?
Zanka bit down on his lip, hard enough to sting, grounding himself as his thoughts spiraled. His chest ached with the effort of breathing through the stench of blood, through the screams still ringing in his ears. Then, his father’s voice surfaced in his mind. Calm and ever so proud.
‘With the Nijiku family’s honor and your good looks which heaven bestowed upon us, we’ve received many marriage proposals. So I’m sure you will meet someone who will love you and protect you.’
Nijiku family.
Honor.
The words settled like a weight, and then, like an anchor. His heart steadied.
Bingo.
Zanka forced himself to inhale, to straighten his back despite the fear trembling through his limbs. He probably looked disheveled right now, kimono sliding off his shoulders with his hair tousled and pointing at different directions. But he couldn’t care. This was his only moment.
Zanka lifted his head, fixing his gaze anywhere but on the blood pooling at his knees. “Hey,” he said, voice trembling but clear.
Wonger’s eyes flicked to him.
“I swear I’m worth something.” Zanka’s fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into skin. “You can have everything…”
He swallowed, throat tight.
“…if you have me.”
The room fell silent.
Even the men on the floor seemed to freeze.
Zanka drew in one last breath, heart pounding so hard he thought it might give him away—
“Let’s get married.”