The Hand You're Dealt
You don't get to choose your hand.
You play the cards you're dealt. Reincarnation was exactly that first deal. Some men are born holding four aces; others get garbage that doesn't even make a pair. And once the cards are out, there is no taking them back. No rerolls. That is the cruelty of this game.
The problem was that I still hadn't seen the hand I'd been given.
Heian. The golden age of sorcerers. I knew at least this much: I had landed in that monstrous era when spirits outnumbered people and curses ran like rivers. The moment consciousness returned, spiritual energy so dense it stung the lungs told me the age I'd only ever read about in books was real.
That didn't mean I could simply celebrate.
On the board called Heian, a bad hand meant even the greatest genius never got off the starting line.
I had learned that digging through old records in my previous life. In this age, a house was rank, and blood was a stat sheet. No matter how gifted you were born, no matter how keenly you could see spirits—if your bloodline didn't back you, you never properly learned a single line of sorcery.
Secret arts flowed only through blood, and not a drop leaked to anyone outside it. Being born into the right bloodline. That was the only real strategy this era offered.
In other words, blood was the hand itself—and it decided eighty percent of the match the moment play began.
At the summit of those bloodlines stood five houses.
The Boundary House—masters of space. Those who drew lines between worlds and bent distance to their will.
The Spirit Command House—masters of spirits. Those who tamed shikigami, kept them close, and made them servants.
The Killing House—masters of death by curse. Those who forged grudges and loosed them as weapons.
The Talisman House—masters of charms. Those who sealed sorcery into a single sheet of paper and wielded it.
The Divination House—masters of foresight. Those who read fortune and calamity before they arrived.
Five mountains that had risen a thousand years ago and still had not fallen. A perfect balance in which each checked the others, none tipping an inch—the very sky of the sorcery world.
…One of them had also been the house where I sat as head in my previous life. Well. That story later.
What mattered was this. Landing among those five was four aces. The top hand—the board ended the instant it hit the table. Secret arts poured like a river, and the world itself stepped aside to clear your path.
Fail to land among those five, and below them waited middling mid-tier houses. Cadet branches cut down further still. Fallen houses that had once been great. Places that could brag about good blood, yet held nothing much by way of actual secret arts.
Drop there, and your hand was garbage that didn't even match.
"Young master~ Peekaboo! Look here. Peekaboo!"
A face lunged into my field of view and yanked back out again.
A young woman. Beaming, she shoved her face at me and wagged it left and right. Peekaboo, peekaboo. Mouth stretched wide, eyes round as coins, as if nothing in the world could be more entertaining.
…So. Where exactly have I landed?
I sank into thought. This was the hand I'd been dealt. The Five Great Houses meant a complete reversal of fortune; anything beneath them meant another dull life. So I needed to know, as soon as possible, where this body had—
"Peekaboo! My little one, peeeekaboo!"
No, I get that. Move. Let me look at the ceiling.
She did not move.
Of course not. She couldn't understand me. I opened my mouth to convey intent.
"Uuh."
…That was all that came out.
In my head I had clearly, carefully said, Move aside and let me think. What crawled out of my mouth was a single "uuh," complete with a trail of drool. The woman saw it and nearly fainted with joy.
"Oh my, he just cooed! Our young master cooed!"
…Yes. Of course he did.
This is the trap of reincarnation. Past-life memories intact, a head sharpened over thirty years intact—and the vessel holding them is a newborn. The mind drafts a plan; the body refuses to follow. You can't even steady your own head. Anything a handspan away blurs. Open your mouth and what comes out is nothing but "uuh" or "gweh." The brutal gulf between will and flesh. No one ever warns you that this is a reincarnated protagonist's first trial.
…Stay calm.
If words fail, work with the eyes.
Fortunately the mind was still mine. Scraping clues out of zero information was something I was decently good at. I had grown up in a great house in my previous life; I knew how such places ran, and where class leaked out.
Right. Start with this peekaboo woman.
"Young maaaaster, whoosh~ peekaboo!"
She shoved her face at me again and began bouncing me lightly, up and down, with the ease of long practice.
…Good. While she soothes me, observe.
Her rhythm was steady. She shifted my position before I could even fuss. The angle of the hand supporting my neck held no hesitation. Even mid-bounce, the instant my head threatened to tip, her hand was already there. …This was not the touch of someone who had handled one infant. She had raised more than one or two. A wet nurse. A professional.
That settled one point. They had assigned a dedicated wet nurse to a newborn. What common household had the means to put a professional wet nurse on a baby? At minimum, nobility—and a house that knew how to command people.
On top of that, she smelled of incense. Good incense, burned soft and thin. In this age, incense was a luxury. One burn in a commoner's house sent a month's food up in smoke. If a servant carried a scent this fine, the house she served lived several times better still.
About three days to reach this far. Not bad progress for newborn intelligence work.
The problem was that from here, nothing further resolved. I knew we were noble. Whether that meant one of the Five Great Houses, a middling mid-tier house, or a cadet branch cut down from either—that would not come clear. Incense and a wet nurse were things any respectable house could manage. I still couldn't read the rank of the hand. Four of a kind, or just a single pair. It wouldn't sort.
…I need more information.
But the volume of information available to a newborn has hard limits. Memorizing ceiling patterns, memorizing the wet nurse's humming, counting footsteps outside the door—that was the whole of the reconnaissance.
If only someone would take me outside for a look. The real storehouse of information is never the room; it is beyond it. Every day I stared at the ceiling and prayed someone would pick me up and carry me out.
…My prediction was a little off.
Outside did not come. Instead, people who ought to have been outside kept coming in.
At first I simply took her for someone high-ranking.
The woman who entered when the door opened was of a different grain from the wet nurse. Starting with the clothes. If the wet nurse's garments were luxury goods, this woman's were objects from another world. Silk layered over silk, light sliding with every step. A single ornament in her hair looked as if it might equal the wet nurse's monthly pay.
…A person of high station. Far above the rest of this household.
Someone like that walking into a newborn's room in person? Who was she. The lady of the house, perhaps. I logged a line of evidence and watched her.
She took me from the wet nurse into her arms. And in that instant I logged a second line. This woman was awkward at holding. Not the practiced hands of the wet nurse. Awkward, careful, supporting me as if I might break. Not someone who had held infants often.
…Clumsy hands, yet she insists on holding me herself. Odd.
She looked down at me. Those eyes were a little strange. How to put it—not looking at me so much as looking through me at something farther, more precious. Eyes like that.
"…They said he scarcely smiles."
She brushed my cheek with the barest tip of a finger, murmuring.
"Is it because you take after your mother."
Mother. The word sent my thoughts spinning.
My birth mother.
This woman was my birth mother. That made her the lady of the house—at least the principal wife. If my birth mother was the principal wife, I tilted hard toward direct legitimate heir. Good. The evidence was leaning one way. Excited, I prepared to move to the next inference.
But the woman showed no sign of leaving.
It was not only that day.
The door opened the next day as well. And the day after. Not once every three or four days—almost every day. Some mornings for a short while, some evenings at dusk for a short while. She would sweep in and take me into her arms with the same gesture every time. Still with those clumsy hands.
At first I was simply glad of the added evidence. Birth mother visiting this often = strengthened case for direct line. I was pleased every time I stacked another line in the ledger.
But as the visits piled up, something felt off.
This woman was busy. That much was visible. Every time she entered, her clothes sat a little hurriedly; the attendant who followed kept glancing toward the corridor; if she stayed too long, someone outside sent word. More than one place was looking for her. The lady of a great house was never idle.
And still she came. Whenever a gap opened. No—she made the gaps.
There was one such occasion.
"My lady, you may leave whenever you wish. I will look after the young master carefully."
The wet nurse spoke carefully. The expected words. In this age, noble blood was handed to a wet nurse the moment it was born, and the mother went back to her duties. A brief look-in when she wished to hold the child was enough; keeping distance before attachment formed—that was ordinary for mothers in this world.
But the woman drew me back into her arms and said,
"…I still have a little time."
"But my lady, soon…"
"I will look a little longer, then go."
She smiled faintly. Then, a touch sheepish, she added,
"…He is my son, is he not."
The wet nurse closed her mouth.
I processed the exchange as data. Birth mother; nursing delegated to the wet nurse; yet strong personal will to raise the child herself → near-certain direct legitimate heir.
Good. The bloodline hand was almost fully read.
…Though I did wonder why she went that far. If she was busy, she didn't have to come. The wet nurse's skill wasn't going anywhere.
Well. Fine. One more clue locked in was pure profit for me. Satisfied, I moved on to the next inference.
I had read the bloodline hand. The actual body of the match still would not resolve.
What house was this, exactly. Boundary? Spirit Command? Killing? Or some middling place beneath them? I knew the blood was good; which line it belonged to would not come clear. Even four of a kind—I still couldn't see the suit.
Then it resolved. Entirely by chance.
It was after my mother had left that day as well. The wet nurse was carrying me out of the room when she stopped before a broad chamber at the end of the corridor. The door stood open; people sat in a ring inside. At the center, a grown man—a solidly built fellow—knelt with his back straight.
"…Shall we watch a little?"
The wet nurse muttered to no one in particular and adjusted her hold so she could see better. Thanks to that, so could I.
Something floated before the elder in the seat of honor. Not some low spirit. A beast-form the size of a man, its outline sharp, thick light coiled around it. Even the density of that light was visible to my eyes. It was heavy. A single creature, and the air in the room was taut with it.
The elder pointed at the spirit and spoke to the kneeling man.
"This spirit has refused our hands for three generations. Your father, and your father's father, could not bring it to heel in the end. Rough, fierce, a thing that will not acknowledge a master."
The elder's voice settled low.
"But once tamed, it becomes a servant stronger than anything. Well? As you are now—can you subjugate this spirit."
"…I will try."
The man clenched his teeth and stretched out both hands. Veins stood out on his brow. Force ran through his whole body as he tried to push his own energy into the spirit. The spirit's light surged and thrashed in resistance; the man's hands shook hard.
Subjugation.
To break a spirit and make it yours.
To take that high-grade beast with human hands, tame it, and drive it as a servant. In the cold, spent end-times of my previous life, ten sorcerers together couldn't bind a single low spirit. Here a grown man was staking the house's secret arts to tame something like that.
The moment I saw it—
They see spirits. They subjugate spirits. A house whose family trade has passed that down through the generations.
Scattered clues threaded onto a single line. A professional wet nurse. Luxury incense. A principal wife and birth mother raising the child herself. Direct legitimate heir. And secret arts that drive spirits as servants. This was their pride, their family trade, the sorcery that flowed only through blood.
Risen a thousand years ago, unbroken a thousand years later. One of the five houses that command spirits.
The Spirit Command House.
That was where I had landed.
One of the Five Great Houses. And of them, the house that commanded spirits—the Spirit Command House. What I held was four aces. Not some middling place that bragged about blood and left it at that. Dropped, clean, onto that summit where secret arts poured like a river and the world itself stepped aside.
I, who in my previous life had only to reach out to crush everything—and so had never been able to keep anything close for a lifetime. Of all places. Into a house that kept spirits at its side and drove them as servants.
Subjugation. Subjugation.
That. I. Could do.
The instant the thought arrived, the newborn body reacted first. Arms and legs flailed of their own accord. Something hot surged up from under my ribs and burst straight out of my mouth.
"Uuuwaaaaah!"
"O-oh my! Young master?!"
"Waaaaah! Uuwaaah!"
"W-what's wrong, young master! Does something hurt?!"
The wet nurse jolted and tried to soothe me. Hurt? The opposite. I was too happy. I'd never been able to keep anything beside me my whole life, and here I could tame something of that grade and keep it close. How was I supposed to stay still.
But there was no way to explain that. Everything coming out of my mouth was nothing but "waaah."
"Heavens, all of a sudden… Nurse! Call the wet nurse! Something's wrong with the young master!"
Unable to control my thrashing arms, I only shouted inside.
…Whoa. This is actually incredible.