Work Text:
HOUSE OF THE CHILDREN OF THE STAR
AUGUST 2006
Toji was dying. The fact he was still standing was a testament to his sheer willpower, for a gaping wound marred his side, blood gushing forth in an unceasing torrent. His life was ebbing away with every agonizing heartbeat.
Before him stood the six-eyed boy, an eerie calmness radiating from his expression, starkly contrasting the ferocity of just moments ago. Toji, had he the strength, might have laughed at the transformation, the boy's pensive demeanor almost surreal in this final, brutal tableau.
"Any last words?"
Toji had none. He possessed nothing to leave behind, no legacy, no loved ones to grieve his loss, no one who would even notice his absence.
He had been a man adrift in this world, unanchored and alone, and now, even at the brink of death, he found himself bereft of final words.
It was a fitting end for a man like him—a shadow slipping silently into the encroaching darkness.
"Nah," he replied, resigned. If he were to meet death here and now, he wouldn't grace the man before him—the embodiment of everything he despised—with any words.
Yet, unwanted and unbidden, for the third time that day, a boy's face flashed in his mind— a flicker of his past. He reminded himself he had nothing to leave behind.
Let it go. Stop.
But he did.
He thought of a little boy, so small and blurry in his memories. Regret washed over him; he wished he had paid more attention, just to have something to hold onto now. Something to be proud of. Something, in his wretched existence, to leave behind.
His one last blessing.
She'd be furious if he didn't at least try. He knew nothing of the man standing before him, nothing of whether this man possessed a human heart or anything resembling compassion. But he had to try—not for himself, but for her, for him.
"Two or three years from now, my kid will be sold off to the Zen’in clan. Do what you will with that," Toji rasped, his voice a brittle whisper against the oppressive silence.
Toji let death take him, surrendering to its cold, unyielding embrace. The chill seeped into his bones, a stark contrast to the fleeting warmth of life that had once flowed through him.
His thoughts were consumed by the image of that little boy, fragile and innocent. He clung to a sliver of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, his son would escape the cruel fate that had been thrust upon him.
In the dim light of the fading day, Toji Fushiguro breathed his last breath, his life extinguishing in the quiet of August 2006. The world around him continued, indifferent to the loss, as shadows lengthened and the sky darkened, mourning in silence.
SHIBUYA
OCTOBER 31ST 2018
Being pulled away from death was like being torn from the depths of an infinite void. He had been adrift, sinking into an abyss so familiar it mirrored the desolation of his life. He doubted he was truly dead, but then he felt it: a violent tug, a forceful drag, yanking him back into the land of the living.
And Toji was nothing if not a selfish man. He didn't understand how it happened, didn't grasp the mechanics of his resurrection, but what mattered was the rush of life flooding his veins. After an eternity of numbness, he felt adrenaline surging, his heart pounding, blood pumping through his body.
Ah, it felt so good.
So, he fought. He pummeled the sorcerer with the ski mask, then turned on the grandmother who had resurrected him. He supposed he should feel gratitude for her; she had granted him this final gift, this fleeting return to existence.
To live once more as the sorcerer killer he had always been. It was his essence, his unchanging fate.
Then, something called to him. Whether it was the lure of a stronger opponent or some primal instinct, he wasn't sure what pulled him toward Shibuya Station. But he saw it—an opening into a domain, a tear in reality itself. And who was he to resist? Whoever was inside seemed to be struggling, the perfect prey for his insatiable hunger.
Adrenaline surged through him, more potent than ever before. His thirst for battle, for blood, was unquenchable. His senses sharpened, every nerve electrified, driving him forward into the unknown, ready to tear into whatever awaited him.
The primal instinct that had defined him since birth echoed in his mind: fight, fight, fight.
At that point, everything became a blur. He was moving, yet it felt detached, as if he were an observer in his own body. It wasn’t him—at least, not the conscious him. It was his instincts, those primal urges he had spent years honing, transforming him into a perfect instrument of death. He was a machine, devoid of hesitation or mercy.
The identity of Toji Zen’in, and even Toji Fushiguro, faded into the background. He was neither. He was an embodiment of raw, unbridled violence, a force of nature driven by an insatiable hunger for the kill.
The world around him seemed distant, a dark and oppressive stage for his savage ballet. The ground beneath his feet felt insubstantial, the air heavy with the scent of blood and salt. Each movement was a lethal dance, every muscle in his body a coiled spring ready to unleash devastation. He could feel the power thrumming in his veins, a relentless tide of adrenaline that pushed him beyond human limits.
He saw the monstrous form of a curse, a creature of nightmare and oceanic fury. The domain was a twisted realm, an underwater hellscape where the rules of reality bent and warped. But none of it mattered. His focus was singular, a predator's tunnel vision locking onto its prey.
In that moment, he was pure instinct, pure rage. He moved with a lethal grace, every strike precise, every blow calculated to inflict maximum damage. He was a whirlwind of destruction, an unstoppable force cutting through the storm. The monster’s attacks were fierce, but Toji danced through them, a specter of death slipping past claws and fangs.
He was a nightmare incarnate, a specter of violence. Toji's every move was fluid, almost effortless, as if the years of bloodshed and battles had distilled him into this perfect killing form. He was no longer a man; he was a weapon, an avenging spirit given flesh and fury, fighting with an almost supernatural precision.
The clash was titanic, the very air crackling with the intensity of their battle. He felt alive in the way he hadn't been in years, the thrill of the fight drowning out all else. In the chaos of the domain, in the heart of the storm, Toji was reborn, if only for these fleeting moments of blood-soaked clarity.
The curse was dispatched swiftly, its strength no match for the Toji of now—a remorseless killer whose very essence was honed for this singular purpose. With the curse eliminated, Toji's attention shifted seamlessly to his next target. He moved with predatory precision, his senses sharp as he scanned the sorcerers before him, assessing them like a wolf among sheep.
It was the boy who caught his eye, a flicker of recognition mingled with the cold calculation of a hunter. He sensed the boy's latent power, perhaps the strongest among them, though it might have been something deeper that drew him to this particular prey. The connection was tenuous, buried beneath layers of bloodlust and instinct. It wasn’t really his choice, nor did it matter to him. He simply moved, driven by an urge as ancient and unyielding as death itself.
With a fluid motion, Toji lunged forward, his grip ironclad as he seized the boy. There was no hesitation, no pause to reflect on the significance of the moment. He hurled the boy outside with effortless strength, the motion as natural as breathing.
The air outside was thick with tension, the darkness of the night pressing down like a suffocating shroud. Toji’s heart pounded, adrenaline surging through his veins, amplifying his senses. Every detail was vivid—the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of the city, the pulse of his own heartbeat. He stepped forward, each movement a calculated advance, his eyes locked onto the boy now sprawled on the ground.
The boy’s expression was a mix of shock and determination, a mirror to the conflict within Toji himself. Memories flickered at the edges of his mind, but they were drowned out by the overwhelming need to dominate, to conquer. The identity of Toji Fushiguro was a distant echo, overshadowed by the relentless drive of the assassin he had become.
He moved in for the kill, each step deliberate, his presence an unstoppable force bearing down on the boy.
The boy fought valiantly, enough so that Toji had not managed to kill him immediately. Just when he was on the brink—so close to ending it and moving on to the next—the boy executed a plan clever enough to catch Toji off guard.
But in the end, Toji was too fast. He grazed him before he could be stabbed himself. It was enough. The boy got close enough. And then Toji saw.
He saw her in him, and everything clicked. Toji remembered.
He remembered what he had tried so hard to forget—the day he sold his own son for a couple of million yen. It was sick, really. But Toji had his own twisted motives for it. He thought it was best.
Toji stepped back, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. He took in the sight of his son, his own flesh and blood. Her flesh and blood. The boy lay there, a mix of pain and fear in his eyes, and Toji felt a pang of something he hadn't allowed himself to feel when he was alive.
Regret.
”Please take care of Megumi.”
For a moment, the relentless killer was overshadowed by the father he had once been, the father he had tried to bury. The darkness of the night seemed to press in tighter, the silence between them heavy with unspoken truths and bitter memories. Toji's grip on his weapon faltered as he stood there, torn between the instinct to finish the job and the dawning realization of who lay before him.
In that somber, dark moment, the lines between predator and prey blurred, and Toji Fushiguro faced the consequences of a lifetime of choices and the haunting presence of his past.
Megumi looked so much like him, Toji thought with a pang of regret. It was a cruel irony that the boy resembled the parent who had willingly abandoned him. If fate had been kinder, Megumi would have taken after her, the one who had loved him unconditionally.
But her features were unmistakable in him, too. Of course they were. It was those same features that had kept Toji at a distance all those years. Megumi had her hair, sticking up rebelliously now just as hers used to in the quiet mornings they had shared. No matter how much she tried to smooth it down, it would never stay put. Toji found himself wondering if Megumi had the same struggle each morning.
Her eyes, too. And those eyelashes. Long and delicate.
Unlike Toji’s hardened visage, Megumi's face held a gentleness, a softness unmarred by the harshness of life that had scarred Toji. The boy’s features were less rough, less ragged. He didn’t carry the same weight of suffering, the same burdens that had twisted Toji into what he was. That was good. It meant something had gone right.
Toji had to know for certain. He needed to see if his son had managed to escape the curse of having him as a father. His eyes traced every line of Megumi's face, searching for signs of innocence, hope, anything that indicated he had risen above the darkness Toji had succumbed to. The boy’s presence was a reminder of everything Toji had lost, everything he had given up.
In this bleak moment, Toji’s heart ached with the realization that while he could not undo his past, there was a fragile hope that Megumi had escaped the same fate. He needed to know, to be sure that his son had not inherited the shadow of his father's sins. His grip on his weapon loosened, his resolve faltering as he faced the painful truth.
Megumi stood before him, not just as a target, but as a reflection of the life Toji had forsaken. In his son's eyes, he saw her resilience, her strength, her gentleness—qualities he had once cherished and now saw as his own redemption. Toji’s breath hitched, his mind swirling with regret and a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, Megumi had found a way to transcend the darkness that had consumed his father.
Toji's resolve crumbled. The cold, ruthless killer he had become was overshadowed by the father he could have been.
“Hey you. What’s your name?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Megumi looked confused, of course. Hesitant, too. But eventually, finally, he spoke.
“Fushiguro?”
A flood of relief washed over Toji, lifting a burden he hadn’t even known he had been carrying. He had lived his life uncaring, unfeeling. In death, he was the same. But this—this was the one thing he could never be indifferent about.
Toji didn’t know how much longer he could fight off his instinctual, primal thirst for violence. He had control now, but it was tenuous at best. And his son—his son stood before him now. That changed everything, didn’t it?
“It’s not Zen’in?” Toji breathed, less a question, more a statement. “I’m glad.”
Because Toji was glad. Glad that his son had cast away the burden that he himself could never shed.
And then, he brought the knife to his head and stabbed himself.
In that final act, Toji relinquished the monster he had become. Even for him, this uncontrollable technique was not enough to let him harm their blessing. His last conscious thought was one of bittersweet solace, knowing that in some small way, he had spared Megumi from the darkness that had consumed him.
On October 31st in Shibuya, Toji Fushiguro met his end for the second and final time. This death was different, marked by a grim, somber clarity. He fell with the image of a young man etched into his mind, a boy who bore the unmistakable features of both his parents. The resemblance to Toji was striking—the same dark hair, the same piercing eyes. Yet, there was also an undeniable softness, a gentleness in the boy’s expression that mirrored his mother.
In those final moments, Toji’s vision blurred, but the sight of Megumi remained vivid. This was their child, a living testament to a past filled with everything Toji had thought he cast aside.
He died knowing that his son was not Megumi Zen’in, but Megumi Fushiguro. The weight of the Zen’in name, with all its dark connotations and heavy expectations, had not tainted the boy. Instead, he had chosen to carry the Fushiguro name— a name that, despite its own burdens, was free from the poisonous legacy of the Zen’in clan.
As his body grew cold, the last vestiges of his consciousness clung to that image, that relief, until he slipped into his final, unending void.