Naming

A full month had passed since the birth of the Zenin Clan's legitimate son. For one of Jujutsu Society's Three Great Families, those thirty days should have been an occasion for lavish celebration, yet the infant's unnatural composure had lent the event an indefinable strangeness.

Since the day of his birth, the servants had reported the boy's condition to Naobito Zenin every morning at the appointed hour. Their account never varied in the slightest: "Clan head, the young master is eating normally. He finishes both his breast milk and supplementary food, sleeps soundly, and shows no abnormalities in temperature or pulse."

Only the latter half, repeated day after day, weighed ever more heavily on the listener's heart: "But since his birth, the young master has not cried once. Even when changing his diaper or bathing him causes some discomfort, he merely keeps his eyes open in silence, without the slightest fuss."

At first, Naobito Zenin had assumed the infant was simply composed by nature. The Zenin Clan's bloodline ought to be unlike that of ordinary people; not crying or fussing instead suggested a measure of self-control, so he had paid it little mind.

But hearing the same report day after day stirred his curiosity, cold and hardened though he usually was. That afternoon, he had just finished handling the clan's Jujutsu mission assignments in the council hall when the elderly servant responsible for the infant arrived as expected, bowing to deliver a report identical to those of previous days.

Naobito Zenin rubbed the Cursed Tool ornament at his waist with his fingertips. After a moment's silence, he suddenly rose, casually picked up a flask of freshly warmed sake beside the desk, and headed toward the infant's bedroom in the inner courtyard.

The flask was made of fine porcelain, smooth and warm to the touch, its surface engraved with intricate Zenin Clan crests. The sake sloshed softly inside, its faint sounds mingling with his measured footsteps, unusually clear in the quiet corridor.

He crossed the courtyard with its carved beams and painted rafters and entered the meticulously furnished bedroom. Inside, the attendants were attending to their duties: some were arranging the baby's clothes, others were wiping down the furniture, and still others were preparing a soothing medicinal decoction for the infant.

The sight of Naobito Zenin startled them all. They hurriedly set aside their work and bowed in unison, their voices scrupulously respectful. "Clan head."

Naobito Zenin did not so much as lift his eyelids. He merely waved a hand, his tone flat. "Stand up. Carry on with your work. No need to be so stiff."

The attendants straightened at his command, but none dared move as freely as before. They softened every movement, scarcely daring to breathe, let alone look directly at the man who held power over them.

Naobito Zenin walked straight toward the exquisite cradle in the center of the bedroom. Its frame was crafted from fine red sandalwood, carved with elaborate cloud patterns and the Zenin Clan's crest. The canopy was soft, pale silk that swayed gently in the breeze, lending it an air of elegance and luxury. He stopped and looked down at the tiny bundle lying within.

The infant was wrapped in a brocade quilt embroidered with muted gold patterns. He was slightly sturdier than an ordinary one-month-old, with healthy, pink-tinged skin and delicate features that seemed carved from the finest jade. Already, his brows and eyes bore a hint of Naobito Zenin's striking looks.

At that moment, he was not asleep. His eyes were open, brilliantly dark, their pupils like the finest black jade-crystal clear, yet unfathomably deep. They held none of an ordinary infant's bewilderment or confusion. He simply gazed in silence, without blinking, at his birth father leaning over him.

That gaze was far too calm, far too composed, and even carried a scrutiny utterly unsuited to his age. It gave Naobito Zenin pause, despite all he had weathered in his many years leading the Zenin Clan.

He unscrewed the flask's lid, tipped his head back, and took a long swallow of sake. The fiery liquid slid down his throat, soothing that inexplicable flicker of unease.

As the alcohol rose within him, his already arrogant expression grew more casual and swaggering.

He bent slightly, bringing his head close to the cradle until his nose nearly touched the infant's soft, warm cheek. The smell of sake mingled with his distinctive aura of cursed energy, enveloping the tiny child.

He stared into those black-jade eyes, his voice carrying a touch of teasing and an entirely matter-of-fact conceit. "Well, boy? Got a good look? Know who I am?"

Then he straightened a little and rubbed his sharply defined chin, his fingertips brushing the faint stubble along his jaw. He made no effort to conceal his self-admiration, his tone arrogant enough to sound like a proclamation. "Listen well. I'm your father, Naobito Zenin. The current head of the Zenin Clan, one of Jujutsu Society's Three Great Families, and the strongest Grade 1 Sorcerer-bar none." He deliberately stressed "bar none," his forcefulness and confidence unmistakable.

Yet faced with that imposing declaration, the little bundle in the cradle remained utterly unperturbed.

He neither cried at the sound like an ordinary infant nor showed the slightest curiosity or affection. He merely kept those ink-dark eyes open and watched his father in silence, his tiny face devoid of any other expression, as still as a deep pool.

Naobito Zenin stared at him for a long while, trying to find some sign that he had been moved-even a trace of confusion would have done-but found nothing.

Instead, as he watched, an absurd impression suddenly came over him: it was as though this brat, barely a month old, thought nothing of his impressive introduction. Deep within those clear, dark eyes, was there actually a hint of... coldness bordering on disdain?

It was almost as if he were saying, You're just the head of the Zenin Clan. What's there to brag about?

The thought made Naobito Zenin himself pause. Then he scoffed and took another swallow of sake. He must have drunk too much to entertain such a ridiculous impression about a swaddled infant.

He straightened and once again looked down at the little bundle still gazing calmly at him. A complicated light flickered in his eyes: curiosity, scrutiny, and a trace of anticipation he himself had not noticed.

"Interesting," he murmured, tapping the cradle's railing lightly with his fingertips, producing a crisp sound. "Someone of the Zenin Clan's blood should indeed be anything but ordinary."

The flask was still more than half full, but he no longer felt like drinking. He simply stood beside the cradle, meeting his month-old son's gaze. The attendants still scarcely dared breathe. Only the breeze outside the window flowed silently through, gently stirring the pale silk canopy.

Naobito Zenin's fingertips still rested on the cradle's railing, his gaze fixed on that tiny figure. Suddenly, as though something had jolted him awake, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He scratched the top of his head, realization dawning on his slightly tipsy face.

"Tch. Forgot something important." He muttered under his breath, a barely perceptible annoyance in his tone. Then, as though he had found an opportunity, he straightened his back. His casual air abruptly drew inward, replaced by an unquestionable solemnity-this was his authority as a father, his right to name his child. How could he have overlooked it?

He raised the flask to his lips and took another deep swallow. The fiery sake washed down his throat, further bolstering that air of paternal authority.

As he set the flask down, the porcelain struck the floor with a soft, clear clink, but he paid it no mind. He merely bent closer to the cradle. His usually sharp, appraising eyes now stared unblinkingly into his son's black-jade gaze, as though seeking inspiration for a name within that pure darkness.

"What should I name you..." he drawled thoughtfully, his fingertips unconsciously tapping a soft rhythm against the edge of the cradle.

Names in the Zenin Clan had always concerned the continuation of the bloodline and the family's honor. A name had to carry the weight of an established house, suit a legitimate son's standing, and hint at hopes for his talent in Jujutsu. He ran through several names in his mind, but they all seemed either too trite or lacking in grandeur. For a moment, he could not decide.

His gaze returned to his son's eyes. Their pure darkness and profound stillness resembled a fine inkstone, polished smooth, warm and steady, with an edge it kept hidden. Something suddenly stirred within Naobito Zenin, as though he had been struck by inspiration. A gleam flashed in his eyes, and the problem that had briefly troubled him became clear.

He could not help grinning. The smile held none of his usual arrogance or distance, only genuine pleasure and satisfaction, and even a hint of paternal pride.

"Boy, I've got it." He raised a hand and touched his son's soft cheek with an exceedingly gentle fingertip. The delicate feel made him soften his touch even further. His voice was gentler than ever before, though it still carried the air of an unquestionable declaration. "From now on, your name will be Naoya Zenin. Written with the character for being straightforward, and the character for inkstone."

He paused, then repeated it as though afraid the month-old child might not remember. His voice slowed a little, though it could not conceal his pride as a father. "Naoya Zenin. Remember it well. This is the name your father gave you. From now on, you are the Zenin Clan's eldest legitimate son. Bear this name and shoulder the Zenin Clan's future."

After speaking, he straightened and took another drink. The more he considered the name, the more pleased he became. The first character was the Zenin Clan's generational character, carrying on its bloodline; the second evoked the stillness of his son's eyes and the strength of slow grinding, of power accumulated over time-just the composure and hidden edge a Jujutsu Sorcerer ought to possess.

He looked again at Zhiyan in the cradle. The little fellow still watched him with ink-dark eyes, his face as expressionless as ever. Yet, perhaps it was only his imagination, but Naobito Zenin felt there was the faintest hint of a response in those calm eyes, as though his son truly had understood and remembered the name.

He smacked his lips, savoring the sake's sharpness and lingering sweetness. A confident smile touched his eyes, and his voice brimmed with unassailable self-satisfaction. "Judging by that look, you must like the name too."

As he spoke, he bent closer to the cradle again, his gaze locked firmly on Naoya Zenin's black-jade eyes, as though trying to catch even the slightest trace of approval within their quiet darkness.

"Of course you do. Your father chose it, after all. Naturally, it's a good one." He rubbed his chin, his self-admiration returning, though softened now by a measure of fatherly affection. "Naoya Zenin. Upright and steady, with a hidden edge. A fitting name for my son, the son of Naobito Zenin, and for the Zenin Clan's eldest legitimate son."

The flask swayed gently in his hand. The faint, clear sound of sake striking its walls formed a subtle counterpoint to the silence in the room.

He watched Zhiyan for a long while. The little fellow remained as unruffled as ever, neither crying nor grinning, merely gazing at him in silence. Yet somehow, he felt that stillness was the finest response of all. His son truly was different from those ordinary, squalling infants-even his way of expressing pleasure was so restrained.

"Well, you're only a month old. Remembering your own name is good enough." Naobito Zenin straightened and stretched. The alcohol was gradually taking hold, softening the sharpness of his expression. "From now on, grow up strong and train hard in Jujutsu. Don't disgrace your father, and certainly don't disgrace the Zenin Clan's name."

He drained the remaining sake in one swallow and casually handed the empty flask to an attendant who stepped forward at the sound of his voice. His tone regained some of its usual authority, though a trace of warmth lingered. "Take good care of Zhiyan. If anything happens to him, I'll hold you responsible."

After speaking, he cast one final glance at Naoya Zenin in the cradle. Those ink-dark eyes still watched him quietly, as though seeing him off-or appraising him.

Naobito Zenin's lips curved slightly. He turned and strode out of the bedroom. Beyond the corridor, the breeze lifted his robes with the faint chill of early spring, yet it only strengthened the inexplicable anticipation in his heart. This son who neither cried nor fussed, whose eyes were so composed, might bring the Zenin Clan a different future.