“Okay, class, now that we’ve covered the essential parts of the Sengoku War, utilize the rest of the period to work on your timeline project,” Miss. Nakamura said, the first words I’ve heard since the beginning of class.

  I released Christine’s thumb so we could focus on the task at hand: Was she going to tell me about Ryo, her family, or the project?

  Which would be quicker? Family affairs are always long situations with blurred lines. So, Ryo.

  “Okay, since we are in the Sengoku period, or the age of the warring states, we’re obviously starting with Kyoto and the Kyotoku Incident.” Her confidence was appealing, and the way she twitched her nose when she made a clever remark was charming. Well, what I could make out from looking at her from my peripheral vision was. I took a deep breath, relaxing my body, eliminating stress.

  Other students moved about the classroom. Some students walked to Miss. Nakamura’s desk, holding sketches of their timeline. But we had more pressing matters to address.

  “Ms. Tsukikage, what’s up with Ryo?” I searched for her eyes for the first time since she addressed me by my last name. Her eyes rushed to meet mine, and then shied away slowly. “Look at me.” I slid my chair closer. Now, sitting side by side.

  “Antwon—” Christine said, but she had not earned the right to call me by my first name.

  “You mean… Mr. Carter?” Her head dropped, and her hands trembled.

  “I’m sorry, but Miss. Nakamura and my mom have… a bad history. Sometimes I feel like she targets me because of it.”

  What does she mean by “bad history?” Does Christine’s mom have skeletons in her closet? I thought. I reflected on what Sakura’s words meant, considering potential dangers.

  “My mom kinda bullied Miss. Nakamura, when they were in high school.” I bit down on my lip, but not because I was bored: I had to find some way to contain the laughter.

  I equated “bad history” to my past life of cracking skulls, taking lives, and ruining futures. But bullying was nothing but—

  “My mom told me that it got so bad that she tried to end her own life.” Something in me resonated with the sorrow in Christine’s voice, but why? I’d never—how did Antwon die? The genie never said.

  “Ask her for markers so we can color our timeline,” a random student said.

  I’ll have to ask the genie to paint me a picture of Antwon’s timeline.

  “How’s their relationship now, Tsukikage?” Knowing this information will better prepare me for future confrontations if I decide to pursue Christine further.

  “My Mom is respectful to Miss. Nakamura, and she tells me to treat her the same way.” I thought back to Miss. Nakamura’s tone when addressing Christine: something was missing, and she wasn’t telling me.

  “Did you know that Miss. Nakamura went to school in this very high school?”

  “I did not,” acting surprised. How could I have known when it’s my first day?

  “My mom thinks that because of how she treated her, she refused to have kids of her own. Do you know how sad that is?” The look in her eyes and softness in her voice told me she was being genuine.

  “Tsukikage, if your relationship with Miss. Nakamura is well, why would she warn me?” In that moment, I considered painfully squeezing for faster information via various means, but I didn’t have the physical strength needed to do that. In my old life, my physical presence was enough to make any woman sing the right tune.

  She sighed, reached for my history book, and opened it. Curious, I leaned in close, smelling her youthful fragrance.

  “Here,” she said, as if the book would answer my question.

  In 1603, Trisshime Tokugawa was appointed Shogun by imperial decree, marking the official end of the Sengoku period and the beginning of the Kokiri era.

  Unlike previous warlords, Trisshime did not rule through armies alone. She led a quiet revolution, uniting the women left behind by generations of war. Through strategic alliances, political marriages, and silent uprisings, she shifted power from the battlefield to the court. Her rule gave rise to the Iron Fan Court and the five clans that still shape Kokiri today.

  “Well,” I said, “that’s…different. My knowledge of Japanese history is vague, but I’m sure there were no female shoguns.”

  Silence filled the air between us, but the sound of students talking, laughing, and enjoying themselves could be heard. Christine held my gaze for a moment before returning to the textbook. “This is my maternal line extending back to Trisshime Tokugawa,” she said softly but proudly.

  “I’m somewhat confused. I get that your lineage dates back to Trisshime, but what does this have to do with your mom?”

  “Right here,” Christine tapped the page, pointing at a picture of women clad in armor.

  A rosy tint rose in her cheeks as she identified three words that must have held some significance.

  They read: Iron Fan Court. “Women from every clan participated in the Battle of the Warring Nations because they were unhappy with so many men being killed in pointless combat, so they took up arms.”

  “Let me show you.” Before I could ask what it meant, she started unbuttoning the lower part of her blouse. She looked around and, cautiously, opened her shirt enough to see the bottom of her bra, exposing a black tattoo of a fan-like object. My face started to warm up, but the meaning behind the tattoo concerned me, taking the majority of my attention.

  “What does it mean?” And what kind of person lets their kids get tatted at fifteen?

  She looked around once again, this time to ensure no one else saw, and then she buttoned up her shirt. “That was the symbol for the Iron Fan Court,” she said, blushing.

  “Is that some kind of club?”

  “No, Carter. It’s the symbol of—” She looked around and signaled for me to lean in, so I did. “It’s the symbol of my clan’s gang.”

  My eyes widened, and I slowly turned to Christine. I wanted to slap her and tell her to get out while she’s young. I was battling paralysis: I couldn’t speak due to the impact of the information. Alas, I found the words.

  “Why, Christine?” I whispered. “Do you know what being in a gang means?” Defensively, she put her hands up to calm me down, but I slid my chair away. My mind raced faster than a getaway driver during a bank heist, and then I noticed Miss. Nakamura, looking in my direction. I looked at her, still wearing the impact of Christine’s reveal, and she gave me an approving nod, as if expecting my reaction.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Carter, it wasn’t my choice.” I turned once again, now with wrath, but mindful of the environment.

  She motioned for me to lean in again, so, reluctantly, I did.

  “Carter, it’s a familial thing that is passed down from generation to generation.” The look in her eyes told me that she wasn’t making it up. “Tsukikage, what do you mean? How can they prove you were born into this clan?” I thought about the name Trisshime Tokugawa.

  Christine’s last name was different, so the connection must be wrong. So, I said, “Christine, your last name is different, so how can your connection be familial?”

  “So, after the Sengoku period came to an end, Trisshime Tokugawa implemented a system to track their maternal lineage using first names. This way, both men and women are honored—men by their last name, and women by their first”.

  The Japanese were famed for their historical connection and attachment to their heritage, but this goes beyond anything I’ve ever encountered; if her lineage is this deeply rooted, then her family practically runs the country.

  “Also, if you still consider us… You know, then you have to get one as well.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t think of a more elaborate question. The history and traditions of this world made no sense to me.

  “So that…Everyone knows that you belong…to me,” she said with fractured confidence.

  “You can,” her voice was shaky, and I could feel the weight of her breath, “get one in the same location, if that will bring us closer.”

  You mean, belong to you, like a small animal? The concept seemed wrong, but it somewhat mirrored human trafficking, where people were branded by those who bought them. I’ve only been free for one day, and the one person I…like is about to collar me.

  “Wow,” I said, “that’s a lot to take in. Christine, if I agree, would you settle for a hand tattoo?” As I thought of the pain she endured, I rejected the idea of being marked under my ribs.

  She gasped. “Antwon, don’t joke like that.” She scowled at me for the first time, leaving me speechless. She sighed, “I guess you wouldn’t know. Clans only use visual tattoos on women who want to represent their set, or guys who dishonor the clan.”

  The first part of her statement was understandable; representing your faction was honorable in my lifetime, with people showcasing full-body tattoos. As for the second part, what must one do to be dishonored? My eyes drifted in search of an answer.

  The busy class buzzed like a beehive, with students cutting, coloring, and gluing things to poster paper.

  Dishonor, I thought. What happens to a dishonored man when guys are coddled in this world? So what must one do to be dishonored? “Why can’t guys have visible tattoos?” After a moment, I realized that I spoke the words instead of thinking them.

  “No, the way clans are set up won’t allow it because viewable tattoos are a sign of shame,” she scribbled something onto a piece of paper. “There. Take this to Miss. Nakamura and get our poster paper, please, Carter.”

  “But why?”

  I could feel my face molding into a pout because she knew I wasn’t done asking questions. Nervously, she played with her pencil, and I found myself glaring insidiously at her for pushing me out of the conversation. I grumbled nothing, but made it sound mean, causing Christine’s eyes to dart away.

  My journey to Miss. Nakamura would be short and expected since Christine and I were positioned in the middle of the classroom, and Miss. Nakamura glared at me periodically.

  As I walked. Miss. Nakamura prepared herself for my arrival by tensing up.

  “Mr. Carter,” she said, “ I hope you and Ms. Tsukikage talked.” The concerned yet hopeful look on her face told me what she wanted to hear: that we talked, and I hadn’t agreed to her union. But I had not decided.

  “Hey, Miss. Nakamura.” I paused because asking her what a visible tattoo means for men would imply false intentions. And after seeing her in the hallway, I wouldn’t want her to overreact. “Here’s our rough draft.”

  She slowly accepted the draft. “Did she talk about her familial situation?” Her eyes never left me, waiting for a response.

  “We did.”

  “And,” she asked without hesitation. It felt like I was being interrogated, but this time there was no good cop to sweeten the deal. If I didn’t tell her, what could she do to me?

  A mischievous smile grew. “I would like our poster paper, please.” I wouldn’t let anyone control me.

  “I’m calling your sister, Mr. Carter.” Her words stung like daggers to my sides, quietly dispatching me.

  “We talked, okay,” I said, but her hungry eyes craved more. “And I don’t know what I want.” I looked away, ashamed to have considered a girl her age. Is Ms. Tsukikage a bad person?” I asked, hoping for more insight.

  “You tell me; you’ve known her for a year now.” So that’s how it is. For all I know, she could have pursued Antwon in the past. “My concern isn’t with Christine, Mr. Carter, but Christine’s familial activity and lineage. So, be careful because making the wrong decision has lasting consequences.” A warning that rang true.

  “Christine isn’t the only one you need to be careful around.

  She handed me a piece of poster paper. “Right.” I accepted the poster paper and went back to my seat. For some reason, walking back felt longer.

  “That took a while. Did you guys talk about…me?”

  A fair question, but she prematurely ended our conversation, which soured my mood. I sat down quietly and presented her with the poster paper. “Carter, did I do something wrong?” It’s obvious, but why can’t you see that?

  “Carter, we should get started on our timeline, okay?” And just like that, I was the bad guy. Also, I didn’t like it when she addressed me by my last name; however, I started this crap. How do I get out of it?

  Genie: Might I recommend issuing an apology?

  I jumped as if kicked in the shin at the prospect of holding two challenging conversations, Pis—please go away, and stop correcting my language! My outward expression had shifted, reflecting my inner turmoil due to the look on Christine’s face.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Car—”

  “Don’t call me that!” I had said too loudly, catching the attention of the surrounding students. Flushed, I pretended to read from the textbook as giggles and whispers enveloped us.

  “What do you want me to call you?” Christine asked with caution

  I wanted her to call me bro or Antwon. I secretly craved for her hand to embrace mine, no matter what she did to me. Should I feel this way about a fifteen-year-old girl whom I’ve only known for three periods? Considering my understanding of this world, it's possible that Antwon and Christine have an extended history.

  Even so, wouldn't she be able to recognize the difference between us?

  “What should I call you?” I forgot I had cut her off. The look on her face matched my emotional dissonance and caused my heart to spiral because I promised her that I wouldn’t hurt her.

  Genie: Slowly, Antwon extended his hand, softly touching Christine’s shoulder, surrendering her attention

  Our eyes locked as I provided reassurance by gently touching her shoulder. I could feel her body heat through her white blouse. However—

  Genie: Antwon’s gaze grew weak, dropping to the textbook, ashamed to have committed egregious acts of ostracizing his paramour, toying with her emotional desire to connect, and dismissing her maternal lineage.

  Let's dial it back a bit.

  Genie: Suddenly, Antwon found the strength to confront the lingering gaze, muttering the words, Call me your husband.

  I looked up, finding the words, and said: “Just call me bro, sis.” The uneasy feeling of longing for something—someone returned. I didn’t know if this was a mistake. “But I still need to know why Miss. Nakamura wants us to split up.

  Genie: Oh, my.

  The warmth emanating between us filled my chest. I reached for her hand with bitter uncertainty, but the gravity in her smile gave my decision weight.

  If I said yes, I would be back where I started—tethered to a legacy I didn’t ask for, but with someone I could grow to love.

  However, saying no doesn’t mean I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. It means I’ll have to try with someone else, while avoiding the lascivious gaze of my protective sister, who isn’t half bad; this world isn’t half bad.

  Her guarded smile was reassuring, signaling that she was more prepared than I was. And I was ready to tell her that.

  “Christine, I—”

  ***

  “What’s up, losers?” a voice rang out.

  A pair of unfamiliar hands covered Christine’s eyes. She gasped.

  Her warmth vanished, and her hand tore away from mine. The guarded smile that steadied me disappeared—replaced by a cold, stoic emptiness; I grew angry, but my anger didn’t come from recognition; it came from the way she pulled back; from how fast her light went out the moment he touched her.