She was born to modest but proud parents who refused to kneel to wealth.

When the powerful Sakamoto patriarch demanded she be taken into his household as a personal maid, her parents refused. They argued. They stood their ground.

Days later, they were killed.

Officially, it was bandits.

Unofficially, everyone knew.

With no protection and no family name strong enough to defend her, she was taken into the Sakamoto estate anyway — not as a guest, but as property.

As an orphaned girl in that era, she was treated as disposable: • Overworked • Disrespected • Punished for speaking out • Beaten when she questioned injustice

But she never learned to bow properly.

Even as a child, she would step in when something was wrong — even if it meant she would be struck next.

She was educated only up to around fifth grade before her parents died, but she secretly continued learning from discarded scrolls and overheard lessons.

Her cursed technique manifested quietly.

She learned to suppress it.

In a world where powerful men crushed what they feared, she survived by appearing small.

Under her long skirts and clean white shirt are scars — reminders of punishment and endurance.

She trains not for glory.

Not for recognition.

But because one day, she intends to dismantle the Sakamoto family herself.

And she refuses to die before that day comes. …

🌅 Early Morning – Sakamoto Estate

The arguing wakes her before the sun does.

It is not the usual shouting.

Not servants being scolded.

This is desperate.

Voices cracking.

Someone begging.

She opens her eyes slowly, already irritated. The paper walls do little to block sound.

“…please, forgive us—”

A man’s voice.

Older.

Shaking.

She sits up.

That voice does not shake.

The head of the Sakamoto family does not bow.

Ever.

She changes quickly into her work clothes — long skirt, white shirt tied neatly, sleeves straightened. She ties her hair back with steady hands.

The noise grows louder.

She steps outside.

The courtyard is full.

Servants kneel.

Heads lowered.

The Sakamoto patriarch is bowing deeply — forehead nearly touching the ground.

Her eyes shift.

And she sees him.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Pink hair catching the early light.

Two arms. One face. Completely human in structure.

But the air around him feels wrong.

Heavy.

Like the sky itself is pressing downward.

He stands casually in the center of the courtyard, hands loose at his sides.

And beside him—

A young male maid is sobbing violently, forehead pressed to the stones.

“I did not mean to, I swear I did not mean to spill it—please forgive me—please—”

The bucket of dirty wash water lies tipped over.

The hem of the pink-haired man’s kimono is stained.

Sukuna’s expression is flat.

Bored.

But beneath it—

Irritation.

She feels it like static in her teeth.

The Sakamoto patriarch stammers, “Please, Lord Sukuna, it was a servant’s mistake, we will compensate—”

Sukuna exhales slowly.

“Compensate?” he repeats, voice low, almost amused. “Do you think gold replaces inconvenience?”

The male maid sobs harder.

Sukuna lifts his hand slightly.

The air tightens.

A pressure builds so subtly that the birds on the roof fall silent.

He is about to erase them.

All of them.

The entire estate.

Because he is annoyed.

And that is reason enough.

She steps forward.

“Stop.”

The word is not loud.

But it cuts.

The courtyard freezes.

Heads lift slightly in shock.

She walks past kneeling servants.

Her eyes flick once to the crying boy.

Then back to Sukuna.

“It is just water,” she says evenly. “It does not burn your skin. You look physically well.”

Gasps.

The patriarch stiffens.

Sukuna’s gaze lowers to her slowly.

“Continue,” he says.

She does.

“So why should this maid beg for his life?”

Silence swallows the courtyard.

She steps closer.

Close enough that she must tilt her head back to look at him fully.

For a moment—

Her expression shifts.

A flicker of surprise crosses her face.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Like something in his face unsettles her instinct.

She steadies herself.

“He did apologize,” she says firmly. “So I think you should give this guy a chance and leave.”

The patriarch lunges forward instantly.

His hand grabs her hair violently, yanking her backward.

“You insolent girl!” he hisses. “Apologize at once!”

He strikes her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble.

“Bow! Beg forgiveness from Lord Sukuna!”

She does not bow.

Her jaw tightens.

Her eyes stay on Sukuna.

The patriarch raises his hand again.

It never lands.

Sukuna catches his wrist mid-air.

Effortlessly.

The courtyard air turns suffocating.

The patriarch trembles instantly.

Sukuna’s voice drops into something quieter.

“I was going to finish your entire bloodline,” he says calmly. “You should be grateful this one entertained me.”

He releases the man’s wrist.

The patriarch collapses back to the ground.

Sukuna looks down at her.

Up close.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“You speak boldly for a servant.”

“I speak when something is wrong,” she replies.

Her hair is messy now.

Her shoulder throbs.

But she does not kneel.

Sukuna smiles.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

Interested.

“Very well,” he says.

He turns slightly toward the patriarch.

“I will take this little girl as payment for my expensive kimono.”

The courtyard erupts in whispers.

“What—?”

“The Lord cannot—”

The patriarch’s face drains of color.

But he does not dare refuse.

She blinks.

Then her expression twists into open disbelief.

Like a cat that just smelled garlic.

Disgusted.

Offended.

Suspicious.

“…You are joking,” she says flatly.

Sukuna looks down at her.

“I do not joke about property.”

The patriarch bows deeply again, voice trembling.

“If that will satisfy you, Lord Sukuna, then she is yours.”

The words fall like a sentence.

She turns slowly toward the patriarch.

“You would trade me over fabric?” she asks.

He does not look at her.

Sukuna steps closer.

The pressure of his presence sharpens.

“You wished to save a servant’s life,” he says softly. “Consider this your reward.”

She glares up at him.

“I did not ask to be taken.”

“And yet,” he replies, “here you are.”

The courtyard remains silent.

No one dares intervene.

Sukuna turns, already walking away.

He does not check whether she follows.

He assumes.

And that assumption—

Angers her more than the transaction.

But the Sakamoto family has no choice.

And neither—

Does she.