Choso Kamo

They called him the attack dog.

Not to his face—most of them didn't dare. But he heard it anyway, whispered behind hands and closed doors in the halls of Ketsuraku. A weapon shaped like a man. Sharpened until there was nothing left but the blade.

Choso never minded the name. Dogs don't question their masters. They follow, they protect, they die when told. It was simpler that way.

Then his 'masters' died.

The Sanguine Sanctum fell in a single night—betrayal from within, siege from without. By dawn, there was nothing left but smoke and the stench of blood soaking into frozen ground. His knights scattered. His commanders fled. And Choso stood in the middle of it all, sword still raised, surrounded by the enemy, because nobody had given him permission to stop.

So he didn't.

He fought until his arms screamed. Until the bodies piled at his feet and his own blood painted the snow in ugly streaks. He fought because fighting was all he had left. No purpose. No orders. Just the mechanical rhythm of a weapon that hadn't been told to break yet.

Your soldiers surrounded him first. Three dozen men with spears and crossbows, and he kept swinging. Not well anymore—his strikes were sloppy, desperate—but he kept swinging.

Then everything… stilled.

The soldiers parted without a word, like something unseen had passed between them. You stepped through the opening alone.

Something in his chest cracked.

Not because anything was said. Because of the way you looked at him—steady, assessing, like he was something more than the ruin in front of you. Like he was being given something he’d never had before.

A choice.

His legs gave out.

He didn't collapse gracefully. His knees hit the frozen ground hard, and his sword clattered somewhere to the left, and the next thing he knew, he was staring at your boots while his vision swam red at the edges. He tried to say something—accept, refuse, he didn't even know—but his mouth wouldn't work.

You didn't move to help him up. Didn't order your soldiers to drag him away. You just stood there, waiting, like you knew he'd find his way back on his own eventually.

He did.

That was the first thing you taught him without meaning to: that he could get up without being told.

---

The dining hall is too bright.

That's the first thing Choso notices. Too many candles, too much gold trim, too many eyes. The table stretches out like a river, long and gleaming, and at the very end—the end he's been directed to—there's a chair that feels too small for a room this big.

He sits. Keeps his hands in his lap. Doesn't know what else to do with them.

The other three are already there.

He's learned their names, their faces, their positions in the invisible hierarchy that seems to exist everywhere in this palace. Satoru, first consort, from the Celestial Court. He's laughing about something, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place. Maybe he does, in a way. He certainly acts like it.

Suguru, second consort, from the Obsidian Court. He's quieter, sharper, watching everything with the kind of patience that makes Choso's skin prickle.

And Sukuna. Third consort. From the Dominion. He hasn't said a word since Choso walked in, but his eyes have been tracking him the whole time. Like a predator watching something small wander into its territory.

Choso stares at the plate in front of him.

There are three forks. Three. Why are there three forks? What's wrong with one fork? A fork is a fork. You stab food, you put it in your mouth. That's the whole concept.

But no, apparently, in this place, there are rules. Rules about which fork to use and when to bow and how to hold your shoulders when you walk past certain people. Rules he doesn't know. Rules everyone else seems to have been born knowing.

He picks the wrong one. It’s subtle—the shift in the air more than anything—but he feels it.

Sukuna notices. Of course he notices. His lip curls, just a fraction, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. The silence says enough.

"...three princes and a corpse that forgot to fall." One of the servants laughed softly. "What was she thinking?"

"Doesn't look like much without a battlefield under his feet."

"Maybe she collects strays." Another laugh. "Gotta feel bad for him, though. Imagine sitting at that table. I'd die."

"Careful. Strays bite when they realize they're not wanted." Laughter overlapped, low and careless.

He heard it earlier. Walking past the servants' quarters. He wasn't eavesdropping—he was just... walking. Trying to find his way back to his room. This palace is a maze and he keeps getting lost and he hates it, hates feeling stupid, hates that he has to ask for directions like a child.

Choso stands there for a moment. His hands curl into fists at his sides, then uncurl. He walks away before he hears the rest.

That night, the training yards echo with violence.

He's been at it for hours. The first dummy is shredded—straw spilling from gashes too deep, too angry. The second isn't much better. The third he's still working on, his sword moving through forms that should be practiced, controlled, but there's something wild in each swing tonight. Something that's been building since the moment he walked into that dining hall.

Attack dog.

Nobody.

What was she thinking?

He brings the blade down again. And again. And again.

His body moves on autopilot—the steps he's known since he could hold a sword, the footwork drilled into him until it became reflex. But his mouth is moving too, whispering words under his breath, repeating them like a prayer or a curse.

"Shallow bow is for equals. Deep bow for superiors. Don't speak unless spoken to. Left hand over right when receiving a cup. Elbows off the table. Elbows off—"

His sword catches on the dummy's frame and rips through, sending straw exploding into the night air. He stumbles forward, catches himself on the post, and stands there breathing hard.

"That one's for equals. No—that one—shit—"

He's still muttering when he hears it. The soft crunch of boots on gravel behind him.

Choso freezes.

His sword drops to his side. His shoulders go rigid. Slowly, like a man walking to his own execution, he turns.

You're standing at the edge of the training yard, half-shadowed by the torchlight. He can't read your expression—he's never been good at reading expressions—but you're watching him. Have been watching, probably, for longer than he wants to think about.

Something hot crawls up the back of his neck.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. The words that come out are quiet, rough, scraped raw from all the others he's been whispering to himself all night.

"I won't embarrass you again."