Naoya's days passed in a strange rhythm: mornings learning to code, afternoons sparring with Megumi, evenings spent meditating on cursed energy flow and control, pushing the limits of barrier techniques, refining every edge of his Domain Expansion.
And every single night, without fail—dealing with his maid, who tried, of course, to kill him. Every day. Without exception.
Attempt No. 12
Naraku had etched the seals under the floorboards days ago, waiting for that precise step.
It came mid-monologue, as Naoya paced the hallway, mocking her with that usual drawl of superiority.
She whispered the trigger.
Boom.
Fire, smoke, silence.
She leaned forward, breath held—had she finally—
The smoke parted.
Naoya emerged, completely unharmed… and that damn smirk still clinging to his lips like it never left.
"You really do love drama," he said.
She barely had time to curse before he was on her—pinning her against the charred wall.
"This is getting expensive." he muttered, glancing at the blackened hallway with a sigh that sounded almost amused.
"So stop coming back," she snapped, thrashing beneath him, her fingernails digging into his forearm.
"Stop making it interesting," he replied, pressing her harder into the wall, his breath hot against her cheek. His voice dropped—low, unapologetic, close enough to burn. "You start fires and act surprised when I walk through them."
Her glare didn't waver, but her pulse betrayed her. He could feel it.
And he took her again—without shame, without hesitation, like claiming what was already his.
…
Attempt No. 15
She rigged the beams above his bed to collapse at midnight, a perfect crush trap.
Then she waited, crouched outside his room, fingers curled in anticipation.
But instead of wood snapping—
She felt his breath ghost against her nape.
"Looking for this?"
He dangled the severed rope beside her ear, his voice soft, cruel.
"I rewired it to your room."
Her eyes widened. A second later—CRACK—a thunderous crash from down the hall.
He spun her into the garden wall, the scent of crushed timber thick in the night air.
"You destroy my property," he murmured, pinning her wrists. "I take yours."
Fingers tangled in her hair, he took her right there, against the stone, every thrust scraping her spine raw.
Dawn found her staggering, legs bruised, mouth silent.
He tossed her the frayed rope as she limped past him.
"Better craftsmanship next time."
…
Attempt No. 20
She dabbed perfume behind her ears—jasmine laced with a neurotoxin. Fatal in high concentration.
As she poured his Soda, she leaned close, letting the scent rise into his lungs.
Naoya's nostrils flared. He sniffed.
"New perfume?" he asked—then dragged her into his lap.
His face buried into her neck, lips brushing her pulse.
"Bold choice."
He inhaled. Deep. Again. And again.
Nothing happened.
"You think I don't filter the air I breathe?" he whispered, voice a low chuckle.
Then he flipped her onto the dining table. Glass shattered. Silverware clattered.
He yanked her maid dress up without ceremony.
"But since you went to the trouble…"
He muffled her curses with her own sleeve, fucking her hard and slow while the scent clung to her like guilt.
By the end, she was dazed—not from the poison, but from the way he grinned, still breathing her in.
"Try again," he murmured, brushing her hair from her eyes.
"I want to see how creative you can get".
…
Two months had passed. And Naoya noticed something.
Naraku been off lately.
Slower. Moody. Snapping at him more than usual, even during the rare hours of false peace. Her cursed energy flared at odd times, uncontrolled. Once, she stumbled during training. Another time, she nearly passed out pouring tea.
Naoya noticed—but said nothing.
Until today.
She was late. Again. For breakfast. For her chores. For the 7th time this month.
He kicked open her door, half-annoyed, half-curious. She sat on the edge of her futon, pale, one hand clutching her stomach. Not like pain—like she was listening to it.
Naoya raised an eyebrow. "What now? You dying or just pretending again?"
She didn't look up.
"Something's wrong," she murmured.
He was about to mock her when he froze.
Something clicked in his brain.
He stepped closer, staring down at her.
She met his gaze—and in that moment, both of them understood.
No words.
Just silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
Finally, she whispered it aloud, as if saying it would make it less real:
"…I'm pregnant."
Naoya blinked. Once.
Then laughed.
Once.
Twice.
Stopped.
"You're not joking."
His voice was flat now. Not amused—unnerved.
She shook her head, stunned herself.
They stared at each other for a long, unbearable moment from Enemies to Parents?
Naoya exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.
"Well," he said dryly, "that explains why your assassination attempts have been so half-assed lately."
She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at his head.
She stood up—too fast.
The nausea hit like a punch in the gut—but she shoved past it, staggering toward him with clenched fists and wild eyes.
"No," she spat. "No. This isn't happening. I'm not—I would never—"
She jabbed a finger into his chest. "This is your fault, you smug piece of—!"
"My fault?" Naoya interrupted, voice smooth, unbothered. "I wasn't the one moaning like you forgot your name."
She slapped him.
It cracked across the air like a curse. His head turned slightly, but he didn't flinch.
Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. Not out of weakness—out of the sheer rage she couldn't find a place to put.
"I'm not keeping it," she hissed.
Naoya's smirk faltered.
"Oh?" he said carefully.
"I'd rather rip it out myself than let something like you grow inside me."
For the first time, he looked at her—not with mockery, but with something colder. Something close to disgust.
"You'd kill your own child just to spite me?" he asked.
She laughed, sharp and bitter. "No. I'd kill your child so I don't become you."
Naoya's jaw tightened. Just a twitch—but it was enough. A crack in the perfect composure.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper.
"Go ahead, then," he said. "Do it. Prove to me that you're still nothing but a tool. A thing built for revenge and violence. No legacy. No future. No one who will remember your name."
She shoved him away.
"You think this changes anything between us?" she snarled. "I'll still kill you. I'll still wipe that smug look off your face. With a knife. With poison. With a damn kitchen fork if I have to."
Naoya leaned in, eyes burning now.
"Then make sure you finish the job," he murmured, "before you get too slow to swing it."
They stared each other down, breathing hard. No affection. No truce. Only shared blood and mutual hate thick in the air.
Then Naraku turned her back on him.
Not in surrender. In defiance.
And Naoya let her go, saying nothing—not because he forgave her, or cared.
But because now, neither of them knew what the next step was.
He stood there a moment longer, staring at the space she left behind.
Then, slowly, a grin pulled at his lips.
"Well," he thought, "maybe this isn't so bad. A perfect opportunity to start Project Toji Fushiguro."
A weapon.A prodigy.Someone who could carry the Zen'in bloodline without the baggage—without weakness, without obedience.
And for some reason, in his mind, Naoya was certain.
It would be a boy.
His voice echoed lazily down the hallway, just loud enough for her to hear as she walked away:
"Make sure to stay healthy, alright?"
Naraku froze for half a second.
Then kept walking—fists clenched, teeth grinding, mind already racing with a dozen new ways to kill him before the child was born.
.......................................
I've decided to write some filler chapters, and I got this wild idea:What if Makima from Chainsaw Man gets reincarnated after her death — as Naoya's daughter — and I write from her point of view?
I don't know if I'm cooking or about to ruin everything… but either way, I'm doing it.