The Yamazaki estate loomed like a shadowed beast against the stormy sky, its dark stone walls slick with rain that pounded relentlessly from above. Inside, the air buzzed with tension, a restless hum threading through the corridors and courtyards as the clan prepared for a day unlike any other. Today, the heir candidates would be born—ten children, each conceived from Shingen Yamazaki's seed, carried by the women of the syndicate's vassal families. It was a desperate bid to reclaim the clan's glory after their crushing defeat at the hands of Gapryong Kim and his Fist Gang years prior, a loss that had left Shingen, the current head of the Yamazaki Syndicate, a hollow shell of the man he once was.
The Yamazaki Clan was no ordinary family. Rooted deep in Japan's underworld, their name was synonymous with the Yakuza, a sprawling network of organized crime that stretched across the nation. They were feared, revered, and utterly ruthless—killers forged in blood and shadow, their efficiency unmatched. The syndicate housed some of Japan's most notorious fighters and criminals, men and women whose reputations alone could silence a room. At the heart of their power lay the Yamazaki bloodline, a lineage marked by an extraordinary gift: Ultra Instinct. Known in the world of Lookism as one of the strongest abilities, it manifested in the form of jet-black eyes that shimmered with an otherworldly gleam, granting its bearers an almost supernatural awareness and combat prowess. This trait, rare even among the Yamazaki, appeared only once in a generation and was the definitive sign of the clan's true heir. The family's thirst for battle was legendary, an uncontrollable drive to seek out and crush the most talented opponents, a hunger that pulsed in their veins alongside their cursed blessing.
Shingen Yamazaki had once embodied that ferocity. Towering and unyielding, he'd led the syndicate with an iron fist, his black eyes a harbinger of death to any who crossed him. But the defeat against Gapryong had broken something in him. He withdrew, his interest in the clan—indeed, in life itself—fading like smoke. He became a recluse, a brooding figure haunting the upper chambers of the estate, leaving the syndicate to teeter on the edge of chaos. The one who held it together was Shintaro Yamazaki, Shingen's younger brother and the clan's vice president. Where Shingen was a storm, Shintaro was a steady flame—calm, calculating, and fiercely dedicated to preserving the Yamazaki legacy. With a fan in hand, he often paced the gardens, his sharp mind turning over plans to restore their dominance. It was Shintaro who had orchestrated this day, commanding the ten vassal families to bear Shingen's children in the hope that one would inherit the Ultra Instinct and lead the clan into a new era of greatness.
The vassal families—Watanabe, Takeshi, Matsumoto, Hanguro, and six others, down to the lowly Nohara—had leapt at the chance. To produce the heir was no small honor; it promised elevation, power, and prestige. The woman who bore the chosen child would become Shingen's wife, her family rising to stand beside the main house. The children who failed to inherit the black eyes would still carry Shingen's blood, but they'd be relegated to tools—swords and shields for the true heir, bearing their mothers' clan names instead of the revered Yamazaki title. It was a bitter consolation, a reminder of their inadequacy, and as the day wore on, that bitterness began to seep into the air.
The births came in waves, each announcement met with a mix of hope and dread. In the Watanabe household, a boy emerged, healthy and squalling, but his eyes were a mundane hazel. The Takeshi boy followed, robust and loud, yet his gaze lacked the shimmer. One by one, the Matsumoto and Hanguro children arrived, all strong, all lively, all disappointments. The midwives checked each infant's eyes with trembling hands, searching for the telltale black, only to shake their heads in defeat.
Birth after birth, disappointment after disappointment. The Matsumoto child, the Hanguro child, and the others—all failures. Each time a baby emerged into the world, the room would hold its breath, only to release it in silent despair. Healthy, strong, but not the heir. These children would be given their mothers' surnames instead of Yamazaki and raised as warriors, but they would never lead. Their mothers, the women who had carried them for nine months, had lost their chance at glory. A dark cloud loomed over them, shame staining their very existence.
Shintaro stood in the garden, the rain soaking through his kimono, a bamboo fan dangling idly from his fingers. He barely flinched as a messenger burst through the gate, breathless and wide-eyed. "Vice President! The heir—it's born!" The man's voice cracked with excitement, and Shintaro's lips curved into a rare smile. He followed the messenger to the main hall, where Shingen's personal consort—a woman from the inner circle, not a vassal—had just given birth. There, in a cradle of silk, lay a boy with skin like porcelain and eyes like polished obsidian. Gun Yamazaki, they'd call him later, but for now, Shintaro simply gazed into those dark depths, seeing the Ultra Instinct flicker within them. "Finally," he murmured, a weight lifting from his shoulders. "Someone worthy." The room buzzed with quiet celebration—servants bowing, vassal leaders offering cautious congratulations—but Shingen was nowhere to be found. He hadn't emerged to see his son, hadn't acknowledged any of the children born that day. To him, they were ghosts, irrelevant until proven otherwise.
The other nine infants didn't warrant Shintaro's attention. He spared them no glance, their fates already decided. They were future tools, nothing more—cogs in the machine that would elevate the heir.
As dusk crept over the estate, the final child arrived, born to the Nohara family—the weakest, most desperate of the vassal clans. Their quarters were a far cry from the grandeur of the main house, a cramped, damp room tucked in the estate's forgotten wing. Akiko Nohara, the mother, lay on a thin mat, her body wracked from a labor that had come too fast, too hard. Sweat plastered her dark hair to her pale face, her breaths shallow and ragged. The midwife, a stooped woman with hands toughened by years of service, lifted the newborn boy from the blood-streaked floor. He was heavy, heavier than any of the others, his sturdy frame solid in her grip. His breathing was calm, steady, a quiet strength radiating from his tiny form. Unlike the others, he didn't cry—his green eyes, wide and alert, darted around the room, tracing every flicker of light, every shadow's edge. He was the healthiest of the ten, a child brimming with raw potential, his presence almost defiant in its vitality.
But those eyes. Plain, unremarkable, devoid of the black shimmer that marked the Ultra Instinct. The midwife froze, her weathered face tightening as realization sank in. She turned to Akiko, the boy cradled in her arms, and the mother's gaze flickered to him for a fleeting second before she recoiled. "
The midwife hesitated before stepping forward, offering the child to her.
"Would you like to hold your son?"
A painful silence followed.
Then, in a whisper barely audible, the mother spoke.
"No."
The midwife flinched at the cold finality in her tone.
"Nurse him, at least—"
"No." The woman's voice hardened. "I will not see him. I will not hold him. I will not acknowledge him."
Her chest heaved, her hands clutching the mat as if to anchor herself against the flood of shame and fury crashing over her. She'd been sent here with one purpose—to bear the heir, to lift the Nohara from their squalor, their insignificance. The vassal families were ranked by power, and the Nohara clung to the bottom, their survival a threadbare hope tied to the Yamazaki's mercy. An heir would have changed everything—status, wealth, a place at the table. Instead, she'd birthed this—this failure.
"He's nothing," she hissed, her voice breaking as she yanked the blanket over her head, shutting out the sight of him. "A disposable tool. A failure." Tears burned behind her words, not of sorrow but of rage—at herself, at the child, at the cruel twist of fate that had mocked her prayers. She'd endured nine months of hope, of whispered dreams to her swollen belly, imagining a future where her family stood tall. Now, that dream lay shattered in the midwife's arms, a living wound she couldn't bear to face. The midwife hesitated, her lips parting as if to speak, then closed again. With a sigh, she set the boy in a rough wooden box—the only cradle he'd know—and slipped out, leaving Akiko to her grief.
The Nohara family's reaction was a mirror of her despair, sharpened by years of desperation. Taro Nohara, Akiko's father and head of the clan, stormed into the room moments later, his boots thudding against the warped floorboards. His weathered face, etched with lines of hardship, darkened as he loomed over the box. The boy's brown eyes met his, calm and unblinking, and Taro's lip curled in disgust. "No blessing," he growled, spitting on the floor, the glob landing inches from the child's head. "Not even worth a name." His voice trembled with a fury born of crushed hope, his fists clenching at his sides. The Nohara had pinned everything on this birth—every scrap of pride, every flicker of ambition. They were the smallest clan, the poorest, their home a crumbling shack compared to the Watanabe's estates or the Takeshi's armories. An heir would have been their salvation, a chance to rise from the dirt. Instead, they got this—a curse, a living reminder of their inadequacy.
Taro turned to Akiko, his daughter, still huddled under the blanket. "You've shamed us," he said, his tone low and venomous. "This thing you've made—it's nothing but a tool. A sword to dull and break for the real heir." His words landed like blows, and Akiko flinched, her sobs muffled by the fabric. She'd been their hope, their offering to the Yamazaki, and she'd failed. Taro's gaze lingered on the boy one last time, his eyes narrowing as if he could will the black shimmer into them, then he spun on his heel and left, the door slamming shut behind him. The room fell silent, save for Akiko's ragged breathing and the faint creak of the box as the boy shifted inside it.
The Nohara shared Taro's disgust, a collective rejection that seeped into every glance, every gesture. Akiko's younger sister, who'd come to help, refused to touch the child, her nose wrinkling as if he carried a stench. The wet nurse summoned later was a last resort—a dour woman with rough hands who fed him grudgingly, her muttered curses a lullaby of contempt. "Waste of milk," she'd grumble, shoving the bottle into his mouth with no gentleness. The boy took it silently, his green eyes fixed on her, uncomplaining, as if he already understood his place. The Nohara household became a tomb for him, a place where he existed but wasn't seen, a ghost they couldn't banish but wouldn't claim.
Days turned to weeks, and the boy grew in that wooden box, his sturdy frame filling out with a quiet resilience. His eyes, though ordinary, held a piercing clarity, watching the world with an intensity that belied his age.