Chapter Text
Naoya had been raised proper, according to Zen’in standards. From the moment he was old enough to understand, the lessons had begun, informing him just what exactly came with holding the family name. It was tradition to learn the history; each and every name that held meaning in their lineage. By the time he was five years old, Naoya could recite each and every one of them, and list at least three of their accomplishments.
It was his duty, after all. As his father’s only son to inherit the renowned projection sorcery cursed technique, he was expected to maintain a picture of perfection. That meant he had to know of those who came before him, to learn from them, and to apply it to his present self.
Included in this premise was the Zen’in family tradition of selecting a relic. In the family’s cursed tool vault stood a collection of ancient items, passed down from generation to generation. The most recognizable were easily from the Heian Era - others from centuries before. Each one related to a prominent figure of the past, someone who had turned into a deity of sorts. And a binding vow - decreed between the oldest known Zen’in and an ancient, long-forgotten god - stated that blood descendants could use a relic to call upon its linked deity.
It was one of the few things Naoya looked forward to upon turning 18. As family tradition stated, upon becoming of age, he would be allowed to enter the Hall of Relics in the cursed tool vault, and he would select a relic of his own. Once he had it, he could attempt to make contact with the deity it once belonged to. And so, there he stood, the light from the sconces on the wall casting a flickering glow upon his face. Behind him, his shadow glitched in the light of the few flames.
As he stepped further into the room, the door was closed behind him, and he looked around him. In this small, sectioned-off hall of the vault, he noted there were way less relics than he expected, based on the tales of his childhood. His standards included a massive room filled to the brim with items of varying quality. Gold chalices and silver jewelry, all embedded with jewels and shining like the treasures he had come to know.
But the room he stood in was small, and there couldn’t have even been twenty objects inside it. Naoya found himself scoffing involuntarily. “Tch. Pathetic.”
Regardless, tradition said he couldn’t leave the room until he picked something, so he began moseying around. He grabbed a cup off the stone floor, turning it over in his grip, but it didn’t give off any cursed energy, and he tossed it to the ground carelessly. Next was a silver wrist band, worn by a warrior centuries ago, but it was dull and faded, and he flicked it out of his hands. As he reached for a gauntlet, the most interesting looking thing in the room, he paused, the flickering light catching on something in his peripheral.
Behind a scattered pile of relics, pressed into the crack where the wall met the floor, was a thin, long object. Retracting his hand from where it reached for the metal glove, Naoya turned towards the new object of his attention and picked it up. Upon further inspection, he could see it was a plain, black fountain pen, but with features that made it unique. The back end had a trim, gold jutting up into the familiar shape of a crown, each peak adorning a tiny jewel, or the space for one. The tip, where the ink would flow to paper, was flat, sharp, and long, resembling a sword’s blade.
Naoya tilted his head at it, wondering how something so minuscule could sit among such expensive and dangerous items. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t look away from it, something about the object pulling him in. Zen’ins don’t second guess themselves, he thought, and promptly straightened himself out.
With the dull thud of his hand on the door, it opened, his family nodding in approval at having made a quick decision. After a quick identification, a rather short scroll was handed to him. It contained all the known information about the object he had picked - who it belonged to, what they did, and why they were important.
Retreating to his bed chambers, Naoya was stripped, bathed, and changed into fresh clothes, and only then, when he was by himself and lounging on his bed, did he open the scroll. At the top of it, the heading read Soldier, Poet, King in intricate calligraphy. Beneath it was a brief description of a rumor from pre-Heian times. Three siblings, each one having taken a different route in life, and only referred to by one of the three monikers.
The Soldiers didn’t wish to rule, nor did they wish to entertain or appease. They wanted to protect their family and the kingdom, pledging their life to the cause above all else. They admired strong morals and priorities, and values those who were willing to do whatever it took to preserve what was precious. The Poet was a keeper of memories, of words. They wrote day and night, capturing thoughts and feelings on paper in ways no one could dream of articulating. They sought those with a strong mind, with intelligence behind compare and the guts to use their brain effectively. The King was the most finicky of them all. They were a ruler as fair as they were mad, demanding respect whilst wielding power to shape the world. This one has the shortest passage, but one sentence has been undermined: always bow to the king.
They had several names and titles over the years, ranging from whimsical ones like Golden General and Crown of Three, to more cryptic ones like Atlas and Sovereign. But the most commonly used one was Triarch - it was powerful and political. Naoya read the scroll multiple times before scowling. Of course, he picked a relic whose deity had multiple personas - it meant more studying and work for him to do, despite the limited information.
But he was a Zen’in, the future heir set to inherit the clan, and he’d be damned if he backed down from a challenge, so he worked. He read the scroll multiple times, he visited the clan library and searched for any information he could find, he asked the elders for any passed down scraps they could recall.
When he hit a stagnant in his research, a blaring sign that he had learned all there was to know, he tried to contact the deity. He sat in the gardens, legs folded beneath him as an incense burned on the stone slab in the grass. It sat in front of him, cedar smoke drifting up and into the air around him. Beside the burning stick sat the relic, the current occupant of his glare.
Jinichi has teased him earlier in the day, about how little Naoya had picked a stupid relic. He had babbled nonsense about how the men in the Zen’in family were supposed to be strong and powerful. And here he was, with his freshly dyed hair and dangly earring, picking a pen from the vault. He still didn’t know what exactly compelled him to pick the damn thing. The tip of the pen was dull and no longer sharp, and the crown embellishment was missing half the gemstones. The shaft of it itself was scratched and worn from past use. It was, visually, a piece of crap.
But he couldn't bring himself to part with it. Sure, he bet if he begged his father enough, he’d be allowed back into the vault and could pick a replacement relic. He’d grab that gauntlet he’d been eying, the deity for it probably a knight from eons ago with valuable combat experience. But something about the pen called to him, and he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it.
With a deep breath in and out, Naoya reached forward and picked up the pen. Focusing all his attention, he allowed his cursed energy to pour into the object, searching for a thread of history to grasp, like the elders said he would find. He sat like that for nearly an hour, until his patience was wearing thin. With a harsh sigh, he moved to put the pen down. As it hit the stone, just before his fingers released it, he felt it. A tug, of sorts, pulling on him instead of the other way around.
Before he could process the sensation, he was tipping forward, like he was falling into a lake. Cursed energy washed over him in dizzying amounts as he tumbled through nothingness. And then, as quick as it started, it stopped, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
Darkness surrounded him, and he couldn’t see the ground his hands and knees were planted on. There was no texture to the surface, just a solidness that supported him like any other ground.
“State your name.”
A voice spoke, both androgynous and unidentifiable by any means; but clear as day, it rumbled through the space. Naoya’s head snapped up at the sound, brown eyes taking in the sight before him.
A throne sat before him, doused in light coming from no clear source. It seemed to pour down from the ether above, casting the intricately designed chair in a warm glow. It had plush, red velvet cushions and gold painted arm rests, carved with delicate patterns. Next to the chair stood a knight, covered from head to toe with armor, a red cape draping from their shoulders and a sword at their hip. The helmet was closed to hide your face, but Naoya could feel your stare on him.
This was the soldier, he recognized, the knight who protected the throne.
Naoya was in complete awe, now staring at the figure in front of him. Pure, untethered cursed energy oozed off of you, a power so strong it was nearly suffocating. He realized instantly that this deity could kill him before he could even think of landing an attack - not that he was stupid enough to do such a thing.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Naoya pushed his hands off the ground and straightened up on his knees. He projected his voice as smooth and firm as he could.
“Zen’in Naoya.”
“State your business.”
His brow twitched. Shouldn’t this deity know that their relic connected their spirit to the living word? Connecting with them, forging a bond, that was his business. “Connecting with my relic’s deity, as my clan tradition demands.”
Naoya watched as you tilted your head. Then, Naoya blinked, and the knight was gone. On the other side of the throne stood a new figure in traditional robes, a fox mask hiding your face. A short stack of books was in your arms, held tightly to your chest. The poet, Naoya spoke internally.
You spoke aloud, “Zen’in Naoya. You possess the projection sorcery technique.”
It was spoken more as a statement than a question, but Naoya nodded anyway. “Yes.”
You, as the poet, let out a soft hum. “I presume you understand what exactly is required of you to, how’d you put it? Connect with your deity.”
Naoya’s face twisted in confusion, because no, he didn’t exactly understand. From the wisdom his relatives imparted on him, he had assumed that a sort of binding vow took place. He would offer something to the deity in exchange for a fraction of their power or wisdom. Something along those lines.
Growing up as a Zen’in, the projection sorcerer had been spoiled and placated his whole life. He had also been trained immensely hard, and he knew his strength. No one dared to defy or diminish him. No one dared to place themselves above him. But this deity, by natural law, was leagues above him. And that fact, which he was too keenly aware of, made him nervous for the first time in his life. Now that he thought about it deeper, what could he possibly offer a god?
He internally cursed how his voice trembled as he spoke, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
He blinked and the poet was gone. Now, sitting directly in front of him on the throne, was the king. Dressed in stark white robes and a red sash of crimson, with a cape of what looked like bear fur draped across your shoulders, elegantly flowing around you. Your legs were crossed as you propped an elbow on the armrest, holding your head in your hand. You stared at him with a lazy sort of judgement, but oozed confidence and regality, and that same debilitating power. Once again Naoya was star-struck, staring at you like a child gazing up at the moon for the first time.
The king’s face didn't have a helmet or mask like the other two, but it was partially obscured, shadows falling just over the top half of their face. The eyes and nose were hidden, but Naoya could see the dangerous smirk on your face.
“Worship.”
The word, spoken with an odd mix of classical cruelty and something close to endearment, snapped him out of his daze. The phrase from the scroll echoed in his mind - always bow to the king - and Naoya folded over instantly, head hung deep in a show of respect.
Your king form chuckled, sparkling gaze heavy on the eighteen year old in front of them. “What an adorable little thing you are.”
Naoya flinched at the statement, abhorred at the fact that he was being viewed as lesser than. But for as arrogant he was, he was also intelligent, and he knew better than to argue with a deity.
“Rise, Zen’in.” The soldier’s voice commanded, and Naoya looked up to see the knight had returned. Quickly, the brown eyed boy stood to his feet, gaze darting around as if unsure of where to look.
"Gods don't offer their services to those who are ungrateful." The poet spoke, now having appeared instead. It was hard to make out in the shadows, but Naoya caught the small smile you offered. "Plants only give us the air we breath because we give them what's necessary to make it." You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes, "But watering them, nurturing them, allows them to grow into something even greater."
Suddenly, the darkness surrounding Naoya gave out to a blinding light, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it. When it finally subdued, he was back in the garden, still kneeling in the grass, the pen sitting on the stone.
The incense had burned into a small pile of ash.