Through The Eyes Of A Servant

I have served the Zenin clan for twenty-three years, and never have I felt fear quite like this.

Young master Indra's birth was marked by silence – not just of cursed spirits, but of nature itself. Where young master Naoya's cursed energy feels sharp and dangerous, like the edge of a blade, Indra-sama's has always been... different.

It clings to places he's touched, leaving an emptiness that takes days to fade. Last week, I watched a bird land on a tree branch where his cursed energy had leaked during training.

The creature froze, then fell dead without a mark on its body. The branch withered by morning.

The other servants whisper about it when they think no one is listening. How his presence feels like a void walking among us, how his shadow sometimes seems darker than it should be.

Even before he could walk, we could feel it – something fundamentally unsettling about his cursed energy, like death given form.

But since that day several weeks ago, when he first displayed his technique, something has changed.

His movements are too precise for a five-year-old, his eyes too knowing. Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, I catch glimpses of expressions that no child should be capable of making.

Yesterday, I saw him practicing in his private courtyard. The air itself seemed to grow heavy, and that crimson aura of his made the world look wrong, like reality was being pulled apart at the seams.

A sparrow flew too close – it didn't burst like his technique usually causes. Instead, it simply... stopped existing. No blood, no remains. Just gone.

We servants have developed our own rules when attending to young master Indra. Never enter his room without announcing yourself three times.

Don't look directly at him when he's using his technique. If his cursed energy touches you, visit the shrine immediately for purification.

Small rituals that help us cope with the otherworldly nature of his presence.

Even the Zenin sorcerers, powerful as they are, act differently around him.

The guards straighten their postures when he passes, not out of respect for his status, but from instinct – the way prey freezes before a predator.

The instructors who supervise his training maintain careful distances, their hands always near their cursed tools.

This morning, I was delivering fresh training clothes to his quarters when I saw something that still chills me. He was sitting perfectly still, that invisible aura of his making the air ripple like heat waves.

But it wasn't his technique that disturbed me – it was his reflection in the mirror. For just a moment, it seemed... delayed, as if his reflection was watching his movements rather than mimicking them.

The clan elders try to hide their unease behind stern expressions and formal language, but I've served them long enough to see the truth.

They fear his power, not for what it is now, but for what it promises to become. A boy who silenced the world – what will he be capable of when he grows older?

The guards who patrol the compound walls have their own theories. They're trained sorcerers themselves, capable of sensing cursed energy in ways we servants cannot.

I've overheard them speaking in hushed tones during shift changes, comparing what they feel.

"It's like standing at the edge of an abyss," one veteran guard said.

"Naoya-sama's cursed energy is powerful, yes, but natural. The young master's energy... it's like looking into a void that looks back. As if it's something that shouldn't exist in this world.

One from beyond."

The kitchen staff, who have served three generations of the Zenin clan, share different observations.

They notice how food left near him too long loses its taste, how tea grows cold faster than it should.

"As if life itself retreats from his presence," our head cook whispered once, after sending away a perfectly prepared meal that had somehow turned bland in the young master's dining room.

The cleaners who maintain his quarters have the most disturbing stories.

They speak of rooms that feel too large on the inside, of shadows that don't match the time of day, of mirrors that need to be replaced because they develop inexplicable cracks after reflecting his image too long.

But perhaps most telling are the reactions of the clan's cats – creatures known for their sensitivity to cursed energy.

Where they avoid most sorcerers out of caution, they simply cease to exist around young master Indra's quarters. Not dead, not scared away – they simply never appear within twenty meters of his presence.

Even the Zenin children, too young to understand cursed energy but old enough to serve as attendants, sense something.

They don't run from him like they might from a cruel master. Instead, they grow still, quiet, as if their bodies instinctively understand that movement might draw attention they don't want.

Just yesterday, I witnessed something that confirmed our collective unease.

I was tending to the rock garden near his private training ground when young master Indra began what appeared to be a new form of practice.

He stood perfectly still as his crimson aura manifested, but this time it behaved differently. Instead of its usual destructive display, it seemed to bend the morning light around him in impossible ways.

The stones in the garden began to shift color – not changing their hue, but somehow becoming less... real. As if they were illusions rather than actual rock.

Then he did something I've never seen before. He extended his hand, and the air between his fingers appeared to fold. There's no other way to describe it – reality itself creased like paper.

A practice dummy twenty feet away shuddered, and for a brief moment, I could see through it, as if it were transparent.

The young master frowned slightly, and everything snapped back to normal. But the stones I had been carefully raking... their patterns remained wrong.

Not disturbed or ruined, but fundamentally altered. When I tried to fix them later, the rake passed through some areas as if they weren't quite there.

I heard him murmur something about "constraints" and "attribute limitations" before he noticed my presence.

His eyes met mine, and in that moment, I understood why the elder servants burn incense in their quarters after their shifts. Some things, once seen, leave marks on more than just the physical world.

By nightfall, word had spread through the servant quarters. The laundry workers refused to enter the rock garden to collect the drying linens until the head butler personally inspected the area.

The gardeners drew lots to determine who would have to tend that section in the coming days.

"Did you hear?" Mei, one of the kitchen helpers, whispered during our evening meal. "Keiko says the rocks cast shadows in the wrong direction now.

And Yuta from the night patrol swears he saw one of them floating, just for a moment, when he passed by after midnight."

The incident sparked a new set of unofficial rules among the staff. No one works alone in areas where young master Indra has recently trained.

Shifts are shortened for those assigned to his vicinity, with regular rotations to prevent prolonged exposure. The shrine priest now performs purification rites twice daily instead of weekly.

Even the scheduling of household duties has been affected. We time our cleaning rounds to avoid his training hours.

The gardeners coordinate their work to ensure no one is caught alone when he practices. Supply deliveries are carefully planned to arrive either well before or long after his sessions.

"It's not just about avoiding his technique," old Tanaka, who has served the clan for forty years, explained to a new servant.

"It's about respecting the boundaries between what should and shouldn't be. Some things in this world aren't meant to be bent or changed, yet the young master treats reality itself like clay to be reshaped."

That evening, as I served Naobito-sama his evening tea in his private study, the weight of what I'd witnessed pressed heavily on my mind.

Twenty-three years of service had earned me the privilege of being one of his personal attendants, but it had also taught me the delicate art of knowing when to speak and when to remain silent.

The steam from the tea curled in the air – normal steam, behaving as it should, unlike the air around the young master earlier. My hands trembled slightly as I set down the cup.

"Something troubles you." It wasn't a question. Naobito-sama didn't look up from his documents, but his tone carried that characteristic sharpness that demanded truth.

"Forgive my impertinence, Naobito-sama," I began, careful to keep my voice steady. "But today, in the rock garden..." I hesitated, then pressed on.

"Young master Indra's training... the stones still don't... exist."

Naobito's brush paused mid-stroke. For a long moment, only the sound of distant crickets filled the room.

"There are beings," Naobito spoke after that long silence, his voice carrying an unusual weight, "whose mere existence shifts the balance of this world. The ancients spoke of them in whispers – children born with power that defies natural law."

He set his brush down with deliberate care. "Ryoumen Sukuna wasn't always the King of Curses. His birth, they say, caused cursed energy itself to scream through the bones of all in the place he was born. Running wild and nearly killing many sorcerers.

Nature... Nature recognized something that didn't belong to its ordinary flow."

"Like young master Indra," I whispered before I could stop myself.

"Yes." Naobito's eyes remained fixed on some distant point.

"He and that Gojo child... they don't simply possess power. They represent fundamental shifts in what we understand to be possible. The world itself recognizes them as... different."

The cricket sounds seemed to fade, as if even nature held its tongue.

"But," Naobito's voice hardened, returning to its usual sharp edge, "such matters are beyond the concern of servants. Indra is my son.

Whatever his nature, whatever his impact on this world's balance, he belongs to the Zenin clan. To me. Your duties remain unchanged – you will serve him as you serve this household."

It wasn't affection in his tone, but something closer to declaration of ownership, of absolute authority.

Even the universe's recognition of his son's otherworldly nature wouldn't supersede his position as father.

"Of course, Naobito-sama." I bowed deeply, recognizing the dismissal in his tone.

As I left Naobito-sama's study, his words transformed my understanding of our household's nature.

The Zenin clan has always operated on strict hierarchies and careful protocols, but now I understand – we're not just maintaining order in a powerful clan.

We're preserving the boundary between ordinary existence and something far beyond it.

Yet Naobito-sama's claim stands absolute over all of this. Whatever young master Indra represents in the grand scheme of things, he remains a son of the Zenin clan.

Even if that claim feels like trying to hold authority over gravity itself.

-------------------------------

(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all liked the chapter!

I've taken some liberties with this chapter.

Writing how a soul in a new world, with new laws, would be abnormal to others in instinctive sense, and Indra's attribute manipulation, seeing all the possibilities.

The scene where Gojo glared away those two assassins is what primarily inspired this chapter, since I wish to seperate the three that will eventually be in a deadlock for the title of Honoured One.

So yeah, I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)