The last embers of sunlight bled across the horizon, casting the Hyuga estate in deep hues of crimson and gold. Shadows stretched long over the stone pathways, swallowed whole by the creeping dusk. By the time Akai arrived, the estate was alive with the quiet hum of evening activity.
Servants moved with practiced efficiency, weaving between hurried voices and the rhythmic clatter of dishes. The air was thick with the scent of freshly prepared meals, tinged with the faint smokiness of burning firewood. Lantern light flickered against the walls, casting fleeting silhouettes as figures passed by.
It was dinnertime.
Akai made his way through the corridors as he always did—unhurried, detached. The routine remained unchanged. A few servants acknowledged him with silent bows, their expressions carefully neutral. Others merely glanced his way before returning to their tasks. It was the same as every other evening.
Until it wasn't.
"Akai-sama."
A hesitant voice cut through the ambient noise.
He stopped.
Turning his head, his gaze settled on a young woman—Hyuga, without question. Her pale, pupil-less eyes met his for a beat too long, cautious yet intent. A cloth wrapped tightly around her forehead, concealing the unmistakable mark of the branch family.
Another servant stood beside her, shifting uneasily. Neither stepped away.
At first, it was just a greeting. A simple acknowledgment. But then, the words didn't stop.
"Ah, I see you've returned early today," she said, her voice carefully measured—steady, yet betraying a flicker of nervousness.
Akai regarded her in silence.
"Dinner preparations have been hectic," she continued, filling the void his lack of response left behind. "The Main House requested additional side dishes, so we've been running back and forth all afternoon." She hesitated, fingers tightening around the hem of her sleeve. "It's not often you pass by around this time."
Her companion nodded quickly. "Yes. Usually, you return much later."
Harmless words. Casual conversation.
On the surface.
But Akai understood.
They were watching him. Testing the waters.
Subtle, but deliberate.
And they weren't the only ones.
The quiet, rhythmic movement of the kitchen faltered—briefly, almost imperceptibly. Some servants glanced toward the small gathering, curiosity restrained yet undeniable. A few hesitated mid-step, as if caught between stepping in or stepping away.
After all... this wasn't normal.
No one spoke to him.
Yet now, they hesitated.
Because Akai wasn't stopping them.
He stood there, unmoving, unreadable. Only the occasional blink and the faintest tilt of his head suggested any reaction at all—like an observer studying a foreign dialect, dissecting each word from different angles.
No discomfort.
No irritation.
Just... mild curiosity.
And so, the conversation continued.
"I heard the market was lively today," the woman ventured, emboldened by his silence. "A merchant from the Land of Water came by with rare spices. The cooks were thrilled."
"Ah, that..." The response slipped out absently.
They waited.
"I didn't know that happened," he added when the silence stretched.
A glance passed between the servants.
It wasn't much. Hardly a real response. But the fact remained—he had spoken. Answered, however briefly. That alone was unusual enough to keep them talking.
Gradually, the air lightened. Their words flowed more easily, conversation shifting into an odd, lopsided rhythm—one where they spoke, and Akai responded in quiet, neutral fragments.
He hadn't planned on staying this long.
He had only stopped to ask a question.
And when a pause finally surfaced, he took it.
"Yesterday's dinner." His voice remained calm, devoid of urgency. "Who left it at my door?"
The shift in topic was abrupt.
The women hesitated, exchanging puzzled glances as Akai stood, ever patient.
"I wanted to thank them," he added, his tone flat—a formality crafted for social courtesy rather than genuine gratitude. After all, the meal had been nothing more than a belated obligation fulfilled; his words carried no deep emotion.
And yet—
One of the servants offered a knowing smile.
"That was Hinata-sama," she explained softly.
At her words, Akai's fingers twitched ever so slightly.
"She came to the kitchen herself," the woman continued, amusement dancing in her pale eyes. "She asked if you were joining the joint dinner. When she learned you weren't, she requested another tray and had it placed at your door personally."
...Ah.
That changed everything.
Had it been just any servant, his words would have remained hollow—a polite echo of routine. But if it was Hinata—his cousin—then perhaps there was genuine gratitude hidden beneath his cool exterior. A barely perceptible nod was all he offered in reply.
The conversation might have ended there.
But then, the young woman hesitated before continuing. Her fingers twisted anxiously at her sleeve, the knuckles whitening.
"By the way, Akai-sama..." she began. "Pardon me for asking, but there's a rumor going around."
A pause, heavy with implication.
"They say the demon made a friend."
Her words, soft yet laden with weight, barely rose above a whisper. "These have been the talk of the whole village, you know..."
Almost immediately, her companion inhaled sharply, eyes widening in alarm. In a desperate effort to silence the growing murmur, she grasped the speaker's arm. "Don't—!" she began, but it was too late.
The clatter of busy work slowed. Footsteps that once moved with assured purpose faltered; some halted entirely. The air shifted.
Akai remained unmoved. He did not blink, nor did he react visibly—only his fingers twitched once, a subtle punctuation in the hush.
The demon made a friend?
...Interesting.
"I suppose that demon is the blond kid? With whiskers?" His voice cut through the murmurs with clinical precision—calm, unwavering. His tone was as if he were merely remarking on the evening weather or the arrangement of the dining trays. There was no bite to his words, no spark of offense, no trace of restrained anger—just idle, detached curiosity.
Because, in the end, Akai was always curious. Curious enough to let such puzzles eclipse emotions that might otherwise have taken root—anger, indignation, even the fierce protectiveness one might expect for a friend. Most would have lashed out, their feelings blazing hot in protest. But not Akai.
It wasn't merely maturity; it was something deeper—a pathological curiosity that dissected every word, every reaction, every ripple of cause and effect before emotion could even take hold. Moments meant to be frustrating were reduced to puzzles to solve.
And this?
Another puzzle.
At that moment, a sharp, collective stillness fell over the room, as if every soul in the estate was holding its breath, waiting for the next move.
Several servants froze mid-motion, their expressions shifting from stunned disbelief to barely concealed horror. A man standing just behind Akai stiffened so abruptly that he nearly lost his grip on the large pot of miso broth he was carrying. The heavy ceramic tilted precariously in his hands, the scalding liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
For a breathless moment, disaster felt inevitable—that the entire hall would be drenched in steaming soup, that the sharp crash of shattered pottery would splinter the silence like thunder.
But miraculously, he caught it.
Knuckles white, breath hitched, he steadied himself.
Across the room, the woman who had spoken visibly tensed, her companion swallowing hard beside her. Their gazes flickered between one another, silently scrambling for an appropriate response—searching for the right words, the right reaction—yet finding none.
Because what were they supposed to say to that?
They hadn't expected this.
Most children—especially those of noble standing—would have snapped, bristling at the mere suggestion. The word demon had never been used kindly. It was a mark of otherness, a label meant to separate, to dehumanize. A brand burned into whispers, designed to make Naruto something less than just a boy.
Yet Akai merely stood there, blinking at them.
Unfazed.
Unbothered.
As if the weight of that accusation, that deliberate alienation, meant nothing to him.
As if he genuinely sought confirmation—less out of indignation and more out of clinical curiosity, dissecting the meaning behind their words rather than reacting emotionally to them.
The silence thickened, stretched, coiled around the room like a living thing. Suffocating.
Akai, of course, remained unaffected.
After all, this wasn't the first time he'd heard whispers like this.
He had long since memorized the way villagers' voices hushed when he passed by with Naruto. The barely restrained sneers. The pointed fingers. The way conversations dropped to a murmur when the blond was within earshot, their eyes darting away as if looking at him for too long might bring misfortune.
None of it had mattered.
Naruto was Naruto.
Loud. Annoying. Too energetic for his own good. And—most importantly—his precious test subject.
How others viewed him had never been a variable worth considering.
A hesitant breath. A nervous shift.
Then finally—
"Y-Yes..." The servant swallowed thickly, voice barely above a whisper. "That's the one."
Confusion lingered in their eyes, but something else began to take shape beneath it—an unspoken realization.
This child—this boy—wasn't a child at all.
Speaking to him didn't require the careful dance of words they used with nobles. There was no need for soft edges, no fear of misplaced sentiments. He wasn't delicate. He wasn't naive. He wasn't someone they needed to tiptoe around.
And so, the restraint unraveled.
A strange relief settled over them, melting the last traces of hesitation.
There was no need to watch their tongues.
And so, the words came—casual, easy, dripping with venom.
"The demon brat."
"The Kyuubi's spawn."
"Who in their right mind would befriend such a monster?"
"They must be just as bad as him. Do their parents not teach them anything?"
Mockery wove through the conversation like idle gossip, spoken with the same ease as one might discuss the weather. The disdain was thick, curling in their voices like acrid smoke, their disgust clinging to the syllables of that child—never a name, never a person.
Akai listened.
And then—
He saw them.
Chains.
The chains wound tight around their throats—iron collars wreathed in fire, pulsing in time with their hateful words. Not metaphorical. Not imagined.
To him, they were real.
Every curse spat against the Kyuubi fed the bindings, made them constrict, made the flames lick higher. They slithered like living things, whispering in a language only he could hear.
And through the inferno—foxes.
Not illusions. Not tricks of the mind. The same spectral creatures that prowled at the edge of his vision whenever Naruto was near. The same ones that surfaced when he reluctantly guided the blond through chakra exercises, when he shoved a steaming bowl of ramen into his hands with an exasperated sigh, when he lingered longer than necessary—watching.
But now, they had come here.
The Hyuga compound.
A place ruled by caged birds.
For months, Akai had carved through the unseen. He had exorcised the whispering things that clung to the branch members—the things that fed their submission, their sorrow. He had purged their silent tormentors until the air no longer reeked of quiet despair.
Yet now, something new had taken root.
Why?
He didn't understand.
But he let them speak.
He listened as they recounted their grief, voices thick with the weight of old wounds. The Kyuubi's attack had taken more than a leader, more than a village's sense of security.
It had taken family.
"My condolences," Akai said, voice even. "I didn't know. It must have been difficult."
A pause.
Then, a quiet, steady reply.
"It is fine. Thank you for listening, Akai-sama."
And just like that, the moment passed.
"Oh, speaking of which—" one of the servants piped up, tone abruptly lighter. "Everyone's been talking about it! Akai-sama beat Neji-sama in a spar, didn't he?"
"They're calling you a late-blooming genius!" another added, almost giddy.
The kitchen carried on as if nothing had changed. The distant clang of dishes. The murmurs of the evening meal. The rhythm of daily life, undisturbed.
Then—
"So, uh... how was your day, Akai-sama?"
The question landed with all the grace of a stone plummeting into still water—forced, unnatural, out of place. A line read from a poorly rehearsed script.
The others caught on, scrambling to echo the attempt, layering apologies on top—saying they hadn't meant to take up so much of his time. That they just... wanted to know him better.
Akai blinked.
All the whispers. The muttered slurs. The sneering, the venom—
And now, they wanted to ask about his day?
How quaint.
Shouldn't that have been the first thing they said?
A slow exhale left him, barely audible over the distant clatter of the kitchen.
But in the end, he didn't question it.
Didn't dwell on it.
And he let it go.
"Oh, nothing much," he said, tone light, casual. The kind of voice one might use to comment on the weather. "Spent some time with that demon kid you all love to hate. Overall, a good day."
Silence.
The shift was instant.
Expressions stiffened. Hands froze mid-motion. The air thickened, soured, bloated with unspoken tension.
Did he just—?
Their eyes darted toward one another, searching for confirmation, for reassurance that they hadn't misheard.
A few servants sucked in sharp breaths, postures going rigid. Others simply... stared.
But Akai?
He only tilted his head.
"What?" His voice remained unbothered. Curious, even. "It's not like I have parents to scold me. If you think I should be ashamed of being around him, I won't be."
Especially when he's such a useful test subject.
The words hit like a stone thrown into water. The ripples spread outward, unseen by Akai but felt by everyone else.
Because it wasn't just what he had said.
It was how he had said it.
That same eerie calm.
That same detached curiosity.
That single, unblinking red eye that seemed to bore straight through them.
A prickle of unease crawled up spines, whispering its insidious warning—something is wrong.
And the kitchen had noticed.
The other servants—once absorbed in their tasks—were no longer quite as busy. Their hands still moved, but their ears were listening. The scrape of knives against cutting boards slowed. The sound of water pouring stuttered, hesitating for just a beat too long.
Akai, of course, was aware.
But as always, he paid it no mind.
A forced chuckle broke the silence.
Then another.
Laughter—thin, fragile, an instinctive attempt to claw back the normalcy they had lost somewhere between insult and conversation.
"A-Akai-sama," one of them tried, their voice unsteady. "That... joke of yours... it's not quite funny."
Akai watched them.
Close. Curious.
Their smiles were stretched too tight. Their fingers curled just slightly, gripping at fabric, at anything solid.
Ah.
He had seen this before.
The way people laugh when they are afraid. When they don't understand what sits before them.
Then, after a beat, he smiled back.
A perfect, effortless expression.
"You're right," he said lightly. "I suppose it wasn't that funny after all."
A breath of laughter left him—weak, carefully matched to their own.
"I don't really talk to people much," he continued, tone slipping into something almost self-effacing. "I figured I'd try humor for once. Seems I have a long way to go."
The relief was immediate.
Tension eased. Shoulders relaxed. The false laughter picked up again—still wobbly at the edges, still not quite whole.
But if one looked closely, they would see it.
The way their hands still trembled.
The way sweat clung to their brows despite the cool air.
The way their bodies remained subtly poised—braced for something.
Then—
"Could you kneel for a moment?"
The words were spoken lightly, almost offhanded.
But the reaction was instant.
Laughter cut off.
The room shifted.
Something unspoken seeped into the air, curling at the edges like unseen smoke.
A sensation—cold, crawling, clawing at the backs of their necks.
Not fear of punishment.
Something deeper.
Something primal.
Their smiles did not falter.
But their bodies did.
They glanced at one another, silent questions darting between wary eyes.
And then, slowly—hesitantly—
They obeyed.
As their knees touched the floor, Akai moved.
A simple gesture.
A slow, effortless flick of his index finger.
Then—
Relief.
A flood of it. Sudden. Overpowering.
Not the quiet relief of tension easing, nor the gradual exhale of worries lifting. No, this was something else—abrupt, all-consuming.
Like an unseen weight had been torn from their shoulders.
Like a shroud of unease had been peeled away in an instant.
Their emotions shattered and scattered—not into fear, but into nothingness.
The suffocating coil in their chests—gone.
The simmering frustrations of their days, the gnawing bitterness that festered beneath polite smiles—gone.
The habitual urge to gossip, to whisper, to spite—erased without a trace.
Even the mere thought of the Kyuubi's spawn no longer carried the sharp sting of resentment. If someone were to mention him now, they doubted they would scowl. Doubted they would spit the way they had just moments ago.
It was as if their minds had been rinsed clean.
Like inhaling crisp morning air after too long drowning beneath the surface.
One by one, they exhaled. Shoulders loosened. Breaths steadied.
Expressions softened into something almost peaceful.
Then—
They looked at Akai.
And to him—
Their faces were stained.
Deep, sickly purple.
It bled from their skulls in sluggish, viscous trails. Thick and unnatural, trickling down like ink soaking through paper.
It dripped past vacant eyes and serene smiles, an ugly contrast to the relief washing over them.
Something had been torn from them. Something unseen had been bled dry.
Akai tilted his head.
Fascinating.
Amusing.
But the moment passed.
"You guys should probably get back to work," he said, tone light, as if nothing had happened. "At this point, you're just slacking off while chatting with me."
A beat of hesitation. A lingering stillness.
Then, the servants blinked—shaking themselves free from whatever trance had settled over them—before hurriedly returning to their tasks.
And as they moved, Akai continued, voice as casual as ever.
"Oh, and all that talk about me being a 'late-blooming genius'..."
A pause.
Then, with absolute indifference—
"Can you zip it? I'm just a defect, after all."
.
.
.
To be continued.