Meijin

by aospare

Summary:

Matsuno Kamo was born blessed: a powerful name, a distinguished technique, and an extra life's worth of memory. Too bad she's a lesbian arranged to marry a boy, has literally no friends, and the world is about to end. Well, at least she'll always have Mobile Suit Gundam.

An SI/OC fic with an emphasis on action, some politics, and giant robots.

Chapter 1: 0.0 - Winds of War

I fiddled with my Full-Armor Gundam, trying to get it to stand upright on the table. The HG Thunderbolt kits were pretty great, considering their age, but the Full Armor just had too many sub-arms and shields to stand up without the help of a special base. In fact, this kit did come with its own base – an oddity, among HGs – but for my needs, I’d been forced to leave it behind in my room. I could have used my cursed technique to make it stand up on its own, but that felt like cheating. The beauty of a model was in the way its lack of movement suggested an infinite range of potential motions.

“Are you paying attention, Kamo?” Maki snapped.

I looked up. All six of us had been crammed into a tiny little room on the edge of the grounds for the Goodwill Event. It probably would have been fine normally, but Panda alone took up twice the normal space. Itadori and Fushiguro looked at me in concern; I wasn’t normally very airheaded, but I was stressed out and I tended to fiddle when stressed.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m listening. And don’t call me Kamo.”

I gave in and used my technique to animate the model kit. Life surged through its plastic joints. It settled on the table, knees bending slightly under its own weight. Strictly unnecessary, since my cursed energy was doing the actual animating, but a little verisimilitude never hurt anyone. The sub-arms rotated pleasingly, as if testing out their range of motion.

It was a pretty nice day out, for September. Chilly, but I liked it when it ran a little cold. The sky was clear, too. In just a few hours, it would be covered in a barrier. On the plus side, no one was supposed to die today, unless I somehow screwed things up.

“Itadori won’t lose in a fight without cursed energy,” Fushiguro said. “And Matsuno is best at a distance.”

“He can handle Todo, then,” Maki said. “And Matsuno can deal with the broom girl, to keep her from scouting out the cursed spirits.”

I looked down at my phone, eagerly hoping for a message. Come on, Kamo Clan. Surely you weren’t going to leave everything up to the Kyoto kids, not when you’ve got an agent right here in Tokyo. Just one little message…

“Are you okay?” Itadori asked me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “To be totally clear, I think Fushiguro should handle the witch.”

“But Fushiguro has the best chance of stopping their Kamo,” Panda said.

A minor disagreement broke out, and I looked back at my phone. Come on… Just send the order. Please, please tell me to kill Itadori. My phone buzzed, and I pulled the phone close to my face in excitement. A new message, from Nobumasa Kamo:

“Ensure that Sukuna’s Vessel does not survive the group stage.”

Yes!

“They’re going to try to kill Itadori!” I blurted out.

When everyone turned to look at me in shock, I turned my phone around. Fushiguro and Maki leaned in to read it, but Itadori scrambled forward and grabbed it out of my hands.

“Whoa!” he said. “They really are!”

He passed my phone off to Inumaki, who showed it to Panda. Itadori, who was standing in the middle of the room, got his legs kicked out by Fushiguro and dropped back down to a kneeling position.

“We should all stick with Itadori,” Maki argued. “If they aren’t going for points, then our priority is keeping him alive.”

“Noritoshi will try to kill him for sure,” I said. “But we don’t know if everyone will go along with it. Is Todo the type to follow orders?”

My question brought Maki up short. I knew the answer, of course, but I couldn’t say it. I had to hope that she would draw the correct conclusions.

“Let’s let Itadori and Todo fight it out,” Maki said. “We probably can’t stop Todo anyway. Instead, we go on the offensive: beat the shit out of those losers from Kyoto before the can do anything.”

“Salmon,” Inumaki said, and the plan was settled.

“One request,” I said. “I have to be the one to fight Noritoshi.”

“You told me yourself that you’ve never beaten him,” Fushiguro said. “Will you be okay?”

“He’ll be expecting me to go at him with the Bone Blood Samurai,” I said. “He doesn’t know anything about my new tools. Besides, even if I lose, I think he’ll be shocked enough to stay out of things.”

“Really?” Maki asked. “He’s semi-Grade 1, you know.”

I flexed my metal arm, feeling its joints click. My Full Armor Gundam floated off the table and came to rest on my shoulder.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said. “After all, it’s been a whole year since he’s seen his innocent, darling fiancée. I’m sure he’ll want to catch up.”

#

Notes:

As with all my fics, this story is fully complete and was originally posted on Spacebattles. You can read the whole thing there, as well as a number of side-stories and omakes that will always remain on that site. I will try to upload a chapter a day here until I have the whole thing archived on here, but don't hate me if I forget a day now and then.

A few notes: This is a pretty self-indulgent fic, in that I wanted to write something action-oriented. In some ways, this is a JJK/All of Mecha Anime crossover, in the sense that the main character uses plastic models as weapons. There is no romance. Sorry. I hope you enjoy Meijin!

Chapter 2: 1.1 - Coming Home

I stood still so my mother could dress me in a kimono. My father was off in another room, making his own preparations for our trip. My mother had finished dressing herself an hour ago, and now she was fretting over how I looked. She’d already re-tied the kimono twice, trying to make sure it fit me perfectly. I don’t think she appreciated how patient I was being; most four-year-olds wouldn’t have let someone work them over like this without throwing a tantrum.

It was August 8th, 2007, the day of my fourth birthday. We were scheduled to meet with the head of the Kamo Clan later today. According to my parents, we’d met him last year on my birthday as well, but I didn’t remember that since I’d only regained consciousness a few months ago. I guess it was standard practice for the clan head to meet with each child of the clan once a year. I hadn’t seen him in the few months I’d been aware of myself, and I’d really been paying attention.

Being reborn into Jujutsu Kaisen was probably the tradeoff I had to make for being born as a girl this time, but I would take that trade. I’d gotten lucky, too, being born as a member of the Kamo Clan; there was plenty to complain about, but there was no denying that all the basics and more were provided for. I didn’t want for food, shelter, or enrichment. My parents were rarely around, but they were both alive. Plus, I wasn’t likely to get offed by a cursed spirit, growing up surrounded by sorcerers.

Once my mother was satisfied with my kimono, she led me out the front door of our house. We lived, like most Kamo sorcerers, on the family compound. We had a detached house decently far from the main mansion, where the Head lived and where major clan centers like the assembly hall and the library were held. We had plenty of neighbors, all in their own little detached houses; the estate abutted up against a small mountain, which the Kamo owned. It was like living in a walled-in town where everyone was related.

We walked from our house through the village, my parents on either side of me. In the first few months I’d been aware of my surroundings, I thought I’d been reincarnated into the Edo Period. Everyone I’d met wore traditional clothing, without exception. Most rooms were lit without the use of electricity, and I’d never seen a television or radio anywhere on the compound. If it weren’t for the fact that my parents had cellphones, and occasionally talked about driving places, I wouldn’t have had a clue I was still in the present day.

Both my parents were sorcerers, but not particularly good ones. They had cursed techniques, but nothing inherited or noteworthy within the clan. That meant that they were entitled to housing on the compound but were expected to work hard to pay for it. I spent a lot of time with nannies or in the compound daycare while my parents took multi-week trips to complete as many assignments as possible.

I’d struggled with speaking, too. Kids learned their first language pretty easily by listening to the people around them, but I still had English rattling around in my brain and I’d had a rough time learning Japanese as well. That made the daycare attendants tell my parents that I might be having learning issues, and suddenly they paid even less attention to me. That was shitty of them, but common sense for a jujutsu family was probably different. I didn’t really want a strong relationship with my new parents, so I wasn’t furious, but it definitely didn’t make me think very highly of them.

They’d given me a lot of attention today, however, probably terrified I’d say something stupid in front of the clan head. Sure, a small part of me wanted to be annoying just to make them lose face, but I knew better than to ask for trouble like that. My current arrangement – being ignored – was working out just fine while I tried to figure out this whole Japanese language thing.

As we made our way to the main house, passing members of the clan greeted us warmly. The social divisions in the Kamo family were clear: my parents, despite being below-average sorcerers, were still sorcerers, and there was nothing better to be for a Kamo. Servants, also all Kamo, bowed to us as we passed; those who served were born without cursed energy, or so little that they had no viable path forward. Other sorcerers gave my parents solemn nods of greeting. Ironically, despite being the birthday girl, I didn’t get any acknowledgement.

The Kamo Clan was, despite being a traditional family obsessed with bloodlines and tradition, a meritocracy at its core. If you weren’t born with enough cursed energy, even being the child of the clan head, you could be cast down into servitude. An advantage of being three – now four – was that adults spoke pretty freely around me, especially since I was supposedly too dumb to understand them. As a result, I’d managed to piece together that the clan head’s trueborn son was born without cursed energy and had only been spared being immediately sent down to work as a servant due to his young age.

The latest rumor, which I’d picked up only yesterday afternoon, was that the clan head had another son, one with not only large amounts of cursed energy but also an inherited technique. That, I assumed, was Noritoshi Kamo – the good one, I mean. Noritoshi was seven, which meant he was three years older than me. I’d have thought he’d only be two years older than me; I knew I would be 15 in 2018, during canon, the same as Nobara, Itadori, and Fushiguro. As a third year, Noritoshi should have been 17, but maybe ages at jujutsu school were more flexible.

We approached the main house. Technically, there was no gate or barrier separating it from the rest of the compound. In practice, there was an aura about the place that kept you away if you didn’t have business there. It might have been an actual jujutsu barrier of some kind, or it might just have been that it was a sprawling, forbidding building, made entirely of dark wood. The wind rarely blew here, so the front garden was totally still as we made our way to the front door. There was a guard at the door, dressed in a hakama with a katana at his waist, but he simply bowed to us as we entered.

The inside of the main hall was lit entirely by exposed torches. It cast everything in a red glow. Small plinths up and down the hall displayed priceless pieces of porcelain. I hadn’t been in here in the time since I had regained consciousness. I craned my neck in curiosity, but my parents dragged me across the hall quickly. We reached a sliding paper door with natural light shining through. My parents paused in front of the door and bowed their heads. I mirrored them.

“Come,” someone said. My father reached out and slid the door open.

The main house was built as a series of interconnected squares, with the space between hallways being reserved for gardens. This was a rock garden, I was pretty sure, though my knowledge of traditional Japanese architecture was lacking. I could tell it was perfectly maintained, however. At the center of the garden stood a man in a black haori. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, and like every Kamo he had black hair kept in a longer style. He did have, delightfully, a rather full moustache. His face was perfectly still, neither smiling nor frowning.

My parents bowed deeply, and I hurried to follow them.

“Matsuo-sama,” my father said. “My I present to you our daughter, Matsuno, on the day of her fourth birthday.”

Huh, I’d had no idea the clan head and I had such similar names. I wondered if my parents had given me the name Matsuno as a way of sucking up to him. I looked up from my bow to look at Matsuo-sama. He kept his arms folded into his sleeves as he regarded me. I was too distracted to look for long, though.

A strange creature was lurking on one of the stones behind Matsuo-sama. It had fluttering insect wings and the head of a fly. If I had to guess, it was probably about a foot and a half tall. Insects weren’t meant to be that big, and I was bad with bugs to begin with, so I’m not ashamed to say that it scared the shit out of me. For now, it seemed content to just sit there and buzz, oozing a gross looking fluid out of its gross body.

I realized abruptly that I was ignoring the clan head, but when I glanced back at him he was watching me with what I can only think of was his version of affection: a very slight creasing near the edges of his eyes.

“Do you see something, Matsuo?” he asked. His voice was hoarse and cracked. Despite not looking around fifty, he sounded decades older.

“A cursed spirit, Matsuo-sama,” I said. I was suddenly aware of how flawed my Japanese was.

“Describe it,” he said.

“It has a fly’s head, and wings. It’s nearly two feet tall. It’s on a rock behind you.”

Matsuo-sama nodded, then whipped his right hand out of his sleeve and gestured behind him. The cursed spirit disappeared in a fraction of a second. No, it hadn’t disappeared – he’d exploded it somehow, so quickly and cleanly that it left no residue behind. I barely kept myself from jumping back in shock.

“Congratulations, Junpei and Keiko,” Matsuo-sama said. “She may begin classes tomorrow.”

Oh, were those my parents’ names?

#

Sure enough, my schedule changed drastically the next day. No longer was I deposited at the daycare all day. Instead, both my parents took me to a large lodge about a five-minute walk from our home. Unlike the main house, this building was bright, with wide windows for natural light. I saw a handful of Kamo men idling about, each with katana. Only when we went inside did I realize it was a dojo of some kind.

I began a new set of classes. I kept up with my regular language instruction like I had at the daycare, but I also started receiving classes on the history of the Kamo Clan, instruction on sensing my cursed energy, and the very basics of wielding a sword. Nothing more dangerous than some forms and getting used to the grip, but holding even a wooden sword was very exciting for me.

Cursed energy, I learned, did not feel very pleasant to use. It itched and burnt at me, even when I had it perfectly under control. By channeling my negative feelings, I could make it stronger and more pliable. I was told this was usually the hard part of cursed energy, since most children didn’t have strong enough control over their emotions or enough negative experiences to make it work. I, meanwhile, had a lifetime of negative experiences to draw on, and so I jumped ahead in my lessons.

I went from spending most of my time eavesdropping to most of my time working. My parents suddenly found the time to be in the house with me, too, now that I’d proven my potential worth to the Kamo Clan. Either my mother or my father would pick me up at the end of each day of instruction and meet with my instructor on cursed energy, an elderly woman named Kyoko. At home, they would talk to me about my day and lead me in simple cursed energy exercises before bed. I wasn’t sure I liked all the extra attention, but getting nighttime instruction meant it didn’t take me more than a month to figure out how to keep my cursed energy from leaking out.

According to Kyoko, I had a promising amount of cursed energy, too. It was likely I would end up being stronger than my parents, though that would of course depend on however my cursed technique manifested. My speed at figuring out cursed energy suppression meant, however, that I was deemed to be a “promising student.” This was a stark reversal of fortune considering just a few weeks before I’d been considered one of the dumbest kids my age due to my language troubles. The fact that the basic math questions they had me work on were ridiculously easy only made me look better.

Being a talented kid with a weak spot for language wasn’t so bad. In fact, it meant that I got less math instruction than originally planned so my tutors could figure out how to shore up my Japanese, which was a nice bonus. I wasn’t in genius territory – I wasn’t exactly volunteering to show off that I could do algebra – but I wanted the clan to think of me as someone worth investing in. I needed to be able to go toe-to-toe with special grade curses by the time I was 15 if I wanted to stay alive. The best way to do that was to get the best instruction the clan was willing to give me.

I’d been worried, at first, that getting special tutoring would involve some kind of medieval instruction method, like beating me to make my cursed energy stronger or throwing me into pits to fight dozens of cursed spirits. I guess what I knew of the Zenin Clan couldn’t be applied to all the Great Families, since nothing like that happened. In fact, I hadn’t even seen a cursed spirit since my birthday. The Kamo Clan were a traditional, conservative clan, and that extended to their training methods. I received proven, methodical instruction designed to make me a well-rounded sorcerer.

They knew, for instance, that young children were often stunted by too much physical exercise from too young an age. My time with the sword was closely monitored, and every physical activity they set before me was age appropriate. I was not, for instance, getting into daily Naruto-style training fights with the other kids my age. There was no attempt, either, to rush the development of my cursed technique. The Kamo Clan were a very patient group of people. The education plan I was on was one that had been developed and perfected over the course of centuries, and while minor adjustments could be made for individual talents, there was no attempt to “jump the line” and produce a prodigy.

I heard plenty of complaining about the Gojo Clan doing just that, from my tutors and from people around the compound. Satoru Gojo was undeniably the strongest sorcerer in the world, but the Gojo Clan basically amounted to nothing without him. They fielded the least number of sorcerers among the three great families, and their average level was much lower to boot. If it weren’t for Satoru Gojo, a literal freak of nature and once-in-five-centuries accident, then they would have been in a terrible position politically.

The Kamo Clan prided itself on providing Jujutsu HQ with the most active sorcerers of any family. Every Kamo sorcerer could be expected to perform to a certain level. For us, it was a matter of stability and influence. HQ itself was heavily staffed with Kamo sorcerers and elders, and sorcerers across Japan owed one Kamo or another their life for assistance provided during missions. The Kamo had deep institutional power over HQ; what they did not have was a silver bullet.

The pinnacle of Kamo family sorcerer was blood manipulation, and it was for that reason alone that Noritoshi had been made clan heir and that we all now referred to him as Noritoshi-sama. But if anyone truly thought the peak of the Kamo’s inherited techniques, blood manipulation, stood up to the peak of the Gojo or Zenin families, then they were deluding themselves. We simply couldn’t compete with monsters like Satoru Gojo. I could only imagine how badly people would flip when they heard that the Zenin now had a Ten Shadows user, even if he wasn’t affiliated directly with the clan.

I only had a few problems with my new life. For one, I was completely and totally socially isolated. Besides Noritoshi-sama, there were no other kids my age on track to become a sorcerer on my caliber, and he was far too important to share lessons with someone like me. Even when my parents were both gone on a mission, something that was becoming increasingly rare, I was babysat by Kyoko instead of sent to the daycare. If I were an actual four-year-old, I would have grown up to be terribly socially stunted. Actually, that explained a lot about how Noritoshi turned out.

There was no way that regular kids were supposed to spend eight hours a day in classes followed by even further instruction in home, not at this age. I suspected my tutors were waiting for me to throw a tantrum in the first few months, but when one never came they just decided I was mature and kept up the pace.

The other problem was that there was practically nothing to do for fun around here. The Kamo didn’t have TV, or even books for leisure. The most I could do to amuse myself was read historical texts, which weren’t so bad when jujutsu was involved. In a way, it was like a fun little easter egg hunt, looking for mentions of sorcerers who I knew Kenjaku would bring back at some point in the future. I spent plenty of time looking for info on Sukuna, but the fact was that all the contemporary historical accounts just said something along the lines of “he was way too strong.”

This was considered a very suitable hobby for me to take up, and my parents and Kyoko approved. I could really do with some anime, or video games, or even just a plain old novel. Sure, I knew that if I didn’t get strong fast enough I’d die an ignominious death in high school, but no one could train and study all day every day. God, what I would give for just a model kit.

When I turned five, my classes amped up in intensity. I couldn’t handle much more physically, so my sword lessons mostly remained about forms and posture, but my normal education picked up in pace. That hardly bothered me, since I was well above the level they expected for everything but Japanese. I’ll admit to a small amount of delight in astounding Kyoko at how quickly I mastered her lessons, especially as my Japanese improved. It was kind of nice to breeze through school effortlessly.

I managed to pick up my first hobby besides reading old Kamo scrolls, too, and it was thanks to Kyoko noticing that I was too easily bored in her class. She arranged for me to meet Haruka, her granddaughter, twice a week to learn ikebana. Haruka was young, maybe in her early twenties, and very pregnant, which explained why she had enough free time to give lessons to a random five-year-old.

Despite what I’d assumed, I had a bunch of fun with flower arranging. It was a complex and subtle art, and it engaged the creative part of my brain I’d been forced to suppress for years. Even better, there were dozens and dozens of books and scrolls owned by the Kamo Clan I could read about ikebana. Just like all my old hobbies, I went deep. Every minute of free time I won for myself was spent reading about ikebana.

If I hadn’t been so starved for something, anything to do, I doubt it would have resonated with me so deeply. As it was, I was more excited for ikebana lessons than I was for even learning to used cursed energy, especially because I was still at an age where I couldn’t get to the fun stuff yet. An upside of my new training and new set of genetics was that I had absolute control over my body, which made the fiddly, physical parts of ikebana trivial. In my old life, I’d struggled with the finer parts of physical manipulation. The less said about the nubs left on my gunpla, the better.

The Kamo Clan had extensive gardens of well-maintained flowers, and the caretakers were all too happy to let a little sorcerer-in-training take a clipping. Getting vases was a little trickier, but for some reason the Kamo Clan had an extensive series of workshops in the compound, and with some sweet talking I was able to secure a few samples from the kiln for my lessons. 

Haruka, even six months pregnant, was absurdly elegant. My parents had attempted to teach me some etiquette but I hadn’t tried very hard and Kyoko hadn’t gotten there yet. Instead, I learned by mimicking Haruka’s refined posture and movements to learn by example. Haruka, who never spoke an unnecessary word, was happy to let me follow after her but never acknowledged my efforts. That was fine; I mostly craved her praise for my flower arrangements. It was fun, freely exploring a new art form, one where I wasn’t being strictly evaluated and judged for my skill.

Around halfway through my fifth year, I started to pick up that Kyoko was getting concerned about something. Like all Kamo, she was highly restrained and showed no emotion. In her old age, she was even better at hiding her feelings than my parents, who sometimes let their desires show through on their faces. The only reason I could tell that Kyoko was getting worried was because she had me attempt to activate my cursed technique multiple times a week, instead of only once.

With some targeted questioning, she admitted that sorcerers usually activated their cursed technique shortly after using cursed energy. Children typically took longer to figure it out, but a year was average. The fact that I had now been successfully controlling my cursed energy for 18 months and had shown no sign of having a cursed technique was cause for worry, especially because I had so easily mastered all Kyoko’s other lessons.

Still, I was once again pleased with the Kamo Clan’s resistance to taking extreme measures. Rather than throw me up against cursed spirits to see if danger would activate my cursed technique, Kyoko simply continued our exercises as normal. She theorized that my technique was either not fully developed or had some kind of special activation condition, and that I shouldn’t worry about rushing into using it when there was still plenty to practice with just basic cursed energy. Evidently, sorcerers with absolutely no cursed technique were unbelievably rare, so she didn’t see a reason to jump to conclusions. That kind of linear thinking seemed dangerous for sorcerers in a fight, but I wasn’t going to argue in this case.

Just the simple uses of cursed energy were anything but. I had to figure out how to direct it to different parts of my body, how to circulate it quickly through my body, and how to direct it while still retaining control. Those basics were the kind of thing a sorcerer could spend their life improving, but even I eventually grew bored of just practicing speeding up and slowing down my cursed energy. Fortunately, I finally figured out my technique shortly before my sixth birthday.

It happened in one of my sword lessons. My instructor, Ichiro-sensei, was around Kyoko’s age but an expert in the blade. When he deigned to show me what it looked like when an expert was trying, usually against a dummy, he moved faster than I could see. To put it simply, he was cool as hell, if kind of annoying to work with. Recently, we’d been working on extending my cursed energy into my sword. I hadn’t even begun training in actual sword combat, just katas, but Ichiro believed that a sorcerer should never use a sword seriously without filling it with cursed energy.

To test my grip, Ichiro would periodically lash out with his own wooden katana. If I wasn’t pushing enough cursed energy into my blade, it would go spinning across the room and I would have to go run and fetch it. We’d been on the exercise for about a week, and I’d finally gotten up to being able to resist his attacks around half of the time, which I felt was good progress. Ichiro, on the other hand, didn’t bother telling me if that was good or bad. He was a real believer in self-motivation, Ichiro.

I narrowed my eyes in focus. Extending my cursed energy into the blade wasn’t hard, it was keeping the blade suffused with enough energy to matter that was the issue. I had to continually circulate my own energy in my body to give it enough velocity to go up the blade, and I had to move enough energy for it to “stick,” so to speak. Ichiro swung his blade, and I felt confident about my chances until I noticed his sword moving far faster than it had before.

Instead of resisting the attack, or my blade going flying, the katana I was holding shattered into pieces. The splinters flew backwards and sliced my hand up, though fortunately none reached my face.

“Ah!” I yelled, dropping what remained of my blade. My blood dripped down onto it and soaked into the tatami.

“My apologies, Matsuno-chan,” Ichiro said. He produced, seemingly from nowhere, a handkerchief which he passed off to me. I immediately wrapped my hands. I don’t think Ichiro cared so much that I was injured, but rather that he had lost control and accidentally used too much force. Control was everything to a Kamo.

“No problem, Ichiro-sensei,” I said. 

Circulating my cursed energy had become so second-nature by this point that I hadn’t even stopped when my sword had exploded. I noticed a new sensation, like I’d suddenly gained a third limb. It was so odd a feeling, like nothing I’d ever felt before, that I couldn’t help but make a dumbfounded expression.

“Matsuno?” Ichiro asked.

“I – I feel something. I think it’s my cursed technique.”

Ichiro’s face took on an expression I’d never seen before: glee.

“Is it your blood?” he asked, breathlessly.

“Yes,” I said. “But no. It’s not blood manipulation.”

Ichiro watched my hand, still bleeding onto my sword.

“Wait just a moment. Don’t stop bleeding,” he said, then swept out of the room, half-running.

Don’t stop bleeding, sheesh. Common sense for sorcerers truly was different. I hopped in place and shook my hand to keep the blood flowing, all while trying to figure out exactly what the hell was going on with my cursed energy. It was like I’d displaced a portion of it into my broken katana, though no matter what I tried I couldn’t get it to do anything.

Ichiro returned in a hurry, something small clasped in his hand. He held it out to me. A small, wooden tiger sat in his palm.

“Blood,” he said.

I held my hand over his and let the blood drop onto the tiger, keeping my cursed energy circulating. Instantly, I felt a connection to the miniature. With an easy thought, it stood up in Ichiro’s hand and began to prowl about in his palm. I gasped in delight.

“Still Life Blood Animation,” Ichiro breathed. “Congratulations, Matsuno-sama.”

Finally, my cursed technique! Wait, Matsuno-sama?

#

Chapter 3: 1.2 - Breakthrough

After making sure I had stopped bleeding, Ichiro took me and my wooden tiger out of the training hall. He hurried me across the compound, ignoring the confused looks we got from passing clan members. I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out he was taking me to the center of the compound. I steeled myself for another intense meeting with the clan head.

Sure enough, when we arrived at the main house the gate guard quickly stepped aside to allow us entrance. To my surprise, Matsuo-sama was waiting for us just inside the entryway. With a contemptuous glance he sent Ichiro scurrying away, leaving us alone together.

“Follow,” he said. He sounded even worse than when I’d seen him two years ago, like he was choking on phlegm.

I followed without question. The training hall I used was nice, but it couldn’t hold up to the glory of the main house. The floors were perfectly smooth, polished wood. Beautiful statuary and flowers adorned the hallways. As we walked, we passed a series of gardens, each immaculately maintained. There were no solid gold statues or jewel-encrusted swords on the wall, but every item we passed stank of History and Significance. It was a level of wealth far beyond ostentatiousness.

Matsuo threw open a sliding door and we stepped into a tatami-mat covered room. We were surrounded on all sides by racks of weapons: spears, bows, katanas, axes, you name it. At the center of the room sat a small porcelain crane, no more than six inches tall, its wings folded and a single leg raised. Next to it was an unsheathed knife.

We proceeded to the center of the room, but before Matsuo-sama could give me any instruction we were interrupted by the pounding of feet on the wooden floor. They slowed to a stop just outside the dojo, and the door was slowly opened to reveal my father, trying very hard to not look out of breath.

“Junpei,” Matsuo said. “Sit.”

My father meekly obeyed, falling into a seiza on the edge of the dojo. Geez, when had Ichiro found time to notify the main house and my parents of this meeting? He’d been out of my sight for less than two minutes, all told. Sorcerers were wild.

Matsuo went directly to the bird and knife, so I followed. We sat on opposite sides of the two. My father, against the wall to my left, was barely visible in the corner of my eye.

“Show me what you are holding,” Matsuo commanded.

I’d completely forgotten the wooden tiger, still clutched in my hand. I’d stopped circulating cursed energy and it had fallen inert. I set it on the floor, and with only the smallest effort it returned to life. I had it prowl about the bird and knife. My father gasped sharply at the sight. I was tempted to look at him, but I kept my focus on the clan head. I got the sense that this was something like an audition. My father didn’t matter; the true audience was Matsuo-sama.

“Very good,” Matsuo said. “Now show me with the bird.”

The tiger returned to my side and I dropped my connection to it, letting it stiffen and return to being nothing more than a miniature. I took the knife and sliced my unbandaged palm, but kept it face up to avoid dripping blood onto the floor. With my other hand, I set the bird on my palm, letting my blood soak against it. It took very little time for me to feel the connection.

For a moment, I was concerned that the bird would not follow my orders. I knew how tigers walked, jumped, and prowled, but I had no idea of what the sensation of flight was like. To my joy, simply thinking of flight was enough for the crane to take off from my hand and begin a circuit around the room.

“Can you – “ Matsuo-sama began, but stopped himself. 

I had pre-empted his question by animating the tiger as well and set it chasing the bird about the room. It was like thinking two thoughts at once, but somehow it came naturally. I tracked the figurines with my eyes, letting my gaze pass over my father. He was watching me with a look of naked greed. Disgusted, I turned my attention back to the clan head.

“Ha!” he laughed, just once, before being taken over by a coughing fit. I was unsettled by this display of emotion from the usually stoic clan head.

“Still Life Blood Animation is an inherited technique that has been in the Kamo Clan for over 800 years,” he said. “It is a sign of great fortune for it to appear alongside my Noritoshi’s technique.”

“You honor me, Matsuo-sama,” I said with a dip of my head, playing my part.

“Take tomorrow off of your training,” he said. “Beginning the day after, you will report here for instruction.”

“Yes, Matsuo-sama,” I said. I could hear the unstated message: now that I held an inherited technique, my status in the clan had risen to just outside that of the main family’s. My instructors would no longer be whatever old men and women had nothing better to do, but rather the elite sorcerers of the Kamo Clan, skilled and experienced enough to be entrusted with its very future.

Ichiro, I could take or leave, but I felt bad that I likely wouldn’t see Kyoko much longer. Better to not draw attention to that. My failure to manifest my technique before nearly age six might be blamed on her instruction.

“Is there anything you wish to ask of me, Matsuno-chan, as congratulations for this occasion?” Matsuo-sama said.

I could see my father’s eyes widen, then he began to jerk his head to the side, likely trying to signal me to either ask for nothing or to defer to my father’s judgment as to a suitable reward. I ignored him.

“I humbly request to continue my lessons in ikebana, Matsuo-sama,” I said.

“That can be allowed,” he said, “provided you do not slip in any of your other training.”

I bowed my head to show my acceptance, and his gaze slipped from me to my father.

“You may run home, Matsuno-chan. Take the bird and the knife.”

I hurriedly rose to my feet and scooped up the knife. I directed the tiger and the bird to follow me to the door. With a slight push of my cursed energy, the tiger made a leap from the floor up to my shoulder. The crane I simply directed to land on my shoulder, though I kept it animated so it could keep its grip. As much as I wanted to look back at my father, I kept moving forward.

#

I had no idea just how much my life would change after discovering my cursed technique. Within a week, my parents had announced we were moving from our small house near the edge of the compound to a much nicer manor adjacent to the main house. A fleet of servants arrived, packed all our belongings, and carried them to our new home within a day. Once again, I reflected on how upsetting this would have been to a normal six-year-old.

Our new home was at the center of the Kamo compound. It was much smaller than the main house, of course, but large enough to have an interior garden maintained by a dedicated servant. My room had doubled in size, and I had been granted a personal training room within the manor. Another servant from the main house delivered an armful of scrolls and books which summarized the clan’s knowledge on my technique. I was never explicitly told to read them, but I could take a hint.

With a snap of his fingers, the clan head had moved us from middle class to upper class. Our food was now prepared by a chef. My parents had been fine cooks, but they couldn’t hold up to catered meals by a professional. My diet, I suspected, was being carefully managed to maximize my health and growth, but I wasn’t complaining. Servants cleaned the house for us; my parents regularly entertained guests in our sitting room. We now had a sitting room, by the way.

My instructors too were now elites of the Kamo Clan. Rather than having a dedicated tutor for each subject, like Kyoko and Ichiro, they rotated around regularly when one or another had to go on a mission. My instruction was slightly scattered, but I couldn’t deny the quality was higher. My favorite, and the trainer who quickly became my most frequent teacher, was a young sorcerer named Isamu, who I gathered through gossip was the equivalent of Grade 1 sorcerer. Unlike the other tutors, he wasn’t above treating me like an actual human.

Isamu was on the shorter side, but like most Kamo he had black hair and a thin, severe face. Despite being undoubtedly lethal, he moved in a bouncing, friendly manner. At first, he spoke to me like a small child, but that lasted only for a week before he realized that talking down to me was pointless. Isamu was a stickler for punctuality, though he never punished me if I ran late, just gave me a Very Disappointed Look, which was far more effective.

My new teachers pushed me harder than ever before, but they were also more skilled at identifying any roadblocks I faced, sometimes before I even knew they would be a problem. From watching my grip on the katana, one of my instructors had immediately known and understood why I was struggling with the basics of spear use. From watching me circulate my cursed energy, another instructor had warned me that my current method would cause me problems down the line, in ten or so years, when I would start learning barrier techniques. I couldn’t deny that they were experts. Considering what was coming in a decade, I couldn’t afford to do anything but train hard and listen to their advice.

Hidden Inventory had come and gone by the time I was three years old. My next real chance to avert Kenjaku’s plan and stop the resurrection of Sukuna would come once I entered Jujutsu Technical High School. That meant I had a solid nine more years to become as strong as possible. It was time to stop holding back.

In my classroom lessons, I stunned my teachers by easily clearing every math problem they set in front of me. When they tested me on other subjects, like science and history, I exceeded their expectations there as well. My only weaknesses, academically, were my still-growing knowledge of Japanese and my lack of subject knowledge in history. By studying the latter, I could correct the former, and my instructors knew it too. My studies therefore focused on history, which I found enjoyable enough. With my classroom hours decreased, a new set of lessons took their place: crafts.

It was traditional, according to my tutors, for the users of Still Life Blood Animation to become experts in a wide range of crafting techniques. While they assured me that the clan possessed a number of cursed artifacts suitable for us with my technique, it was still a requirement that I be familiar with all the relevant arts. That meant learning woodcarving, pottery, sculpture, and origami. Eventually, I would move on to metalworking and woodworking, though for now I was still too young.

This was fine by me. In my old life, I’d loved building plastic models and other kinds of crafting, but I’d always been terrible at them. Something had changed for me, either in my brain or what, that made understanding how objects fit together visually and physically much easier. Where before I’d struggled even with the basics of painting and color theory, I now had an intuitive sense for the visual arts. The idea that anything I made could be animated through my technique and turned into a weapon only made me more excited. For now I was stuck with simple ideas, mainly animals, but the possibilities were practically endless.

The only thing that brought my mood down was that I’d blundered in my request to continue with ikebana. I’d foolishly assumed that Haruka would be my instructor, but instead the clan now sent one of the Kamo Clan elders – not just an elderly woman like Kyoko, but an actual political force in the clan. Haruka, I realized, had been very permissive with me. She’d let me move at my own pace and explore my own ideas. The elder – Elder Shimizu, the asshole – was absurdly strict, beyond any of my own tutors.

I could respect that she was a master of ikebana, and I could respect that she took it seriously, but evidently she’d taken my request to continue my studies as a sign that I also desired to be a master, and not because I’d naively wanted to continue with a fun hobby. Practically overnight, all the joy I’d found in ikebana had gone out of it and I was stuck doing a series of repetitive exercises to satisfy Shimizu’s exacting standards. The creative hole in my heart was now being filled with my crafting classes, and ikebana had become an unfortunate obligation. I could have asked to end my lessons, of course, but that would have been like admitting I couldn’t hack it. I still had my pride, even as a six-year-old.

#

After about three months of reading and experimentation, I came to understand exactly what my cursed technique did. I’ll describe it, minus the usual Kamo Clan pomp and circumstance that made their scrolls so annoying to read.

Still Life Blood Animation was an inherited technique of the Kamo Clan. It supposedly came about when a Zenin woman was seduced into the Kamo Clan, but since that happened in the 1200s, I had my doubts about the official story. Either way, my technique bore some passing similarities to the Zenin family Construction techniques, and the most prideful of the Kamo claimed it was their “answer” to the Ten Shadows. I could see the similarities: both techniques involved the use of allies to fight at a distance, but the Kamo were truly insane if they thought my technique came anywhere close to what the Ten Shadows were capable of.

The major difference between Still Life Blood Animation and the Ten Shadows was that my technique didn’t properly “summon” combatants, it animated them. Any object I imbued with my blood was technically subject to my cursed technique. The problem was that I needed to create or obtain the objects I used in combat, not just manifest them from nowhere like the Ten Shadows.

The objects weren’t truly alive, but rather directly under my command. When my technique was activated, I gained the natural ability to divide my attention between all my animated objects and give them sophisticated orders. However, I did not have to micromanage their every movement: an order to move, for example, did not require me to manage every individual step. 

I quickly learned that there were a lot of caveats regarding my ability. Are you ready?

1. Objects under the effects of Still Life Blood Animation could only ever do something that object could actually do if it were “real.” That is, a tiger could jump about and bite someone, but it could not fly. That was why using my technique on inanimate objects (that is, objects which did not depict an animate creature) did nothing: a sword could not normally move without a wielder, and so my technique could not compel it to move on its own.
2. It took negligible cursed energy to animate an object, but the damage an object could deal was proportional to both the amount of cursed energy I used and to its actual size and material. That meant that my little wooden tiger figurine could only strike as hard and move as fast as a tiger proportional to that size, and its material wasn’t conducive to doing much but giving someone splinters. I could increase its damage output by pumping it full of cursed energy, in which case it could do very much damage through cursed energy but still do very little physical damage. This was, unfortunately, a fairly inefficient use of cursed energy which more than offset how easy it was to animate something at a baseline.
3. Objects subjected to significant physical stress still broke the exact same way they would break in real life. A porcelain animated object was practically useless because of how little physical force it took to break it apart. I could mitigate this somewhat by cushioning the object with my cursed energy, but that was costly and attention-intensive.
4. The larger an object was, the more cursed energy I had to expend to animate it. So, if I wanted to animate a life-sized statue of a tiger, I would rapidly exhaust myself. For now, I was limited to tiny figurines and statuettes.
5. There was technically no upper limit to the number of objects I could apply my technique to at once (or at least, one had never been found by the Kamo Clan). There was an upper limit, however, to the amount of objects I could reasonably command at once before I automatically started deactivating them. This wasn’t a flaw with the technique but with the human brain, which struggled to keep up so many “threads” of cursed energy at once. This was, fortunately, something that I could train, but no practitioner had ever managed more to control more than seven objects at once.
6. Fundamentally, my technique was a lot like cursed corpse manipulation. The primary difference was that my objects were ordinary, everyday objects being “possessed,” as it were, by my blood and cursed energy. The cursed corpses used my jujutsu sorcerers were typically specially created cursed objects, designed for use in conjunction with their techniques. That meant that cursed corpse users could “customize” their objects, for lack of a better word, which explained all of Mechamaru’s ridiculous abilities, or Panda’s whole deal. The scrolls I got from the clan seemed to indicate I could manipulate cursed objects, but not cursed corpses, which confused me because I’d thought the difference was totally arbitrary.

It wasn’t all bad. Still Life Blood Animation had an effective range of 100 meters, allowing me to command objects at a great distance. I didn’t even have to have perfect knowledge of my controlled objects’ circumstances: I could give general orders like come to me without actually knowing the path between my object and myself. In that case, the object automatically took the most efficient path to my location. Another upside was that I could detect any object imbued with my blood within my range, even when deactivated.

I’d been excited to get such a valued cursed technique, but I was mostly disappointed. It seemed like Still Life Blood Animation wasn’t properly useful unless you had huge amounts of cursed energy to pump into your objects to make them actually dangerous.  Still, I had to recognize that I’d been given a massive advantage. Who knew how long it would have taken me to figure out all the weaknesses in my technique if I hadn’t had centuries of Kamo Clan writings to draw on? Just having access to that level of inherited knowledge probably jumped me years ahead of my peers in terms of mastery over my technique.

At least now that I knew my weaknesses, I could work to cover them. My amount of cursed energy was well above average for most sorcerer children my age, but there was no way to increase it besides just waiting to grow up. That meant I could really improve two things: the efficiency with which I transferred it to my objects, and the number of objects I could control at once. 

To the approval of my tutors, I took to using my technique at all times to keep a small flock of wooden birds flying overhead. The idea was to force my brain into a state where it was always multitasking. Even when doing weapon training, I needed to keep the birds moving. If I couldn’t handle the jolts of a practice match, then I wouldn’t be able to keep my objects going while fighting cursed spirits.

I graduated from three birds to four birds within a year, but then my progress slowed. There was something about splitting my attention six ways – including retaining focus on myself – that required something more than just throwing myself at it. I needed a change in perspective or methodology to break through that barrier. As a result, I started meditating, but it had never worked for me in my previous life, and it wasn’t working for me now. The memoirs of previous users were no help; they seemed to be unanimously of the opinion that the secret was a deeply personal discovery, unique to each sorcerer. Assholes. 

Finally, just when I was getting so frustrated that I considered giving up on controlling five simultaneous objects, I met Noritoshi Kamo.

#

Chapter 4: 1.3 - A Fateful Encounter

I’d been taking lessons in the main house for two years, and yet I had yet to see Noritoshi Kamo. In a way, that made sense. Noritoshi was two years older than me, and at our age two years was a long time developmentally. There was little point in having us take lessons together when he was likely ahead of me in everything but the classroom subjects. Still, very few people actually lived in the main house. Besides the servants, it was only the clan head, six or seven elders, and Noritoshi. I’d expected to at least pass him in the hallway at some point by now.

So, I was surprised when I showed up to morning weapons training and a little black-haired boy was standing there. Noritoshi was eleven years old and much taller than me already. His hair was already tied up in his recognizable style, with two braids bound together on either side of his face. He dressed in the traditional robes of the Kamo Clan, black with red accents. I wanted to squeeze his little cheeks.

“Noritoshi-sama,” I said, bowing. He greeted me in return with a silent and serious nod that looked like he’d copied it exactly from his father. God, was he a cute little guy.

“Noritoshi-sama will be joining us for training today,” my tutor, Isamu, said. “Begin warming up.”

We went through our usual warm-up routine in silence, but my mind was racing. Why now? If we were going to spar like I expected, my tutor had to know that I would be no match for Noritoshi. He was only a few inches taller than me, but I knew the Kamo Clan started strength training some time in the ninth year so he had a full two years of extra physical conditioning on me. Plus, while three years of extra training might not be so relevant when we were both in our twenties, at eight and eleven those extra three years might as well have been ten. Noritoshi’s cursed technique, too, was more intuitive and straightforwardly powerful than mine. The difference between an eight-year-old and an eleven-year-old in cursed energy amount couldn’t be ignored either.

Was this an attempt by someone in the clan to put me in my place? My family had risen up the ranks rather quickly, but they were still essentially nobodies in the wider politics of the clan. I was the one with the real power, and I was still just eight. Maybe this was to remind me of my place, subservient to Noritoshi? Still, Isamu had never given me the impression that he cared much for the politics of the clan, but I suppose anyone could succumb to pressure, especially if it came from the elders.

We didn’t jump right into sparring. Isamu had us practice our katas, and I watched Noritoshi out of the corner of my eye as we did so. His moves were fast and crisp, and he took every correction with grace. Noritoshi was far from being a spoiled clan heir. Plus, the periodic glances he sent my way told me that he, too, didn’t really understand what we were doing together either.

Finally, it was time to spar. To his credit, Noritoshi didn’t lord over me when he won. He would quickly disarm me or strike me in the arms or body and then back off, giving me ample time to catch my breath between rounds. I don’t think he even knew what smack talk was. Still, despite him obviously pulling his punches, I was already starting to bruise. Wooden katana were heavy, dammit. I stopped focusing on trying to win fairly and just aimed for getting a single surprise disarm.

We separated, starting five feet apart. Noritoshi held his katana upright in front of his body, tracking me as I circled him. I extended my blade forward, pointing at Noritoshi’s chest. If he wanted to advance towards me, he would have to bat the blade out of the way. I forced myself to drag my eyes away from his weapon and towards his feet. If I was going to overpower him, it would have to be when he lost his balance.

Noritoshi was less patient than I. He swiped at my blade and I dropped it immediately so it was pointing at the ground, then shuffled forward. Suddenly, I was within his guard and too close for him to easily swing his sword back and hit me. I never advanced like this – I was still slightly averse to getting hit, so I tended to fight defensively. As a result, I managed to take Noritoshi completely off guard.

Noritoshi tried to retreat, sweeping his katana back around to defend his lower body. Instead of meeting his guard, I swung my blade in a circle so it flashed around to the other side of his hand. His blade met air just as mine met the back of his hand, jarring his katana loose.

It skittered across the floor of the dojo and came to a stop several feet away. I almost froze, but remembered to finish the match, bringing my blade around to rest near Noritoshi’s neck. To my surprise, he was trying to suppress a smile.

“Good match, Matsuno-chan,” he said.

“Yes, very good,” Isamu drawled. He approached us, hand out. “That’s enough of sparring, I think.”

I passed off my wooden sword to Isamu and bowed to Noritoshi, who matched me.

“Thank you for the bouts, Noritoshi-sama,” I said. “You are very skilled.”

His face dusted red, and he mumbled something I couldn’t make out. He was a cute little fella, that was for sure. It was hard to mind getting beat black and blue by someone who was so naturally sweet and trying so hard to be taken seriously.

Isamu was gracious enough to allow us a few minutes to breathe. Perhaps he expected us to make small talk, but we both remained silent: me, out of respect for Noritoshi’s higher status, and Noritoshi because he was a socially stunted little boy. Man, the Kamo Clan had really messed him up. I typically played the part the clan expected of me, but thinking about a normal kid in my situation sent shivers down my spine.

Isamu placed our weapons back on one of the racks in the dojo. We were training in the very room where I’d first demonstrated my technique for the clan head. The novelty I’d felt that day had long faded as I’d grown accustomed to the main house. My parents, on the other hand, rarely were invited into the house. It was strange being a child whose parents were jealous of them.

“Let’s work on your cursed techniques,” Isamu said.

“Ahh, Isamu-sensei,” Noritoshi said. “My technique is…”

I looked down at the spotless tatami flooring. Isamu chuckled.

“My mistake,” he said. “Let’s move to another room.”

We followed Isamu out of the dojo like little ducklings. I knew that there was at least one empty room with wooden floors on the other side of the house, because I’d spent some time in there last year perfecting the exact amount of blood I needed to lose to connect with an object.

Unusually, we passed a pair of elders in the hallway. They bowed to Noritoshi, and I bowed to them, though we did not stop to talk. Then, just a minute later, we passed another elder, then a minute after that another elder. That was four different elders, all who mysteriously had nothing better to do than loiter in the hallways. Something was definitely going on.

We entered the bare room. I wasn’t sure what its purpose actually was, since there were no directions, tables, or anything else. For the immaculately decorated main house, this room was a bit of an anomaly. Still, it suited our purpose well. Noritoshi and I sat, waiting for instruction.

“Matsuno, you’re still working on getting up to five objects. Noritoshi, I want you to try to control as many individual strands of blood as possible. This should make it easier for you to learn Crimson Binding,” Isamu said.

Ugh, too transparent, Isamu. He had us working on similar concepts, no doubt another way to remind me that Noritoshi was better in every way. Still, there was nothing to do but try. I focused on my little wooden birds. Getting four going at once was no difficulty, but the second I reached out to my fifth one of the other birds would fall inert and clatter to the floor.

It was fruitless. I spent twenty minutes doing the same thing over and over again. Animate, drop, animate, drop. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to keep track of a fifth strand of attention alongside the other four. I looked over at Noritoshi, hoping against hope that he was struggling. To my disgust, he was controlling six separate strands of his blood, wrapping them around a clay ball.

I wasn’t as subtle as I hoped, because Noritoshi caught me looking. I decided to swallow my pride and ask a ten-year-old for help.

“Noritoshi-sama,” I said. “How do you maintain so many different threads at once?”

Isamu snorted, and I shot him a dirty look. He just smiled innocently back at me.

“Oh…” Noritoshi said. He seemed surprised I had asked him. “Well, it’s not really different threads. It’s all my blood so I just control it all at once.”

I thanked him, but his advice was useless to me. Noritoshi’s technique let him manipulate his blood, which was part of him; my technique relied on outside objects which needed to be directed. I had to give orders individually, and it wasn’t like they were a part of my body – 

Except, weren’t they a part of me? My technique was, like Noritoshi’s, blood based. I had infused my objects with my blood, thereby symbolically making them part of my body. Even when not actively using my technique, I could sense where every object I’d bled over was, so long as it was within my hundred-meter range. My whole mental schema of “reaching out” to my objects was flawed. There was no need to reach out – they were already a part of me. It was less like sending cursed energy out into the world, and more like apportioning cursed energy to different parts of my body.

Noritoshi started clapping. I looked up and saw that five wooden birds circled my head. Isamu looked terribly smug. That bastard! He’d gotten Noritoshi here just to make me competitive? And to fix the issues I’d been having with my technique? I wasn’t sure if I should hug him or kick him.

#

Learning to control five objects at once was some kind of benchmark in my technique because Isamu delivered an armful of scrolls to my house later that day. Evidently, the literature I’d already been given on my technique was not the sum total of the clan’s knowledge. Some enterprising previous user had figured out what information was useful for new users to know, and what was better kept until the basics were trained.

The scrolls Isamu brought detailed the use of a technique developed by previous users of Still Life Blood Animation. Wasn’t that odd, that “Still Life Blood Animation” was my technique, but that technique had techniques of its own? Jujutsu sorcerers really loved to use the word technique.

In any case, it was time to start learning to use Ishiyama Hongan-ji. The reason why these scrolls had been kept from me was evidently because there was a fear it might be used as a shortcut by sorcerers struggling to control multiple objects. Ishiyama Hongan-ji had a painful activation condition: I had to be in a meditation pose – full-lotus – and remain entirely motionless, or else the technique would deactivate. In return, my technique would automatically manage every one of my objects, allowing me to ignore the mental limit that kept me to just five objects.

There was a lot of upside to this technique: if I was surrounded by enough objects, it would be easy to overwhelm any opponent just with the sheer number of attacks. Just the number of targets would be great for generating mental load, keeping my opponents from making the best possible choices. It also shored up my weakness in area-of-effect attacks. By controlling a large number of objects, I could easily clear out swarms of cursed spirits.

I could see why previous Still Life Blood Animation users thought this was a powerful technique, and why they’d dedicated so much time to perfecting it. Unfortunately, I also thought it was practically useless.

“I understand that there are niche situations in which it may be helpful,” I said, “but I believe the downsides well outweigh the upsides.”

After his stunt with Noritoshi, I had grown comfortable being a little franker with Isamu. I was still disguising most of my actual personality, but I felt I could at least express some of my true thoughts on my training.

“First of all, in a fight against strong opponents, remaining entirely motionless is a death sentence,” I said. I ticked my fingers off as I spoke. “Second, Ishiyama Hongan-ji lets me control more objects, but doesn’t provide me with more cursed energy. So, while I can make a lot of attacks at once, none of them will be particularly strong. Third, unless I’ve had the luxury of setting a trap then the odds are that I likely won’t have many different objects on hand.” 

“I believe you may be overestimating the strength of the cursed spirits you will be asked to exorcise,” Isamu said. “Most of them are weak, and the ability to fight many small spirits at once will be very useful for you.”

Ugh. From his perspective, as a nine-to-five sorcerer, Isamu was being reasonable. It was entirely possible he’d never fought a single special grade curse in his life. Unfortunately, I knew that I was likely to face down dozens of special grade cursed spirits and at least one special grade curse user once Kenjaku’s plan kicked into gear. I couldn’t exactly explain that, though, so I was forced to bite my lip.

“It’s not a perfect technique,” Isamu said. “But it’s an important part of our clan’s and your ability’s history. Perhaps you should learn to use it before disparaging it, Matsuno-chan?”

Isamu acted so serious and strict, but he was such a snot sometimes. Still, he had a point, if only because I wouldn’t be able to access the next scrolls until I proved I had mastered Ishiyama Hongan-ji. I sank into the correct posture and concentrated.

Ishiyama Honga-ji required the user to temporarily enter into a state of mental isolation. Like a monk on a mountain fortress, I had to withdraw into myself while trusting my objects to fight for me. I had to induce a sense of solipsism in myself, only concerned with my internal world while those fighting in the material world slipped from my mind. Only by surrendering control, the scrolls wrote, could I gain absolute control.

That kind of vague, poetic description should have pissed me off, but I actually found myself relating to it. I’d spent my entire life since my reincarnation living almost entirely in my head. I told no one my true thoughts and feelings. I repressed everything about myself, down to my facial expressions. I’d forced myself to conform with the Kamo Clan so as to appear the ideal child. The only real life I’d been living these past years was my inner life.

As a result, Ishiyama Hongan-ji came to me within the week. This was a stunning achievement in the context of previous users, who often took a full year to master the state of mind necessary to use the technique. It was somewhat relaxing, like a more interesting form of meditation. I could still vaguely direct my objects, but I was no longer responsible for micromanaging their movements. It was like using group select in an RTS to grab all your units instead of microing them individually.

Isamu had been delighted by my quick progress; no doubt, it confirmed to the elders that he was doing an excellent job as a teacher. My concerns with the technique were quickly proven correct in our spars, however. While it was very cool to be able to command a whole swarm of wooden birds to attack Isamu at once, my total lack of mobility made me a sitting duck to counterattacks. I could defend myself, somewhat, with other objects, but they simply weren’t big enough to block most incoming attacks.

There was another flaw in the technique, one that I couldn’t have anticipated until I used it: objects under the effects of Ishiyama Hongan-ji were dumb. When I was in direct control, I could maneuver each individual object into an advantageous position. I was able to coordinate perfectly timed ambushes and combination attacks; it was easy to lay traps, leaving objects seemingly inactivated until the last moment. All of that trickery and nuance went out the window once I used Ishiyama Hongan-ji. I was substituting quality for quantity; my objects were practically on autopilot, always taking the direct route and making simple and linear attacks. The volume of objects I controlled hardly mattered when it was so easy to anticipate their moves.

Still, I worked on mastering the technique for months. I’d hoped that by learning it so easily Isamu would move me on to the next set of scrolls, but our training schedule remained steady. The only real change was that Noritoshi would make periodic appearances, around once a month, to practice his sword work and cursed technique with me. Isamu seemed to delight in having Noritoshi demonstrate advanced moves in front of me, to spur me into learning them faster. I had to admit that having someone else’s perspective in my lessons was helpful; Noritoshi thought of things very differently from Isamu, probably because he was still a child, and his observations were usually helpful.

Plus, it was hard to be annoyed at Noritoshi, even as he excelled in everything he was taught. He was extremely polite – too polite, in my opinion – and made a good effort at being friendly, even if he didn’t really know how. It wasn’t that I was starved for interaction with other children, but more that it was nice to have a relationship with someone who wasn’t directly in charge of me in some way. Noritoshi’s status was, of course, higher than mine, but he went far out of his way to never mention being clan heir, let alone lord it over me.

My parents, once they learned that Noritoshi regularly attended lessons with me, suddenly developed a deep interest in my personal life. They pushed for me to ask Noritoshi over for tea, or to introduce them to his carers (which, as I understood it, was a whole team of clan members besides just his sickly father). I resisted; I liked that Noritoshi and I’s relationship was based on mutual respect and hard work, not whatever weird political fantasies my parents were entertaining. Every time I resisted or told them I “forgot” to bring it up in class, they made a sour face at me, but didn’t push.

I missed how it had been before, when they simply left me alone at home. An idea about my technique had occurred to me, and I wanted to give it a try away from my tutors, but finding a moment where my parents weren’t trying to give me extra lessons or ply me for info on the clan’s elites was proving unexpectedly difficult. Finally, on a day when my father was away on a mission and my mother was running an errand across the compound, I had the chance to test my theory.

All of the objects I’d been given to test my technique on had been representations of real things: animals or humans, mostly. Even though I regularly saw statues of mythical creatures, like dragons or kirin, I’d never been given one by a tutor. It had taken a few months of working in the darkness of my room, when I was supposed to be asleep, but I’d managed to whittle for myself a decent approximation of a European dragon. It had four legs, spines that ran all the way from tip to tail, and a fearsome jaw of teeth. I’d whittled out two wings, folded against its side; the animation technique would turn folded wings into real ones, anyway, so I could at least save myself the trouble of having to whittle them as outstretched, which would have required a much larger piece of wood.

I set the dragon in a bowl in my room and bled over it, carefully extracting the exact minimum needed for my technique to set in. With a flicker of cursed energy, it came alive. I had it prance around in the bowl and fold and unfold its wings; from my technique’s perspective, it moved exactly like any other object I’d used before. With a thought, I had it flap its wings to lift itself out of the bowl.

Flying didn’t seem to strain me either; it felt no different than ordering one of my bird figurines to fly. I let the dragon take a few laps around the room before I had it land. I had one last idea, a far-out idea, that I wanted to test. As soon as I gave the order, I felt my cursed energy flood out of me, far more than I’d ever used at once before. It was a good thing I was sitting because I lost all strength in my core. I flopped over onto the floor, my entire body temporarily limp.

It was fortunate I landed facing my dragon, because I could just barely see the fruits of my effort: the dragon lifting his head up and firing off a miniature gout of flame into the air. It dissipated quickly, but my cursed energy did not return. I let the dragon de-animate. I couldn’t find the strength to get up, but I also wasn’t about to pass out.

So, just as birds could naturally fly, so could dragons naturally breathe fire. My cursed technique translated my cursed energy into that ability, but it did so extremely inefficiently. I was young, and did not have large amounts of cursed energy to begin with, so I could see why this element of my technique hadn’t been mentioned in my scrolls. Probably in five or six years my instructors would feel me developed enough to try it; jumping ahead like this was, I now saw, quite risky.

Still, this opened up an incredible world of possibilities with my technique. Dragons were fictional creatures, so why did their fictional abilities function just the same as the abilities of real animals? Was it because there were dragon-like curses, and so dragons weren’t strictly imaginary? Was it based on some kind of widespread perception of dragons? Could I use my technique on more “man-made” fictional objects? Could I… could I animate a statue of Goku?

Even as I groaned in pain, my whole body sore, I was smiling. For the first time in a long time, it felt like my technique might actually be useful for something beyond fighting Grade 3 cursed spirits. 

#

My good mood carried me for a full two weeks as I daydreamed the possibilities now open to me. I didn’t tell anyone, of course; the Kamo Clan thought of sorcery as dangerous, and innovation in sorcery even more dangerous. I could get in a lot of trouble for practicing new uses for my technique in private. Still, it was just another little secret to keep to myself, and I had plenty of those.

On the day of my ninth birthday, I had an ikebana lesson scheduled with Elder Shimizu and I knew better than to expect it to be moved. As usual, I arrived five minutes early to our practice room in the main house. From the moment I stepped inside, however, I could tell that something was up. Our usual supplies were absent; instead, Shimizu was surrounded by stacks of ancient scrolls.

Not showing my confusion, I sat in seiza in front of her. Shimizu eyed me up in her usual way, which I mentally likened to a livestock trader. How much could this donkey carry? What was the quality of this horse’s coat? That was how she looked at people. In her age, I suppose, she had given up on ever disguising her intentions.

“Matsuno,” Shimizu said. “Matsuo-sama apologizes for his absence. He had hoped to be here for this meeting but had a bout of poor health.”

The clan head must have really been sickly if Shimizu was admitting he’d missed a meeting for that reason. The writing was on the wall for every Kamo in the know, really. Matsuo was hanging on as best he could until Noritoshi could graduate from Jujutsu High, at which point he would go gloriously suicide against a cursed spirit and leave the clan to his son.

I merely inclined my head at Shimizu in acknowledgment.

Shimizu unrolled one of the scrolls at her side. It was immediately recognizable as a family tree, vast and intricate, stretching back many generations. Shimizu gently turned the family tree so that it faced me, and I naturally traced it down to the most recent generation. It was my name; Matsuno Kamo, only daughter of Junpei and Keiko.

“The Kamo Clan prizes blood above all else,” Shimizu began. “And our blood is most precious of all. Tell me, Matsuno. How many inherited techniques does our clan possess?”

“Eight,” I answered quickly.

“Eight,” Shimizu said, nodding. “More than the Gojo clan. More than the Zenin. This is no accident and no coincidence, but instead the result of centuries of effort. The lives of every Kamo are tracked in these scrolls. Clan members are married with the intention of maximizing the odds of recurring one of these inherited techniques.”

Shimizu traced one of her wrinkled, delicate fingers up my family tree. “Here, you can see your descent from a user of the Sword-Cutting-Weed. On this side of your family tree, an ancestor of yours who wielded Blood Manipulation. And so on, and so on. At some point in the last six generations, you are related to every cursed technique in the Kamo Clan in some way. This is no accident.”

I nodded to show my understanding, but I was reeling on the inside. I should have known that the freedom I had experienced in the Kamo Clan was the exception, and not the norm. Instead, it seemed that the Kamo Clan was a single, massive eugenics experiment, all dedicated to producing powerful sorcerers. In fact, I’m not even sure why I was surprised.

“Inherited techniques tend to recur strongly within a generation or two, but eventually dissipate until they reappear much later,” Shimizu said.

“Naobito Zenin,” Shimizu said, spitting the name in distaste, “invented Projection Sorcery. Naoya Zenin wields it now as well. But it is unlikely that Naoya’s children will possess Projection Sorcery, even if it is likely they will have cursed techniques of their own. There is practically no chance that Naoya’s grandchildren will have the technique.”

“I understand, Shimizu-sama,” I said.

It actually was pretty interesting; I’d always wondered how I’d ended up with one of the clan’s prized techniques, and why no one seemed to think it strange a girl from an unimportant family had manifested it. I hadn’t known, either, that techniques faded over time, but it made sense. While I was pondering, Shimizu had retrieved another scroll.

“This is the family tree of the head of the Kamo Clan from three hundred years ago,” Shimizu said. “He wielded the Still Life Blood Animation, just as you do. His wife possessed Blood Manipulation.”

I froze, unable to even keep up the pretense of attentiveness. Shimizu continued on anyway.

“They had six children. Five of them manifested an inherited technique; two with Blood Manipulation, one with your technique, and two with other inherited techniques. The sixth had a novel technique of their own, which has now recurred three times. The Kamo’s eighth inherited technique.”

I could see where this was going. Shimizu favored me with a smile, guileless and without malice but unsettling all the same.

“It appears that Still Life Blood Animation and Blood Manipulation are a potent combination, due to their most distinguished affinity with the same element,” Shimizu said. “As such, the elders and the clan head have seen fit to engage you to Noritoshi-sama. Congrulations, Matsuno.”

Ice in my veins. I only barely managed to croak out a response.

“Thank you, Shimizu-sama. I am honored.”

Still smiling, Shimizu continued. “There is much to be planned, but your engagement will not end until Noritoshi-sama assumes the leadership of the clan. Until then, you may either continue with your current living arrangements or move into the main house.”

“I would like to stay in our home,” I said. I was already going to be under even more scrutiny; losing my safe refuge to practice my technique would have been too much.

Shimizu nodded, unbothered. “Unfortunately, you will still be expected to become a full-fledged sorcerer. Never let it be said that the Kamo shirk their responsibilities to society. After achieving a sufficient career, you will be safe to retire early to focus on raising your children.”

Well, that was a silver lining. I was to be allowed to continue studying the use of my technique. I had to thank the Gojo and Zenin clan for making the Kamo so paranoid about their political position that they were willing to risk losing their broodmare just to save some face. I’d be sure to buy Satoru Gojo something nice once I finally met him.

“I understand,” I managed to say.

“You are free to tell your parents,” Shimizu added, as if they were an afterthought. I suppose they were.

I took it as a dismissal and rose unsteadily before bowing at her. As I shuffled away, I managed to steady my breathing and push down my mounting panic. I’d gotten too comfortable with the Kamo, while they plied me with training and a beautiful home and safety. I’d forgotten that they were an old clan, with old priorities. Without realizing it, I’d begun to entertain a future in the clan: I would go to school, stop Kenjaku and Sukuna (the “how” still pending), and help Noritoshi take over as clan head. The world would be a good place.

That future was still possible. It was hard to imagine a sweet guy like Noritoshi forcing me to marry him according to the wishes of the elders. But it was also just as easy to imagine that if he never had his chance to grow, never had to fight Sukuna or the resurrected sorcerers in the Culling Game, that Noritoshi would stay a pawn of the Kamo Clan, willing to do their bidding for just a scrap of approval, just for the chance to get his mother back. Would their demands on me stop with marriage? Or would I spend my entire life as a piece to be moved around by the elders?

I’d been willing to tolerate playing along while I was a vulnerable child, in need of resources and training. I’d even been willing to consider staying in the clan once I and Noritoshi had the power to change things. But I hadn’t considered just how much the clan would expect from me, beyond my service as a sorcerer.

I needed to get out. I needed to leave the clan. I couldn’t do it yet – I was realistic about how far I’d really get as a nine-year-old, out in the world with sorcerers hunting me – but in the future. Once I went to Jujutsu High, I could cut them off, piss them off, get myself kicked out of the clan, whatever it took.

I almost felt bad for Noritoshi. I was going to have to play along, act excited about the engagement, and then break it off the second I left the compound. It wasn’t even his fault; he was friendly, kind, talented, and all that jazz. It wasn’t even just about the age difference, though I was keenly aware that I far outstripped him mentally. In theory, that difference would shrink in time. No, it was for the simple, immutable fact that Noritoshi was a boy that I would have to free myself from the Kamo.

#

Chapter 5: 1.4 - Hand-to-Hand Combat

I allowed myself the rest of the day to sulk. I went straight from meeting with Shimizu to the pottery workshop, where I spent two hours on the wheel, shaping, breaking down, and shaping again a pot. When the sun began to set, I cleaned up after myself and trudged home. My father was home and gave me a lukewarm greeting, which I barely returned. I didn’t bother bringing up the engagement to him; I knew he’d only be happy for me.

I laid down on the floor in my room, animating a flock of birds to circle overhead. I had them dive at each other, clawing and biting, but made sure that none of my figures took any actual damage. I was avoiding the problem. I tried to get my thoughts in order.

I didn’t want to marry Noritoshi. I could get myself kicked out of the clan, or just run away, but Shimizu had made it clear that my blood was valuable to the clan. I wouldn’t put it past them to send a whole host of sorcerers after me to force me to come back. Maybe illegal, maybe against the rules of the jujutsu world, but the Kamo Clan practically ran this society. If they wanted me, they would get me. I was, not through my own talents but the potential of my children, their ticket to overcoming the power that the Zenin and Gojo clan had accumulated.

By the time my theoretical children were sorcerers, Gojo would probably be old and weak, or possibly dead. If I could produce six children, like Shimizu had outlined, all with inherited techniques, the Kamo would be able to overpower Gojo and the Zenin through sheer numbers. They would never let me go.

That meant my only option was to become strong. That was fine and all, because I’d already known I’d needed to get strong to survive what was coming, but the fact was that I wouldn’t be able to rely on any foreknowledge against the Kamo Clan, who were practically a non-factor in the original work. When I got to Jujutsu High, I could probably count on Gojo to protect me from the Kamo, but only until things got complicated. That meant that, if I kept playing my part, I had six years (and around half a year at Jujutsu Tech) before things really got messy.

My marriage was slated for Noritoshi’s graduation from Kyoto, which would come at the end of my first year in school. Supposedly, I would need to graduate school too to become a full sorcerer, but if the Kamo felt pressured I wouldn’t put it past them to accelerate that timeline and take the hit to their prestige that having me drop out would entail.

Even if I managed to avert Kenjaku’s plan and the resurrection of Sukuna, that meant that I’d still need to deal with the Kamo. To be honest, I’d been comforting myself with the idea that once I met Satoru Gojo I could just dump my future knowledge on him and he could take care of everything. Even if that plan worked, I’d now have to be strong enough to face down the Kamo Clan in the aftermath. Weakness was not an option.

At least in Tokyo, I’d have the chance to develop my technique beyond what the clan sanctioned, and hopefully make some powerful friends. Noritoshi would be in Kyoto, too, so he wouldn’t be able to report back on me, accidentally or on purpose, to the clan.

Wait. Why did I think I’d go to the Tokyo school?

The Kamo Clan practically ran the Kyoto school. It was where Noritoshi, the precious clan heir, was, or would be, sent. Why would they ever send his fiancée to Tokyo? I only became aware then on how linear my thinking had been. From the moment I’d realized I was the same age as Fushiguro, Itadori, and Nobara, I’d assumed I’d be going to Tokyo. It was a natural assumption; it was, after all, where everything I knew about Jujutsu Kaisen took place. It was also totally wrong.

Everything hinged on my attending the Tokyo school: my plan to convince Gojo of my future knowledge, my ability to develop my techniques unseen to the clan, and my odds at convincing the various rebels at Tokyo of helping me fight one of the oldest and most powerful sorcery families in the world. If I didn’t go to Tokyo, if I was stuck under Gakuganji and the Kamo higher-ups at Kyoto, I was beyond screwed.

That meant I had two goals: get strong enough to defeat Kenjaku and / or the might of the Kamo, and to attend the Tokyo school. God knew how I would do either.

#

When I attended my lessons the next day, I was happy to see that Isamu was waiting for me, and slightly less happy that Noritoshi was also present. I’d could tell that he’d gotten the news from the way he blushed and looked away. I’d hoped, though, that Isamu would show a little sympathy to me. He was younger, and he’d always been more willing to tease me and treat me like a person, and not just a jujutsu robot.

My hopes were dashed as soon as I entered our training room.

“Matsuo! Congratulations!” Isamu said. He was smiling widely, but I could tell that he was pleased with himself, too. Probably because he’d played some small part in getting this arrangement together by having Noritoshi and I learn together. The fact that all the elders had been hanging around that first day took on a new meaning; had they been watching us for some sign of “compatibility?” Gross.

“Thank you, Isamu-sensei,” I replied.

No matter how angry I got, I knew I just had to focus on my goals. Isamu probably thought I didn’t even realize exactly what an engagement entailed.

“As an engagement gift, I have received permission from the elders to move you to the next stage in your technique,” Isamu said.

He retrieved a dark-stained wooden box that had been waiting unobtrusively against one of the training room walls. With great reverence, he sank to his knees and placed the box on the ground. He opened the lid, revealing twelve beautiful white figures set in a velvet cushion. Six were of archers and six were of samurai, each in a unique pose.

“The Bone Blood Samurai,” Isamu said. “A special grade cursed tool, passed down from one wielder of Still Life Blood Animation to the next.”

I sat across from Isamu, transfixed by the craftsmanship of the figures. For a moment, I even forgot how mad I was at him and my life in general. I lifted one out of the case gently. They were exquisite; I could tell that they were porcelain, but they had an incredible amount of detail for their small size, each just under six inches. Their armor was realistically textured, their faces painted with grim expressions. Without a doubt, they were the most masterfully crafted miniatures I’d ever seen.

“Incredible,” I said. “Special grade?”

“The Bone Blood Samurai were crafted from bone ash porcelain; the ash came from the remains of warriors who fell at Sekigahara. Like all special grade cursed tools, they possess an inherent technique: indestructibility.”

I looked up at Isamu in surprise.

“No matter the amount of force subjected to these figurines, they will never break. As such, they have formed the primary tool in Still Life Blood Animation users’ arsenals. They are meant to be your lifelong companions and protectors.”

I could see the appeal. One of the greatest downsides of my technique was how fragile my objects were, when I wasn’t pumping them full of cursed energy just to protect them. It was one of the biggest differences between my technique and people with puppet techniques, like Mechamaru. Cursed corpse puppets were specially built to channel cursed energy, and had a ton of durability built in. Some could even regenerate wounds over time. With my technique, I was reliant on normal, physical objects that could easily splinter and break apart.

Isamu handed me a knife. I set down the figure I was holding back into its case. I drew the knife across my palm and carefully let a few drops of my blood fall onto each of the figures. As I felt the connection set in, I had each figure stand up from the box and circle around me. I was still limited by my five object cap, unfortunately, but I was able to get them all out in a manner I thought was sufficiently dignified.

“The next specialized technique in Still Life Blood Animation is beyond your reach for the moment,” Isamu said. “It requires a greater reserve of cursed energy, one that you will eventually grow in to. For now, we are to focus your training on mastering the use of the Bone Blood Samurai.”

I rose to my feet. Isamu returned the case back to the wall, and I got used to the way the samurai moved. They were small, so without using extra cursed energy they didn’t get around particularly fast. Still, I was excited to see what they could do. When Isamu returned, he had a smile on his face.

“Alright!” he declared. “That’s the formality out of the way. Noritoshi, how about you let Matsuno try out her new toys. No cursed technique for you, however.”

I gave Noritoshi a demure smile. Evidently, I did a bad job of hiding my excitement, because he went white and stumbled back a few steps. I may not blame Noritoshi for getting me engaged to him, but that didn’t mean he was necessarily safe from me taking it out on him.

#

The primary downside of the Bone Blood Samurai was lugging their case around with me everywhere. Indestructible or not, I couldn’t animate all twelve of them at once so the easiest way to get them places was in their case, which was ridiculously heavy for my small body. I could use cursed energy to make it easier, but I took it as a challenge to work on my actual, physical muscles.

So, I was huffing and dripping sweat as I returned from lessons, four days after my engagement, to find both my parents waiting for me. Both of them were standing in the entry hall of our home. I dropped the box by the front door, and they gestured for me to follow them into the kitchen. They sat together, on the same side of our small kitchen table. I paused at the entrance of the kitchen, trying to figure out what was going on.

They both looked at me with that special kind of parental condescension, eyebrows raised, as if they knew I had done something wrong and were waiting for me to fess up. Both my parents were absurdly thin; if I had to describe their faces, I would have no choice but to use the phrase “rat like.” 

I had to think, hard, about what they could be mad about. My mother had even been out of town for the last few days, so I had no clue how she could be annoyed by me. My parents waited for me to say something, but I was at a loss for words. I honestly had no idea what I’d done wrong. I barely spoke to them outside of our occasional tutoring sessions, and I definitely wasn’t misbehaving. Maybe if they’d somehow found out I was experimenting with my cursed technique they’d be angry, but if that were the case I would have expected them to notify Isamu, not lecture me themselves.

Ultimately it was my father who broke first.

“Sit down,” he said.

I took a seat across from them. It was the first time we’d used this table for anything other than eating breakfast in the morning. We definitely had never had anything like a family meeting, or whatever this was.

“Today, while I was paying a visit to the smith, I heard something interesting,” my father said. “Do you know what it was?”

Not only did I not know what Dad had heard, I had no idea why he was visiting the smith. I’d never actually seen him with a katana, even if he’d probably been trained in its use.

“No,” I said.

I could tell that was the wrong answer from the way he clenched his hands above the table. I risked a glance at my mother, who was looking at me coldly.

“I overheard two of the workers. They seemed to be saying that you had been engaged with Noritoshi-sama,” my father said.

Ohhhhh. Ohhhhh. I had totally never told my parents that I’d gotten engaged. I tried to get a word in to explain myself, though I wasn’t even sure what I was going to say, but my father just kept going.

“Can you imagine the embarrassment that I had to find out about my own daughter’s engagement from a menial?” he said. “You’re lucky that I had the chance to overhear the news, before someone asked me about it personally.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Matsuno,” my mother chimed in. “You’re in the main house all day, and so we’re always the last ones to hear about your life.”

What was this, good cop bad cop? I could understand my mother’s point – perhaps I’d written my parents off too easily. And, objectively, it was embarrassing for your daughter to get engaged and not tell you, no matter how little input that daughter actually had on the engagement. Still, I couldn’t overlook my father’s sneering tone and sense of entitlement. Maybe if I hadn’t been so stressed lately, and so annoyed about my engagement, I would have done a better job of holding my tongue.

“You’re right,” I said. “I should have told you about the engagement. But the reason I don’t tell you anything is because you don’t actually care about me.”

“What?” my mother said.

“Of course we care about you, Matsuno,” my father said, his voice suddenly gentle and pitying. “We want to be a part of your life.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said. “You don’t care about me except for what I can get you. You’re not mad because you want to know about me or care about me as a person, you’re mad because you got embarrassed. You’re mad that I won’t help you meet the elders or Noritoshi, not because you care about them but because you think it will get you something.”

My mother slammed her hand on the table. 

“And what about you? No gratefulness for what we’ve done for you, for what we’ve given you-”

“You’ve given me nothing,” I said. “You didn’t even want to look at me when you thought I was stupid. Now that I’ve lucked into an inherited technique you just suck up to me. It’s pathetic.”

I wouldn’t have said these things before my engagement, but I was on edge. Yeah, my parents were losers, and they hadn’t treated me the best, but they definitely hadn’t mistreated me or anything. In any other circumstance, on any other day, I would have been happy to keep ignoring them. I guess the nature of the situation was just that they were going to keep pushing until I did what they wanted. Since I was never going to give in, this blowup had to happen eventually.

“You will listen to us,” my father growled. He was looming over me in an attempt at intimidation.

“I don’t think I will,” I said. “I don’t give a shit about what you two want, to be honest. You’re lucky I haven’t complained about you to the clan head as it is.”

Now my mother was standing, her face red and veins in her neck bulging. I started to realize that this might be getting out of hand.

“Enough!” she yelled. “You are our child – you belong to us, and you will do what we say.”

That was the exact wrong thing to say. Even though I knew I should try to deescalate, I couldn’t bring myself to be forgiving.

“Go fuck yourself.”

That was the last straw for my parents. Black, crackling energy surged down my father’s arms, and he smashed his fist into the table, fracturing it into pieces. I scrambled backwards, falling out of my chair and onto my ass. I instinctively reached out with my technique; my range was large enough that I had access to every object in the house.

The Bone Blood Samurai were locked up in their case, so I went straight to the various animal figures I kept in my room. My cursed energy flowed faster and thicker than ever before, fueled by my fear and anger. Even with their small size, I could make them move faster by spending more cursed energy. In just a few seconds, five of them would reach the kitchen.

My father, probably sensing my technique, spread his cursed energy throughout his body. It was a textbook maneuver when you were expecting an attack; simple body reinforcement not only made you more durable but also improved your perceptions and reaction time. I planned my assault: my tiger and lion figures would attack along the floor, followed by a bird from above. My final bird I had latch on to one of my favorite figures, a Hercules beetle, which it would drop on him from above.

My father advanced across the room. I would have to hold him off for just a few seconds, to buy time to get my objects into position. I got my legs beneath me and prepared to spring up into a roll to avoid an attack. I doubted my father would feel the need to use his cursed technique on me. At least, I had to hope so. I had no clue what his technique was, and this fight would be a lot harder with it involved.

In the last possible moment, just as I saw his body tensing in preparation to lunge at me, the front door to our house banged open. 

“Hello! Junpei-san, is everything alright?”

We all froze. Before anyone thought to answer, the visitor arrived in the kitchen. He was tall, with black hair in a messy asymmetric cut. He appeared startling modern, for a Kamo; he was dressed not in robes, but in slacks and a black button-up shirt. He commanded the room from the moment he entered; despite being unarmed, he felt incredibly dangerous.

“Nobumasa-san,” my mother said. “We were just doing some training with cursed energy.”

Nobumasa gave a meaningful glance at the ruined dinner table, then tracked his eyes over to me. I stood up from my crouch and nodded at him respectfully. He looked back at my parents.

“I see,” he said. “Then I’ll be going. Remember, I live right next door, so if you ever want help training little Matsuno-chan, just let me know.”

Nobumasa turned and left, just as easily as he’d entered. My parents had retreated to the far wall of the kitchen, clearly shaken by his appearance. I stood up and brushed myself off. Who the hell was that guy? Was he really our neighbor, or was he – and forgive me the possible ego trip – a bodyguard assigned to protect me? I was valuable enough to the clan that it was a distant possibility.

After he left, I went to the front door to retrieve the Bone Blood Samurai. Even if I hadn’t had to fight my own father – and boy, was that fucked up – I’d learned a valuable lesson about my technique. I never wanted to be in a situation where I didn’t at least have some objects on hand for me to animate. Though I doubt I could have fully overcome him, given the difference in our age and experience, I would have at least been able to buy myself time to escape.

That night, I slept with the Bone Blood Samurai case open and unlocked, and my animal figures in a circle around my bed. I left early for my lessons the next day, skipping the usual breakfast with my parents. Rather than head to the training room, I sought out Elder Shimizu. I bowed my head and humbly requested that I be allowed to alter my decision to stay with my parents. With a knowing smile, Shimizu informed me that a room would be made available for me in the main house by the end of the day.

Sure enough, by the time I was done with my lessons, I’d been given a set of rooms on the far edge of the main house. My possessions, piled into wooden boxes, were waiting for me. And so ended my time with my new parents. If only I could say that was the last time I ever saw them.

#

The next year passed without difficulty. I didn’t see my parents at all, for one. I wasn’t certain if they’d been able to keep their house; my absence meant that there was really no reason for the clan to continue entertaining their delusions of grandeur. I did start to recognize Nobumasa; he was periodically in the main house, and he greeted me politely whenever we crossed paths. When I raised the question of Nobumasa to Isamu, he was happy to explain.

Evidently, Nobumasa’s parents had both been sorcerers who died exorcising a curse. Due to his high level of talent, the clan head had trained Nobumasa personally. By the time he had finished at the Kyoto school, Nobumasa was a Grade 1 sorcerer and now one of the stars of the Kamo Clan.

“If Noritoshi hadn’t been born, Nobumasa was the next most likely choice to succeed the clan head,” Isamu informed me, politely skipping over the fact that it wasn’t Noritoshi’s birth but rather his inherited technique that was the notable event.

I tried to think of the politest way I could phrase my next question. “Is that a potential cause for concern?”

Isamu laughed. “Nobumasa is Noritoshi’s main tutor, just as I am yours.”

“I see,” I said, though I really wasn’t sure if that was an assurance.

“Nobumasa possesses a deep well of loyalty to Matsuo-sama,” Isamu explained. “On the day that Noritoshi was proclaimed the clan heir, Nobumasa was the first to visit and declare his allegiance.”

“Ah,” I said. “I understand now.”

Nobumasa, if I had to guess, likely felt he owed his entire life to Matsuo. If Matsuo told him to be clan head, he would. If he told him to train and protect Noritoshi, then he would do that instead. And if he told him to ensure the safety of Noritoshi’s prized fiancée…

“Do not worry about Nobumasa,” Isamu assured me. “Instead, you should focus on attempting to land a hit on me.”

Isamu had sussed out the real reason for my questioning: to get a break from our training. The Bone Blood Samurai were beautiful creations, and for some reason responded easier to my cursed energy than any other object I’d used before. There was a general hierarchy to what worked best with my technique, with mass-produced objects being the worst (at least, according to the Kamo Clan scrolls. I’d never actually been given an object produced by machinery) and with hand-crafted, bespoke items being best.

I wasn’t sure what it was that set the Bone Blood Samurai apart from the other hand-made objects I’d used. It may have been their quality – I’d noticed that the efficiency of my cursed energy slightly improved the higher the craftsmanship of my object – but it could also have been a side-effect of being a cursed object. Perhaps the fact that they’d been used as tools for people with my technique for centuries had imbued them with a special kind of resonance specifically for Still Life Blood Animation.

Because the samurai were indestructible, it meant that Isamu could kick up the intensity of our sparring. I was considered sufficiently advanced enough to begin learning “real” combat tactics, and while Isamu was definitely going easy on me I could still barely manage to scratch him. I’d managed to tag him a few times by surprising him with attacks from my archers at the start of our exercises, but ever since Isamu had begun to use his cursed technique my success rate had dropped to zero.

Isamu had helpfully explained his technique to me, so I didn’t even have ignorance as an excuse for my failures. Isamu’s cursed technique manipulated air pressure. The first use of it, and the only one he bothered to use against me, was detecting fluctuations in air pressure. Practically, it meant he could easily dodge my ranged attacks, even if he didn’t see them coming. He also told me he could alter the air pressure in a limited area, either thinning it out to induce headaches and nausea or increasing it to slow down an adversary. By creating a difference in air pressure between two spots in his vision, he could also create gusts of wind.

It was a neat technique, but one not particularly suited to fighting cursed spirits, who lacked a typical biology. It was a testament to Isamu’s skill that he had reached the level he was currently at with such a limiting cursed technique. All that effort he put in to become a powerful sorcerer, and he was currently using it make me feel like an imbecile.

I stood across the training room from him and thought. I had six samurai and six archers, though I could still only control five at a time; the archers were scattered throughout the room, and the samurai were littered around Isamu. The biggest disadvantage I had was the small size of the samurai: they were too small to physically defend me from Isamu’s counterattacks, and they took commensurately small footsteps. That meant that if I wanted them to attack Isamu at a speed that actually required a response, I needed to waste cursed energy empowering them. The strain, even with the efficiency advantage of the samurai, was such that I couldn’t win a drawn out fight. 

On the plus side, just having my archers fire arrows took basically no cursed energy out of me. I wasn’t sure why; wouldn’t an archer firing arrows be the same kind of “special feature” as a dragon breathing fire, which had been sufficient to wipe me out completely? Maybe it was just the amount of cursed energy required to replicate techniques was different; an arrow fired by one of my archers was nothing more than some piercing cursed energy. It didn’t have any properties, like dragonfire might. For now, though, it meant that I could freely use my archers to harass Isamu, though I’d have to waste a lot of cursed energy to make their arrows into credible threats.

I bent down to adjust the hem of my pants, then readied up. When Isamu gave the signal to start, I rushed in. As expected, he stepped forward to meet me, but I directed two of my archers – on either side of the room – to fire arrows at the space between us, forcing Isamu to deflect the shots. I hadn’t wasted much cursed energy on the archers, instead spending just enough to ensure that Isamu couldn’t ignore them flat-out.

As I got closer, I directed one of my samurai to position itself behind Isamu, though once it was in position I ceased animating it. Isamu, who had been preparing for an attack from behind, smoothly pivoted back towards me just as I began an assault of punches and kicks. As expected, he parried them all with ease.

I tried to keep him off-guard by peppering him with attacks from my archers and samurai, but the samurai were low enough to the ground that Isamu could avoid them without having to use his upper body, which was free to deflect arrows or my attacks. Frustrated, I re-animated the samurai I’d sent behind Isamu, pumping it full of cursed energy. Sensing the disturbance, Isamu spun in place and delivered a vicious kick, punting the figure across the room.

That moment, when he had to look away from me, was my chance. I unclenched my fist and tossed an archer figure into the air, leaving it un-animated. I’d grabbed it when I pretended to be fixing my pant leg and had kept it clutched in my fist all fight. It hurt like hell, and the ends of its bow had dug into my skin and drawn blood, but the pain was worth it. When Isamu spun around to face me, he hadn’t seen me toss the figure.

Of course, he’d still sensed it with his air pressure technique. As a result, he had to glance up to visually confirm just what it was I’d thrown. I animated it, and the figure drew back its bow, preparing to shoot. Isamu went to guard himself, and I dropped my connection to the airborne figure and instead drew on the remaining five archers, scattered throughout the room. They fired, and Isamu was out of position to easily repel the shots; instead, he was forced to contort himself awkwardly to avoid the first two arrows, then use his fists to deflect the remaining three.

In the meantime, I slipped a foot behind his leg and pulled. He stumbled, just barely, giving me the momentum I needed to land a punch on his gut. I danced away in joy, pumping my fists in excitement. Isamu clapped for me, allowing me this moment of triumph.

“Excellent work, Matsuno,” he said. “Next we’ll have to work on making sure the punch actually hurts.”

#

Adjusting to life in the main house had been difficult at first. I’d grown used to a certain level of privacy, and now I had servants frequently going in and out of my room to clean it and deliver me food. It took me a while to feel comfortable enough to resume my experimentation. I’d whittled down some bamboo into the shape of a man, non-descript save for an s-shaped curl that descended over his forehead. I’d been saving the necessary steps for last, to further my experiments.

I animated the man, and he moved and walked like any of my other figures, but nothing else. Satisfied, I let the technique drop and started whittling him again. I focused on his thick back, chipping out the shape of a cape draped over his shoulders. This wasn’t quick work – I’d had to hide him when halfway finished and resume the next night. This time, when I animated him the cape fluttered in the breeze, but he had no other unique properties.

I was pleased to see, at least, that I could apply changes to my objects after bleeding on them; that is, the objects weren’t “locked in” from the moment I used my technique. I released my technique and resumed whittling. This time, I made only a few small changes: I whittled in the outline of trunks around his pelvis, and etched a symbol into his chest: a jewel-like outline, containing a stylized “S.”

This time, my figure took to the skies with ease. It seems that my technique somehow relied on the iconography of my objects; a man with a cape wasn’t specific enough, or meaningful enough, to take on the attributes of a superhero. But the logo and the trunks evidently did a Superman make. Just like with the dragon, having Superman move and fly around did little to affect my cursed energy.

I directed him towards my dresser. He slipped his hands under the dresser and hefted, strained, and failed to move it at all. I frowned. I’d always assumed that my objects’ strength were proportional to their size; that is, a lion at 1/20th of the size of a real lion was exactly 1/20th as strong. Superman, even at this diminished size, should have been plenty strong enough to pick up a dresser.

The Bone Blood Samurai definitely possessed greater strength than other human-like figures I’d animated. Was it about their inherent cursed energy, or was my technique somehow drawing strength from the quality of their make? Had I completely misunderstood the relationship between physical strength and strength of cursed energy in my technique? I didn’t like not knowing something so fundamental.

Time for a final test: Superman exhaled, a jet of frost spreading across the tatami flooring. I felt the rush of cursed energy leave me, just like it had with the dragon, but I had also grown. It was still massively inefficient, and I doubted I could do it again, but it hadn’t wiped me out like it had a few years ago. It was good enough proof that, for now, I was growing strong.

#

Chapter 6: 1.5 - Escape

When I turned twelve, I’d hoped that my time training with the Bone Blood Samurai would be completed, and I could move on to the next technique. Instead, Isamu’s idea of a birthday present was telling me that next year I could learn the new technique. To be honest, I was getting sick of the samurai. They were slow, could only really attack linearly, and had stopped engaging the creative part of my brain. I’d asked if I could create my own cursed figurines, and Isamu had sent me to talk to the head smith.

Cursed tool creation, it turned out, was more of an art than a science. It wasn’t well understood how cursed tools came into being without the help of a specific cursed technique, other than that they were infused with special meaning by their creation and history. So, mass-produced cursed tools were almost a contradiction in terms unless you had a specialized sorcerer on hand. Special grade cursed tools, ones with actual techniques, were even rarer; the Kamo Clan had only a handful, and they had a not negligible supply of cursed tools.

Furthermore, the power of a cursed tool was tied inherently to its form. A cursed sword lost most of its power once it stopped being a sword and started being something else. The further a cursed tool got away from the original form in which it gained its curse, the steeper the decline in cursed energy. Thus died my glorious dream of melting down a bunch of cursed items to make super-cursed figurine.

With that avenue closed, the logical next step to progress my technique was to figure out how to control six objects at once. It had been something like four years since I’d graduated to five objects, but the sixth still eluded me. I knew that it would likely require a major change in perspective, but simply knowing that you need to change your way of thinking doesn’t do much for figuring out how that change should take place. I managed to learn a bunch of tricks for controlling my cursed energy, but nothing that gave me the moment of instant euphoria I’d felt when I’d first moved five objects at once.

The clan, at least, hardly seemed bothered by my slow progress in this field. The upper limit was generally considered to be seven objects, and the sorcerer who’d managed that had only accomplished it in his late twenties. To be on five objects by age 12 was perfectly acceptable. Of course, I couldn’t settle for acceptable if I wanted to live to 16.

My plan for getting into Tokyo was on hold until next year. I was worried any suggestions or hints I could drop on sending me there might be misinterpreted, and Noritoshi would go to Tokyo instead. Once he left for school next year my window to start persuading the clan would open. Plus, his leaving for school would provide a neat excuse for my interest in learning about Tokyo.

Noritoshi and I still regularly met for training, but little else. He seemed to have fully grown into understanding what our engagement meant, which unfortunately meant our training had become much more awkward. He’d grown overly solicitous, stopping our spars to ensure I was not too badly hurt. No matter how many annoyed glances I sent Isamu, he never saw fit to correct Noritoshi, either.

Noritoshi had only grown more aware of the expectations placed on him by the clan as time had gone on. The fumbling formality he’d had as a kid gradually lost its charm. He’d developed more of a poker face, too. He’d even stopped being embarrassed when I paid him obnoxious compliments, which deprived me of one of my simple pleasures.

As the only person I knew who actually appeared in the manga, it had been unusual watching Noritoshi grow into his teenage features. His thin eyebrows, bangs-braids hybrid hairstyle, and tendency to keep his eyes lidded so low they looked shut were all reminiscent of the manga, but he was still an actual, human person. It was at least a little uncanny.

To my great surprise, Noritoshi stopped me after our joint training one day and requested I attend dinner with him and his father that night. Despite knowing each other for years, not once had we ever met outside of training. I’ll admit that I likely could have tried harder, but I’d been intimidated by both his heir status and his canon-character status. After our engagement, I’d been annoyed enough with him – unfairly, I’ll admit – that I hadn’t wanted to bother.

So, it was with great trepidation that I had a maid help dress me in my nicest kimono and escort me to dinner with Matsuo and Noritoshi. I hadn’t even seen the clan head since before my engagement; his illness had taken a turn for the worse, according to the rumors I’d picked up. The maid brought me to a door in the main house I’d never entered, bowed to me, then slid the door open.

Like everywhere in the main house, it was a dark, gloomy room. The only pops of color were some spots of red on a wall tapestry – depicting what was no doubt a Kamo sorcerer, wielding blood to vanquish a draconic cursed spirit – and one of Shimizu’s flower arrangements. The dining table was knee high and had places set for just three. Matsuo was seated on a cushion at the head of the table, with Noritoshi to his right. When I entered, they both rose, Matsuo somewhat shakily.

I entered the room, and heard the maid shut the door behind me. I bowed my head.

“It is a great honor to dine with you, Matsuo-sama, Noritoshi-sama,” I said. I may have hated acting so formal and reserved, but never let it be said I was bad at it.

“Matsuno-chan,” Matsuo said. “Please, join us.”

His voice sounded hoarse, but I had expected worse. I had no idea exactly what it was that ailed the clan head, save that it was very incurable. It could have been some kind of cancer; that would explain his general lack of energy, but also his persistence in hanging on. I sat at the table, on Matsuo’s left, careful to mind my kimono as I settled into the correct posture.

Immediately, servants bustled into the room carrying trays of food. I ate very well in the main house, but typically on my own and never in a formal situation like this. The food was appropriately fancier than my usual fare, even just from the way it was plated. I waited for Matsuo to begin eating to follow suit, unsure of exactly what the point of this dinner was. It could have been as simple as wanting to get to know the future bride of his son, but I doubted the old man had so much sentimentality in him.

We picked at the first course, a collection of light, bite-sized dishes. Finally, after we’d picked clean the black soybeans, slices of tofu, and perfectly cooked shrimp, the servers returned to remove our plates and Matsuo spoke again.

“Are you enjoying your ikebana lessons, Matsuno?” he asked, dispensing entirely with honorifics.

“Elder Shimizu is an excellent teacher,” I lied. “I thank you for granting my childish request.”

Matsuo chuckled to himself. Noritoshi was frozen solid; he’d only moved to eat his food.

“And you are making excellent progress with your crafts, I hear. I suppose it is time you move on to woodworking and metalworking,” Matsuo said.

“Thank you, Matsuno-sama,” I said, aware of just how obsequious I was being. “Noritoshi-sama, do you have any hobbies?”

“I greatly enjoy practicing archery,” Noritoshi said. At no point did his father ever turn his gaze from me to his son. It was like he hadn’t even heard him.

The servants returned and presented us with bowls of clear soup. Ugh. It tasted great, but soup was always a challenge to eat while maintaining my dignity. Once again, silence reigned until the course was finished and the plates were cleared. It seemed to me that it was less likely that Matsuo was biding his time on questioning me, and more that the long gaps in conversation were so he could recover his strength.

“Do you enjoy living in the main house, Matsuno? I regret that we have yet to cross paths,” he said.

“Everyone has been most accommodating,” I replied. “I must thank the clan for the generosity with which they’ve treated me.”

More thanking. I was doing a lot of groveling. Noritoshi was looking at me with some intensity, now. He’d seen me in training, and he knew that I had something of a temper, that I wasn’t afraid to poke and prod at Isamu, and that I was extremely competitive. I probably looked pretty silly to him, debasing myself like this in front of his father.

The next course came quickly: sashimi. I tried to keep my mouth from watering and savored each bite. I could handle a lot of asinine questioning and acting over-the-top grateful for my lot in life if it got me fish like this.

“Isamu tells me you are progressing well with your technique,” Matsuo said. “Soon, you will be ready to face cursed spirits for the first time.”

“I will do my best to live up to the clan,” I said. “Though I must admit to some trepidation about my first exorcism.”

“You will do very well,” Noritoshi assured me. “You are already very skilled.”

Again, Matsuo ignored his son. The servants brought us small pieces of grilled fish and pork. Abruptly, Matsuo stood, bumping the table. The servant, halfway to the door, froze. Without a word, Matsuo left the room, and the servant trailed after him. Noritoshi sagged, seeming to breathe for the first time.

“He will not return,” he said. “Most of the time, father is quite healthy, but he still has sudden bouts of ill health. Please forgive us.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” I assured Noritoshi. I snagged a slice of pork, eager to see if it was better than the pork I usually got.

“It occurs to me that I know very little about you,” Noritoshi said. “Even though we are to be married.”

“I know very little about you as well, Noritoshi-sama,” I challenged, He twitched in surprise, but did not countermand me.

“That is true,” he said.

We lapsed back into silence, and I wanted to groan in frustration. Noritoshi seemed pathologically incapable of having a normal conversation. Time to use my well-honed conversational skills.

“Are you looking forward to school?” I asked.

“Yes,” Noritoshi said.

Okay, maybe this was beyond my abilities. Noritoshi couldn’t be this bad at talking. He had to be intentionally stonewalling me, but why? As far as I knew, I was the only friend he had of roughly his own age.

“Have you started designing your uniform? I heard everyone at Jujutsu Tech can choose their own kind,” I asked.

“I will wear my uniform in the shozoku style, as is traditional for Kamo sorcerers,” he replied.

That was the clue I needed. Noritoshi didn’t think of me as a kid his age, or as a friend. I was just another member of the clan, to whom he could never show weakness or admit anything less than perfection. My obedient and submissive performance had worked too well; I one more person he had to impress. He’d seen my moments of anger and pettiness, and likely assumed that I was simply a docile person who had flashes of anger, and not that I was disguising my entire personality.

From his perspective, I could understand why he thought that. Who would really think that a young girl, whom he’d known since the age of eight, had been playing a character the entire time? My act at dinner must have sealed the deal. If he let anything slip to me, he was probably convinced I’d go tattling to his father. I sighed and set down my chopsticks. This was going to be a painful dinner.

#

When I turned thirteen, Isamu gifted me the next technique, and also the bad news that it was the last technique. I was surprised, given the long history of Still Life Blood Animation, that its previous users hadn’t innovated on it much more. Blood Manipulation had something like a dozen specific uses, and while I hadn’t expected quite that many techniques I was frustrated to hear that previous users hadn’t done much experimenting. I guess their idea of improvement had been limited to increasing the number of controlled objects and refining their tools.

“This technique is called shitetsure,” Isamu told me. “It refers to a type of role in Noh, as the assistant or companion to the main character.”

The idea behind the technique was simple: I could spend cursed energy to increase the physical size and power of my objects. The conversion rate was brutal – it wasn’t viable to make an object life-sized for very long – but I could freely increase an objects size on the fly. I was already more enthusiastic about this technique than I had been about Ishiyama Hongan-ji. The reason Isamu had waited so long to hand it to me was because it simply required a lot of cursed energy, and I was now old enough to handle it.

It took me a few days to even get started on the technique. Unlike Ishiyama Hongan-ji, which I’d learned quickly, shitetsure was less about a state of mind and more about a specific way of suffusing an object with my cursed energy. I was already used to filling them with cursed energy in order to empower their attacks, but somehow I had to figure out how to fill them with cursed energy in order to do something completely different.

“Faster!” Isamu demanded. “You have to cycle the cursed energy not just within yourself, but within the object. Agitate the boundary between its being and its physical nature.”

What the fuck did that even mean, Isamu? Still, I complied and accelerated my cursed energy. We’d been working on nothing but shitetsure since he handed it to me, and I’d made no progress. The good news was that the Bone Blood Samurai were indestructible, and I could throw cursed energy at them willy-nilly without worrying about anything breaking.

I was sitting on the floor, staring at a single samurai, which remained stubbornly the same size. Isamu stood and wandered away; I was so transfixed on my practice that I barely noticed. My view of the object was blocked by the appearance of a wooden sword. Isamu pointed it at my neck.

“Do not move. You must block my next strike,” he said.

Isamu stepped back and readied the blade. Frustrated, I redoubled my efforts. Did it twitch? I couldn’t tell if I was going crazy or not. Isamu shuffled forward, then whipped his hand out. I panicked, and had the samurai jump straight in the air to deflect the blow. It succeeded, and settled back down on the ground, still the same size.

“Fine,” Isamu said. “For the next strike, neither you nor the samurai must move.”

He got back into position. My heart was pounding; would he actually strike me, full force, if I failed? It was so unlike Isamu that I found myself actually believing it. He’d never actually seen me struggle to learn something he was teaching. What if this was always how he would have treated me if I didn’t meet his expectations?

I spun my cursed energy again, then tried to spin it from within the samurai. For a moment, I was certain I saw its edges grow fuzzy. Isamu lunged, and enlightenment struck at the same moment. In a flood of cursed energy, the samurai grew four feet tall, plenty enough to defend me while I was seated, and caught Isamu’s blade on its armor. He tossed the wooden blade away and smiled at me.

“Excellent!” he said. “They say that most sorcerers have breakthroughs in moments of danger. I’m glad to see it helped you with your block.”

I let the samurai shrink back down to size and allowed myself the pleasure of giving Isamu an angry look. At least I understood how the technique worked, now. By rapidly cycling an object full of cursed energy, its “soul” naturally broke through its physical barriers. In order to match the material with the immaterial, the physical bounds of the object grew to accommodate its enlarged soul. It was like boiling water spilling over the edge of a pot, if the pot itself grew bigger as the water boiled.

“That was difficult,” I said. “Let me try again.”

The rest of my thirteenth year was spent on mastering shitetsure, and I couldn’t complain. This was an extremely useful technique: easy to activate, flexible in use, and it compensated for one of my greatest weaknesses. There was a little hand sign that was used to activate the technique that Isamu had wanted me to totally dispense with. “Being a sorcerer is the art of subtraction,” and all that. I stuck with it when I could, though, because I thought doing handsigns was cool.

Isamu also confirmed he had handed me the last of the Kamo records on my technique. I spent days poring over them and came to a shocking conclusion: they never mentioned my technique’s ability to use the unique abilities of objects it animated. This was too obvious an application for no one in the history of the clan to have ever tried it out, which meant its exclusion was somehow deliberate. Had Isamu lied to me, or was there some other reason this feature of the technique was being hidden? I didn’t want to ask directly, so I was forced to keep my questions to myself. Maybe in the future I’d get the chance to do a real interrogation, but for now I played dumb about my technique’s full capabilities.

Noritoshi went off to the Kyoto school, as expected, and the entire clan gathered together to see him off at the gates. Even Matsuo-sama managed to toddle out of the main house to make a rare public appearance. He just needed to hang on for three more years, and he’d be able to die in peace. If things went the way they were supposed to, he’d be dead before that ever happened. I couldn’t say I’d miss him, if things worked out that way.

With Noritoshi finally gone, it was time to deploy my “Let Matsuno Go to Tokyo Strategy.” I started by asking questions to my instructors: how does Satoru Gojo’s technique work? Is he weak to poisons in his food or in the air? I heard a rumor that he was injured while in school, how did that happen?

Every time, my instructors had no answer for me. They were forced to admit general ignorance about the specifics of Gojo’s abilities. I moved my questioning on to Fushiguro, though I didn’t refer to him by name, just as “The Ten Shadows user.”

The Ten Shadows user was my age? How many shadows has he mastered? He’s protected by Gojo? Do they live together? What’s their relationship like? He’ll probably attend Tokyo, right?

Again, my instructors had little to say. I let my questions get broader. I heard there was a living cursed corpse – an actual rumor frequently passed around the clan – at the Tokyo school? Was he going to attend classes like a human? My job got even easier as the year progressed, and I started to overhear some grumbling from elders about the Tokyo first years, Hakari and Kirara. What were their techniques? What was their relationship like with Gojo?

They had few answers. I made sure to space my questions out, and to always ask them in appropriate settings. I tried to never seem unduly interested in attending the Tokyo school itself, just in learning about the people who were there, the people whom the clan knew only through disciplinary meetings and rumors, not through personal relationships. The message I wanted to get across was this: the Kamo may run Jujutsu HQ, but they had no idea what was really going on in the Tokyo school.

#

When I turned fourteen, all I could think was: God bless Yuta Okkotsu. First, his mastery of a special grade cursed spirit sent our elders into a panic, especially because he was at the Tokyo school and therefore under Gojo’s protection and away from their surveillance. Second, because four months after my birthday Suguru Geto unleashed his terribly named “Night Parade of a Hundred Demons” on Shinjuku, with a simultaneous attack on the Kyoto and Tokyo schools. The events in Kyoto were well-known by the clan, because Noritoshi himself had been part of the defense and acquitted himself well. The events in Tokyo, however, remained a blur to the elders.

Gojo’s faction, such as it existed, acquitted itself extremely well in Shinjuku. Kento Nanami set a record four black flashes, Mei Mei exorcised fifty cursed spirits by herself, and Gojo performed as was expected of him, which was to say, spectacularly. Even worse, from the clan’s perspective, a clear understanding of how Okkotsu had defeated Geto at Tokyo evaded them. He had evidently expended his cursed spirit, but whether he could regain her power remained an open question. Hakari even got himself suspended around this time, fighting back against the interference of some of the higher-ups.

It had become clear to the clan that the Tokyo school was a total information black hole. Gojo was training up delinquents and loose cannon special grades, with no oversight from the clan. Even though there were Kamo loyalists, or people who owed the Kamo a debt and could be trusted to feed them gossip, living on the mountain with the school, getting actual information about what was going on with the students was evidently quite difficult, in no small part because Gojo would never stoop so low as to give the elders a straightforward report.

In canon, there had been nothing the clan could do about this problem. The idea of sending Noritoshi to Tokyo was laughable. Now, though, they had me: sweet little Matsuno, so biddable, never an inch of rebellion in her life. It would be hard, to keep her from Noritoshi, but they could always pull her out after a year for her to get married…

I made sure to spend the year playing up just how willing I was to do whatever the clan needed of me. Every task, completed above and beyond with a pleasant smile. I leaped ahead in my crafting education, taking to woodworking and metalworking with pleasure. I was even allowed to use some of the more hardcore tools, like the table saws and the smelter, to my extreme pleasure.

I was able to accompany Isamu on a few missions, though nothing more dangerous than a Grade 2 curse, and never in the city, only in the country. Isamu didn’t even let me fight, though I was allowed to bring the Bone Blood Samurai for protection. I just followed Isamu around various cursed locations – typically abandoned buildings, though we went to a few graveyards – while he hunted down and disposed of whatever curse was living there. It was interesting in part; against lower-level curses like these, most of the struggle was in locating where they were hiding, not in the fighting, but it was also boring after a time. We never spoke to anyone outside the clan, and we never stopped anywhere between the compound and the missions.

Isamu did let me exorcise a few extremely weak curses in isolation, mostly flyheads and other Grade 4’s, but nothing that had a chance of fighting back. The sensation of exorcism was bizarre. The moment where I struck a spirit fatally was like swinging my hand through a mister, except the mist was made from pickle juice. There was no actual physical residue, but the feeling lingered for a few hours.

I knew that Noritoshi had been allowed to do some actual exorcisms before heading off to school, but I guess the clan expected a lot more out of him than they did out of me. I managed to sneak a few more experiments with my technique, but ironically, only the failures were worth noting.

I had three ideas about the limits of my power. First, was my power limited only to “existing” fictional beings, or could it animate a creature of my own make? Second, could my power animate fictional beings that had yet to be invented – that is, something that would appear in media in the future? Third, was my power somehow reliant on how well known a fictional being was, and could it animate fictional characters from extremely niche media?

First, I whittled together an abominable little creature that I was very fond of. I called it, affectionately, Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness. It had four cloven hooves and horse-like body, a muscled human torso, and the head of an alligator. Its four arms each wielded sickles. Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness, according to extensive notes I took in my journal, was capable of turning the ground he trod upon into a poisonous swamp, and also he could breathe fire.

Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness came alive just fine – he galloped across my floor and swung his scythes with abandon. It was a sign of just how good I’d gotten at woodcarving, in my opinion, that he had such a wide range of motion. Still, no matter how much cursed energy I applied, he could not turn my room into a FromSoft environment, nor could he breathe fire. Disappointed – not in Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness, but in myself – I stowed him deep in my dresser, unwilling to dispose of him, despite the risk he posed if he were to be discovered.

My next attempt was at a fictional character that did not yet exist. Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness had put me into a SoulsBorne mood, so I opted for a little figure of Radahn. He was, I thought, pretty well known, considering the game had sold millions, and he was probably the most famous individual boss. That is, he would be pretty well known. I half-suspected my attempt would fail, and I was proven right: Radahn was, when animated, nothing more than a weirdly proportioned swordsman, with no gravity magic or other abilities in sight.

My final experiment centered around the idea of a niche character. How niche was niche, for instance? Even if I thought of the weird, obscure video games I played as a kid, there were probably hundreds of thousands of other people who played those games. I wanted to find the middle ground between something only a few people knew about, and something that tons of people knew about it. Where, exactly, did my technique stop working?

I realized an ideal starting point: Satoru Gojo. Basically every sorcerer in Japan knew the basics of what he was capable of, if not the details. In the grand scheme of things, though, there weren’t that many sorcerers out there. My little figurine of Gojo – which I thought was kind of cute – was, unfortunately, just another man. Either my technique couldn’t replicate cursed techniques, or Gojo simply wasn’t famous enough to register.

My next attempt was Skitter. It was hard to know how many people had read Worm, but it was probably in the hundreds of thousands, all told. Still, evidently that didn’t meet the threshold of being well-known enough for my technique to set in. Maybe I needed millions of people to be aware of a specific character for it to be well-known enough for my technique; I didn’t quite understand how it was my technique worked, but it seemed logical to me that just as curses were born from the natural fears and anxieties of mankind, my technique was capable of tapping into their subconscious understanding of the world.

If millions of people believed that a man in a cape with an “S” on his chest could fly, then my technique thought so too. But if an idea was too niche, then my technique failed to fill in the gap. Maybe, as a side-effect of living in Japan and under Tengen’s barrier, my technique only cared about the cultural sensitivities of Japanese people. Superman was definitely well-known enough, even here, to still function, but Skitter was probably known by only a few thousand people in Japan, if that.

Any further attempts at figuring exactly where my technique drew the line came to an end in April of 2018. Noritoshi-sama had returned from his second year at the Kyoto school, and I was supposed to fight him.

#

Noritoshi and I had sparred plenty of times over the years, in basically every configuration: swords only, hand-to-hand only, cursed technique only, all of that put together, and so on. I had never won an extended exchange with him. Every so often I would land a good hit, or a single round in a spar, but I’d never achieved what I thought of as a real victory.

The fight was to take place in the woods just outside the walls of the Kamo compound. Noritoshi and I were placed far apart – outside the natural range of either of our techniques. All the elders, Isamu, and Nobumasa had gathered at the edge of the woods to spectate, though they would likely have to do so mostly through their ability at reading cursed energy.

I had brought the Bone Blood Samurai into the woods with me, and nothing else. This was, as I saw it, a test. I had to demonstrate sufficient mastery of my technique, and that meant mastery of its traditional tool. I had to hope that I would do well enough to satisfy whatever the elders were looking for; if I did too poorly, they may even think of a way to refuse to send me to either school, which would be a disaster.

I found a small clearing and began to set up. I opened the box and positioned the samurai like this: three archers I scattered around the clearing, one I hid inside the box, though I propped it open such that the archer could fire out of the box, and two I hid in my sleeves. I was wearing a haori with broad sleeves with small cloth loops that I had sewn on the inside; I could tighten the loops to secure the figures against my sleeves.

I kept the samurai closer to me – three near where I planned to stand, two hidden in my outfit, and the third I hid with a special little surprise. I knew how Noritoshi was likely to approach this fight, based on my past experience with him and my knowledge of some of the tricks he’d picked up in school. He was likely to find a good vantage point and use that to attack me with his blood-tipped arrows; my best bet was to set up a position he’d have to physically enter to fight me.

I took in the pleasant spring day. The clan property was well-maintained, even outside the compound. I hadn’t really appreciated just how much I’d gotten used to the smell and odor of the city in my past life. Out here, in nature, everything smelled fresh and new.

A whistle split the air and I activated my technique. My three archers around the clearing stood alert, bows drawn in preparation. The two samurai closest to me on the forest floor stood at attention. If any of Noritoshi’s arrows got through, I could use shitetsure to make them large enough to defend me.

I caught the glint of Noritoshi’s arrows in the sunlight. They curved unnaturally through the air, unerringly targeting my position. I couldn’t see exactly where Noritoshi was hiding; he’d probably climbed a tree, then directed the arrows to circle about before attacking me, to disguise their position. It took a trivial amount of cursed energy to empower my archers enough to knock his shots off course.

This stalemate continued for two more minutes. I suspected Noritoshi was testing my defenses, to see if I was weaker to an attack from any particular angle. He knew it would be risky to attack my position directly; ideally, he would draw me out from the killzone I’d made. Two more arrows entered the clearing, and I tracked them with my eyes while giving the order for my archers to shoot.

Only my ability to sense cursed energy saved me. I rolled to the side as jets of blood streaked through where I’d just been standing. I spun about and saw that Noritoshi had just entered the edge of my clearing. He’d probably fired the arrows and had them take a long circuit before entering the clearing, to fool me into thinking he was still far away. He’d discarded his bow and was dressed in his Jujutsu High uniform. I checked his cheek, but he hadn’t activated Flowing Red Scale; he probably didn’t think he’d need it.

I had my three archers open fire, but I expected little and got less. Noritoshi wove between the shots, closing the distance between us. He was the superior melee combatant, and he knew it. I backpedaled until one of my samurai was between us. With a twist of my fingers, it grew to be six feet tall. Noritoshi tried to dodge around it, but with an infusion of cursed energy it moved fast enough to slash at his side, forcing him to deflect the sword with his hand.

I circled another one of my samurai around Noritoshi’s ankles, keeping it small. Even while my figures advanced, I continued to retreat towards the center of the clearing. Noritoshi slipped a blood bag out of his uniform and it burst into a dozen strands, directing them all towards the small samurai by his feet. Fuck – if he’d tried to capture the large one, I could have just shrunk it out of the bonds.

I ordered my three archers to keep firing, but I wasn’t wasting a lot of cursed energy on making them dangerous. Noritoshi, even as his blood binding finished wrapping up one samurai, vaulted over the large one and dashed towards me. He produced another blood bag, and I was forced to guess its likely target: the archers, who were peppering him, or the samurai? I guessed he’d try to remove the samurai first, since it could actually hurt him; I shrunk the six-foot figure down to three feet, and enlarged the other samurai, to my back, to three feet. Nice and equal, and large enough that shrinking them could help them escape their bonds.

I guessed wrong; the blood binding shot out in three different directions, directly towards my archers. Ideally, I would close the distance here and put on pressure, but I had no faith in my ability to beat Noritoshi hand-to-hand. Instead, I had my three-feet samurai try to sandwich Noritoshi and keep him occupied.

Noritoshi smoothly jumped over the first attack, just as I planned. I activated my fourth archer, the one hidden in the figure case, and flooded it with cursed energy. Its arrow flew straight, far faster than any of my other shots. I’d hoped to take Noritoshi off-guard, and it worked – the arrow punctured his shoulder in a gout of blood.

In fact, there was far more blood from the wound than expected. It flowed freely out of Noritoshi’s shoulder and formed into whips, which lashed out at the samurai. I instinctively shrunk them, hoping to avoid the bindings, but instead Noritoshi simply smacked them, hitting them with enough force to send them flying out of the clearing and deep into the tree line.

God dammit. Noritoshi knew the weaknesses of my technique too well: if my figures were tied up, or sent far away, I’d have to waste a lot of cursed energy getting them into position to fight again. He didn’t really need to fight me; he just had to pressure me into giving away the positions of my figures, which he could pick off one by one. Once it was just down to me and him, he could defeat me at his leisure.

I had to end this decisively; the upside of losing so many of my figures was that I could now control all my remaining samurai at once. Noritoshi closed the gap again, but rather than attacking me sent a lash of blood towards the box. I had the archer dive out of the box and sprint along the forest floor. Noritoshi, recognizing that I was reluctant to get closer, simply remained at a distance, using his blood to pursue my archer.

Casually, I lifted the sleeve of my shirt. The archer hidden within fired a cursed-energy laden shot, but Noritoshi was quick enough to convert some of his shoulder-blood into a shield. I fired it up with another volley of shots, enough that Noritoshi felt compelled to get close to me so that my body would block my archers’ firing lines. He was fast, even without Flowing Red Scale. What was scariest about this fight was his totally blank face; as a kid, Noritoshi had been decently expressive. Now he acted like a cold blooded killing machine, giving no hint of anger or happiness.

I took a few half-steps back, just to better bait the trap. Noritoshi lashed out with another whip of blood, aiming for my sleeve. I had no good way to defend, so I let him cut the sleeve. My archer fell to the ground and rolled, bringing its bow around to fire at Noritoshi from a seated position. Almost casually, he splattered the archer with blood, which solidified around it and took it out of the fight.

That moment of distraction was exactly what I was waiting for. I crossed my fingers and activated shitetsure on the samurai I’d buried in the ground beneath the clearing. I’d been steadily luring Noritoshi to this exact spot, and he was taken completely by surprise as an eight-foot samurai burst up from beneath his feet, sword already swinging.

It managed to gouge a clean line across Noritoshi’s torso. I wasn’t capable of savoring my triumph; the energy required to get a samurai up to eight feet wasn’t negligible, and I started to sag. Noritoshi flipped backwards and, while upside down, oriented himself towards me and clapped his hands.

“Oh, come on,” I complained. I hadn’t thought Noritoshi would resort to using Condensed Blood; it was usually pretty lethal. In this case, the stream smacked into my enlarged samurai, which flew back into me. I cushioned myself with cursed energy and let the samurai shrink, but the momentum with which it had struck me carried over. I went flying out of the clearing, crashing through branches and bushes.

I barely regained my sense of balance by the time Noritoshi arrived. I was forced to rely on one of the samurai I’d hidden in the collar of my coat, ordering it to jump out to intercept Noritoshi’s attack, which only stalled him for a moment. I’d been separated from every figure except the ones I’d hidden on my person, which was just two samurai and a single archer. This was, truly, a worst-case scenario.

I’d gotten a few good hits in, but Noritoshi could clot his blood closed with his cursed technique. He probably wasn’t suffering from many aftereffects of my attacks. I dashed in close, trying to land a blow on Noritoshi, my cut sleeve fluttering in the wind. I wasn’t really able to hit Noritoshi, but I was able to keep him busy enough that he couldn’t activate his technique to dispose of my samurai.

I spun my other sleeve towards Noritoshi, and he reflexively ducked out of the way, expecting another archer hidden in my clothes. The joke was on him: I’d dropped the archer that I’d hidden on that sleeve, and the arrow came from the opposite direction that he was expecting. The last samurai, which I’d directed to slide out of my pocket and onto the ground, jumped at Noritoshi. This was a four-pronged attack: myself, my two samurai, and my last archer.

I recognized the instant the fight was over. Red lines flashed into being over Noritoshi’s face, and he moved three times faster than he had been before. He ducked under the arrow, kicked out at the samurai in front of him, and punched the samurai behind me. My own fist sailed over his head and wrapped his arm around my wrist and threw me to the ground. A whip of blood hovered just in front of my neck, threatening to slit my throat.

“Yield,” I croaked.

The blood disappeared and Noritoshi stepped away from me, taking the time to smooth down his outfit. With a rueful smile, I got to my feet and bowed at him, which he returned.

“Excellent spar, Matsuno-chan,” Noritoshi said. “You have improved greatly while I have been gone.”

“Not improved enough,” I replied. “Clearly, you have learned much at school.”

We walked back to the elders in silence. With his blood bindings dissolved, I directed my figures to gather up their storage box and return to me. We paused, just before stepping out of the forest, to allow me to place them back in their storage case. I took a deep breath, did my best to fold my ripped sleeve into something more presentable, and went to face the music.

Elder Shimizu was at the front of the pack, but all seven elders were present, as were our teachers. She smiled at me genially, and I bowed to them, Noritoshi only a moment behind me.

“Excellent work, Matsuno-chan,” Shimizu said. “We were most impressed by your progress.”

“Indeed,” Nobumasa said. “You forced Noritoshi to employ every one of his techniques, and it appears you successfully struck him multiple times.”

I glanced sideways at Noritoshi, who appeared completely unbothered by the damage I’d done him. Typical.

“Later this month, you will be attending Jujutsu Technical High School,” Shimizu declared. “However, the clan has need of your abilities for a solemn task. Should you accept, you will be sent to the Tokyo branch on an important mission.”

Yes! Yes! Hahaha, eat it!

“I understand, Shimizu-sama,” I said. “May I ask about the details of this mission?”

“In recent years, since Satoru Gojo began teaching at the Tokyo school, students at that school have grown more unstable and untrustworthy,” Shimizu said. “Gojo threatens the security of the jujutsu world not just through his actions, but through his influence over our youth. Your task, while attending school there for one year, will be to understand how Gojo brainwashes his students into obedience, and how he trains them in such dangerous techniques.”

“Of course, Shimizu-sama. For a single year?”

“After your initial year, you will be transferred to the Kyoto branch, or returned to the Kamo Clan if you so desire,” she said.

“I will of course miss spending a year with Noritoshi-sama,” I lied. “But I am honored to be tasked with this vital mission. I accept.”

Oh yeah, the Kamo Clan was about to figure just what it was about the Tokyo school that caused people to disrespect the elders. In fact, I was going to give them an object lesson.

#

I didn’t let myself relax until I was safely on the train to Tokyo. I’d packed pretty light – just a suitcase of clothes, my tools, a handful of nostalgic figures, and my Bone Blood Samurai. I’d pick up my custom-order uniforms once I actually got to the school. I’d also been given a phone – which I could only assume was tracked by the Kamo Clan – and a debit card tied to a frankly loaded bank account. The only number in the phone was Nobumasa’s, who was to be my contact for this “mission.”

I spent the ride mostly watching the scenery, reveling in the view of Japan outside the compound. I wanted to browse the internet on my phone, see what was the same and different about this world from the one I remembered, but I was too worried the clan was monitoring me somehow. I’d wait until I got to Tokyo, then pick up a new phone.

It was surreal to think I was finally being let out, and with basically no supervision. For all intents and purposes, I’d spent my entire second life in total isolation, social and cultural. I was almost overwhelmed by the possibilities in front of me, of what I could do with my life and with my cursed technique. I’d managed to decide on my first step by the time the train pulled into Tokyo.

Someone was waiting for me in the train station. It was a tall, thin man with messy black hair in a black suit. He held up a sign that said “Kamo.” I didn’t have to say a word; as I drew closer, he locked on to me and stepped forward to help carry my bags.

“Kamo-san,” he said. “My name is Ijichi; I am the assistant director of the Tokyo branch of Jujutsu High. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Incredible! My second-ever character I recognized from the manga. Ijichi looked tired and beaten down. In the manga, I’d found him charming; here, I just felt bad for him. I was also about to make his life a lot harder.

“Nice to meet you, Ijichi-san. Please, call me Matsuno.”

Ijichi simply nodded, and we left for his car. We loaded up my bags into the trunk, and I slid into the back seat – I’m not sure why, but it didn’t feel right to sit shotgun with him.

“Ijichi-san,” I said. “Before we go to the school, I have a request for a brief stop.”

“Of course,” Ijichi said. “School activities do not begin until tomorrow, so we are in no particular rush.”

“Excellent,” I replied. “Take me to Akihabara.”

#

Chapter 7: 2.1 - A New Bond

Turns out, Akihabara was like, really close to Tokyo Station. The difficulty wasn’t in getting there, but in Ijichi finding a place to park. There were a couple parking lots in the area, but several were completely full, and we had to lap a few blocks to find one where Ijichi could leave the car. From there, we hit the streets.

I’d been away from crowds for close to twelve years now, considering I only became aware of myself when I was three. This entire life, I’d spent in isolation; I couldn’t remember a time when I’d seen more than fifteen, maybe twenty people in a single glance. In Akihabara, the mobs of people wandering the street almost sent me packing. Crowds didn’t usually bother me, but evidently I’d been re-sensitized. The noise and smell of the city didn’t help me either. Ijichi likely noticed my distress but was either too polite or too cautious to say anything.

I pushed on. This was a business trip, after all. Or, it was maybe 75% a business trip – okay, maybe 50%. Still, it was necessary, and I would have to learn to deal with crowds eventually anyway. The first stop was an ATM. I could have used my debit card directly, but I wouldn’t put it past the clan to be constantly checking in on my transaction history, and I didn’t want them to see me blowing tens of thousands of yen here.

I took out around a hundred thousand yen, on the idea that if they inquired after the reason why I could tell them it was meant to cover all of my expenses for the semester. Ijichi didn’t even blink at the large transaction. I wasn’t sure how to make small talk with him; unlike Noritoshi, whom I’d known from a young age, the only things I knew about Ijichi were from the manga. I had a kind of parasocial relationship with him, not that he knew that. Maybe I should get in some practice talking to Ijichi before I met the real stars of canon, so to speak.

“Believe it or not, this is all necessary for my technique,” I informed Ijichi, who took that statement in stride.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me, Kamo-san,” Ijichi said. “There is no need for us to rush back to the school.”

Liar liar pants on fire, Ijichi. You just told me you were assistant director, which probably meant you had a ton of other important things you could be doing right now. I almost agreed with him and left the conversation there out of a sense of politeness, but that was exactly what I would have done back in the Kamo compound. I didn’t have to be perfect! I laughed at the realization.

“No need to spare my feelings,” I said. “I’m know you’re a busy man. Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

I had a pretty long shopping list. We hit a modeling store first, where I got all the basics: cutting mat, X-Acto knife, various grades of sandpaper, some markers for panel-lining, and of course, a fine set of nippers. Later on, once I was more settled, I’d grab an airbrush, paint hood, and some paints, but for now I was okay with doing straight-builds.

I loaded up a stack of model kits. I was starting with what I knew best, which was High Grade Gundam models. Eventually, I’d branch out, but if I wanted to seriously use these things with my technique it was better to have five completed HGs instead of a single Master Grade. This was an attempt to find a middle-ground with my technique. Model kits were quick and easy to build, so I wouldn’t have to waste weeks intricately crafting objects for my technique through woodcarving or metalworking. I could have purchased some figures of anime characters, but the Kamo Clan scrolls had been clear about the weakness of mass-produced objects. I had a plan for a method to increase my power that would cut me off from that sort of thing, anyway. Also, figures were ridiculously expensive compared to models.

While we browsed, we attracted a lot of attention. We were definitely an odd duo: Ijichi was in his suit, and I was dressed in a hakama. He was tall, but I’d grown to be around 5’3”, which in my opinion was distressingly short; I’d have rather been tall. My hair had grown all the way down to just above my butt, and I’d tied it off halfway down my back to keep it under control. It was traditional, of course, for me to leave it ungrown, but as soon as I had the chance I was getting it chopped to a much more practical length. I refused to hand anything over to Ijichi to carry, already feeling bad for dragging him along, so I imagined we looked like a rich young woman and her bodyguard. Not far off from the truth, in a sense.

I ended up paying much less than I expected for the lot. In general, HGs were so much cheaper in Japan than they had been in America. I would definitely be returning, and likely soon; it was just a matter of figuring out how to easily get off the mountain the Tokyo school was on. Maybe they got Amazon deliveries?

With my purchases bagged, we left the store.

“Ijichi-san, do the dorm rooms have televisions?” I asked.

“They do not,” he replied.

I’d thought so, but it was good to check. We ducked into an electronics store. Televisions, at least, had generally gotten pretty cheap over the years. I was able to pick up a nice one, and a set of okay speakers, and a basic Blu-Ray player for a total of just under forty thousand yen.

“One more stop,” I assured Ijichi.

I really wanted to go buy some clothes – even just visit a Uniqlo or something simple – to replace my outdated outfits, but I didn’t want to waste any more of Ijichi’s time. I had already run out of arm space, so he had been conscripted into carrying my new television. I found a store that looked like it sold Blu-Rays and had no trouble finding what I was looking for: a complete set of Mobile Suit Gundam.

Shockingly, the four-disc set was my most expensive single purchase of the day, clocking in at over twenty thousand yen.

“It must be hard to be a working-class otaku,” I solemnly told Ijichi, which finally got him to cough in surprise.

#

Jujutsu High really was remarkable, but it was also familiar. Architecturally, it was similar to the Kamo Compound; probably, Kamo had been involved in building the school in the first place. There was no sign, however, that Yuta Okkotsu had blown the place up just a few months ago, which was impressive.

As Ijichi pointed out the various buildings to me as we carried my things to my room, all I could think was that the school was too big by an order of magnitude. There were only seven students currently enrolled, and two of them were suspended. There was no need to have something like four separate dorm buildings, and two whole class buildings. The other facilities – like the on-site morgue – were at least open for use by the professional sorcerers who lived on the mountain. Had Jujutsu High once taught many more students, or was it simply laid out with the optimistic outlook that one day there would be dozens of sorcerers per class?

We came to my dorm, which was a tall, three-story building. To my surprise, the door to the dorm was unlocked, but I guess the school assumed its residents could defend themselves. I was on the second floor. There were probably at least thirty dorms in this building, but by my count there were just two residents: me and Maki, assuming staff lived elsewhere.

I had the Bone Blood Samurai and my suitcase, while Ijichi carried my purchases. We had to do a little shuffling so he could retrieve my room key and get the door open. The room was actually fairly spacious, for a dorm. Compared to what I’d grown used to in the last couple years it wasn’t terribly impressive, but I liked it. I had a bed and a desk, a couple shelves, a small dresser and closet, and basically nothing else. A plastic-wrapped bundle of clothes sat on my bed. A large window over the bed looked out onto the dorm courtyard. Ijichi set my purchases on my desk.

I tossed the Bone Blood Samurai case on the ground and kicked it under my bed. 

“Thanks, Ijichi-san,” I said. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“It was no hardship,” Ijichi said, pushing up his glasses. “There are no official activities until tomorrow. You can get dinner in the dining hall, which is just down the path. Tomorrow, your teacher will meet you outside your dorm at eleven.”

With that, he left, probably to catch up on all the paperwork I’d kept him away from. I set about unpacking, forcing myself to put my clothes away and stow my suitcase before getting to the fun stuff. The clothes on my bed were five sets of my custom-made uniforms, which were unfortunately fairly traditional. I’d wanted to order pants, a baggy shirt, and a big jacket in which I could hide all sorts of my objects, but I’d been forced to stick with a traditional design out of fear that the clan would be supervising my choices. This school was clearly loaded; maybe I could make a change?

I unpacked my uniforms and hung them in my closet, along with all my centuries-outdated clothes. The majority of space in my luggage had been reserved for a variety of crafting tools, like my carving knife, though I hadn’t brought any raw wood with me. Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness was also along for the ride; I just couldn’t bring myself to destroy him or leave him behind. He received a place of honor atop one of the shelves. 

The room itself was pretty bare, but at least the light was good. I immediately drew the blinds to reduce glare and switched on the overhead light. I put the television on the shelf opposite the window, so I could watch from my desk, where I set up my modeling equipment.

Lights: off. Blinds: drawn. Speakers: cranked. Oh yeah, it was time to build. I open palm slammed the first of the Gundam Blu-Rays into the player. Fortunately, my desk had its own little lamp, which I directed at the cut map. There was only one choice for the first model of my new life: the RX-78-2 Gundam. As the sweet sounds of “Fly! Gundam” started blaring out of the speakers, a single tear fell from my eye. For the first time in years, I felt myself relax.

It had been a long time since I’d last watched First Gundam, but I was surprised by just how many lines I remembered. Sorcery, in its most original form, required song, dance, and gestures; I’d like to think I embodied classical sorcery with how I made my first gunpla. I sang along, said lines with the characters, and danced in my seat along with “Gallant Char.” 

I made it through four episodes before I got hungry enough to run for dinner. I’d hoped to maybe see another student, but when I got to the cafeteria it was just me and the staff. The food was fine – normal Japanese fare – but nothing compared to what I’d gotten used to eating back at the compound. With deep regret, I realized I was actually going to miss something from the Kamo Clan.

I returned to my room after a quick dinner to keep building. I was out of practice with building gunpla, but my increased dexterity and crafting experience made up for it. I could do an HG in six hours easy in my old life, and I was pretty sure I could get Grandad here done before I needed to fall asleep. I wanted to make absolutely certain that my technique worked on gunpla before tomorrow.

I made it to episode ten just as I was putting the finishing touches on my model. We’d fittingly reached the climactic scene of the first part of the show, which I took as a good sign for my technique’s resonance with the model.

“Garma, if you can still hear me, blame this on the misfortune of your birth,” I said, in time with the show.

It was a nice treat to listen to the Japanese voice-acting while actually understanding the language. It added a lot of nuance to the show that I’d been missing before.

“What! Misfortune?” I yelled. 

“That’s right,” I said. “Misfortune! You were a good friend to me, but your father is the one to blame.”

I started laughing maniacally in time with Char. Only, when I stopped laughing, someone else kept going. I spun around in my chair in shock: a man with stark white hair and a black blindfold was laughing at me from the doorway. My jaw dropped open in shock: Satoru Gojo was here. As soon as I saw him, he ducked out of sight, and I heard him running in the hall.

“Ijichi!” he yelled. “They sent us a defective Kamo!”

I spent the next ten minutes expecting Gojo to come back, but evidently all he’d wanted to do was lay eyes on me. Once I was certain that I could resume work without being interrupted, I put the show back on and finished the kit. I had to admit that it was a little funny that Gojo had caught me mid-recitation, but I was annoyed that it had interrupted the final stages of my building. I was working on a theory that the method of construction affected how easily my objects accepted my cursed energy, and he may have just ruined my first attempt.

With my little Gundam complete, posed, and kitted out with a shield and beam rifle, it was time to test my technique. I bled – on a red piece, of course – until I felt my technique settle in. Then, right before I used my technique, I realized I was screwing things up. I removed the shield and gun and set the model down on its back.

“Rise, Gundam!” I shouted, as I used my technique. Slowly and unsteadily (an intentional choice to mimic the show, not a fault with my technique) I had it get to its feet. I had it turn its head to me, and I placed my hand in front of the model. I reinforced my arm with cursed energy, and the model fired its vulcans into my palm.

The gunholes around the Gundam’s head lit up yellow, and I felt a small sting as cursed energy-generated bullets struck my hand. It didn’t drain much cursed energy, either; I guess using the vulcans was like firing an arrow with one of my archers, and not “esoteric” enough to really pull on my reserves.

“Yes!” I yelled, dancing around in celebration. I had my model dance, too.

I experimented with all the Gundam’s other armaments, and everything worked exactly as intended. I’d developed enough cursed energy that using an object’s “special features” like its beam rifle didn’t totally knock me out, but it definitely wasn’t efficient enough for combat use. Still, my proof of concept was correct: Gundams could not just be animated with my technique, but they were well known enough that I could use their full potential.

I had a plan to make using plastic models in battle more viable, but it required me to overcome what may turn out to be an impossible task: getting Satoru Gojo to teach me something.

#

The next morning, I got dressed in my uniform for the first time. Despite not liking the look, I had to admit that it was comfortable. I checked myself out in the mirror of our dorm bathroom as I tied my hair back. I looked like a sorcerer alright, but one from two centuries ago. I’d much rather have an outfit closer to Nobara’s. It was bittersweet that I’d been reborn as a girl but unable to choose how I dressed. At my first opportunity, I needed to go clothes shopping.

I waited outside my dorm at 10:50, pulling out my phone, looking at it, and putting it away. I’d forgotten to grab a cheap phone while in Akihabara yesterday; another thing for my ever-growing shopping list. Now that I knew that my technique worked with gunpla, I wanted to get some bigger ticket items. For now, I just had my RX-78-2 stored in one of my pockets, secured with a loop of fabric. I kept it animated, but not moving, just so I could shroud it in cursed energy to protect it from shaking apart as I walked.

Eleven came and went with no sign of Satoru Gojo, and I wish I could have been surprised. I rolled my neck and hummed “Eien ni Amuro” to myself; it had been stuck in my head all morning. Finally, I gave in and checked my phone: 11:10.

“Morning!” Gojo said from directly behind my shoulder, and I jumped three feet into the air in shock.

“Good morning, sensei,” I said. “What a pleasure it is to meet you for the first time.”

“Come on,” he said. “I told Megumi to meet us at the gates at 10:50.”

What a jackass! Gojo walked fast, and I had to hurry to keep up with him as we went down the trail away from the dormitories. I’d only gotten a glimpse last night, so I took my chance to study the world’s strongest sorcerer. He was tall, definitely over six feet, and he got an extra inch out of his hair. It was pure white; not greying, but rather it looked like it was dyed. You don’t really think about how odd white hair is when you’re reading manga where it’s a dime a dozen, but it really stuck out after twelve years of exclusively looking at people with black hair.

The oddest thing about Gojo was the way being around him made me feel. It was like the psychic stare phenomenon – that feeling you got on the back of your neck when someone was looking at you. Being in Satoru Gojo’s presence was like having that feeling all the time, even when he was looking away from you. I was amazed he’d managed to sneak up on me twice already, because just being around him was unsettling.

I caught sight of Fushiguro in the distance. He was a little shorter than I’d expected. He was dressed in his all-black uniform, which had a bit of what I thought of as a Sasuke collar, though not quite as extreme. He was looking at his phone, but when he glanced over it and saw us approaching he tucked it into a pocket. Gojo waved at him.

“Yo!” he said. “Sorry, Kamo-chan was running late.”

Fushiguro and I made eye contact. Mutual understanding took place without a need for words: Gojo was full of shit. In that moment, we became comrades, united by the bonds of suffering.

“Morning,” I said. “Call me Matsuno. Nice to meet you.”

“Megumi Fushiguro,” he said.

“Look at you two!” Gojo clapped his hands. “You’ll be classmates from now on, so make sure to get along.”

The gate to Jujutsu High was literal – there was a massive torii gate overhead – but it was also mainly just a carpark. It was where, theoretically, visitors would park if they were coming to the school, which I couldn’t imagine happened often. It also connected to the parking garage where the managers kept their vehicles; one such black car swung around the road and pulled up to the curb in front of us.

“We’ll be having a fun little class lunch in the city,” Gojo said. “I’ll see you down there!”

I turned to look at him, but he’d already vanished. I raised an eyebrow and looked at Fushiguro.

“For real?” I asked.

“For real real,” he agreed.

We bundled into the backseat of the car; the driver introduced themself as Ikeda, informed us it would be forty-five minutes to an hour to our destination in Asakusa, and made no further attempts at small talk.

“Know anything about where we’re going?” I asked Fushiguro. In my past life, I’d read The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa, but I didn’t think it really applied to modern Japan.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Fushiguro said. 

I had to hope that my ability to talk like a normal person hadn’t completed deteriorated during my time with the Kamo, because I actually wanted to get along with Fushiguro. Naturally, I panicked and made a Naruto reference.

“Well, let’s introduce ourselves!” I said. “Likes, dislikes, dreams for the future, that sort of thing.”

Fushiguro gave me a strange look but obliged. “I like… reading. I dislike people. For now, my goal is to become a Grade 1 sorcerer.”

“Very cool,” I said. “I like mecha anime, ikebana, and doing arts and crafts. I dislike being told what to do. My dream for the future is to become a professional artist. Ah! If anyone from my family asks, tell them my dream is to marry Noritoshi-sama and have at least eight children.”

“Noritoshi Kamo?” Fushiguro clarified.

I glanced at the manager driving the car, who was probably listening in. Maybe I’d said too much. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“The same,” I said. “We’ve been engaged since I was nine. I’ve been told it’s very romantic, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to break his heart.”

Poor Fushiguro didn’t seem to know what to do with me. Most sorcerers were fairly serious and dour; people like Satoru Gojo and I were the exceptions.

“Sounds rough,” was all he said.

“Full disclosure,” I said. “I’ve heard lots of rumors about you. You’re a very unpopular fellow with the Kamo Clan, you know.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. 

I shrugged. “Don’t worry about them much. It’s my job to spy on you, so they won’t be sending anyone else to bug you.”

Fushiguro started coughing in shock, and I patiently waited for him to get over it. I’d debated about whether I should be open with Gojo and Fushiguro about my mission. Knowing I’d been sent here to spy on them would likely affect our level of trust, but not telling them and having them figure it out later would have been much worse. If I wanted to form an actual relationship with them, and eventually Nobara and Itadori, I needed to clear the air.

“Were you were supposed to tell me that?” Fushiguro asked.

“Not at all. I’ll tell Gojo all about it at lunch, too. Anything you want me to tell them?” I asked. “I could add a few dozen centimeters onto your height in my official report, if you want.”

Fushiguro scowled at me. “Do what you want.”

“Not the height,” I agreed. “In fact, maybe I should say that you’re shorter than you are. Then, when they see you in person, they’d be in for a real shock!”

Fushiguro ignored me and looked out the window. I felt like that went pretty well, if only because Fushiguro didn’t actually seem angry with me. Itadori and Nobara had wormed their way into his heart with antics, and I’d been antic-deprived for twelve years. This was going to be fun.

#

The car dropped us off in front of a building that definitely wasn’t a restaurant. It was a half-built building, the support columns and beams still visible. Construction equipment was scattered around the site. Despite being the middle of the day, however, we were the only ones there. Cursed energy hung heavily in there; a specter was haunting this construction site, and I doubted its name was communism.

“Somehow, I knew something like this was going to happen,” I told Fushiguro.

“My students!” Gojo called. He threw his arms around our shoulders. He really, really liked teleporting behind people to take them by surprise. I couldn’t blame him; if I could teleport, I’d probably do it a lot too.

“Inside this building… is a curse,” he said, like it was a great surprise. “Think of this as a little welcome exercise! Matsuno-chan, you’re taking the lead.”

So it was a test, liked I’d suspected. Gojo knew plenty about Fushiguro’s skills; this was my chance to show off.

“Of course, sensei,” I said. “Just one question. How do I make a binding vow with my technique?”

“That should come intuitively,” Gojo said. “I’ve never had to make one, though.”

I guess I should have expected this from Gojo. I channeled my cursed energy and did the first thing that came to mind: thinking very hard about my vow.

I vow to only use Still Life Blood Animation on objects I created myself.

To my surprise, I could feel the vow settling over me almost instantly. The exact language I’d used wasn’t as important as the intent of the vow: it knew, for instance, that I even though I hadn’t made every piece of plastic in my gunpla, it still counted as an object that I’d “created.” The Bone Blood Samurai, however, were sealed off to me forever. Oh well; I was sick of them anyway.

Gojo raised his eyebrows – or at least, I think he did. I couldn’t actually see his eyebrows behind his blindfold, but I could feel him looking at me in interest.

“Let’s roll, Fushiguro,” I said. The three of us walked into the construction site. While we approached the front door, Gojo leaned against the chain-link fence that surrounded the property. When I looked back, he waved us on.

“Have you exorcised a spirit before?” Fushiguro asked.

“In controlled situations,” I said. “I’ve also shadowed sorcerers on exorcisms, but I’ve never been allowed to participate. You?”

“I’m Grade 2,” he said. “But I’ve only watched Gojo do missions. I haven’t done of my own.”

We entered the lobby of the building; one day, this was destined to be an apartment building. I could feel the sticky, ominous feeling of cursed energy somewhere above me. The half-finished state of the building only added to its unsettling aura. Walls were half-constructed, piles of equipment and building materials were scattered around the floor, and there was no electricity so the only light was whatever shone in through the windows.

“Up we go,” I said. We had to take the stairs, of course. The cursed spirit felt like it was hiding out on the third floor.

“I asked because I wanted to be sure you’ve seen cursed spirits before,” Fushiguro said. “Not just flyheads, but real ones.”

“I’ve seen a decent number,” I said. “I know what I’m getting into.”

He wasn’t wrong to be worried. Cursed spirits were extremely unsettling to view. If you grew up in a sorcery family, you were steadily exposed to them in order to reduce the amount that they could surprise or scare you. The first time someone saw a fully-fledged cursed spirit, they tended to freeze in shock. Even after years of desensitization, cursed spirits still freaked me out. I had lived too long in an ordered, non-magical world for cursed spirits to seem normal. Fortunately, my automatic response wasn’t to run or hide, but to kill.

We reached the third floor, and I paused to sharpen my senses. Cursed energy sensing was more of an art than a science, and a skilled sorcerer or curse was capable of completely obscuring their presence. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like we were dealing with anything more dangerous than a Grade 3 curse. According to my student ID, I was a Grade 3 sorcerer, though that was based more on the clan’s evaluations of my abilities than any practical test or experience.

I swung open the door to the fourth floor. Fushiguro trailed behind me. We were at the end of a long hallway, with dozens of doors on either side, each probably leading to an apartment. There was no sign of the curse, but it was typical for weaker curses to hide and hope that sorcerers would get annoyed and leave. Still, I had seen enough of Isamu’s exorcisms to get a sense of their likely hiding spots.

There was an especially dark corner about fifty feet from us, where the hallways turned to the left. I bet that if we walked under the corner, it would either jump down and attack from above or try to slip behind us and run for the stairs. As we slowly walked down the hall, I could tell that Fushiguro had picked out the hiding spot as well, though he didn’t say anything.

I pulled out the RX-78-2 from my pocket and began to adjust its loadout. I took off the beam rifle and replaced it with a flail. Fushiguro watched me with interest.

“I built this guy last night,” I said. “The RX-78-2 was the first Gundam, which is why we call it Grandpa. Typically, you can tell a mecha is a Gundam if it has a red-white-blue-yellow color scheme, and a v-fin on its head.”

Fushiguro didn’t respond, so I kept going.

“Originally, they wanted it to be all white so that it looked more like a military weapon and less like a toy, but Gundam was technically a kid’s show so they had to make some concessions. This is a fine model, but the problem with it is that it can’t fly; its jets are too weak for anything more than boosted jumps in Earth’s atmosphere. Later Gundam models can fly, of course, but people often think that Grandpa can fly too just because it spends so much time in space.”

We were a few feet away from the corner, and I came to a stop. Fushiguro had tuned me out. I set Grandpa on the ground, making sure not to use my technique on him at all. I turned my back to the corner in order to look at Fushiguro.

“You ever watch any mecha anime?” I asked.

His eyes widened and he threw his hands out in a panic. “Matsuno!”

The cursed spirit lunged out of the corner, aiming for my back. I twisted my fingers and my Gundam grew to seven feet tall, nearly scraping the ceiling. It interposed itself between me and the spirit, lifting its shield. The cursed spirit bounced off the shield and fell to the ground. In its other hand, the Gundam swung the flail, shrouded in cursed energy.

The arc of the flail was a little too wide, and it carved a chunk out of the wall. That wasn’t enough to slow its momentum, though, and the flail smashed into the curse, exorcising it instantly. It was an incredible, heady feeling: I’d used shitetsure and infused my model with a ton of cursed energy, and barely felt the drain. It wasn’t that my total amount of cursed energy had increased, but rather that my binding vow had massively increased the efficiency with which I could imbue my objects with energy.

For the first time, I felt like I might really have a chance at making it through the year.

“Nice work, Grandpa-san,” I said, patting my Gundam on the back. “As is tradition, we’ll never use the Gundam Hammer again.”

I let the model shrink back down to its normal size and pocketed it. I looked back at Fushiguro, who appeared dumbfounded.

“Let’s go see about lunch,” I said.

#

Chapter 8: 2.2 - Coming from the Heavens

To his credit, Gojo did bring us to a ramen place after the exorcism. Ramen wasn’t sufficiently traditional or high-class enough for it to be served back at the compound, so I was happy for the variety. Fushiguro had sulked during the brief drive to the restaurant, but I couldn’t tell if he was angry about anything in particular or if that was just his natural state.

Gojo had brought us to a tiny hole-in-the-wall ramen place, and we piled up against the counter. It was dimly lit, and there were only a handful of other patrons. We were a little late for the usual lunch hour, so we got our orders in quickly. While we waited for our bowls, Gojo quizzed me about my technique, and I was more than happy to answer his questions. Getting to blabber about my cool superpowers was a treat.

“I can use the abilities of any object I animate at a steep cursed energy cost,” I finished. “So it’s flexible, but only if I have the actual models on hand.”

“What was the binding vow you made?” Gojo asked.

“That I’d only use objects I personally crafted,” I said. “In exchange, I massively increased the efficiency with which I could transfer my cursed energy into my objects. If I do some more testing, I can see how effective it was at making the techniques of individual objects affordable.”

“Don’t the Kamo have a special set of objects you’re supposed to use?” Gojo asked.

“You know about that?” I said, surprised. “Yeah, the Bone Blood Samurai. They’re in my room. I can’t use them now, obviously, but I guess I’ll hang on to them for a bit.”

“We’ve got some records of what previous users of your technique could do,” Gojo said. “I did some reading when I saw your file.”

“I have a file?” I asked. “Can I see it?”

“Maybe later,” Gojo said.

“I’m thinking of making a few more binding vows, but I’m afraid of restricting my options too much,” I said. “Maybe to only animate objects that are mechanical in nature, or to limit the amount of objects I can animate at once.”

“Don’t make any more vows for now,” Gojo said. “It’s true that they’re the fastest way for a sorcerer to get strong, but you’re young enough you don’t need to make those choices.”

Well, I wouldn’t make any more vows right away. I needed to do some extensive testing with my model, maybe fire off a few powered-up beam rifle shots, before I planned my next steps. It was possible that this vow had single-handedly solved my issue with using my models to their full potential, but it was possible that it hadn’t. I was definitely making another vow soon, though; Gojo was wrong that my age would protect me from needing to be strong.

“I have a different question, though,” Gojo said. “You told me your technique doesn’t work on equipment, like swords.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, it’s not that it doesn’t work, it’s just that those objects can’t do anything on their own.”

“But Gundams are piloted, right?” Gojo asked. “They’re not robots.”

“Oh, you know that?” I said. I guess that was common knowledge for any Japanese person who’d grown up watching anime, which meant Fushiguro was probably lost. “I don’t know what’s up with that. Gundams are basically like tanks, but I have a feeling that if I animated a tank it would work just fine.”

“Maybe it’s because you don’t actually see the person driving the tank,” Gojo said. “A sword has a swordsman, right? But a pilot or a tank driver is out of sight, out of mind.”

“Probably,” I said. “I’m pretty sure my technique works based on the way people expect it to work. So, when you see a tank, you expect it to drive around shoot, but you don’t expect a sword to pick itself up and start swinging.”

Before I could continue explaining my theories, the server arrived with our ramen. I’d worked up a bit of an appetite without realizing it, mostly from climbing all the stairs in the haunted construction site. As I slurped down my noodles, happily abandoning all the decorum the Kamo had drilled into me over the years, Fushiguro finally interjected.

“Tell Gojo what you told me,” he said.

I swallowed. “Oh right. I told Fushiguro the Kamo Clan sent me here to spy on you both.”

“I figured,” Gojo said. “Can you tell them that I’m 200 centimeters?”

“Just for asking, you’re getting busted down to 180,” I said.

“You aren’t worried?” Fushiguro asked. He sounded frustrated.

Gojo shrugged. “I kind of figured it all out when I first heard she was coming here. They don’t send Kamo to Tokyo usually, but the elders have been breathing down my neck since last year.”

“They got really spooked by Okkotsu,” I confirmed. “I’m supposed to tell them how you’ve succeeded in seducing so many innocent sorcerers into the dark side.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Fushiguro asked.

I had some more ramen. Gojo was practically impossible to read; in fact, he was in the middle of having a big bite of pork, completely unbothered by the conversation. It was Fushiguro who seemed most agitated.

“When I was nine, I was engaged to Noritoshi Kamo,” I said. “We’re supposed to get married at the end of this year. He’s actually a good kid, but I have no interest in getting married. That means I’ve got one year to get strong enough to kick the asses of everyone in my clan.”

“You’re trying to break with the Kamo?” Fushiguro asked.

“I’ve already broken with them, they just don’t know it,” I said. “Do you think they’d really want me using my sacred inherited technique on plastic models of giant robots?”

“Your plan is to seriously fight the entire Kamo Clan when they try to call you back?” Fushiguro asked.

“No,” I said. “My plan is to get this guy to tell them to fuck off.”

I jabbed my thumb at Gojo, who mumbled some kind of response, but his mouth was full of food so I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with me.

“I’ll stay here for three years, and fight the entire Kamo Clan once I graduate,” I said. “Failing that, I’ll just go to America or something.”

“So you’re saying you don’t intend on doing any spying,” Fushiguro said.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll send them periodic reports, just so they don’t get curious about my silence and send someone to look for me. Depends on what you two are comfortable with.”

Fushiguro stewed over my answer. Gojo just kept eating. In fact, he was wolfing down his ramen at a rate that made me sick to my stomach.

“There’s no rush,” I assured Fushiguro. “But if we’re going to be friends, there’s no point in hiding things from you. There’s something else, too.”

I looked at Gojo, who’d entirely emptied his bowl. I took a deep breath. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t know how to explain it.

Suguru Geto’s corpse was stolen by a curse user.

That’s what I wanted to say, but as soon as I opened my mouth to say it, the words became lodged in my throat. It wasn’t that I chickened out at the last minute; I literally couldn’t speak. Information bloomed in my brain, put there by jujutsu. Even though I’d never considered this possibility, I intuitively understood what was happening.

A binding vow.

Somehow, I’d been placed under a binding vow without my knowledge, which should have been impossible. Still, now that I knew it was there, I could understand the terms of the vow that had buried itself into my cursed energy so deep I’d never felt it before.

The terms were surprisingly simple: [Matsuno Kamo] will be born as a girl with knowledge of the events of the future. She will not remember the circumstances leading to the creation of this vow. She will be incapable of revealing knowledge of the future to others, in speaking or in writing. The first time she attempts to intentionally tell someone knowledge gained from her past life, she will remember this vow. The second time she attempts to intentionally tell someone knowledge gained from her past life, she will die.

When I tried to recall who the binding vow was made with, all I got was the impression of [ ]; there was a sense that I had made a vow with a person, but that their name either had never or no longer existed. Weirder still was one of the terms: that I would be born a certain way. That implied that I had somehow made this binding vow before I’d even been born. It seemed likely that I had accepted this deal somewhere between dying in my first life and reincarnating into my second, but of course I couldn’t remember that. It probably meant that [ ] was whatever being had been responsible for reincarnating me.

“Yes?” Gojo asked.

I realized I’d left my mouth hanging open while I processed the information that literally dumped itself into my brain.

“I’m a lesbian,” I blurted out, desperate to think of a different secret that I could tell.

“Cool,” Gojo said. “You guys should finish eating fast, by the way. We’re late for the opening assembly.”

Fucker!

#

Gojo had gone and teleported himself ahead, so Fushiguro and I were stuck in another awkward car ride back to the school. When we pulled in to the front gate, there was a crowd waiting for us. At the front of the group was a tall man in sunglasses with spiky hair and honest to God fade. He scowled at the car as it pulled in. That had to be Principal Yaga.

Next to him was another black-haired man in a suit, who I assumed was Kusakabe. Behind him were three more people: a blonde-haired boy, a tall girl with spiky black hair, and a panda. I’d braced myself to see Panda the panda, of course, but no amount of foreknowledge could have prepared me for seeing an actual panda bear walking around on two feet, chatting with teenagers.

When Fushiguro and I stepped out of the car, Yaga’s scowl deepened. 

“Where’s Gojo?” he demanded. He had a deep gravelly voice that befitted his appearance.

“He said he’d meet us here,” Fushiguro said.

“Typical,” Kusakabe said, rubbing his nose.

“Panda,” I whispered to Fushiguro, unable to take my eyes off Panda. I knew I was being rude, but… it was a Panda. Fushiguro snorted.

“Follow me,” Yaga said, and he started up the hill into the school. We joined the group of other students, who clustered together. They watched me warily.

“Matsuno,” Fushiguro said. “These are the second-years. Inumaki-senapi is a cursed speech user. Zenin-senpai uses cursed tools. That’s Panda-senpai.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Matsuno Kamo. I fight with miniatures.”

Inumaki and Panda gave me their greetings, though they still seemed wary.

“You have the Kamo face,” Maki said. “You look like a rat.”

Rude! My mouth dropped open in shock. What had I ever done to her? I looked at Fushigoro.

“I don’t have a rat face, do I?” I pleaded.

He looked me in the eye and took just a second too long to answer. “No, definitely not.”

I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could, and he stumbled behind the group to shake it out. Of all the things I had to get from my parents, it had to be my looks. Maki had turned her back on me, so I spoke with Inumaki and Panda.

“Call me Matsuno,” I told them. “I hope we can get along.”

“Don’t mind Maki,” Panda said. “You’re actually missing one of us. Yuta Okkotsu just left the country a few days ago.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of him,” I said. “Too bad. You guys like it here?”

“Salmon,” Inumaki said.

“I grew up here,” Panda said. “The principal’s my dad.”

We started up a long set of steps. At the top of the hill was a huge traditional-style building. More buildings dotted the area behind it, and I recalled that lots of sorcerers lived here, even those unaffiliated directly with the school. Yaga stopped at in front of the building and looked down on us; somehow, Gojo had joined him and Kusakabe without me noticing.

“Welcome to another year at the Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School,” Yaga yelled. “We have two new first-year students, Megumi Fushiguro and Matsuno Kamo. Please make them feel welcome.”

He paused for applause, but none came. A strong wind whipped through the woods and chilled me through my uniform.

“Right. Fushiguro, you’re up first. Follow me.”

Yaga and Gojo went into the building, but Kusakabe came down the steps. Fushiguro left without a word. I looked at the second years for an explanation, but they all avoided my glance.

“Alright,” Kusakabe said. “Second years, we’re headed for a classroom. Sorry to leave you, Kamo-chan.”

“Call me Matsuno,” I said on reflex. “See you guys later.”

Panda and Inumaki waved, but Maki clicked her tongue and stalked off. Seriously, what had I done to tick her off? I was left alone at the base of the steps. It left me plenty of time to ponder the mystery of my binding vow, but I wasn’t able to think of anything resembling a credible theory. If the binding vow was the result of my reincarnation then there was nothing to be done about it. If I’d been born with the inability to talk about the future, though, wouldn’t that have been a heavenly restriction? Or could those only affect the body?

I took out my model and started adjusting his loadout. I took off the Gundam Hammer and replaced it with a beam rifle. I inspected Grandpa for signs of damage, but my cursed energy had successfully protected him even from a chip in the plastic. I didn’t like only having the one object on me; ideally, I’d like to carry at least six with me at any given time. The start of classes was going to mess with my building schedule, too. If I didn’t have classes, and I dedicated all my time to building, I could probably get something like two High Grades done a day and be fully kitted out within a week. Now I’d have to cram in some building between classes and training.

“Matsuno Kamo!” Yaga yelled. He was waiting for me at the top of the steps.

Had I missed Fushiguro coming out? I started my climb up the stairs, and shoved Grandpa back into my pocket. I wasn’t tired, but I was stressed. Meeting the second years hadn’t gone like I’d hoped, and I still wasn’t sure if Fushiguro and I were good. I wanted to go home and build.

Yaga had entered the building ahead of me, so I stepped inside. I slipped my shoes off on the wood entranceway, then stepped down onto the tatami mat flooring. Yaga was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the room, surrounded by a handful of his dolls. Gojo stood in the corner, watching. Or maybe his eyes were closed; how would I know?

I sat in front of Yaga and admired his dolls. They were a weird combination of felt and a ceramic substance, maybe porcelain. I still didn’t fully understand the difference between our techniques. Obviously, Yaga had figured out how to make living cursed corpses, but otherwise we both used our techniques to “activate” objects, only his were custom made and I could use anything.

I wanted to pick Yaga’s brain on what exactly constituted a cursed corpse. In theory, it was just an object infused with a curse or cursed technique, but the scrolls I’d read on my technique back on the compound had been extremely clear that my technique did not use cursed corpses. It was entirely possible that was just Kamo Clan fluff. It would be just like them to make some arbitrary distinction between their precious inherited technique and the “base” and “common” art of cursed corpse creation.

I had to be careful here, though. Yaga probably already thought I was a spy, and if I questioned him too hard, he’d think I was trying to figure out the secret behind Panda’s creation.

“Matsuno Kamo,” Yaga said. “Believe it or not, you’re the first Kamo to attend the Tokyo school in over thirty years.”

“I do believe it,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

Yaga grunted. “This is just an entrance interview I do with all new students. I assume you’ve already had some training?”

“I started when I was four,” I said. “I’ve got all the basics down when it comes to fighting and cursed energy, but next to no experience in actual exorcisms.”

“Right,” Yaga said. “We’ve got you down as a Grade 3. It’s up to your teacher’s discretion to hold tests to adjust that rank. That will be the result of only your hard work.”

“Of course,” I said. I assumed that was a warning that I couldn’t rely on my family connections for promotion. Lucky for Yaga, he wouldn’t have to worry about me trying to throw my family’s weight around.

“Next question,” Yaga said. “Why are you here?”

I looked at Yaga’s puppets warily. I realized I was in the test that Yaga had given Itadori. I’d thought that was a one-time thing, but evidently, he did it with every student. So, I knew that saying that I was here because the Kamo sent me wouldn’t cut it.

What to say? That I was here because if I didn’t help, thousands of people would die and Shibuya and even more in the aftermath? I literally couldn’t say that unless I wanted to drop dead, according to my mysterious binding vow. I’d have to make something up.

“I want to be a sorcerer because I can’t sit by and do nothing,” I said. “If I don’t, people will die that I could have saved.”

“Saving lives?” Yaga said. “You think this job will make you feel good about yourself? It won’t.”

One of his dolls stood up, and I reached into my pocket for my model.

“No cursed technique!” Yaga yelled.

I tossed the Gundam across the room and activated it with my technique, just to have it jog over to Gojo so it would be out of the way. The doll coming for me was bright green and round, like a kappa, but was only about knee high. It had a dog’s sort of nose and eyes, but when it smiled, I saw that its teeth were absolutely massive, and shaped like a human’s to boot. Its arms were as long as its entire body and ended in bunched up fists. When it was about five feet away from me, it lunged.

I wasn’t the best at hand-to-hand combat, but I wasn’t bad, either. A dozen years of training had at least had some effect. I shrouded myself in cursed energy and swayed my head around the doll’s fists. I retaliated with a knee, but it hardly budged the doll. Another two punches came, fast as could be, and I was forced into total defense. Itadori had beaten this thing entirely without cursed energy; I was struggling to just keep up, even with my full cursed energy.

“Being a sorcerer beats you down,” Yaga said. “You’ll watch people die. Not just strangers, but your friends and comrades. Do you think half-baked self-satisfaction is enough to keep up?”

I punched the doll in the cheek as hard as I could and it went flying, only for it to bounce off the floor, ricochet against the wall, and come flying back at me. I ducked under its body, but one of its arms flailed into my chin. This time, when it bounced back at me again, I was ready and rolled under its body and kicked it straight up into the ceiling.

“No!” I yelled. “I don’t need self-satisfaction. I don’t even need to like myself.”

The doll dropped straight down and smashed into the floor, kicking up the tatami mats. I grabbed a flying mat and tried to wrap up the doll so it couldn’t fight back, but it slipped out of my grasp at the last second. Fuck, this was frustrating.

“What do you want, then?” Yaga challenged. “I don’t think you really care about altruism. I can recognize an answer just to satisfy a teacher when I hear one!”

The doll sucker-punched me in the gut and I wheezed. I wasn’t used to fighting an enemy this small, and it was getting past my usual guard. This was good training, in a way; most curses weren’t the same shape or size as the humans I’d practiced with back at the compound.

“Fine!” I yelled as I front kicked the doll, feeling my foot sink into it all the way up to the ankle. “I want to be a sorcerer so I can be strong! I’ll save people because I want to, and I’ll fight people because I want to.”

Objectively, I was being selfish. I valued my own life over the lives of everyone in Shibuya. If I was really serious about saving the world, I’d tell Gojo the future and let my binding vow kill me. The fact was, I just couldn’t be that kind of person, even if I wished I was. I wanted power to stop Kenjaku, but I also wanted power so I wouldn’t have to marry Noritoshi. I wanted power to justify my actions, and power to live life the way I wanted it. Who cared if I was being selfish? I wasn’t going to let myself get pushed around, and sorcery was my number one ticket to self-determination.

The doll scrambled back to its feet, but I was pressing my advantage while I had it. I closed the distance and kicked it into the wall. As expected, it bounced right back at me. This time, I linked my hands together and volleyball spiked it into the ground, leaving it buried in a foot-deep crater.

“It’s not self-satisfaction,” I panted. “It’s ego. I’m going to do whatever I want.”

“Good!” Yaga yelled, clapping his hands. “You pass. Welcome to Jujutsu High.”

I collapsed to the floor to catch my breath.

“Glad to be here,” I said.

#

I stayed up late that night trying to finish another model but ended up passing out about halfway through my Nu Gundam. I dragged myself from my dorm to the cafeteria, alone again, and then from the cafeteria to the classroom building. After my meeting with Yaga, Gojo had told me we’d meet for class every weekday at nine. To my embarrassment, both him and Fushiguro had beaten me there.

I had never been a morning person, but my time in the Kamo Clan had drilled a regimented schedule into me. I’d let it slip for literally a single day and I could already feel the desire to stay up late and sleep in late returning. I flopped into my seat and glared at Gojo.

“Good morning!” Gojo said, in my opinion louder than he needed. “Today’s just a preliminary day to set some learning goals for the semester. Megumi! You first.”

Learning goals? Gojo sounded surprisingly like an actual teacher.

“For now, I’m focusing on taming the Great Serpent,” Fushiguro said. “But I’d like to have Max Elephant done by the end of the year as well.”

“Aha,” Gojo said. “Matsuno, Fushiguro’s technique allows him to summon shikigami to fight for him, but only after defeating them in single combat.”

“I know,” I said. “The Kamo were obsessive about keeping track of what the Ten Shadows can do. Is there any way I can help with the taming process?”

“If someone fights alongside me, the ritual is considered invalid,” Fushiguro said.

“You could help him train,” Gojo suggested. “Animate a big old snake for him to fight, maybe.”

“I could,” I said, already thinking of that snake Zoid I’d assembled in my previous life. “But it wouldn’t be the same. I wouldn’t order the snake to fight the same way an actual snake spirit would fight. It might teach him bad habits.”

“We can figure it out,” Gojo said. “Set some goals, Matsuno-chan!”

“My immediate problem is that I’ve only got two objects with me I can animate,” I said. “My second goal is to make Grade 2, preferably before June or July.”

Itadori and Nobara joined the school some time over the summer, which meant I had only two or three months of time to focus on training before getting stuck in nonstop fights to the death. It wasn’t so much the actual grade that mattered, so much as my ability to fight and wound higher-level cursed spirits on my own.

“Focus on goals for your technique,” Gojo said.

“I’ve hit a plateau on the number of objects I can control, and I doubt that just training will help me break through,” I said. “So, I have two other goals: completely revamp my fighting style to let me better use three dimensions, and to figure out a consistent way to exorcise especially tough spirits.”

“Why those goals?” Gojo asked. I suspected he knew the answer but wanted a peek at my mindset.

“I’ve mostly trained with the traditional tools for my technique, which are fairly straightforward and limited in options. I need to get used to using objects that can shoot, fly, and fight in close quarters all at once,” I said. “Also, my technique is especially good at handling large groups of enemies, but not so good at taking on a single enemy that can withstand all my attacks. I need to figure out a way to consistently land a killing blow.”

“Good,” Gojo said. “You have a good sense of your weaknesses already. We’ll be doing plenty of sparring in the coming weeks. Megumi, we’ll focus on getting you ready for the next shikigami. Matsuno, you have a technique that lets you fight at range, but that’s no excuse for you to be weak up close. I’ll show you a few things.”

Wow, he really was serious about this. Satoru Gojo, my clan elders often said, was reliably unreliable, but besides his terminal lateness – which didn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things – it looked like he’d put some real thought into how to teach sorcerers. Maybe the reason he’d turned so many people to his “faction” was because he actually cared about his students? Wouldn’t that be a shock to the Kamo Clan: the secret to Gojo’s rebellion was basic pedagogical standards.

“What have you got ready for your technique right now?” Gojo asked me.

I pulled out my two functioning objects: the RX-78-2, and Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness.

“What is that?” Fushiguro asked, taking in my greatest creation.

“That’s my son,” I said. “Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness. I made him when I was experimenting with my technique.”

“What for?” Fushiguro asked, morbidly curious.

“Well, he was supposed to be able to breathe fire and turn the ground into poison,” I said. “But all he can do is run around and stuff. See?”

I had Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness wave at Fushiguro, who jumped back in surprise. Gojo watched him with great interest.

“You made this yourself?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I wanted to see if my technique would let me make up abilities for the things I created.”

“Hmm,” Gojo said. “Earlier, you said you think your technique works based on the mass perception of what it is your objects represent, right?”

“I think so,” I said. “It would be nice to figure out the exact mechanics, but it’s a lower priority.”

I had Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness jump to the floor of the classroom and start galloping around. I watched him with pride.

“Why is it that he can move?” Fushiguro asked. “If he can’t do the other stuff.”

Gojo snapped his fingers at Fushiguro. “Exactamento. If your technique really only worked on publicly recognized stuff, he shouldn’t be able to do anything at all.”

“Good point,” I said. “I guess it’s because of his component parts: he’s like a chimera of real parts. So, his horse legs move, and his human arms move, and so on.”

“What you call “special features” are probably your object’s innate techniques,” Gojo said. “It’s not unreasonable to think that they come from public perception. Cursed spirits are born of the collective fears and anxieties of non-sorcerers, after all.”

Innate techniques… it was definitely a better term than “special features.” It sounded more like jujutsu and less like extras on a DVD.

“Separate parts…” Fushiguro said. “Can you use the innate techniques of your objects yourself?”

“Good question,” I mumbled.

I had the Gundam model remove and toss me one of its beam sabers. The second it landed in my palm, I felt it go dead to my technique.

“Hang on,” I said. I retrieved my pocketknife – hidden handily in one of the many pockets in my uniform – and pricked my thumb so I could dab my blood onto the beam saber. When I felt the connection, I immediately used shitetsure so the saber could fit comfortably into my hand.

With a rush of cursed energy, but not as much as I’d expected, the beam saber ignited. It gave off no smell or heat, but it glowed pink just like it should. I looked around, but there was nothing to cut that I wouldn’t have to pay for later.

“I need to go outside right now,” I said. “If I don’t get to immolate something with this thing in the next two minutes I am going to throw a temper tantrum.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Gojo said. “Let’s have you two fight it out for a bit so I can get a better sense of where you’re at. Fushiguro, you can be the test subject for Matsuno’s fun new sword.”

I grinned at Fushiguro. He hung his head in resignation and headed for the door.

#

Chapter 9: 2.3 - A Sign of Zeta

We settled into a routine pretty quickly. We’d meet in the morning and do joint training until around three, by which point I would be completely gassed from overusing my cursed technique and have to stop training. Gojo would then work directly with Fushiguro on preparing to capture the Great Serpent and I would build my models. At first, I’d gone back to my room to work, but I eventually grew tired of the isolation – and of watching Mobile Suit Gundam over and over – so I began packing up my supplies and working in the yard while watching Fushiguro’s training.

I made more discoveries in that month of training than I had in the entire year before. First of all, while I could animate and re-size individual tools like a beam saber or beam rifle, there wasn’t a real reason to. I still had to power them with my cursed energy, and animating an object held in my hand took up one of my mental “slots.” It made more sense to me to keep that gear equipped to my actual models, since the cursed energy output was the same and it took up less space in my technique.

Between their guns and beam sabers, my models were perfectly capable of shooting through and slicing and dicing curses on their own, so I adopted a different weapon: a big-ass club. I was planning to use it to break down obstacles or squash enemies with tough armor. Best of all, the club grabbed attention, which distracted from my models moving in the background. It wasn’t exactly ladylike – I looked like an oni, dragging my crude weapon around – but it got the job done. It was also fun to learn to use a club, which was a weapon far beneath the dignity of the mighty Kamo Clan.

My spars against Fushiguro usually went the same way. At a distance, I actually had better options, even if his shadows were tougher than my models. At the moment, his only real ranged option was Nue’s electricity, but I could out-fight him in the air every time. By keeping him locked down with beam saber fire and explosions, I could eventually grind out a victory. It rarely worked out that way, however. Fushiguro had gotten good at finding even slight gaps in my attention, slipping through my ranged assault and kicking my ass up close and personal.

Even the club became a liability in those moments; it was useful while he was still one or two arm lengths away, but the second we got involved in infighting I was forced to drop it and use my fists. My spars against Gojo went even worse, because he could bypass my ranged attacks entirely and force me into a contest of martial arts. It was a humbling month.

I had my models to comfort me, at least, though my results there were mixed there as well. I finished my Nu Gundam, only to discover that I had to animate every one of its funnels separately. That likely meant that I couldn’t loophole my way around my object limit by animating something like the Gundam Nadleeh, which could control other mobile suits. For now, I had the funnels stuck to my hair tie. My other completed models were a hodgepodge of different roles: I had a Dynames to act as a sniper, a Zeta Gundam for high-speed attacks, and an F91 for defense.

I’d talked Gojo into getting a manager to take me shopping, where I picked up a new phone, a handful of casual clothes, and a whole pile of new models. I’d been relieved to discover that I didn’t have to be too discerning with my choices. In theory, the first Gundam shouldn’t have been remotely as powerful as the F91. In practice, however, the only thing that mattered was the amount of cursed energy I was inputting, not their “canon” strength. I’d narrowly dodged becoming that which I hated most: a powerscaler.

That meant that my model choices could be much more eclectic, and I could pick for utility rather than raw strength. I strayed away from strictly picking Gundams, instead grabbing grunt suits, a Valkyrie from Macross, and a hodge-podge of other kits that caught my eye. I wavered over grabbing an Evangelion. The defensive power of an AT Field would be useful, but I also wasn’t sure about using a model of an object that was, theoretically, uncontrollable. I’d never experienced an object of mine running wild, but I also didn’t want to take that risk if I didn’t need to.

Under the guise of purchasing study material, I rapidly increased the size of my Blu-Ray collection. I picked up more supplies for crafting, as well. One of my problems was that models were larger than the Bone Blood Samurai, so I couldn’t easily carry more than five of them at a time, nor could I easily hide them in my clothes. My solution was to buy a messenger back, then customize its lining so it had built-in slots for my models. Just by opening the flap of the bag, I could have my chosen models fly out and join the fight.

With my supply issues taken care of, though I never truly stopped building, Gojo felt more comfortable testing the limits of my technique. What quickly became apparent was that, even with my new binding vow, I simply couldn’t use my objects’ innate techniques at a useful power for very long. I could only manage around three spars with Fushiguro, while carefully rationing my cursed energy, before I ran dry.

We’d conducted a range of tests figuring out my exact limits, including Gojo asking me to blow an entire day’s worth of energy in one shot. I’d chosen Grandpa for the task, of course. The resulting beam had been impressively huge – far bigger than the actual gun used to fire it – and devastated the area around Gojo, though he’d been totally unaffected. I’d collapsed to the ground the moment my model had pulled the trigger.

“That was probably enough to exorcise a Grade 1 curse in one go,” Gojo said. “Assuming it was distracted, didn’t have its guard up, and didn’t have a defensive technique. Not bad!”

It felt bad. I’d blown an entire day’s worth of cursed energy, and it wouldn’t have even been enough to seriously wound one of the Disaster Curses. Gojo must have seen my displeasure as I tried to lift my head out of the dirt.

“You’re probably better off just wearing curses down with a lot of attacks,” Gojo said. “It’s not that you need to spend all your energy to exorcise a Grade 1, just that if you attacked with no strategy or nuance you could do it in one hit. Aim for critical hits, not raw damage.”

“Still not happy,” I mumbled.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo said. “As you get experience exorcising curses, you’ll grow in leaps and bounds. Now, maybe wiggle yourself out of the way for a bit.”

I sure didn’t feel talented. I was far behind Fushiguro, and not just because he had a better technique than me. He absorbed combat lessons faster and more deeply than I did. I was improving in my fights against him, but he was improving even faster so the gap was still widening. All my advantages were because I was smarter and more mature than most people my age, and I’d been training since I was a kid. When it came to fighting and cursed energy, I wasn’t a genuine prodigy.

Still, I trained for as long as I could every day, and when I wasn’t training I was building models. After I’d finished my first five models, I slowed down my production to focus on quality, on the theory that higher-quality models would improve my technique. That meant investing in an airbrush, which made my models look a lot better but also take a few extra days to finish. There wasn’t really a useful way to speed up paint drying, and it wasn’t much fun to watch, either.

Gojo seemed to approve of my work ethic and endless font of ideas, but there were only so many ways I could cover up my fundamental lack of cursed energy. Every time I raised the idea of a new binding vow, Gojo urged me to wait. He had a lot of excuses for me: that the strength of my technique was its flexibility, and it wasn’t good to limit it; that I actually had above-average cursed energy for my age, and I was going to likely grow into more; that there was no need to rush into strength without a clear goal.

Only the first reason compelled me. The strength a binding vow could afford me was determined by the strictness of its restrictions. Choosing to forego objects made by others had been a major vow and had catapulted me up the equivalent of an entire grade. Most sorcerers were Grade 3, after all, despite what looking at the monster students at Tokyo would imply. Just being consistently Grade 2 – though I hadn’t been formally evaluated – meant I was above average. 

I’d lost a lot of utility in my technique, not just in foregoing the Bone Blood Samurai but also in my inability to utilize random objects I came across. That was fine, because I preferred to over-prepare by choosing my own tools, rather than relying on the clan’s or whatever I could scavenge mid-fight. But any other binding vow I made would have to be at least as restrictive, and if I went too restrictive I wouldn’t have the options to overcome more esoteric cursed techniques.

Training was interspersed with missions, though as a Grade 3 sorcerer I was limited to taking on fairly weak curses, and always with Gojo’s supervision. Fushiguro was allowed to go on solo Grade 2 missions, though he still usually partnered up with a sorcerer from the school, or even a second-year on occasion. Most of my missions were boring: hunt down a curse, blow it up with a shot from a beam rifle, and go home. I started to understand how someone like Nanami could treat a job as strange as jujutsu sorcery like a nine-to-five.

In the middle of May, our usual schedule changed. I wasn’t sure exactly what the trigger had been, but Gojo had declared that he was getting bored and that it was time for a change. I doubted that was the real reason; I’d learned enough from Gojo that I thought he was a pretty solid teacher, and that his lackadaisical personality was mostly for his own amusement. We were each given extended missions: Fushiguro was assigned to a team of three to handle a curse estimated to be Grade 1 out in Kamakura, and I was assigned to a Grade 2 sorcerer to exorcise a Grade 2 curse in Saitama.

#

I met the car, manager, and my accompanying sorcerer the next day at one in the afternoon. I’d brought my club, which had to go in the trunk, and my satchel of models, which I kept on my person. I’d learned my lesson about ever being without my tools. I didn’t recognize the sorcerer, though he was dressed in a fairly distinct getup: a black sweatshirt, black sweatpants, high-top sneakers, and a black beanie pulled low over brown hair.

“Yo!” he said. “I’m Takuma Ino. Let’s work hard.”

“Nice to meet you, senpai,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

Takuma seemed very happy to be called senpai, and he practically skipped to the car. Despite living at Jujutsu High, I didn’t get the chance to see that many different sorcerers. I was going to take this chance to pump Takuma for info. Time to turn on the old Kamo obeisance.

“Gojo asked me to look after you,” Ino said as he took the seat next to me. “He told me that you were a Grade 3 sorcerer that was hoping to make Grade 2 as soon as possible.”

“Yeah,” I said. “What can you tell me about the promotion process?”

“Alright!” Ino said. “The grades of sorcerers don’t just reflect their abilities, but also their character and integrity. Thus, the behavior of higher-grade sorcerers is meant to be a model for their juniors. You’re at Grade 3, which means you’re the rank and file of the jujutsu world. Those are the people who keep all of jujutsu society – no, all of Japanese society running.”

“Right,” I said. Ino was building up steam in his explanation, and I was happy to let him get it all out.

“Next are Grade 2 sorcerers – like me. Grade 2 sorcerers are strong, and they’ve proven they can be trusted. That means we’re allowed to do solo missions, or act as mission leaders like I am right now. We’re a step down from Grade 1 sorcerers, who are the cream of the crop! Those are the leaders in our society, who are skilled enough to exorcise Grade 1 cursed spirits on their own and can tackle special grade curses.”

Ino thought for a moment, then ticked off his fingers.

“I skipped over Grade 4 sorcerers, who are usually beginners, and Special Grade sorcerers,” he said.

“But what about the intermediate grades?” I asked. “Semi-Grade 2, and Semi-Grade 1?”

“I was getting there!” Ino said, though it felt to me like he’d just forgotten. “Going from Grade 3 to Grade 2 requires a recommendation, which moves you into Semi-Grade 2. After you’ve completed three solo exorcisms on registered Grade 2 cursed spirits, you’re made Grade 2 officially. Similarly, for a promotion to Grade 1 you have to receive two recommendations from someone other than Gojo, in your case, at which point you do a supervised mission. If you succeed in that mission, you’re made Semi-Grade 1 until you exorcise a registered Grade 1 cursed spirit.”

“I see,” I said. “So it’s like a waiting room, where they think you’ve got the skills needed for the next rank, but you need to put up the results for it to be official. Thanks, senpai.”

Ino glowed at my praise. I got him talking on life as a sorcerer, and in particular what it was like being part of the Jujutsu High system. The elders had described everyone at the Tokyo school as being part of the Gojo “faction” – that included people like Yaga, who I wasn’t sure particularly liked Gojo, and Shoko Ieiri, whom Ino told me stayed out of basically every issue and argument that wasn’t medical in nature.

The reality was that most of the sorcerers based in the Tokyo School were there not for political reasons, but because Tokyo had a lot of cursed spirits, and it was convenient to have easy access to the school’s facilities and managers. It seems the Kamo Clan elders had constructed the idea of Gojo as a potent political actor themselves, and that Gojo simply did what he pleased. That made sense to me: if Gojo really wanted to change how jujutsu society worked, he would just kill the elders and install himself as dictator. In fact, he fairly regularly threatened to do exactly that.

“Ino-senpai,” I said. “I haven’t had the chance to fight a Grade 2 curse yet. I’d really appreciate your guidance – could I have a go at exorcising it first?”

“Hmm,” Ino said. “That should be fine, but the moment you start having trouble, I’ll step in. It’s good to get experience, but you don’t need to rush things. Trust in your senpai to help you out.”

I was getting pretty sick of people telling me not to rush things. Being in a panic about the future and not being able to tell anyone why was driving me crazy. My fear of the Kamo Clan could only explain so much, especially since they couldn’t touch me while Gojo was involved. For every sorcerer I met, the idea that there were threats coming in a few months that could even stop Satoru Gojo was totally inconceivable.

I cursed my binding vow yet again – if I were just able to tell them about the future, Gojo would be able to take care of it himself. I could try to steer things in another direction subtly, but the only way I could ensure that my changes took is if I was strong enough to make them myself. I was, at once, in the position to affect the most change and completely unable to make the change I wanted happen.

The curse we’d been sent to exorcise was located in a thick forest at the heart of Saitama. A half-dozen park goers had been reported missing in the last two months, a sign of a particularly predatory and dangerous curse. We had no reports of people who had encountered mysterious wounds and survived or escaped, which indicated a particularly advanced curse. That was the basis by which it had been assigned a provisional Grade 2.

We were getting close to the height of summer, so my uniform had grown unbearable. I removed the jacket so I was just wearing a tank top and my pants. The forest was extremely dense, so I left my club behind; it didn’t look like I’d be able to swing it without clanking it on a tree. I had my model-laden satchel swung over my shoulder, the flap open so any of them could easily fly out. We stepped forward, and the manager who’d driven us cast a curtain. The entire sky turned black, but it was still as bright as day inside the curtain.

Ino led the way into the forest, lecturing me on typical cursed spirit behavior the whole way. I knew most of it, but his continuous patter was calming. I kept my eyes open for the cursed spirit, but didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. That in and of itself was alarming; typically, even if low-level cursed spirits were good at hiding, you could still tell their general presence in a building or location. A cursed spirit cable of obscuring itself completely was on a different level.

The wind that blew through the woods was surprisingly chilly, for how warm the day was. It wasn’t until my teeth started chattering that I realized something was wrong.

“Ino,” I said. “It’s cold, right?”

Ino froze. He was wearing much heavier clothes than I was, but even he had started shaking in the wind.

“It is cold,” he said. “But why…”

Another wind tore through us, even colder than the last. I felt frost starting to form on the tips of my fingers, and I dove behind a tree to get out of the wind. Ino mirrored me, and we were separated by about ten feet. The open corridor we both had just been standing in froze over completely, the icy grass glistening in the sunlight like green glass.

After a moment, the wind died down. Ino looked at me with concern.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “What was that?”

Ino paused, and looked straight ahead, though no wind came back.

“A cursed technique,” he said. “This isn’t a Grade 2 curse, but a Semi-Grade 1, or maybe even a Grade 1. I’m taking over.”

“No!” I said. “Give me five minutes. You can do whatever you want after five minutes, but I need to try myself.”

Ino chewed his lip. “I’ll give you five minutes, but I’ll also interfere if you struggle. This is a good learning experience. Can you figure out this cursed technique without my help?”

Good question. It probably wasn’t as simple as just being cold weather; few cursed techniques were so straightforward. I would like to at least get eyes on the cursed spirit as it used its technique, in case there were visual cues. It was likely straight ahead, but it also meant I needed to look without getting myself killed. That meant baiting it out.

I summoned my Zeta Gundam from my satchel, and had it shift into its Waverider Mode. It folded itself into an airplane-like configuration, so it could move even faster. Usually, I thought transforming Gundams were a lame gimmick, but in this case it was nice to have something so quick and aerodynamic. I sent the Zeta Gundam ahead, brimming with cursed energy, hoping that it would draw out an attack.

My plan succeeded; another wind blew through the woods. Even from behind the tree I could tell the wind was scorching hot; it curled up then ashed the leaves on the tree I was hiding behind. My connection to my Zeta Gundam didn’t fade, but I could feel its shape shifting in the heat. The plastic melted into nothing but slag as it plummeted from the sky. I could technically still control it, but its form (and its inherent techniques) had been totally destroyed. Worst of all, I was still no closer to locating the cursed spirit.

A cold wind, then a hot wind. Such a wide-ranged attack likely had a weakness; it was a common caveat that techniques that were powerful at a distance were weaker up close. It was also possible that the tradeoff for such powerful techniques was linearity; that is, that the cursed spirit really was directly in front of me. I looked over at Ino, but he was just watching me, his brows furrowed in thought.

“You can do it!” he said, when he saw me looking. “Need a hint?”

Had he already figured it out?

“No!” I yelled. “I’m good!”

I reached out with my sense for cursed energy but couldn’t pick up anything other than Takuma and myself. I could assume that the nature of the attack – wind – belied something of its properties. The attack was probably originating from the cursed spirit and proceeding directly in a line. I checked the ground – it was scorched a few feet to my right, and a few feet to Takuma’s left. That gave me the technique’s width: about fifteen feet.

I released three more models. I missed the Bone Blood Samurai, for a moment. Plastic models were significantly bigger and could be destroyed in a fight, so using five at once was reckless when they might all be easily destroyed. I stayed behind my tree and sent off my three models – a Hyaku-Shiki, a Fenice, and a Macross Valkyrie – in three different directions. I had only the Hyaku-Shiki fire, hopefully drawing the cursed spirit’s attention.

I heard the howl of the wind and felt the frost accumulating on the Hyaku-Shiki. The cold wasn’t as devastating to my models as the heat, but it still cracked the plastic and froze the joints, rendering the model useless. I was tempted to dash in, but I stayed in place. A moment later, another jet of wind – this time hot – seared through my Fenice and reduced it to a pile of molten plastic. Distantly, I realized that burning so much plastic was terrible for the environment.

With the three models that the spirit had destroyed, I could triangulate its position. It was about sixty meters in front of me, and about twenty meters to the left. It was low to the ground, rather than perched high in a tree, which worked to my advantage. I released two more models and ordered my Valkyrie to stay high above the tree line. When they were all in position, I had them each converge on the cursed spirit.

I left the cover of my tree and sprinted in the direction of the cursed spirit. I felt the cold settle in on my Valkyrie, consigning it to death. I caught a glimpse of the cursed spirit through the threes: it had a squat, frog-like body with four legs. Its head was actually two separate heads, mirrored. The top half was a monkey, its mouth open in a scream; below it was a bug - a cicada, I thought – with its mouth shut. I was fairly certain this cursed spirit was born over the anxieties over the changing seasons. As a result, it was forced to alternate between blistering heat and blistering cold. My plan would require me to take advantage of that fact.

I felt the winter wind that obliterated my Valkyrie end, and the heads spun 180 degrees so that the cicada head was on top. It opened its mouth and turned in my direction, but I dove behind a tree. I ordered my models overhead – my Dynames and my Nu Gundam – to open fire. I peeked out from behind cover and watched as the cursed spirit’s head spun along its body like it was only loosely attached. The head moved from facing me to being on the spirit’s back, facing up into the sky.

I scattered my models, but the head continued to move along its body, changing the direction of the heatwave. I had assumed that once it started a wind, it wouldn’t be able to adjust its aim, and I lost my Nu Gundam for my mistake. I directed my Dynames to hide in the trees. When I was certain it was nestled among the branches, I dropped my connection to it entirely, which should make it disappear to the cursed spirit’s senses.

I prepared my last two models and jumped out of cover. I had my F91 fly in front of me, and I grew it in size so that it could shield both of us. The spirit turned to face me, the monkey head on top. Its mouth open and it howled a winter wind at me. The F91 activated its beam shield, and I lost a healthy amount of cursed energy just trying to fuel the beam shield enough to keep up with the spirit’s technique. I watched frost form over the edges of the beam shield, like a frozen-over window in the depths of winter. My last model, I animated and pumped full of the rest of my cursed energy, keeping it hidden behind the F91’s shield until we were in melee range.

Sorcerers typically eschewed incantations. If they did use one, it was just the name of the technique, boiled down into its most essential elements. A full incantation, when used by a skilled sorcerer, was only capable of providing an extra ten percent power boost or so. I needed every inch of power, so I opted for the full chant. Also, I’d always wanted to say this.

“This hand of mine is burning red!” I yelled, raising my fist up to the heavens. The God Gundam at my side snapped to attention and began to transform: the gauntlet descended over its fist, its three spear-like wings unfolded, its chest piece opened, and a golden glow of heat surrounded the model. I was losing cursed energy fast; I’d only be able to use this innate technique once this fight, so I’d have to make it count.

Exactly as I’d planned, the spirit was in a winter phase so the warmth the God Gundam was putting out kept it from freezing me, even as it broke through portions of the F91’s shield.

“Its loud roar tells me to grasp victory!” 

I was only five feet out from the spirit now. I dropped the F91, letting it fall to the ground and return to its normal size. In its place, I used shitetsure on my God Gundam, letting it grow to eight feet tall. The heat it was putting out was sufficient to protect me from the end of the cursed spirit’s technique, even with the F91’s beam shield gone. I pulled my fist back and the God Gundam mimicked me. I could hear the song playing in my head.

“Erupting! Burning! Finger!”

The God Gundam flew forwards and speared its hand through the abdomen of the cursed spirit, lifting it in the air. I used all my cursed energy for this attack, save for enough to let me dodge out of the way if the move failed. I just barely kept from falling to my knees as I felt it activate.

A gout of flame erupted from the God Gundam, along with a cloud of black smoke that obscured my vision. The attack released a powerful shockwaye, sending leaves and branches falling from the treetops onto my head. I fell to one knee but kept an eye on the smoke in case I needed to move quickly. The air was still; my ears were ringing from the explosion my model had unleashed on the spirit.

I saw the smoke shift slightly, then it was all blown away in an instant as the cursed spirit launched another attack. I left my God Gundam behind, hoping it would be the spirit’s main target as I jumped up into the trees, trying to get above it. I felt my God Gundam melt, meaning the spirit had liked aimed its attack down at itself. The spirit was still alive, though I had blown off a major chunk of its abdomen. It staggered around on its feet, head roving about its body as it looked for me.

I only had my Dynames left – the F91 that I had let fall had frosted over in the previous attack. I reached out to connect to it, hoping that I could use its sniper fire as cover while I retreated back to Ino. My plan ended up being unnecessary. A black blur passed overhead, then paused in the air above the cursed spirit. It was Ino. He held his hand out and called his attack.

“Auspicious Beast Number One! Kaishin!”

Before the cursed spirit could even begin another attack, Ino conjured and fired a small horn, packed densely with cursed energy. It sliced through the cursed spirit’s head and continued through its body, splitting the spirit in half before it dissolved entirely.

The spirit was exorcised. The roaring in my ears I hadn’t even noticed began to fade, and my body instinctively relaxed. The whole area had been so permeated in the cursed spirit’s energy that its absence was like a heavy weight being lifted. I took a few calming breaths, to bring myself down from the high of battle. The Dynames flew back to me and re-entered my satchel.

I’d spent five models, all to fail to exorcise a Semi-Grade 1. Before I could beat myself up about it too badly, Ino called out to me.

“Good work, Kamo-san!” he yelled.

“Thanks for your help, Ino-senpai,” I said. I dropped from the tree and onto the forest floor where he was waiting for me. He had a black hood with eyeholes cut out pulled over his head, and I suddenly recognized him: he was that Nanami fanboy! I hadn’t even realized he’d been a canon character until now. I was a little reassured by that; Ino was a Grade 2 sorcerer, true, but in name only. The gap between me and Grade 2 wasn’t that big.

“Take a seat, if you need it,” Ino said. “Let’s debrief.”

I happily flopped onto the forest floor. My legs were burning from running and jumping around. I was in great shape – better than I ever had been in my first life, by far – but moving like that in an actual exorcism felt different than it had in training.

“First of all, that was really impressive,” Ino said. “You’re Grade 3, but you nearly took out a Semi-Grade 1 all on your own. Did you figure out the cursed technique?”

“The changing of the seasons,” I said. “Alternating cold winds and hot winds, from the mouth of the spirit.”

“Good!” Ino said. “That’s what I thought too. You were right to try to close the distance. The spirit was engaging at range, which meant its technique worked better from far away. In general, when fighting cursed spirits, you should try to avoid fighting them on their terms.”

I nodded, to show I was listening.

“You probably tried to find it with your cursed energy sensing but didn’t feel anything, right?” he asked. “It was hiding its presence, but too well. This whole area was flooded with cursed energy, but the place where the spirit was hiding actually had too little cursed energy. Next time, remember to look for inconsistencies in either direction – too much or too little cursed energy can be a giveaway.”

I groaned. It was so obvious, but I’d completely overlooked cursed energy sensing as an option when the spirit didn’t immediately pop out to me. I probably could have saved three models just by knowing its location from the start.

“When you got up close, you made a classic mistake for a shikigami user,” Ino said. “You stayed behind your shikigami and let it do all the fighting. Instead, you should have immediately repositioned to strike the cursed spirit either simultaneously, or right after you used that technique. If you had, then you could have exorcised it even after it survived your final attack.”

I didn’t exactly use shikigami, but the basics of what Ino was saying still applied. I’d hidden behind my model, trusting it to finish the job, instead of getting involved myself. Gojo and Fushiguro had both told me it was a bad habit of mine, and other shikigami users, and while I’d improved in training I’d immediately fallen back into fighting defensively out in the field.

“One last note,” Ino said. “Why didn’t you put all your cursed energy into that last attack, once you knew it hit?”

“I wanted to make sure I could get away,” I said. “Otherwise, I probably would have collapsed.”

“Were you banking on me coming in to exorcise it if you failed?” Ino asked.

I shook my head. “To be honest, I forgot about you once I started fighting.”

“What I’m going to say might be confusing,” Ino said. “If you had told me you held off because you knew I had your back, that would have been fine. Counting on other sorcerers is the basis of cooperation, and you’ll do lots of missions with other people. But, you didn’t remember I was there. If you thought you were alone, you should have put everything you had into that last strike.”

“What?” I said. “If I’m alone, wouldn’t it have been better to run away?”

“When you’re with teammates, you can always use that last bit of cursed energy for a final diversion, or to support their attack. You can still exorcise the spirit, even if it isn’t you personally doing the exorcism. When you’re alone, though, holding back like that has terrible consequences.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Couldn’t I just back off and call for backup, especially for a spirit much higher ranked than me?”

“Normally, you shouldn’t have engaged at all,” Ino said. “But that’s not my point. Calling for backup is fine, but there simply aren’t that many sorcerers – it could be days before one arrives, or you could be pulling a sorcerer away from another assignment, and the curse they were supposed to exorcise kills someone in the meantime. Furthermore, against a Semi-Grade 1 cursed spirit, your number one goal should be exorcising it before it has the chance to improve its technique.”

Ino gestured at the frozen and burnt trees that surrounded us.

“Take this spirit. It alternated between cold and heat at the same pace, right? Each wind lasted the same amount of time. Furthermore, while the head could move, the actual body of the spirit didn’t move at all during that fight, which was probably a limitation of its technique. By the time you get back with reinforcements, this spirit likely would have realized it could do something like alternate the lengths of its attacks, perhaps even so quickly that it doesn’t even seem to be alternating. Your plan to charge in during a cold phase wouldn’t have worked, if that were the case.”

“Or, it could have learned to move between shots,” I said. “So that whoever came back to exorcise it after me wouldn’t even have perfect information.”

“Exactly!” Ino said. “By then, the spirit would be counted as Grade 1, and there really aren’t that many Grade 1 sorcerers out there. You’re from a clan, so you probably thought they were a lot more common, but a Grade 1 curse is a serious problem. You’d need a team of at least three Grade 2 sorcerers to handle it, if you couldn’t find a Grade 1.”

“Ugh,” I said. “I feel like I really messed that up.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it!” Ino said. “You’re only in your first month of school, right? This is the time to figure this stuff out.”

“Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “I’ve got lots of time.”

#

Chapter 10: 2.4 - Reunion

I spent the next day after my mission with Ino taking stock of my many failures. I had let a ton of my models get destroyed, failed to exorcise the curse, and made basic mistakes I’d thought I was overcoming in training. Even though I knew, objectively, that I was much more powerful than when I’d left the compound, it felt like I hadn’t moved forward at all.

Part of my problem was just a lack of experience. I’d had it too easy on my other missions, where I was mostly tasked with eliminating Grade 3 and 4 cursed spirits. When they were that weak, it didn’t take any particular strategy or effort. This was my first real exorcism where I’d gone up against a spirit with a technique and even the semblance of intelligence. 

I was able to count even more mistakes than the ones Ino had mentioned. I’d limited the number of models I’d used at once to just a handful, rather than deploying all five at once, for one. I’d been overwhelmed by the amount of options available to me in a fight; it was hard to conceptualize a fight with myself, five flying models, and my opponent. I’d limited myself to just a few because it had been easier to manage. My technique was good for overwhelming my opponent with attacks from many different angles, but I’d also been overwhelming myself.

I finally understood why previous users of my technique had been happy to stick to the Bone Blood Samurai. Despite being too simple for my tastes, that simplicity was what made them easy to use and master. I was overwhelmed with options – in terms of what I could build, and in terms of what I could control. I’d been sticking with mecha models because they were easy to build, but I could have been working on making custom models of lots of other things: stuff like Digimon, or Godzilla, or all sorts of anime or manga.

I was beset by choices, and I didn’t have the proper amount of time to explore them all to figure out what was best. I was struggling, in general, with commitment: with committing to my attacks during exorcisms, with committing on how I should use my technique. In general, I felt like a failure; I couldn’t help but think that Fushiguro would have exorcised that Semi-Grade 1 without an issue.

My self-recrimination saw me taking a rare nighttime walk around the school. Despite being close to the city, we could somehow clearly see the stars in the sky. The air was clean up here, too. I was pretty sure Tengen was responsible for both.

I took a long, looping path through the footpaths and trails that crisscrossed the school. To my surprise, I wasn’t alone. Fushiguro was sitting on the steps outside his dorm, looking up at the sky. As I got closer, he looked up at me, though he didn’t wave or say anything. I took a seat on the step next to him.

“What’s up,” I said. “I didn’t know you were back already.”

“I just got in,” he said.

“How was the mission?” I asked. “A Grade 1, right?”

Fushiguro paused, and I looked at him in concern. He looked frustrated.

“We exorcised the curse, but one of the sorcerers on the team died,” he said.

“Oh shit,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Fushiguro just grunted in response. I didn’t even know what to say. I wasn’t sure if he even wanted to be comforted. Despite being in class together for a month, Fushiguro and I really didn’t know each other very well. I’ll admit that my friend-making skills were rusty, but he really was closed off, so all the fault wasn’t with me.

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“Not really,” Fushiguro said. “That was my first time meeting him.”

I looked up at the sky. I didn’t want to stare at Fushiguro and make him self-conscious, not while he was on the verge of opening up.

“First time you’ve seen someone die?” I asked.

“No,” Fushiguro said. “First sorcerer, though. First person I knew.”

“That sucks,” I said.

“I could have saved him, too,” Fushiguro said. “If I had the Great Serpent.”

I didn’t say anything, and Fushiguro kept going.

“He was just out of range of my dogs. I could have bit the spirit’s arm off and let him fall, and he would have lived.”

I chanced a glance at him out of the side of my eye. He wasn’t crying, and he didn’t even seem particularly disturbed that he’d seen someone die and hadn’t been able to stop it.

“Does that bother you?” I asked. “That you couldn’t save him?”

Fushiguro thought about it. “I knew this would happen eventually. I know what’s expected of sorcerers. I thought it would mean something when it finally happened. I feel like I should blame myself, but I don’t. In the moment, there was nothing I could have done.”

“Probably not,” I said. “But even if you know you aren’t at fault, it can still wear at you.”

“I guess,” Fushiguro said.

“Why do you want to be a sorcerer?” I asked.

Fushiguro startled. “Why do you ask?”

“Why do this?” I said. “You know why I’m here. I have to be, and I need to be. But you don’t have to watch people die if you don’t want to.”

There was a long silence. I’d pressed Fushiguro on something personal, which I’d never really done before. I already knew why he was a sorcerer, of course: to end Tsumiki’s curse. But I wasn’t just needling him in order to get a reaction, or to force him to open up to me for “plot reasons.” We were supposed to be friends, or at least classmates, and it was awkward secretly knowing more about him than he knew.

“Someone I care about is cursed,” Fushiguro said. “I’m trying to save her.”

“In that case, all you can do is get stronger,” I said. “I know what that’s like. Everything else can feel meaningless if it’s not related to your goal. You can feel like you aren’t getting strong fast enough, or that what you’re doing isn’t going to make a difference. We can’t control that, and we can’t control other people.”

I stopped and tried to recall what I’d just said; I was tired, and it was late. “I’m not sure if that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Fushiguro said. He got to his feet. “Thanks, Matsuno.”

He went back into his dorm. I sat on the step a little longer, trying to figure out if I’d helped him or not. I trudged back to my dorm and fell asleep nearly instantly. I got the news from Gojo the next day: Fushiguro had snuck out at five in the morning and completed the Great Serpent Ritual.

#

I spent a while thinking about the Tsumiki problem. It would have been nice to be able to just exorcise her curse with a snap of my fingers and avert the possibility of Sukuna taking over Megumi’s body, but I just couldn’t. As far as I could remember, Kenjaku had fed her a cursed object, which was responsible for her current coma. It was at the end of the Shibuya Incident, when he used Idle Transfiguration, that it activated and she got possessed.

In theory, removing the cursed object from Tsumiki would prevent Kenjaku from possessing her. Except, of course, I didn’t have the slightest notion of how to do that, and I’d never even heard of something like this in all my lessons on jujutsu. The most likely solution was to ensure that Kenjaku never used Idle Transfiguration. Tsumiki staying in her coma wasn’t ideal, but stopping Kenjaku’s plan to incarnate sorcerers would at least keep the worst-case scenario from coming to pass.

What it came down to was I needed to stop Kenjaku, which meant exorcising Mahito before Kenjaku could arrive to capture him. A nice backup plan would be to keep Yuji from ever making that binding vow with Sukuna in the detention center – which would require me getting strong enough to exorcise that special grade curse before it forced him to exchange with Sukuna, just about a month away. I couldn’t think of how to make that happen without resorting to drastic measures.

My relationship with Fushiguro improved, at least. He had always been polite, but now I could tell that he was capable of relaxing in my presence. We weren’t exactly besties, but I felt more comfortable yammering to Fushiguro about my latest build, and he didn’t try to escape the classroom exactly when we were done with training.

My fear over the detention center mostly manifested itself in a drive to upgrade my arsenal. That meant taking the step up towards building a master grade, though I was mostly agonizing over the choice of which kit to invest my time in. I was really starting to feel the crunch of time. It was like my entire life had been on slow motion until last month, and now it was moving too fast for me to keep up.

“What do you think the greatest thing a sorcerer needs is, Matsuno?” Gojo asked. He had appeared over my shoulder without warning, but I barely startled in surprise, I’d gotten so used to it.

We were outside the class building. I had already exhausted myself fighting Fushiguro, so he was off on the other side of the field working on wielding the Great Serpent. I had my usual folding table set-up, working through a King Gainer model kit.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I said. “But probably their cursed technique?”

“Eh,” Gojo said. “Maybe this is rich coming from me, but cursed technique only gets you so far. So does physical strength, or amount of cursed energy.”

“Please sensei,” I said. “Educate me on the virtues of the ideal sorcerer.”

Gojo spun through the air, casually showing off his ability to fly. He hovered in a cross-legged position in front of me.

“A good sorcerer is crazy, Matsuno,” he said. “And I’m not sure you’re crazy.”

“In any other circumstance, I’d take that as a compliment,” I said.

“You’re pretty good with your technique, and you’re not bad at fighting either,” Gojo said. “You were already farther along than most students we get here. But despite changing how you use your technique, you haven’t improved that much.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t get me wrong! You’re better at hand-to-hand fighting, and you’ve made some steady improvements, but I haven’t seen any big leaps,” he said. “Ino told me that you held back too much against that Semi-Grade 1, when I would have liked it if you’d seen that as a chance to really cut loose and go wild.”

“I’m not really interested in adjusting my entire personality,” I said.

Gojo spun in the air until he was upside down. “It’s not about your personality. I want to see what you’re like when you’re really going all out. I think you’re just too tense, Matsuno. It’s like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it’s keeping you from going all in.”

Gojo was startling perceptive; I guess I should have expected that from someone with the Six Eyes. I had been restricting myself, and my fears about the future had led me to be conservative with my models even in sparring. I was worried about falling behind on my supply and being caught off-guard by something from canon; while I knew the general order of events, I had no idea on what days they actually happened.

“I’ve been annoyed with my technique,” I said. “I feel like I can’t keep up the pace of making models and keeping track of everything they can do.”

“Why not just go back to the simple stuff?” Gojo asked.

Because it won’t be enough for what’s coming. “Because that’s too boring,” I said.

Gojo rotated again, this time floating sideways. I wondered if his control of space extended to keeping the blood from rushing to his head.

“Good answer,” Gojo said. “But you’re being too limited. Stop thinking about all the stuff you can make and start thinking about your technique itself. Did you come up with the size-changing technique yourself?”

“No,” I said. “That’s from my clan. Do you think I should focus on applications of my technique, and not my models?”

Gojo frowned at me. “Stop looking for the “right answer.” There are no easy choices with sorcery, and your problem right now is that you’re spending too much time thinking and not enough time doing. Sorcerers typically make their most progress while they’re in danger, so good news! You’ve got a mission with Panda tomorrow morning.”

#

Gojo’s words rattled around in my brain. I hated getting up early, but Gojo had told me the car would be waiting at nine am, which meant I had to be an hour early to make sure he wasn’t trying to make me late as a joke. Therefore, I had plenty of time to ruminate. I hated to consider that he was right. I’d thought getting free from the Kamo Clan would be a big breakthrough moment for me, where I could totally cut loose, but I hadn’t hit the heights I’d been looking for yet. Maybe spending twelve years under the Kamo had permanently altered the parts of my brain responsible for creativity and having fun, without my knowledge.

I couldn’t exactly figure out what he wanted from me – besides “be more crazy” – but at least his suggestion I think more directly about my technique was useful. I could think about ways to simplify my command over my objects, through a new technique that was maybe like Ishiyama Hongan-ji but slightly more practical, or I could look into ways like Shitetsure to empower individual objects at the expense of others.

My models were the front-end of my technique: highly customizable, very flashy and distracting, but they could only do so much to make up for the shortcomings of the back-end, which was my technique itself. By tweaking the “engine” that drove my models, I would probably be able to make more progress than just by adjusting which models and objects I chose to use. At 8:45, I heard the telltale sounds of claws on stone.

This was the first time I’d seen any of the second-years since the opening ceremony. Panda was definitely the most distinctive of them, too. He looked exactly like a bear: he had real fur, real claws, a real snout, but he moved more like a human. I’d never seen Panda get around on all fours. A real panda wouldn’t be able to walk around on two feet like he did, but somehow his body contorted itself to make his bipedal form look comfortable and not painful. A hint that he wasn’t a panda at all.

“Yo!” I said, waving.

Panda waved back. “Matsuno-san, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Nice to be working with you.”

The car came around, and it was more like an SUV than a sedan. I was glad for the extra space when we got inside: Panda was big. He didn’t even bother with a seatbelt, which was honestly fair. In a way, sorcerers using seatbelts at all was a polite fiction, but with Panda there was no point in pretending it was doing anything. The windows of the SUV were tinted, probably so no one could spot us driving around with an endangered animal.

“Checking out my custom ride?” Panda asked. “I always get this car.”

We made small talk while we went into the city. Panda was happy to share all kinds of gossip and info with me, probably because it was the first time he’d ever had an underclassmen to educate.

“I’m Semi-Grade 2,” Panda said. “I’m one exorcism in, out of three. But even though we’re going to get a Grade 2 curse today, it won’t count towards my total. They make you do them slowly, one per month.”

“Why?” I asked. “Seems like a waste of time.”

“Totally,” Panda said. “But the higher-ups want to keep an eye on all the prospects during that time to make sure they meet the standards they set or whatever. When I’m doing an actual exorcism as a test, they send a sorcerer out to supervise me.”

“Wait, so neither of us are Grade 2 sorcerers and we’re taking on a Grade 2 curse?” I asked. “Is that allowed?”

“Eh,” Panda said, shaking his hand. “Maybe not, but I think Gojo pulled a few strings to get us this job.”

“Typical,” I said. “Hey, why does Maki hate me?”

Panda looked over his shoulder in shock, as if expecting Maki to be in the backseat, judging him. When he looked back at me, he seemed nervous. I could mainly tell by the way he rubbed his paws together; reading Panda’s face was really tough, except for when he was exaggerating his facial expressions for a gag.

“I don’t want to say too much,” Panda said.

“Just give me a hint,” I said. “Did I do something to her?”

“No, no,” Panda said. “You just met for the first time at the opening ceremony, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “So that’s why I’m so confused.”

“Maki’s had some bad experiences with the Big Three Jujutsu Families,” Panda said, somehow vocally capitalizing the words. “So don’t take it personally! She’s not a bad person.”

“I thought it was something like that,” I said. “I hope she knows I’m not like that.”

“I’m sure you’ll get along great once you get to know each other,” Panda said, though he sounded doubtful. “Say, do you know Noritoshi Kamo?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d never, in my life, been asked that question. Of course I knew Noritoshi Kamo; up until six weeks ago, every single person I’d ever met in this life had known Noritoshi Kamo. Everyone knew I knew Noritoshi Kamo. The novelty was delightful.

“You know him?” I asked.

“We met very briefly at the goodwill event last year,” Panda said. “He didn’t say much.”

“In fact, we’re engaged,” I said. Panda’s mouth dropped open in shock, and he clapped his paws to his cheeks in surprise. So cute! “But it’s unlikely to work out, since I’m not exactly playing along with my clan right now.”

“Maybe you’ll get along with Maki better than I thought,” Panda said.

“We’re here,” the driver said, speaking for the first time. I’d almost fooled myself into thinking the car was driving itself, he’d had so little presence. I got out and retrieved my club and satchel from the trunk, but Panda stayed in the car. We were in a cute little suburban neighborhood, lined with houses.

The manager got out of the driver’s seat and approached one of the houses. The only sign that it wasn’t occupied were the dying plants near the door. With practiced ease, the manager brought down the curtain over the house. Only when it had fully descended did Panda open the door of the car and literally roll out, quickly getting behind the curtain.

I stepped through to join him.

“No point in going viral,” Panda said, dusting his fur off. “HQ likes it if I spend as little time in public view as possible.”

“That sucks,” I said. “Do you ever get time off outside of the school?”

“Not really,” Panda said. “But I’m not a human, so I don’t exactly feel the need.”

I wasn’t sure if that was Panda coping with his loneliness or actually the case, but I also didn’t feel like I knew him well enough to push him on it. I took in our target: the house was small, just two stories and as typically thin as most Tokyo houses. There wouldn’t be many places for the spirit to hide.

“Wanna go in together?” Panda asked.

I checked the amount of space we had. The curtain had to be cast fairly tightly, to avoid encompassing the nearby houses. We did have, however, about fifteen foot from the door of the house to the street to work with.

“You go in alone,” I said. “If you can force the spirit out here, I can ambush it.”

Panda shot me a thumbs up… a claws up? Pandas didn’t have thumbs normally, right? But Panda wasn’t exactly a Panda… In any case, he trotted gently up to the front door. 

I undid the clasp on my bag to let my models out. I drew out five models at a time until I had ten standing about my feet. For the most part, they were Gundams. The HG Build Fighters line was plentiful at Akihabara at the moment, and they were pretty easy to build so I was currently using a motley assemblage of mobile suits as my chosen tools for the day.

I focused my senses. Panda wasn’t even attempting to hide his energy, so I could easily tell that he was currently near the back of the house. The cursed spirit was probably on the second floor, so Panda was probably looking for the stairs. I hefted my club so it rested on my shoulder. I very badly wanted to evaporate a cursed spirit, just to make up for how frustrated I’d been feeling.

I was forced to wait around as Panda explored the house. Finally, five minutes after he entered, a felt a simultaneous burst of cursed energy from him and from the spirit. I readied up, and activated five of my models, particularly those with more conventional weaponry. A few moments later, a window on the second floor broke and the cursed spirit went flying out over the lawn.

“Stop it!” Panda yelled.

The curse was like a giant, swelled up frog. It had four legs, as well as a wicked pair of horns near its eyes. I smiled at the sight of it sailing through the air, likely hoping to make it to the curtain and away from Panda. Unfortunately for it, I was ready.

I had three of my models open fire at the spirit, emphasizing explosives. My Kampfer Amazing launched its little leg-grenades, my Zaku fired a bazooka, and so on. The purpose wasn’t to exorcise the spirit, but to scare it. As explosions began to pepper its position, the frog spirit spun in the air so its mouth was facing up, and exhaled.

The spirit rocketed back towards the ground, propelled by all the air it had stored up in its gut. That served its purpose of getting out of range of my barrage but caused it to fall right into my second trap. I animated five of my beam weapon-equipped models and had them open up like a firing line, right where the spirit was going to land.

It took some serious cursed energy to fire five models like that, all while at decent strength, but the effect was worth it. The spirit disappeared to my vision in a cloud of smoke, though I could tell it had curled up on itself, narrowly avoiding exorcism. I dashed forward and heaved my club up, then windmilled it down on the spirit. With a last groaning croak, it dissipated.

God, that felt good.

#

Another week passed of training, and I began to calm down from my sense of agitation. It helped that Gojo seemed pleased with performance alongside Panda. With Fushiguro mostly working on his own, Gojo spent more time putting me through my paces and helping me lose my reluctance towards hand-to-hand combat. In all ways besides our relative power level, he was an ideal opponent: he could attack me from all angles, thanks to his ability to fly, which meant that it was good training for me to get used to fighting in all three dimensions with my own flying models.

Plus, unlike Fushiguro, Gojo could literally not be hurt by anything I threw at him, which meant I was starting to break my habit of holding back. Daily, Gojo teased me with promises of a promotion: “try to make me use both hands, and I’ll recommend you for Grade 2, Matsuno,” and “dodge this attack and I’ll recommend you for Grade 2, Matsuno,” and so on. It was base and crude motivation, and I’m ashamed to say that it worked on me. Naturally, time and time again, I failed the challenges he set out to me, but only because he steadily increased their difficulty.

As time stretched on into the end of May, I began to get worried about Itadori. I’d been planning around the detention center, and trying to keep Sukuna from making a vow with him, but wouldn’t it be better to stop him from eating the finger in the first place? Wasn’t Itadori, as Sukuna’s Vessel, the reason that the other fingers even started waking up? Kenjaku’s plan might still progress, but without the risk of an unleashed Sukuna on top of that. Sure, Itadori would eventually grow to be strong and useful, but was it worth the risk?

I was worried that I might end up in a position where I’d have to make that choice. Fushiguro had implied, in the manga, that the mission to retrieve Sukuna’s finger had been a milk run. Neither he nor Gojo had expected any cursed spirits. As the new lowest-ranked member of the school, below even Fushiguro, it was entirely possible that the job would fall to me instead of him, and then I’d have to make a very difficult choice. I really, actually hoped that it somehow was out of my hands.

I had a lot of time to ruminate while building my models. It was after practice one day, when I was fully burnt out from spending hours trying to explode Satoru Gojo, that he dropped a surprise on me while I was working on the leg of a Master Grade kit.

“Matsuno, the principal needs to see you,” he said.

“Nice try,” I replied. “I know you phrased that in order to make me think I’m in trouble.”

If I was actually in trouble, or if there was some sort of problem or emergency with my family, Yaga would have probably come himself rather than rely on Gojo to tell me during practice. Sometimes, Gojo’s unreliability was reliable.

“You’re no fun,” he pouted. “But he does want you to head up and visit him. Bring your tools.”

Oh! How exciting! I hoped this was the joint crafting session I’d been imagining since I got here. I had so many questions for Yaga about his puppets and his technique. I hummed “Just Communication” to myself while I packed up my gear and my partially built model. I’d never tried building big puppets like Yaga’s, and I was wondering how hard it would be to give it a try. Even if I was limited to well-understood characters, a big fluffy Pikachu would do a lot for my mental health.

The only downside of heading up to Yaga’s personal pagoda was the long flight of stars I had to lug all my gear up. If I wasn’t so drained on cursed energy from practice, it would have been a piece of cake. Another thing to blame Gojo for; I found my list steadily grew. It was a miracle that Fushiguro was as nice a boy as he was, having dealt with Gojo for most of his life.

I was slightly unnerved, when I entered Yaga’s building, that the set-up was essentially the same as when he’d tested me. Yaga was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sewing together a huge flap of fabric. His hardcore image was offset by the massive pile of stuffing next to him, as well as the brightly colored and creepy-cute puppets that lay inert against the wall.

“Take a seat, Kamo-san,” Yaga said, without looking up. “Gojo suggested that we could work on our respective crafts.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Yaga-sensei,” I said, giving him a small bow. I kicked off my shoes and joined him on the floor. As I unpacked my supplies, Yaga began to question me.

“Do you exclusively work with model kits?” he asked.

“I’m well-trained in almost every form of handcrafts,” I said. “But model kits are a nice middle ground between providing me with objects with useful features for combat and being easy to assemble.”

“Gojo explained how your technique works to me,” Yaga said. “But it seems to me you could focus on building wooden or metal figures, if you wanted combat options that lasted longer in a real fight.”

“That’s probably true,” I said. “But I need a pretty high volume of objects to take advantage of my multitasking.”

“Is that the only reason for your choice?” he asked.

I started to work on my kit. I was mostly focusing on getting the nubs out. The real secret tech was to pick up one of those square nail files, where each face had a different grain. As I set about cleaning up a piece, I thought about my answer.

“No,” I said. “I actually do like building model kits, and I like giant robots.”

“What can you guess about my technique?” Yaga asked.

This was looking less like a joint crafting session and more like a Socratic dialogue. I remembered that Yaga did take teaching seriously; he was probably trying to get me to figure something out about my own technique.

“I know you create and animate cursed corpse puppets,” I said. “You clearly are capable of creating puppets with innate techniques, but that might be limited to fully living puppets like Panda. I’m pretty sure you don’t manually control the actions of your puppets.”

“Good guess,” Yaga said. “Leaving aside Panda, who I won’t be answering any questions about, my technique typically functions through incantations. I can order my puppets to act through an incantation, and it will carry out the order encoded in that incantation until I bring it to an end. Therefore, they act mostly autonomously.”

“It’s actually like two different techniques,” I said. “One to create the cursed corpse puppet, and a second technique that governs the rules around how they move.”

“That’s a fundamental difference in our techniques,” Yaga said. “I have less fine control over my puppets than you have over yours, but I’m capable of controlling many more of them at once. Can you spot another difference?”

What did he mean by spot? I looked around the room we were in: it was clearly not of Yaga’s own design, because it had that severe traditional style that I associated with the Kamo compound. Yaga’s dolls stood out all the more as a result, but none of them seemed to be moving or doing anything. I closed my eyes and attempted to sense cursed energy. To my surprise, Yaga himself was thrumming with energy, just low enough that I wouldn’t have picked up on it without looking.

“You have to keep your technique active while you’re crafting a puppet,” I said. “You’re using your technique right now, even. I don’t have to do that at all.”

“Precisely,” Yaga said. “The strength of your technique is that, with blood, you could animate any object you find; even objects you happen upon mid-fight could become your tools. When you made your binding vow, however, you swore off that option. You made your technique much more like mine.”

“That was intentional,” I said. “The strength of a binding vow is proportional to how much it restricts you, right? I cut myself off from something like 99.99 percent of all objects in the world with that vow.”

“The increases aren’t linear,” Yaga said. “If it were, your power would have increased by something like ten thousandfold.”

Ten thousand? I did some mental math: I guess he was saying that the switch from 100% capability to .01% capability was the difference of ten thousand times. The actual numbers didn’t matter much, since in reality it was more like I’d cut myself to all but twenty or thirty objects out of everything in the entire world; it was really a several-million-times reduction of my capabilities, that hadn’t directly transferred back to my technique.

“Is this a warning about making another vow? I’m not satisfied with where I’m at, but I take your point that there likely won’t be another jump in power like that one.”

Yaga didn’t answer me immediately. Instead, he began stuffing his doll full of cotton. I watched him work, both visually and with my cursed energy senses. Despite his beefy hands, Yaga moved with grace and composure. When he was finished stuffing the doll’s head, he began to sew it closed, far faster and defter than I’d ever managed.

“Why do you need to make another vow?” Yaga asked. “The one you’ve already made has allowed you as a novice – and I mean novice in terms of your experienced with cursed spirits – to handle cursed spirits up to Semi-Grade 1. By all expectations in the jujutsu world, that makes you a prodigy.”

“Gojo’s been saying the same thing,” I said. “I get that I sound crazy, but I’ve got my own reasons. Stop telling me I’m already strong enough, because I’m not, and just accept that I’m not happy with where I’m at, and I am in a rush.”

“I’m glad you’re aware of that,” Yaga said. “I was concerned you were rushing things because you were comparing yourself to Gojo and Fushiguro.”

“It’s not about them,” I said. “It’s about me. And even if you try to warn me off, I’m not going to stop trying to get stronger as fast as possible.”

I set down the piece I was working on and took some steadying breaths. My stupid binding vow that kept me from talking about the future was annoying me yet again; if I could just talk about Kenjaku, or the Disaster Curses, I wouldn’t need to justify my desire for power. Was it possible that my rush to get stronger was causing Yaga and Gojo to distrust me?

We worked together in silence for a while. I wasn’t sure if I should try to clear the air, or how I would even do so. No matter what, I’d have to lie about why I wanted to get stronger, and Yaga would probably be able to tell. Would I just make my situation worse? As was often the case, I ignored my worries by building my model.

“Why do you think I make my dolls like this?” Yaga asked.

I was surprised at the total change in topic, but grateful he hadn’t decided to press on my motivations.

“Does your technique only work on fabric?” I asked. “Like, a binding vow?”

“No!” Yaga yelled. “The reason is… I like cute things.”

“Ah…” I said. “Okay…”

“Much like you, I have many different ways I can use my technique. I could have calculated the most optimal combat forms for my puppets. Tell me! Why did I not do this?”

“Well, uh…” I said. “You didn’t want to?”

“Precisely!” Yaga said. He was gesturing wildly with his hand, which gripped a tiny needle. “I like cute things, so I make cute things. There’s nothing more to it. You like robots, right?”

I expected him to keep going, but he was evidently waiting for an answer. 

“Yeah,” I said. “I think they’re cool.”

“Gojo told me you’ve been agonizing over your technique. As someone who has been in your exact place, let me give you this piece of advice: do what calls to you. Don’t make decisions out of fear, make them out of love. If you like robots, then make robots. If you allow yourself to be consumed by what-ifs and should-haves, you’ll never get anything done.”

“Thanks, principal,” I said. “That actually does help.”

I’d been fussing over whether it would be best to make something like Pokemon, or anime figures with cool special powers. Was it really alright to be spending my time on model robots, when I could be using Star Platinum to freeze time? The indecision had been killing me, and it had kept me from committing to a new binding vow, one that would be strong enough to actually make a difference to my technique. Thanks to Yaga, I knew what I had to do.

I set down my tools and closed my eyes. I let my cursed energy loose and made a vow.

I vow to only use Still Life Blood Animation on objects that are mechanical in nature.

#

Chapter 11: 2.5 - The Call of Darkness

As May gave way to June, my anxiety about Itadori’s fate only grew. I was worried, a little, about Nobara showing up, too, but only in the sense that having to meet a bunch of new people at once was going to stress me out. She would be fine until Shibuya, but Itadori was a problem that was coming up quickly. It was the worst kind of anxiety, where you know there’s nothing you can really do about it, but still feel like you ought to be doing something. I didn’t even know when the Itadori mission took place, so it wasn’t like I had a convenient deadline to look forward to.

My only outlet was training, and testing the limits of my technique under my new binding vow. Gojo hadn’t been surprised when I’d returned from my talk with Yaga under its effects, and I was glad he’d given up on trying to convince me to take it slow. My efficiency had spiked to unreal levels compared to what I was working with before. I could fire off beam rifle shots strong enough to exorcise a Grade 3 curse without a notable strain on my reserves, which meant I went from crashing out of training halfway through the day to being able to fight until the sun went down.

The more esoteric stuff – like the King Gainer’s overfreeze and overheat – were no longer limited to just once or twice a day. As I was now, if I used the Burning Finger on that spirit I’d fought with Ino, I’d have exorcised it without any issues. Being able to pepper those kinds of techniques between my usual attacks made me infinitely more dangerous, even when I wasn’t going full blast. In a way, by restricting the range of options available to me, I’d opened up more options in combat. There was no point in being able to do anything if I couldn’t do it more than once a day, or do it strongly enough to make a difference.

I’d questioned Gojo about this sudden leap in my capabilities one day, while we were training. It seemed to me that limiting my ability to mechanical objects ought to be significantly less impactful than my initial vow, yet I was feeling its effects more. In response, he chopped me on the head.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “You only think that because you weren’t able to compare the power jump from before and after your first vow accurately.”

“Ugh,” I said, rubbing my head. “What do you mean?”

“You weren’t using your little robots before then, so you when you made that vow you didn’t really have a sense of how much your cursed energy changed,” he said.

Gojo tapped at his blindfold. “I can see it all perfectly. This was a big boost, but not as big as your first one.”

“Huh,” I said. “I guess I wasn’t really using special techniques before my first vow, because they’d practically knock me out.”

“You’ve probably gotten close to maximizing the value you can get out of binding vows, by the way,” Gojo said. “You could pick up a few minor ones, like Revealing Your Hand, but you’d have to go for some pretty crazy restrictions to get another jump like this one.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m going to take your advice and focus on rethinking my technique. I’ve got a few ideas.”

I’d actually constructed a new model just to test out an idea I had with my technique. I’d built myself a base jabber from Zeta Gundam. It was basically a flat platform with wings and jets that mobile suits used to fly around in higher-gravity environments. With shitetsure, I could make it just large enough for me to comfortably sit in. With an extension of my cursed technique, it wobbled off the ground and conveyed me forward.

Getting used to actually flying on the base jabber was harder than I’d thought. For one thing, I was constantly slipping and sliding around on the plastic, and if I went above a few miles an hour I started to get pushed off by the wind. If I wanted to use this thing to move around quickly and at high altitudes, I’d need to take safety precautions. That meant installing a system of straps on the jabber – in miniature, of course – that I could use to secure myself for high-speed flight.

Gojo, of course, thought it was hilarious the steps I had to take just to get a much less convenient version of flight than his own. Fushiguro, at least, seemed impressed; Nue could fly him around, but not very well, and it was better used as a kind of glider. Flying was awesome, once I managed to secure a pair of goggles to protect my eyes from the wind. I couldn’t take this thing out beyond the boundaries of the school, for secrecy reasons, but just getting to jet around the mountain was well worth the effort.

My second idea wasn’t such a grand success. I attempted to use Ishiyama Hongan-ji while riding on my base jabber, hoping that it would make me into a mobile commander, untouchable in the skies while wielding hundreds of models at once. Unfortunately, while I could activate the technique while sitting on the base jabber on the ground, the second any motion became involved it slipped away. It seems that the technique requirement wasn’t just that I remain sitting, but that I remain entirely motionless My dreams of using Ishiyama Hongan-ji from inside an actual mech cockpit died a sad, lonely death.

I had a few more ideas for new uses of my technique, but they were still under development. The amount that Gojo had laughed at me while I was figuring out my flight made me want to wait until I had fully figured things out before showing them off. I had other things to fill my time during practice. Fushiguro and I’s spars took on a new level of intensity. Clearing my anxieties about my technique made it easier for me to spend more time improving my martial arts, until I reached the level where I no longer got immediately dumpstered if he got into close range.

I was putting Fushiguro through his paces now, at least. I’d developed a new kind of volleying technique where I alternated control over my models rapidly in order to keep up a constant stream of projectiles and beam shots. Even if I could only control five models at once, I could cycle between them as soon as they fired in order to give the appearance of having more.

It was in one of these spars that I got an unwelcome call. Fushiguro and I had established a kind of equilibrium, where I would push him back with my volley strategy, and he would summon the Great Serpent to act as a giant shield to help him get back in close range, then I would push him back again. This was generally speaking a losing proposition for me, because I had to essentially keep up a perfect pace of ranged attacks while watching out for ambushes from his other shikigami. So, when my cell phone started ringing in my pocket, I let up my assault in surprise for just a single second, which proved to be enough time for one of the Divine Dogs to get in close enough to attack.

“Hold on! Hold on!” I yelled, fumbling with my jacket pocket to pull out my phone. To his credit, Fushiguro dissolved his summons immediately, then jogged over in confusion.

I checked the caller id: it was Nobumasa. I groaned and rubbed my eyes in frustration. I probably shouldn’t put this off, but I didn’t have to give him exactly what he wanted. I hit the accept button.

“Mom!” I said. “I haven’t heard from you in so long!”

Fushiguro looked extremely disturbed. Gojo floated between us, reclining on his side.

“What are you -” Nobumasa started. “No, I see. I apologize Matsuno-sama. Please return my call when you are able to speak freely.”

“Sorry, I’m in the middle of practice,” I said. “I’ll ring you back!”

“I will await word from you,” Nobumasa said. He hung up, and I pocketed my phone.

“Your mother has a pretty deep voice,” Gojo said, a smile on his face.

“Wow, Gojo-sama, I didn’t know you had the Six Ears too!” I said. “That was Nobumasa. He probably wants my first spying report.”

“Nobumasa Kamo?” Gojo asked, humming to himself. “I think we may have met before.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Fushiguro asked.

“I honestly have no idea,” I said. “Help me figure it out. Am I allowed to mention that you have the Great Serpent? That’s really the only thing worth bringing up that’s happened around here.”

“Besides what you’ve done,” Fushiguro muttered.

“Very true,” I said. “But right now I want to give him just enough to leave me alone for a few more months.”

“You can tell him about the serpent,” Fushiguro said. “I’ll probably use it on missions in the next few weeks, so it won’t stay a secret for long anyway.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “They’ll feel really smug about how they knew in advance, even if it doesn’t actually matter.”

“Might as well break for today,” Gojo said. “Matsuno, I’ve picked up on a Grade 2 cursed spirit for you out in the countryside. I’ll be supervising, and it will be your promotion test for Grade 2.”

“Nice!” I said. “Fushiguro, want to get dinner?”

“I’ll pass,” he said. Still, he walked with me out of the training field, which was progress. “I have a question about your technique.”

“Shoot.”

“You can only use mechanical objects, right? Or is it just objects that seem mechanical?”

I retrieved my club from where I’d left it on the edge of the field and began the somewhat slow process of recalling all the models I’d scattered around. It would have been easier to use Ishiyama Hongan-ji to recall them all at once, but speaking while maintaining the technique was tricky because of how it risked breaking me away from the right state of mind.

“Sort of,” I said. “Basically, the object has to be a miniature or model of something that is mechanical. So a metal tiger doesn’t work, but even a wooden carving of a tank would work.”

“Hmm,” Fushiguro said. “Does that mean you can’t use your centaur-gator thing anymore?”

I froze. “Lord Gimsever of the Eternal Darkness…”

Fushiguro stood awkwardly next to me while I processed this news, his hands stuffed in his pockets. When I remained silent for a full minute, he shook me gently.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” I said, tears in my eyes. “No, I’m not.”

#

For some reason, Gojo chose to ride the train with me to our destination. He – or the school – did spring for the nice seats on the bullet train, so it wasn’t like we were cramped, but I was confused why he was bothering to ride when he could just teleport everywhere. Maybe he could only go places he’d already been?

We were headed to Hirosaki, all the way up north, which meant we had to take a bullet train first to Morioka. It was a beautiful summer day, and I spent half the ride just watching the scenery fly by. Not that Gojo was taking it in; from the moment we’d gotten on the train, he’d slumped across two seats and fallen asleep. I contented myself with reading, when I wasn’t watching the view; there was no sense in trying to build a model on a moving train, even one this smooth.

Now that I was fluent in Japanese, I could catch up on all the Gundam novels I hadn’t had access to in my past life – stuff like Beltorchika’s Children and High Streamer. It was nice to have what felt like brand new Gundam stuff to consume, even though I was living through the same time period for the second time. After only about two hours of high speed travel, we got off at Morioka and transferred to a much slower local train, which would take about two and a half hours to reach our destination.

I decided to sleep on this one. I was vulnerable to motion sickness, and trying to ride while the train rocked me around was a recipe for disaster. Fortunately, the sun was high in the sky and potent enough to lull me to sleep, despite the shifting of the train.

I had a rude awakening when we got to Hirosaki. Gojo shook me awake and bustled me off the train, carrying both of our luggage, drawing stares. There was no sense in scolding him, so I didn’t even try. He led me straight out of the train station, where a familiar black car was waiting. A nondescript woman in a black suit popped out, loaded our luggage, situated us in the back seat, and drove us away. In total, we’d spent something like five minutes in the Hirosaki train station.

“Okay, now will you tell me where we’re going?” I asked.

Gojo had been very tight-lipped on details, which I assumed was him just finding another way to amuse himself.

“We’re just headed across town to the hospital,” Gojo said. “Normally, these small-time country curses aren’t worth our time. They’re handled by sorcerers who are either retired or not associated directly with the main administrative system. The sorcerer who handled this region was an old lady, and she died of a heart attack a few months ago.”

“Aha,” I said. Sorcerers who died by means other than cursed energy risked reincarnating as cursed spirits. In theory, dying of natural causes and without regrets was fine, but few people had such a perfect end.

“Exactly. Standard procedure is to send a Windows out there to double-check after a death like that, and they confirmed a cursed spirit had formed in the area. Cursed spirits that come from energy of dead sorcerers are typically pretty strong, so I thought it would be a good learning opportunity for you.”

“Got it,” I said. “Do we know anything else?”

“A little, but I’m not telling you,” Gojo said. “Part of the test is seeing how you respond to an unknown situation.”

“And we’re doing this in the middle of the day?” I asked. “This is like, a working hospital, right?”

“We’re just scoping it out. Curses tend to come out at night anyway, so we’ll probably return after a day of sight-seeing.”

There wasn’t exactly a lot to see in Hirosaki from the van, though Gojo told me it was known for its cherry blossoms, which we were of course out of season for. It wasn’t a village, but it also wasn’t really a full-sized city. Most of what I saw of Hirosaki was characterized by wide streets and short little buildings – but not the charming, classical style. Supposedly, there was a historic castle somewhere in the city, but it didn’t come into view during the drive. A quick search on my phone confirmed we were heading in the exact wrong direction to get a look at it.

 The hospital was only two stories tall, and looked, if not run down, then not exactly state of the art. When I got out of the van, I was surprised by how cool it was. Gojo watched me, a small smile on his face, while I retrieved my club and bag from the trunk. There was no one else in front of the hospital, and when we went through the front door the lobby was empty too. That in and of itself was eerie, no cursed spirit needed.

“Is the hospital shut down?” I asked.

“As of a few days ago,” Gojo said. “There’s a few others in town, so it wasn’t a big deal.”

I suppose it was good that I wasn’t accidentally menacing any patients with my giant club. It was impressive that Jujutsu HQ could completely shut down a hospital on a whim. They must have a hell of a hold on the Japanese government.

I looked around the hospital. The lights were still on, so it wasn’t precisely creepy, but being anywhere empty that is usually filled with people is an unsettling experience. I led Gojo on a circuit through the small waiting room, then through one of the doors behind reception.

“No curtain?” I asked.

“I’ll signal the manager if it becomes necessary,” Gojo said. 

We walked through the back halls, poking our heads into various small offices. This was clearly a hospital meant for families, not regular patients; the rooms were staffed with all the usual family practice stuff, but no specialized or fancy equipment. I tried to pick up anything with my senses, but I wasn’t getting any cursed energy other than the distracting beacon that was Gojo Satoru.

“Was our dead sorcerer from Hirosaki?” I asked.

“She was from a small village a couple hours away,” he said. “She came here to visit the hospital, and died of a heart attack in the middle of her visit.”

“Kind of ironic,” I said. “Was that at night?”

“Nine at night or so,” Gojo said. “The doctor came back to his office and found her dead in the hall.”

I looked around in frustration but couldn’t find any sign of a cursed spirit. I looked back at Gojo and shrugged.

“I’m not getting anything,” I said. “Probably we’ll have better luck at night.”

“Alright!” Gojo said. “Me neither. What do you want to eat?”

Gojo dragged me around the city for the next couple hours. We checked into our hotel, got lunch, walked around Hirosaki, saw the castle, then got dinner. The city was prettier than I had first given it credit for, but I was a little too nervous about my impending exorcism test to appreciate it. Gojo tried to distract me – either to make me feel better, or because he was just a natural yapper – and I did my best to play along, lest he pout.

This probably wasn’t much more than a Grade 2 curse – or a Semi-Grade 1- and I knew I could handle those. Being observed by Gojo, though, added a whole new level of stress. If he thought I did a good enough job, he could recommend me from Grade 2, and I’d be authorized to take on more solo missions on tougher curses. I didn’t really care about the prestige or higher pay, but more opportunities to practice against more dangerous curses was welcome.

We returned to the hospital around ten at night, when the sun was well down. Even from the outside, I could pick up on the influx of cursed energy. I was armed with my club and bag of models; Gojo simply kept his hands stuck in his pockets as he sauntered into the hospital behind me. The manager, without needing to be told, cast the curtain behind us, sealing off the hospital from the rest of Hirosaki.

“This is your show,” Gojo said. “Try to look cool, Matsuno-chan.”

The amount of cursed energy saturating the hospital was unsettling. It was entirely possible that this curse had graduated into being Grade 1, based just on the volume. There was no way to detect exactly where the spirit was hiding, but if it was this strong it likely would come challenge me directly. I animated five of my cheapest gunplay to hover about me in a defensive position. These were the cheap Build Fighters guys who could fire off a few beam rifle shots, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over if they were destroyed.

I retraced my steps from earlier in the day. I tried to recall Ino’s lesson about looking for gaps in cursed energy, but the entire hospital was blanketed in an even weight of energy. I kept my club on my shoulder as I peeked into each office, but I didn’t see any sign of the cursed spirit. I sent two of my models ahead, flying around corners and through the hospital to see if they would draw out an attack, but I had no luck.

I felt the back of my neck tingle, and I ducked low out of instinct. The claws of a cursed spirit passed overhead, harmlessly chopping off a few strands of hair. I spun about as my models opened fire but was only able to catch a brief glimpse of the cursed spirit as it jumped up to the ceiling and scuttled away. It was humanoid, which was unsettling – one arm was long and slender, and terminated in thin claws. The other arm was like a massive cludge, with a metal-tipped end. The ceiling bore indents where it had used the club to cling upside-down.

I dropped the two scouting models and drew out two nicer ones from my bag. If possible, I wanted to exorcise this spirit without demolishing an entire hospital, so my selections were more refined: a Gundam Barbatos, for close-quarters combat, and G-Self for ranged attacks and force fields. The other three models I kept up as chaff; a cursed spirit wouldn’t have the knowledge to know which of my five models it should actually worry about, and which were just there as a distraction.

I sprinted down the hall after the cursed spirit, my club trailing behind me. I couldn’t afford to let it get too far away and give it another chance to get off a sneak attack, so I would have to accept the risk of running into a trap.

When I turned the corner, the spirit had already dropped to the floor in a crouch. Its hammer-hand was raised, high in the air, over the ground as if about to strike. I was struck by a moment of extreme déjà vu. I had my models open fire while I tried to close the distance; two beam rifle shots lanced through the curse’s arm, causing it to wail in pain but failing to stop it from bringing the hammer down on the ground.

Pain unlike anything I’d ever experienced wracked my body. It wasn’t a physical pain, like a pulled muscle or a cut or a bruise. Instead, I felt it beneath my skin, boiling in my blood, and setting my nerves on fire. For a moment, I even lost control over my models, though I re-established the connection with some difficulty only a second later. That almost shook me more than the pain: I’d never had any attack stop my ability from reaching my models.

The connection between my self and my models was suffused with static, but I retained enough control for a simple command. I flooded my cursed energy into the G-Self. It bent forward so its back was facing towards the curse and released a flood of blue and purple blinking lights – the photon torpedoes, micro-explosives that dissolved everything they touched.

I hadn’t wanted to use an attack this destructive and indiscriminate inside the hospital, but I couldn’t risk the chance that the curse’s technique would grow stronger as it continued. The torpedoes disintegrated parts of the floor and hall, but also vanished a huge chunk of the cursed spirit’s hammer-arm. A moment later, the technique came to an end, and I brought my counterattack to a halt as well. The photon torpedoes were insanely costly, in terms of cursed energy; I typically thought of them as a weapon of last resort. Still, even after a full six seconds of firing them, I had plenty of energy to fight with.

I had Barbatos rocket forward, katana drawn. Using shitetsure I grew it to be just over four feet tall, hoping it would distract the curse while I caught my breath. Beam rifle fire from my other suits tried to cut off the spirit’s retreat, forcing it into direct combat with the Barbatos. 

I was almost certain that technique had been Resonance, which raised a lot of questions about exactly who the sorcerer that had died here was. Gojo had said she was an old lady; had it been Nobara’s grandmother? I simply didn’t know enough about Nobara’s family to remember if she was related to any sorcerers. It did raise another question, though: wouldn’t Nobara have taken care of this spirit before it grew this strong? I was pretty sure she’d done some exorcisms before going to Tokyo. I was missing an important piece of the puzzle, I was certain.

Now that I’d caught my breath, I joined the Barbatos in the fight. The photon torpedoes had mostly taken off the hammer arm, but the curse was surprisingly quick and flexible. Even as I had the Barbatos shrink and flank the curse from behind so that it was forced to contend with both of us, we struggled to land a clean hit. 

I felt the two models I’d sent ahead to scout disappear from my connection; as far as I knew, that meant they’d been destroyed with cursed energy. There was no way that it had been Gojo, so who was it? The distraction was enough that the cursed spirit I was fighting managed to score a deep line across Barbatos’ chest and duck under my club swing and begin to run back towards my firing line of other suits. 

I had the G-Self assume the position for the photon torpedoes, but didn’t fire. As I’d hoped, just the idea of the technique was enough to scare the cursed spirit back onto the ceiling, where I had already aimed my other three models. My moment of triumph was cut short by the appearance of a second cursed spirit.

It was tall and feminine, dressed in a hospital gown and holding a lone piece of rope in its hands. Long hair hung down, obscuring her face. The lights in the hallway flickered, and for a brief moment the curse’s shadow seemed to grow across the floor. Just the sight of it set me on edge; this was undoubtedly a Grade 1 spirit. To my horror, it opened its mouth and began to speak.

“Nobara…” it said. “Nobara, is that you?”

I knew better than to answer; lots of curses had voice-activated techniques. Also, I was mostly scared into silence: curses that looked like monsters had stopped bothering me, but seeing a human-like curse was really throwing me off my game. My silence enraged the curse, and it began to run down the hall towards me. It whipped the rope out, smashing the models I sent to intercept it out of the way, breaking them. Down to just the G-Self and Barbatos, I was forced to guard its strike with my club.

“You’ve grown up, Nobara,” it said. “You’re so pretty.”

The thought that this curse knew Nobara somehow unsettled me, but I had to put it out of my mind. I couldn’t afford to be distracted, or I’d get myself killed. This was a bad position; the G-Self was busy just trying to keep the claw-handed spirit from making a break down the hallway to escape. The curses weren’t cooperating, exactly, but they also weren’t interested in fighting each other. It would take time to get more models into position to handle the new spirit.

I let the Barbatos fall inert and animated four of the Nu Gundam funnels I’d been keeping attached to my hair tie. They floated over my head like a crown of Minovsky Particles, and opened fire on the new spirit, which I was starting to think was Nobara’s mom. The beams lanced through its head, which bubbled and reformed around the plasma holes. Definitely a higher-Grade curse. Speaking, likely some kind of technique, a humanoid form – this was a pickle. I was tempted to think of it as a person, and tempted to hold my attacks back like I did when I was fighting Megumi, but the curse’s creepiness worked against it, fear driving my strikes.

I kicked it in the gut, forcing the curse to stumble back. I swung my club around in a wide arc and smashed it into the hallway wall. Not willing to risk her bouncing right back up, I had my funnels keep up their fire. The G-Self, which was the only model left standing on the other end of the hall, was preoccupied trying to pin down the grandmother spirit with its beam rifle. I left the mother and ran to assist, managing to catch the grandmother spirit by surprise with my club, pasting it against the floor. A mess of ichor and ectoplasm splattered against my uniform.

With one spirit exorcised, I turned my attention back to the mother spirit. Despite using the photon torpedoes and a flood of beam rifle shots, I still felt flush with cursed energy; maybe this was the combat high that Gojo mentioned many sorcerers find. I couldn’t help but smile, ignoring how fucked this situation was in favor of how good it felt to be fighting so evenly with two strong cursed spirits.

The mother screamed at me, a high and unearthly sound that sent me stumbling back several steps. The G-Self wasn’t so lucky and got blown down the hallway. The curse slung its rope around its own neck, then began to cinch it tight. Just before it finished fully tying the noose, a four-foot katana ran her through. In its haste to get me in its technique, it had forgotten the inactive Barbatos model I’d left on the other end of the hall.

Shitetsure had made it seven feet tall. Its red eyes glowed over the spirits shoulder, and it wrenched the katana up through the curse’s body and bisected its head. In a last, futile gesture, the spirit reached out its hand to me. I only let myself breathe a sigh of relief when I saw the spirit completely dissolve.

I took a moment to pant in exhaustion. It wasn’t that I was totally spent on cursed energy, but rather that I’d felt like that fight had been on the verge of turning at any moment. If the grandmother spirit had been able to use Resonance again, or if the mother spirit had activated its technique at all, I could very well have been in trouble.

Someone started clapping, and I tiredly turned around to face Gojo. I gave him a weary thumbs up.

“Nice work,” Gojo said. “I didn’t think there would be two cursed spirits.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me neither. That really scared the shit out of me.”

“We can head back to the hotel,” Gojo said. “You took a few hits, didn’t you?”

“Nothing that will last,” I said. “But I have a weird request.”

I gathered up my models – including the ones that the curses had managed to slag – and followed Gojo out of the hospital. 

“Shoot,” Gojo said.

“Can you get me the records of the sorcerer who died? And if she had any relatives who also died in this hospital?”

“You know that won’t help anything,” Gojo said. “You’ll just depress yourself for no reason.”

“Humor me,” I said. “Call it morbid curiosity, but I can’t leave this alone.”

Gojo shrugged. “I’ll get Manager-san to do it, then. Consider it your Semi-Grade 2 promotional present.”

I gave him a weary smile and let him carry my club back to the van.

#

The next morning, I woke to find a stack of hospital records in my hotel room. That meant that either Gojo or the manager had come in to drop them off while I slept; I knew which was more likely. I paged through them while I got ready. Our return train didn’t leave until 11, so I didn’t need to rush. What I saw, just at a glance, confirmed my worst suspicions.

Junko Kugisaki had visited that hospital on August 8th, 2003 – the day I had been born – and given birth to a baby girl. To the befuddlement of her doctors, Junko’s baby had almost immediately begun wasting away for no clear reason. Within a few hours, she had died, still unnamed. A week later, Junko hung herself.

August 8th, 2003. That was the day I had been born. Had my life somehow been traded for Nobara’s? I didn’t like the thought, and I didn’t like that Nobara’s absence had driven her own mother to suicide, and I wondered what other things had gone wrong as a result of her absence. I’d been counting on her showing up later this month, alongside Itadori. All four of us, I hoped, would be enough to overcome the detention center curse. I had been comforted by the idea that the odds would be stacked in our favor, at least numerically, compared to how things had gone originally.

Now, I knew that Kugisaki Nobara had died before she’d ever been given a name. I made myself flip through her grandmother’s files. She’d been a regular visitor to the hospital for decades, though her visits increased after her daughter’s suicide. Had she been regularly visiting the hospital to ensure that no cursed spirit appeared? Even if her daughter hadn’t been a sorcerer, she likely possessed enough latent cursed energy that it was a real risk.

Had she died of a heart attack naturally, or from being startled by the sudden appearance of her daughter in cursed form? Maybe the grandmother’s death had provided the cursed energy required for her daughter’s curse to awaken, fifteen years later. Maybe it had been the other way around. Like Gojo said, it made no real difference in any case.

I was going to have to carry this burden for the rest of my life. I lived, without a doubt, at the expense of Kugisaki Nobara. For her sake, I would have to protect Itadori and Fushiguro. I refused to let her death mean nothing.

I packed everything into my luggage and went to the lobby of the hotel. The manager was there, but Gojo was nowhere to be seen.

“Gojo-sensei had to run ahead,” the manager told me.

“Where to?” I asked.

“He received word that Fushiguro-san was sent on a mission to Sendai, so he left early to go supervise.”

“S-Sendai?” I asked. “What for?”

“Cursed object retrieval,” the manager said. “Nothing to worry about. Shall I help you with your bags?”

Fuck. Fuck! Fushiguro was off to find Sukuna’s finger, and I was stuck in Hirosaki of all places. It was entirely possible that, with good train luck, I made it to Sendai, but it would take a solid 8 hours of travel, assuming no interruptions. I was almost relieved that I wouldn’t have a chance to interfere with Itadori’s awakening; the choice had been taken out of my hands. 

“I’ve got my own bags,” I said. “Let’s go back to Tokyo.”

Nothing to do now but wait.

#

Notes:

As a reminder, this fic was originally posted on Spacebattles. This ends Arc 2, which is the pre-canon school arc. We’re headed into canon next chapter; just so you know, the first chapter of JJK plays out just as in the manga, except that Gojo gets to Sendai a little late and doesn’t buy the kikufuku mochi.

The stuff with Nobara will certainly be controversial; it has always been the part of this fic that most annoys people. I ask that Nobara fans hold on, and rest assured that I love her lots (she's actually my favorite JJK character, I swear). Additionally, this was written before the JJK epilogue was published, so anything related to her family here is not based on that material.

Chapter 12: 3.1 - Trinity

The trip back to Tokyo had me on tenterhooks. I texted Fushiguro early in the day: What’s up in Sendai? Everything okay? Two hours later, he finally replied: yeah. Jesus Christ, this kid. I found it hard to even work on my models, I was so distracted with the thought of Fushiguro’s meeting with Itadori, the finger, and so on.

I tried to rationalize it as a good thing: this way, despite my presence, Kenjaku’s plan would proceed as it had in the manga. If Sukuna never appeared, I had absolutely no clue what Kenjaku would do. There was no doubt he was significantly more devious than me; my only advantage was knowing what he might do in advance. Besides, all I had to do was ensure that Sukuna never permanently possessed either Itadori or Fushiguro, and everything would work out fine. Probably.

When we got back to the school it was already starting to get late. I dropped off my gear back in my room and took stock of the damage: I’d retained both the Barbatos and G-Self, which were models I’d put actual time into, and lost only three chaff models. Definitely better than when I’d gone with Ino and wasted almost everything I’d brought.

I looked at my half-finished Master Grade model. I’d been slowly picking away at it, and it was only taking longer because I’d decided to start doing panel scribing to add extra details. When it was done, it would be the best model I’d ever built, in any life; the problem was that hunching over it all day hurt my back. I was too worried about Fushiguro to get to work.

I ate dinner alone and resisted the urge to keep texting Fushiguro. I didn’t want to send him a text and get him distracted at a crucial moment. I’d have to wait until he turned back up, even if the anticipation was killing me. I distracted myself with sketching out ideas for new ways to use my technique, beyond models.

Even limited to mechanical objects, I had a lot of options. My hair-tie funnels had worked out great as a surprise, lightweight weapon. Could I take that idea further, and make myself an Iron Man suit? Marvel movies were decently popular here, actually, and I was sure they passed the benchmark for my technique. The fear I had, and one that put me off the idea entirely, was that if I ever ran out of cursed energy I’d be trapped inside a giant hunk of metal.

Still, I could size it down and make something like a repulsor gauntlet. It would have to be full-sized, though, which would mean I’d need access to a metal shop. Even for a sorcerer, that kind of equipment didn’t run cheap. I could maybe request it from the clan, but I really didn’t want to rely on them for help and open up the chance for them to show up at Tokyo to “take a look around,” especially now that Itadori would be here soon.

I had a restless sleep that night. I had a dream that I’d been told I had to re-do high school math, but when I showed up it was the last day and I hadn’t done any of the homework and I had to pass a test. When I woke up, I realized that, in a way, I actually was living that dream. In a miserable mood, I went to get breakfast.

I ended up wasting away the day with long walks around campus and occasional spurts of productivity on some models. I’d shown up to the classroom, hoping to see if Gojo was around, but neither he nor Fushiguro had been present.

I finally saw Fushiguro at dinner that night, over twenty-four hours since I’d sent him my text. It was unusual for us to run into each other at the cafeteria, and I didn’t let the opportunity pass. I plunked my tray down across from him.

“Yo,” I said. “Guess who’s Semi-Grade 2?”

“Congrats,” Fushiguro said. “About time.”

He resumed eating. I waited for him to volunteer any information about Sendai. When it became clear he was just going to keep eating, I sighed.

“Matsuno,” I said, affecting a deep voice. “It’s good to see you. Let me tell you about all the crazy things that happened to me in Sendai.”

Fushiguro snorted. “How do you know about it already?”

“What, something actually happened?” I said. “Please, my good friend Fushiguro, tell me more.”

“Fine,” he said. “I was up there to retrieve a cursed object, but it turned out to be one of Sukuna’s fingers.”

I didn’t have to feign the shiver that went down my spine. It was one thing to know that this was coming, and it was another to receive direct confirmation.

“Cool,” I said. “You know, I was actually kind of a Sukuna fangirl growing up. I tried to read everything I could find about him. Did you get the finger?”

Fushiguro gave me a confused look, as if trying to reconcile my early childhood Sukuna obsession with who I was now. It wasn’t that I was actually a fan of Sukuna, of course, but rather that I had done a bunch of research in an attempt to prepare for maybe fighting him. It was just funnier to make him think I’d thought he was cool.

“Actually, someone ate the finger,” Fushiguro said. “He lived. Gojo brought him back here.”

“That’s literally insane,” I said. “He’s not, like, possessed?”

“Selectively possessed,” Fushiguro said. “He seemed like he could control it.”

“Sick,” I said. “Can I meet him?”

Fushiguro shrugged. “I don’t know what the plan is.”

He was leaving out, of course, that he had asked Gojo to save Itadori’s life. Poor Fushiguro was still a little repressed; I hoped having another guy friend around might help break him out of his shell. We ate together in friendly silence, and I was finally able to relax, now that I’d been assured that everything was proceeding as it had in canon.

The next morning, I finally got to lay eyes on Yuji Itadori in person. I reported to the classroom at the usual time, and found Gojo and Itadori waiting for me. Itadori was seated at a desk, hands folded in front of him, looking both excited and nervous. His uniform was a little baggy, but it was immediately evident that he was seriously built. What distracted me most was his actual pink hair. I knew that other colors of hair existed here – Miwa had blue hair – but I’d assumed that it was a dye job, since I’d never seen anyone with irregular hair color.

“Yo! This is your other classmate, Matsuno Kamo,” Gojo said.

Itadori sprung to his feet and gave me a quick little greeting bow.

“Nice to meet you!” he half-yelled. “My name is Yuji Itadori, and I’m from Sendai!”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “What did it taste like?”

Itadori gave me a confused look, then looked over to Gojo, who gave him no clarification.

“The finger,” I said. “What did Sukuna’s finger taste like?”

“I just swallowed it,” he said. “I didn’t really taste it…”

I clicked my tongue at him. “Next time, give it a good chewing for me, will you? I’m curious.”

Itadori looked a little green, and I took my seat at the front of the room.

“Did Fushiguro catch you up to speed?” Gojo asked.

“A little,” I said. “I’m guessing you’re keeping him around to see if he can permanently seal and kill Sukuna?”

“Spot on,” Gojo said. “Itadori’s order of execution is temporarily suspended, until he can swallow all 20 of Sukuna’s fingers. As such, he’ll be joining the class to become a sorcerer.”

“Cool,” I said. 

Fushiguro entered the classroom and mumbled a greeting at Itadori. Gojo straightened up at the front of the room.

“Now that Itadori’s joined us, it’s our job to catch him up to speed since he doesn’t know anything,” Gojo said. “A few spars this week, then Matsuno you’re taking him on a few easy exorcisms to show him the ropes next week.”
I gave Gojo a thumbs up. In the manga, they’d gone straight from meeting Nobara and doing that little test exorcism in Roppongi straight to the detention center, but that made no sense in terms of timing. This must have been a period where the three of them all attended class together, though we didn’t see it. Still, since Itadori didn’t learn how to feel or use cursed energy until after the detention center, what the hell had they been doing the first time around?

We went out to the practice field, where Gojo left me to my own devices with Itadori. It was a wonderful, beautiful summer day, with a light breeze and low humidity. The field itself had been recently restored, so it was no longer pockmarked with craters from our regular spars. I wondered if Gojo had wanted to make a good impression on Itadori, but then I figured he didn’t really care enough about looks to bother.

As for Itadori himself… I wasn’t really sure what approach I should take. Itadori was supposedly a natural at normal combat, so there wasn’t much to show him there. Maybe this time would be best spent getting him used to fighting against someone with a cursed technique?

“Itadori,” I said. “What do you know about cursed spirits?”

“Nothing,” he said, very quickly.

I sighed. “Figures. Hopefully, Gojo will go over this with you, but in general, cursed spirits are kind of like monsters born of negative emotions. The most advanced cursed spirits, from Semi-Grade 1 and up, have their own cursed techniques. Do you know what that is?”

“No,” he said, just as quickly.

“Great,” I said. “Did you see Fushiguro summon his shikigami in Sendai?”

Itadori snapped his fingers. “Ah! Yeah, the dogs!”

“Right,” I said. “That’s his technique, the Ten Shadows. He can summon critters to fight for him, Pokemon-style. Most people, and curses, have different techniques, and they’re typically born with them.”

“Got it,” Itadori said. “So it’s like nen?”

“You and I are gonna get along great,” I said. “How about this: you come at me, and try to figure out what my cursed technique is?”

Itadori, to my surprise, didn’t seem worried about the prospect of getting into a fight. Instead, he just rolled out his shoulders then adopted a boxing stance. We were separated by about twenty feet. I dropped my bag and club on the ground. My goal here was to mislead Itadori into thinking my technique was one thing, but then later reveal that it was another. I reached up to adjust my hair, in reality palming my Nu Gundam funnels. Time to revive an old trick I’d used on Noritoshi.

Itadori patiently waited for me to get ready. I adopted a simple stance, and made eye contact with him. I animated my funnels, having them wait inside my sleeves. I readied my fists, so that the funnels could fire at him unobstructed from under my arms.

“Three… two…,” I started counting. Just before I said “one,” I fired, a purple beam of energy lancing out from my sleeve and towards Itadori’s head.

To my surprise, he swiveled his head out of the way, dodging the shot entirely. Had he seen it coming and reacted visually, or somehow detected the buildup of cursed energy? Either one was impressive.

“Hey!” he yelled, though he was already sprinting towards me to close the distance.

I backpedaled, firing little beam rifle shots at him all the while. Itadori was faster, way faster than I’d given him credit for, and I had to focus a lot of my attention on staying mobile enough to avoid his grasp. I’d known he was naturally strong and quick, but this was just absurd, especially since he wasn’t putting out any cursed energy.

When things got a little too close, I had another one of my funnels fire at Itadori from behind him. This one managed to hit him in the back, though I’d kept the power so low it barely even singed his uniform. He spun around in confusion, looking for the source of the attack.

“You assumed my attacks always originated with me, right?” I asked. “Be careful about making assumptions like that. Cursed techniques are rarely so obvious.”

Itadori nodded, then resumed his attack. This time, I prepared another trick: I had my funnels circle around, then right as Itadori thought he’d found a gap to attack, they formed a particle shield. This was something that the Nu Gundam did, like, exactly once in Char’s Counterattack: the funnels channeled energy between each other into a net-like shield. It succeeded in catching Itadori’s fist, though I had to put some serious oomph into them to make sure he didn’t just punch clean through.

“Another assumption,” I said. “You thought I could only shoot energy beams at you.”

I broke off the shield and waited for Itadori to get ready to attack again. Instead of just charging in, he dug his hands into the earth and flung a massive clod of dirt at me, which quickly fell from the air and formed a kind of make-shift smokescreen. I was impressed with how quick he’d adapted, though I could still pick up on his location through cursed energy sensing. Even if he wasn’t actively using it, just eating Sukuna’s finger caused him to give off a low-level constant radiation that I could pick up on.

I spun out of the way of a flying kick. Itadori had clearly decided that, if he couldn’t figure out my technique, he would just rush me down before I could use it. I had to be impressed with his instincts: that was basically the ideal answer to this situation, and he’d stumbled onto it by coincidence. Still, I had much better control over my cursed energy, and I didn’t really want to risk losing our first little spar; this was my chance to finally have a classmate who wasn’t leaps and bounds ahead of me in everything!

I jumped into the air and used one of my funnels as a step stool. Itadori gaped at the move, clearly surprised by what appeared to be an actual double jump. I spun through the air, helped by my cursed energy, and kicked off another funnel I’d placed above me so that I rocketed straight down towards Itadori. Mentally, I referred to this kind of mid-air movement trick as the “AMBAC System,” a joke entirely for myself.

I landed, fist-first in Itadori’s face, though I noted that he had nearly managed to raise his guard in time to block me. I hit him with enough cursed energy that he went sliding back ten feet from the force of the blow, though he still managed to stay on his feet. It took him a moment to recover from my punch, but it looked like I’d hardly hurt him.

“Alright, that’s enough bullying the new kid,” Gojo announced from across the field.

“You alright?” I called out to Itadori, though I knew he was.

“Fine!” he replied. “That was so cool!”

Itadori tried to relate just how nifty he thought my little double-jump-dive-bomb trick was, mostly through hand gestures and sound effects. Gojo and Fushiguro had finished whatever little conversation they’d been having and joined up with us.

“He’s something else,” I said to Gojo, while Itadori described the fight to Fushiguro. “Seriously. But he needs to learn to use cursed energy.”

“I don’t want to rush him,” Gojo said. “Getting involved in the jujutsu world can be intimidating for newcomers.”

“Sure,” I said. “But if you go too slow, he’ll bite off more than he can chew. And it may not even be his fault.”

“So serious!” Gojo said. He ruffled my hair. “Leave it to me, Matsuno-chan!”

#

Itadori and I became de facto training partners, with it mostly falling to me to help educate him in the ways of jujutsu fighting. Fushiguro sometimes helped out, but Gojo mostly had him working to get ready to tame the Max Elephant. An upside of there being three of us now was that Fushiguro no longer avoided getting dinner with me, and if he did try to get out of it then Itadori was perfectly willing to drag him along regardless.

Fushiguro took being socially strong-armed with surprisingly good grace. Perhaps he felt some kinship to Itadori, or responsibility towards him; either way, the school felt much less lonely now that Itadori was here. I got along with him surprisingly well; Fushiguro had clearly been an overly serious kid, and hadn’t watched much anime or read any manga. Itadori and I could riff on movies and culture in a way that Fushiguro simply couldn’t, which also let us jointly make fun of him for being so boring.

Still, I couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something was missing. Had he been like this with Nobara? Was I failing to get him out of his shell? The idea that I’d replaced her haunted my thoughts. I wasn’t just fighting for myself anymore, but for her, so that her death in my place had not been in vain. 

There were times when Itadori went quiet, and I could tell he was deep in thought. Maybe about his grandfather, who died right before he came to Jujutsu High, or about his situation with Sukuna (who made no extra-mouth appearances to talk to me, thankfully). Itadori was a naturally cheerful guy, so it was easy to forget that he’d gone through hell just a few weeks ago. 

I suspected that was why Gojo had Itadori on a pretty relaxed learning plan. He made some attempts to help Itadori with the basics, like detecting cursed energy, but progress was slow. Itadori’s unique circumstances made even the simplest exercises difficult, even the ones I’d been doing within weeks of starting my training as a four-year-old. To be fair to Itadori, it was like asking someone who’d spent their whole life writing with their right hand to start writing essays with their left. Gojo tried, but when it became clear that the usual methods weren’t helping, called off the basic instruction until he could figure out a different way.

Most of our training together was focused on putting Itadori through his paces in combat. There was little point in making him practice conventional fighting, since he was a natural that outstripped both me and Fushiguro. Instead, the idea was to get Itadori used to fighting cursed techniques and help him learn some of the important common sense that sorcerers possessed but he did not; you know, things like “don’t eat cursed objects.”

I was able to frustrate Itadori for only another day before he figured out my technique used objects as its intermediary, at which point I gave up trying to hide it and focused on surprising him with my models’ various innate techniques. Part of this training was just getting Itadori used to our capabilities; Fushiguro and I had a pretty good handle on what we each could do, but Itadori needed to be educated from the top. 

Now that I was Semi-Grade 2, Fushiguro and I were supposed to start going on missions together, but Gojo informed us that Itadori would be tagging along. Until now, we simply hadn’t done any missions as a class. Going forward, we would be doing every mission as a class. I didn’t mind, since I had expected it, but it was definitely a shift in how the school typically organized student missions.

This was why the four of us found ourselves in Tokyo, doing a mini exorcism tour of the city’s Grade 3 curses. Itadori had been equipped with the Slaughter Demon so that he could exorcise curses and basically been set loose. While Itadori could see curses, not being able to sense cursed energy meant that it was a lot harder for him to actually find curses, so today’s practice was meant to help him figure out a usable method for carrying out exorcisms.

Our first try had almost been a bust. I’d accompanied Itadori into an old parking lot, while Gojo and Fushiguro waited outside. While I’d been able to detect the weak cursed spirit pretty quickly, every time we got close enough for Itadori to maybe spot it the curse ran away and hid. I could have run it down myself easily enough, but that would have defeated the point of the exercise. Finally, I gave up.

“Itadori, I’m going to wait on the other side of the parking garage. Don’t get killed,” I said.

Itadori nodded seriously while I made for the far wall. I could still see him, but we were no longer quite so close. My hunch proved correct: once I was far enough away, the curse started edging closer and closer to Itadori. Despite having eaten one of Sukuna’s fingers, Itadori gave off very little cursed energy; to the curse, he must have read as a civilian.

Sure enough, the monkey-like curse dropped from the ceiling, aiming to land on Itadori’s head. Before it had even dropped a few feet, Itadori spun and delivered a vicious kick to the curse, rocketing it up to the roof of the garage. As it fell, Itadori reached out, grabbed it, and slammed in into the ground, cracking the concrete floor. Scary!

Itadori paused for a moment, as if uncertain what to do, then plunged the Slaughter Demon into the spirit, exorcising it. He jogged back over to me with a smile on his face.

“I forgot I had to use the knife!” he said.

“Nice work,” I said. “The curse was avoiding me because it could tell I was too strong, so you didn’t exactly get a chance to look for it yourself. We’ll keep that in mind at the next place.”

“Cursed spirits aren’t afraid of me?” Itadori muttered. “Maybe I can bait them out…”

“For now,” I said. “But that will probably change as you eat more fingers and learn to use cursed energy. You should probably still practice finding them normally, rather than just letting them attack you.”

“Gotcha, gotcha,” Itadori said. “Man, I thought Tokyo would be cooler than this.”

I saw his point. We were in a dilapidated parking garage out in the suburbs, sweating our asses off in the heat. It wasn’t exactly the glamorous image people had of the big city.

“Blame Gojo,” I said. “He loves misleading people for fun. That said, most of Tokyo is like this.”

“Oh, are you from the city?” Itadori asked.

“No, I’m from the countryside… somewhere….” It occurred to me that I had little idea of where the Kamo compound was actually located, relative to the rest of the country. That seemed like a slight oversight in my education.

Itadori gave me a wide-eyed, confused look, so much like a puppy dog that I had to elaborate.

“Something you should know is that jujutsu sorcery is typically genetic,” I said. “There are families of sorcerers with histories all the way back to the ancient clan, and three families in particular that are the most powerful and influential. One is the Gojo Clan. Another is the Zenin Clan, and Fushiguro is related to them through his father. The last is the Kamo Clan.”

“Did you have a big family growing up?” Itadori asked.

I almost face palmed at how bad he’d missed the point; if we weren’t walking down the stairs of the garage back to street level, I really might have.

“It’s more like I grew up in a small village where everyone has the same last name, even if my immediate family was small,” I said. “I was sent here by the clan to spy on everyone, which includes you, by the way.”

I took my time explaining the politics of the Three Great Families and Jujutsu HQ to Itadori. His life was literally hanging in the balance, subject to the whims of the mysterious “higher ups,” so I felt it was only fair that he get a basic rundown of the wider system.

Once I’d explained that I wasn’t really interested in spying for my family, and that I didn’t want to ship Itadori off to the executioner’s block, he clapped his hands and nodded.

“Alright! I think I get it,” he said. “Sounds heavy, but it’s whatever. I’m going to die eventually, so what does it matter who wants me dead?”

“This stuff just bounces right off of you, huh?” I said.

Itadori’s optimism made me smile. I’d been consumed with fear for years about Kenjaku, Mahito, and Sukuna, and I’d spent the last week wondering how we’d get out of the detention center alive. It was nice to have someone who wasn’t completely out of control like Gojo, or gloomy like Fushiguro, to hang out with.

When we stepped out into the sun, Gojo was clapping.

“My adorable students, bonding! How lovely!” he yelled, causing some bystanders to turn in our direction.

I made a really good attempt to kick him in the shin, but I wasn’t actually mad. It felt nice to have friends.

#

Chapter 13: 3.2 - Dawn of Determination

“No, Sukuna’s Vessel has not demonstrated any particular abilities,” I said. “He is remarkably strong, and skilled at fighting, but has absolutely no aptitude for cursed energy manipulation.”

“I see,” Nobumasa said. “That is reassuring. Do you think it’s likely he will develop these abilities in the future?”

“All of Gojo’s attempts to educate him have fallen short,” I said. “It is possible, of course, that the situation will change, but I do not expect it to do so rapidly.”

“Thank you, Matsuno-sama,” Nobumasa said. “One last note. The clan elders have grown concerned about the risk to your safety, being in close contact with the Vessel.”

It was worth noting what Nobumasa hadn’t said: that the clan head was worried. I took it as a coded message that Matsuo was no longer in good enough shape to make decisions for the clan. That was expected; if things went according to Matsuo’s plan, he would be taking himself out of the picture at the end of the year to allow Noritoshi to ascend to leadership of the clan.

“The Vessel himself is an excitable, naïve boy,” I said. “He has shown no signs of using Sukuna’s power or releasing him either intentionally or unintentionally. I understand the elders’ concerns, however. I would prefer to remain at the Tokyo School at least until the goodwill event.”

“Very well,” Nobumasa said. “But the clan is prepared to extract you in the event that the situation takes a turn to the worse. Remember that you simply need to call on us, and we will answer.”

How I wished that wasn’t the case, Nobumasa. Oh well, at least they weren’t trying to force me out of school now, just when things were about to get serious.

“I understand, Nobumasa-san,” I said. “I will be sure to do so. Please pass my greetings on to Isamu-sensei and Shimizu-san.”

I hung up. After my conversation with Itadori about the political situation, I’d gotten his approval to provide a report back to the Kamo Clan. It wasn’t like I’d told them anything they wouldn’t have known from the official report Gojo had made when he’d first brought Itadori in, so we’d decided there was no harm to me staying in their good graces for a little while longer. The fact that I’d called them to provide info would do a lot to hide that I’d broken away from the clan.

I left for class – though we’d really had next to no normal classroom education. That suited me just fine, since I’d already done high school once, but it seemed a little irresponsible to leave people like Itadori with a middle-school education at best. Then again, perhaps the assumption was that sorcerers were never going to live normal lives anyway; how Nanami had managed to get a regular office job was beyond me. I rubbed my eyes as I walked – they were a little dried out.

I tried to think of a gag while I walked to class. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I’d replaced Nobara, and I needed to live up to her memory. She’d gotten along well with Itadori and Fushiguro and had played off Itadori in a way I couldn’t quite replicate. What would happen if I didn’t build just as strong bonds of friendship? We were friends, sure, but it didn’t feel like we were best friends.

It was a little psychotic to compare my friendship with Itadori to his friendship with someone who, in this life, had never and will never exist. This was maybe made worse by the fact that I was running on very little sleep. I’d finished my first master grade model, and so I’d moved on to creating a new application for my technique. I’d thought it would be fairly straightforward, since I knew what I wanted, but in fact I’d spent the last week meditating, shaping my cursed energy, and getting absolutely nowhere.

I’d been pushing myself to make sure I was ready for the detention center. It was supposed to come any day now, and not know exactly when was killing me. If I was really lucky, my family would reach out to warn me, but it was entirely possible that we’d be assigned to the mission before they could find out and warn me. I was at least pretty sure that they wouldn’t send me in to face a potential Special Grade willingly. Of course, they might find out just after I’d already entered the detention center, at which point their help would be useless.

When I got to the classroom, Itadori and Fushiguro were already present but Gojo was nowhere to be seen. I slumped into my desk.

“Didn’t get much sleep?” Itadori asked.

“Mn,” I said.

“Gojo’s gone today,” Fushiguro said. “He just texted me.”

This was hardly unusual. Gojo was typically gone at least once or twice a week, but sometimes more. He was the only Special Grade sorcerer who actively took on missions, and his ability to quickly get around the country meant that he was often forced to handle the most dangerous spirits in the most remote locations. Even Grade 1 sorcerers might die when fighting a Grade 1 curse; every time Gojo took on an exorcism, he possibly prevented the death of a top asset.

We trudged out to the training field – or rather, I trudged, as Itadori was particularly animated this morning, and Fushiguro was his usual self. While he and Itadori starting warming up, I settled on the ground to meditate. For the past two weeks, I’d been pushing my cursed energy around while trying to get my new technique to activate.

Technique creation, according to Gojo, didn’t work like that. According to him, it came to you when it came to you, and there was simply no way around it. Still, he told me that no epiphany occurred without prep work. Essentially, he expected my new technique to fail until one day it suddenly started working.

I’d been trying to figure out how to activate an innate technique that belonged to one of my models and extend it to me. That is, I wanted to reduce the potential distance between what my models were capable of, and what I was capable of. It was theoretically sound: my models were part of my body, after all, so in theory their techniques should belong to me. The reality was different.

It was impossible to put into words exactly what the problem was. I spent my days activating my models’ techniques and trying to find a way to re-create the sensations and movements of my cursed energy within my own body. I was focused mainly on techniques that, in theory, didn’t require on me having specialized equipment; I wasn’t trying to launch missiles out of my ass, or anything. Still, every attempt resulted in failure, and occasionally in a kind of cursed energy whiplash that left me with a biting headache.

I was trying to be less forceful and gain a deeper and more subtle understanding of how my cursed energy moved when I used my technique. I’d had my troubles with meditation – as in, I hated doing it – but I wasn’t sure if there was another way forward yet. So, I let my cursed energy move through my naturally, watching its ebbs and flows like the tide. I let it seep into my models, just as easily as it moved through my limbs. The motion was almost hypnotic. I stood up and walked down the forest path. My dad was there, as was my dog.

“Which way were we going?” my dad asked.

I pulled out the map and tried to read it, but the letters and figures swam. Growing frustrated, I passed the map off to him and tried to keep moving, but I kept stumbling, unable to keep my balance.

“Matsuno!” Fushiguro yelled.

I jolted awake, my cursed energy totally motionless.

“You fell asleep,” he said. “Go back to your room.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just drifted off during meditation.”

“Get some real sleep,” Fushiguro said. I could tell he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Fine,” I said.

I’d held that entire conversation with my eyes still closed. I blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the brightness of the sun. I stumbled to my feet, but my foot hadn’t woken up with the rest of me so I was forced to hop around the field for a bit to get my blood pumping. I retrieved my bag and began the long journey back to my dorm.

Fushiguro had been right, even if I hadn’t wanted to miss practice. I felt the kind of burning in my eyes that indicated they’d been open too long. I’d been pushing myself out of a desire to make sure I mastered my new technique, but there was a point where pulling all nighters gave diminishing returns. I knew that in an abstract, intellectual sense, but I still felt like I should have been able to achieve more in the last few weeks. I really, really didn’t want to die.

When I got back to my room I flopped onto the bed, then was forced to immediately get up and draw the blinds on my window. Even fully clothed, dressed in my uniform, I fell asleep almost instantly. 

I woke up to someone shaking me. Fushiguro was standing over my bed, a scowl on his face. It was bright out.

“I never want to wake up to this sight again,” I mumbled.

“Get up,” he said. “We’ve got an assignment. Time sensitive.”

#

I’d only been able to sleep for about seven hours, but it was enough that I no longer felt dead on my feet, though I was crazy hungry. As I hurried to get my stuff together, Fushiguro explained the assignment and I felt my appetite disappear.

“A cursed womb was spotted over a juvenile detention center,” he said. “Our job is to get in and evacuate everyone in the building, ahead of the cursed spirit manifesting.”

“Can’t literally anyone else do this?” I asked. “We’re not qualified to handle anything that comes out of a cursed womb.”

I got my shit together, which included not just my club but also all of my best models. There was no point trying to conserve resources for this fight. On our way out the door, I rubbed Lord Grimsever’s crocodile head for good luck.

“We’re the closest,” Fushiguro said. “We’re not supposed to fight, either. In and out.”

“Get real,” I said. “I’ll do it, but it’s literally insane to put a bunch of first years on this assignment. The higher ups are stupid, but not this stupid.”

Fushiguro didn’t respond, but I could tell he agreed with me. This entire business stank to high hell. I checked my phone, but I hadn’t received any sort of message from the clan. I fired off a text to Nobumasa, in the hopes that he might be able to throw some muscle around and get us pulled off the mission, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

There was a car, and Itadori, already waiting for us. To my surprise, Itadori had brought a lunchbox for me from the cafeteria. I told him I wasn’t hungry, but he fixed me with the most sad, pleading eyes I’d ever seen and I relented. I did feel a little better by the time we arrived, but not by much. Death was in the air, and I was the only one who knew it.

The situation outside the detention center was a mess. Typically, exorcisms happened outside the view of the public. This time, a crowd of bystanders had gathered by the gates to the center, barely being held back by the efforts of an entire team of managers. From the moment we stepped out of the car, the onlookers burst out into confused whispers followed by shouted demands for answers.

Ijichi met us and guided us towards one of the detention center buildings. The cursed womb had vanished from the sky, but the whole area reeked of cursed energy. I curled my fingers around the haft of my club. In the time that it had taken us to get here, it had started raining, to add insult to injury. This day sucked.

Ijichi explained the situation with the cursed womb, and potential special grade, as well as warning us not to engage. I only half-listened, trying to formulate a way for us to survive short of knocking Fushiguro and Itadori out. I could refuse to enter of course, but I knew Itadori well enough to know that –

“Hey! Excuse me!” one of the bystanders shouted. “Is Tadashi… is my son okay?”

Yeah, that was the problem. There would be no talking Itadori out of going in, now that he knew someone was in danger. As the managers escorted the woman away, and Ijichi mentioned the risk of poison, I thought about my options. The photon torpedoes could probably take a chunk out of the special grade, but actually landing a blow would be the hard part. Furthermore, would it be better to keep Fushiguro’s dog alive, or would it be better for it to die and have its power be redistributed for later fights?

I didn’t like having to play God like this. There were too many variables and too many unknowns for me to make a reasonable, informed decision. I was going to have to wing this. I checked my phone, and saw I had a message from Nobumasa:

You have been excused from the detention center mission.

I stuffed my phone back in my bag. If I was the only one who didn’t have to go, then there was no point in sitting things out. I’d just pretend I hadn’t gotten the message until after I’d gone in.

We approached the door to the detention center, which was under one of those weird metal covered walkways. Behind us, Ijichi brought the curtain down, which Fushiguro had to explain to Itadori. I sighed. Fushiguro paused, his hand on the doorhandle.

“Are you ready, Matsuno?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. Let’s do it. Let’s kick some fucking ass.”

“We’re not supposed to fight-”

Fushiguro’s protest was cut off by the scene inside the detention center. It was like the Kowloon Walled City in a single room. A dense network of pipes connected tall, apartment-like buildings. It was like we were outside: the “sky” overhead was pitch black, the only illumination the flickering lights from the buildings. The hum of electricity and machinery filled the air. The buildings were covered in window AC units, all running and venting exhaust, creating a thin mist that hung overhead. Loose wires dangled out of the buildings and walkways overhead, some of them occasionally sparking with electricity.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw only a cluster of pipes. “Door’s gone.”

Fushiguro spun around in disbelief, and Itadori started to panic.

“What do we do!” he asked. “How do we get out?”

“There’s still an exit,” Fushiguro said. “My shikigami can find it.”

Itadori started ruffling the white divine dog’s fur – I hadn’t even noticed when Fushiguro had called it out. While they were distracted talking, I pulled out five identical little guys from my satchel: the Ball. In terms of expendable models that I could use as scouts and early-warning systems, the Balls were perfect. Also, I thought they were cute.

I infused the Balls with my cursed energy, hoping that if something attacked us, they would go for the models first. I took point, following the only obvious path ahead of us: a narrow alleyway between some of the towering buildings, that left off into another kind of room. We went up some stairs then through a tunnel made up of pipes, wires, and random appliances all jammed together. The entire time, I felt like we were being watched.

I tried to remember the order of events from the manga, but it had been so long that the exact details were getting fuzzy. The main thing to watch out for, which I’d decided many months ago, was to avoid getting sucked into the floor like Nobara had, which would take me out of the fight and ensure that everything went exactly like it had in canon. 

Our progress through the narrow hallways was slow. Every so often, a jet of steam would block our path and force us to take a break. When the steam cleared, the direction of the hallway would change. Whenever we thought about turning back, the way behind us had shifted or closed. Itadori was getting jumpy; every second we wasted here was another second where the guy he wanted to save might get killed. My continued silence was probably freaking them out more than Itadori’s nervousness; I was usually pretty talkative, especially when nervous, but I couldn’t find the energy within me to make small talk.

Something creaked overhead, right as we exited the tunnel and entered a huge, empty room. At the center of the room was a huge, drained pool, or maybe just a drainage ditch. The light overhead was a sickly yellow. The air was an awful combination of wet and warm.

“I see something!” Itadori said.

Without hesitation, he dropped down into the pool, and Fushiguro followed. Before I joined them, I fanned my Balls out through the room, loading them full of cursed energy so that they blazed like miniature suns. I dropped down into the pool.

The body was slumped up against the wall of the pool, completely bisected, guts spilling out on the floor. Two balls of bundled up body parts were next to him, but they looked more like the remains of cursed spirits instead of humans to me. 

“Is that three bodies?” Fushiguro asked.

I carefully watched the floor beneath me, in case it opened up to swallow me. I caught a glimpse of Fushiguro’s dog out of the corner of my eye, still alive, for the moment.

“We’ve got to take this body back,” Itadori said. “It’s that lady’s son.”

I didn’t bother protesting, and Fushiguro took the lead. I was hyperfocused on my senses, just waiting for the first sign of a cursed spirit. Fushiguro grabbed Itadori, but I didn’t let myself get distracted by their fight.

“We have to confirm the other two are dead,” Fushiguro said. “Leave him.”

“Every time we look back, the path is different,” Itadori said. “How are we going to find our way back?”

“I never said we’d come back,” Fushiguro said. “I said leave him.”

He was playing the bad guy a little to get Itadori to listen, but Fushiguro wasn’t wrong. There really wasn’t much point to retrieving these guys’ bodies; not because they were bad guys and didn’t deserve it, or whatever, but because we had bigger things to worry about.

I moved one of the Balls so it would hover just overhead and closed my eyes. I could feel the motion of cursed energy around us: something was coming. It was a subtle shifting in the current, like someone had dropped in a small pebble upstream. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been ready. Then, like a shark surging to the surface, the energy swelled beneath my feet.

I jumped, but the ground had gone out from beneath me. For a moment, I was in free fall, and I panicked. I kicked my legs furiously, like a cartoon character trying to swim through the air. The Ball dipped down, and I grabbed onto it with my hand and let it pull me free. A hole had been formed, not into empty space, but of pure black cursed energy; if it had trapped me, I would have been spirited away.

Fushiguro and Itadori had stopped arguing and began panicking at my dilemma.

“Matsuno!” Itadori yelled.

Fushiguro started looking about wildly for his dog. I felt one of my further out Balls get snuffed out. There was no more time for thinking.

“It’s coming!” I yelled.

I dropped to the ground and animated the G-Self to assist my Balls. I got my club up in a guard position. Two more of my Balls were destroyed, and before I could animate anything else the cursed spirit was between us.

It was green and almost amphibian, with black ridges along its head and webbed hands. It smiled, seemingly happy that we had disturbed its birthplace. It had somehow positioned itself between the three of us without giving a hint as to how it had gotten there. If I didn’t know it was just raw power, I would have suspected a cursed technique.

Itadori moved first, I’m ashamed to say. He swung at the cursed spirit, and his arm was lopped off and began to fountain blood. I had my suits open up with their beam rifles, but the curse simply let the attacks hit him, completely unbothered. 

“Get back!” Fushiguro yelled.

I was happy to comply. Itadori and I jumped backwards by ten feet as the Great Serpent crashed into where the cursed spirit had been. Itadori pressed his stump arm into his torso to stem the bleeding. I was impressed that he hardly seemed bothered by the loss of his hand, considering he’d been a sorcerer for practically no time at all. Itadori dipped his hand into his jacket to retrieve the Slaughter Demon.

I had no hopes that Fushiguro’s attack had worked, so I animated a full set of five models from my bag. Sure enough, the Finger Bearer spirit reappeared on top of the Great Serpent’s head. Just as it plunged its arm downwards to pierce through the snake’s head, Fushiguro dismissed his shikigami and the curse entered free-fall.

The G-Self was in perfect position to interfere. I deployed the photon torpedoes, hoping they would at least take a chunk out of this thing’s limbs and force it to waste time and cursed energy healing itself.

“Stay back!” I warned. 

The Finger Bearer didn’t risk getting hit by the torpedoes. It jumped straight up, somehow altering its momentum in mid-air, then kicked off the ceiling and rocketed towards Fushiguro, well outside the range I’d spread my torpedoes. To his credit, Fushiguro managed to get an arm up in time to block, but the curse just grabbed him and tossed him towards my field of torpedoes. I deactivated my technique just in time to avoid deleting Fushiguro from reality.

Fushiguro did a neat little flip and landed on his feet. The curse stared at us from across the room, then spread its arms wide, welcoming an attack.

“It’s toying with us,” Fushiguro said.

“There’s no running,” I said. “Not at this speed.”

Itadori jogged over, keeping an eye on the curse. “I could release Sukuna?”

“No!” Fushiguro and I said at the same time.

“Don’t do it,” I said. “Not only would he kill us just the same as the curse, but we don’t know what happens if you were to willingly trade places with Sukuna.”

“What do you mean?” Itadori asked.

“He’s only ever forcibly possessed you, right? Don’t willingly call him out. Every choice has significance in jujutsu. If you open that door, you may not be able to close it.”

The curse grew bored. It moved across the room so fast it might as well have teleported and planted its fist in Fushiguro’s gut. He flew across the floor of the pool and smashed in to the concrete wall, leaving an impact crater.

I swung my club, but the curse simply let it hit him. My club cracked and broke. Itadori spun around from the side and tried to stab the curse with his knife, but it simply shattered on first contact. The spirit chuckled, and began to lazily sway out of the way of Itadori’s follow-ups strikes.

I distracted the curse by sending my Barbatos after it, seven feet tall. It wasn’t so much that the Barbatos presented a threat as it was the novelty that kept the spirit busy.

“Check on Fushiguro!” I yelled.

I stretched my senses to the limit, varying my Barbatos’ attacks with beam rifle support from my other models. The curse danced between the shots, not even counterattacking. I joined in the fight, wreathing my fists in cursed energy and trying to catch it by surprise. It simply laughed, happy for the extra challenge.

“He’s alive, but out cold!” Itadori yelled.

Fuck! Itadori was useless here; in fact, he was practically a liability, considering if he got close to dying Sukuna might emerge. Fushiguro had been taken out before he’d been able to contribute; had the Finger Bearer been able to tell he was the most dangerous?

The problem I was facing was speed. I had plenty of destructive techniques available to me, but none of them were fast enough to touch the curse. My perception issues were another difficulty. When the curse wanted to, it could simply move far too fast for me to see and counteract. It was only the variety I’d shown it that had kept us alive this long. 

The novelty ran out quickly enough. The cursed scowled and smashed my Barbatos into pieces. I guess my attack patterns had gotten too standard. It smashed its fist into the ground and grabbed a chunk of the concrete flooring, which it squeezed between its palms. The concrete shot out like buckshot, unerringly smashing into all my active models, with a few spare pieces striking me in the gut, for good measure.

I fell to my knees, the wind knocked out of me. The curse approached slowly, chuckling in triumph.

“Matsuno!” Itadori yelled.

I was grateful he was all the way on the other side of the room.

“Run!” I yelled.

He did start running, but not away from me. God dammit - I needed to act before he got here and got himself killed. I needed to act before I got myself killed. I tossed my bag into the air, distracting the spirit, while I animated another model: my solitary Master Grade, my secret weapon.

As I felt my cursed energy flow into it, settling into the patterns of its weapons and abilities, I had an epiphany. It must have been only two seconds, but it felt like ten minutes as I tinkered with my technique, applying restrictions and rules on the fly as I constructed an entirely new application of my abilities. It was a little like making binding vows for my entire technique, but tailored to just a single use, a single moment.

“Let’s go, Exia!”

The Master Grade Exia floated down next to me as I grew it to be ten feet tall. The Finger Bearer paused, curious to see what would happen next. I climbed to my feet and leaned forward, holding my hands out as if I was gripping the controls of a mech from within its cockpit. Gestures were important to sorcery. So were incantations:

“Turn bright red! Trans Am!”

#

Chapter 14: 3.3 - Trans-Am

My Master Grade Exia took on a visible red aura. The paint itself didn’t change, but the shroud of my cursed energy hanging over the model shifted, accelerated, and warped to resemble the appearance of Trans-Am. The same change unfolded within my cursed energy, covering me in a red light.

I’d finally extended one of my model’s techniques to myself, though I’d had to make a few compromises. I could only control my Exia while in Trans-Am; all other models were shut off to me. I was only in Trans-Am for the next four minutes and eleven seconds. Why that long? I’d ripped an idea off of Hakari, and my technique would only last for as long as the song “Daybreak’s Bell,” the first opening to Gundam 00, was playing. Sue me.

Once Trans-Am ended, I would go into burnout. I would lose all my cursed energy and become incapable of regaining cursed energy, either naturally or through infusion, for the next 24 hours. This restriction was the reason my technique had finally worked, the last trade-off necessary to push me over the edge. Trans-Am was all or nothing: either I won this fight, or I died. 

How refreshing! How simple! After all my worrying it, it came down to kill or be killed. My cursed energy soared and I entered into a state of elation. I was three times faster than a regular Matsuno; I was also three times stronger and had three times the cursed energy. My efficiency, I was shocked to learn, had tripled as well. My cursed energy surged between me and my Exia freely. It felt essentially limitless; the barrier between my body and my model, which usually slowed the activation speeds of my techniques, had vanished. I was one with the machine.

The Finger Bearer took notice of the change. It straightened up and regarded me seriously, no longer laughing to itself. The Exia rocketed forward, its long GN Blade unfolding. This was the Seven Swords Exia, equipped with three physical blades and four beam sabers. I’d built it first with physical combat in mind, and now was its time to shine.

I watched the moment of impact in slow motion: the Finger Bearer crossed its forearms, barely getting a guard up as the GN Sword slammed into it, sending the curse skidding back by ten feet. It had no chance to recover, as the Exia jetted forward and feinted another sword strike, then spun 180 degrees to jab one of its GN Blades – short swords – into the curse’s gut, below its guard.

Even if I could only control the Exia while in Trans Am, that didn’t mean I had to sit out of the fight. I jumped, cracking the floor beneath me, and copied the Finger Bearer’s move by making contact with the opposite wall and jumping back towards it at a new angle. Sensing that it was about to be pincered by my model and me, the Finger Bearer tried to jump upwards to get space.

Exia flew after it, moving in an erratic pattern before making sweeping attacks across its body, jetting back and forth before the Finger Bearer could adjust. Afterimages blurred behind the Exia, Trans-Am granting it unbelievable speed. I chuckled to myself; it was like the curse was being juggled in an air combo.

“Matsuno!” Itadori yelled. He’d finally jogged over to where we’d been fighting.

“Get Fushiguro and keep your distance,” I said. “The curse will try to use you as hostages if it thinks it’s going to lose.”

“I can help!” Itadori yelled.

I didn’t even look at him. “As you are right now, you’d get in my way. Get Fushiguro out of here!”

Talking with Itadori even this small amount had distracted me and caused the Exia to fall into a predictable attack pattern. The Finger Bearer had grabbed the Exia’s sword as it made a passing attack and flexed its fingers, breaking through even my last-minute attempts to reinforce it with cursed energy.

I spun and kicked Itadori, sending him stumbling back towards Fushiguro. He got the picture, fortunately, and cleared the area. Exia re-armed, now wielding a GN Blade and one of its beam sabers. The Finger Bearer had found its opening to kick off Exia and come flying towards me. We engaged in a high-speed exchange of blows. My perception had increased by three times, and I was able to keep up with the curse’s speed. Its attacks didn’t seem slow or anything, but they no longer completely overwhelmed my ability to read them.

Exia dove down from the ceiling and forced the curse away from me. Rather than stay and fight the both of us, the Finger Bearer dashed away, headed straight for Itadori, who was attempting to make for the exit with Fushiguro. I didn’t even try to follow, and instead diverted all my attention and cursed energy to the Exia, which jetted forward, leaving a streak of GN particles behind.

The Exia reached out and managed to grab the curse’s ankle just before it reached Itadori. It heaved the curse up and over, slamming it into the ground and driving a beam saber into its chest. The beam crackled against the curse’s skin, failing to penetrate and instead fizzling out on the Finger Bearer’s cursed energy. 

All my senses were heightened. I could smell not just the stink of the detention center quasi-domain, but also the acrid, burning smell of the Exia’s beam saber. I could see every twitch and flex in the Finger Bearer’s body, revealing its moves microseconds before it made them. I was enlightened; amongst heaven and the Earth Sphere, I alone was the honored one.

I rejoined the fight with a football kick, sending the Finger Bearer spinning towards the wall of the pool we were in. Exia followed it quickly and snagged the curse’s ankle just as it made contact with the wall, then flung it back towards me where I was ready with another kick. Exia was above the curse this time, and drove it directly into the ground, a GN Blade trying to pierce through its chest.

“My wishes over their airspace!” I sang along. I still had about two and a half minutes left.

I reached the Exia just as the curse reached its arm up to grasp its GN Blade, shattering it between its fingers. This provided the curse just enough leverage to push off the Exia and reset itself, only for me to arrive from behind and clobber it in the back of the head. The curse spun to hit me, but the Exia quickly rejoined the attack, wielding two beam sabers.

I paid close attention to how the sabers sparked against the curse’s skin. It was a matter of simple cursed energy: the cursed spirit was dedicating more energy for its defense than I was for powering the beam sabers. So long as the curse was prepared to defend, I wasn’t sure I had the energy to break through. Or, perhaps I did, but in doing so I risked opening myself up to a lethal counterattack.

For now, I focused on fighting. I was pretty happy to be engaged in the time old tradition of Jumpjutsu Kaisen, keeping the Finger Bearer from ever getting its footing as the Exia and I took turns laying on the beatdown. While we were able to batter it around, we also weren’t doing significant enough damage to manage an actual exorcism. This wasn’t a fight I could win on endurance, either, given that I was working on a literal time limit.

I got what looked like a lucky break. One of Exia’s beam sabers dug into the curse’s arm and, after a brief moment of resistance, sliced it off entirely. I had expected the beam saber to glance off, like it had in its previous strikes, and Exia was caught off balance and stumbled forward as its momentum carried it past the curse. In a flash, the Finger Bearer snapped out a kick that sent Exia spiraling into the wall of the pool, then jumped back to get away from me.

The curse had recognized it was in a losing situation, and intentionally sacrificed its arm to create an opening. It was learning as we fought; my time limit wasn’t just until Trans-Am expired, but also until the curse improved its skills enough that I couldn’t beat it anyway. The spirit puffed up and spat, forcing me to roll to the side to avoid being exploded by the shot of raw cursed energy. Exia flew up to meet the spirit, but it succeeded in regrowing its arm before Exia could reach it.

Regrowing a limb like that took a lot of cursed energy, but I didn’t have enough time left to force the curse to do it enough to make a difference. I’d have to try and make my own openings. Exia still fought with two beam sabers but surprised the curse by using its jets to spin in the air and deliver a vicious kick to its side, sending the curse rocketing back towards me. It managed to get a grip in the ground and flip itself over just in time to dodge my follow-up kick, but Exia closed the distance once again and we returned to the familiar two-versus-one flow.

I didn’t let myself get comfortable this time. After only a short sequence of attacks, Exia ejected one of its beam sabers from the slot in its back. The saber handle arced over the top of the curse towards me, hanging in the air for a moment. Before it could fall into my hands, the curse spat out a glob of cursed energy, blasting the beam saber across the room. The maneuver cost it a moment in attention, and Exia sliced through both its arms and went to cut it in half through the torso, though the cursed spirit managed to defend itself just in time by concentrating cursed energy at the impact site.

That had been a total bluff: if the beam saber had actually landed in my hands, it would have instantly reverted to an inert, model-sized piece of plastic. The stipulations of Trans-Am meant that I couldn’t animate anything other than the Exia. Of course, the Finger Bearer didn’t need to know that. It may be getting smarter about using its own cursed energy, but it wasn’t smart enough to understand what I was up to.

Without arms, I was really able to press my advantage, and the curse was forced into a total retreat, even if it was still surprisingly nimble. In the midst of fighting, even as I landed a brutal cross on the curse’s chin, its arms began to bubble with cursed energy and mutated flesh, then regrew in an instant. It had learned to regenerate itself in mid-battle, which meant that any future windows of opportunity I found would be smaller and smaller.

The Finger Bearer, in the midst of my onslaught, opened its mouth. Its gross blue tongue shot out of its mouth and grew in size until it was a dozen feet long, spinning about like a whip. Exia flew up, and I dropped to the ground, so the tongue missed both of us, but it did tear up the walls of the pool and send dust and grit flying everywhere, blocking my view of the curse.

“Fucking gross,” I muttered to myself, then sputtered as tile dust found its way into my mouth. That could not be healthy.

I had a minute and a half left on Trans-Am, but at this rate the spirit would evolve too fast for me to finish it even within that minute. This rate of growth was staggering; I was starting to come around to Ino’s theory that you should always try to kill a semi-Grade 1 at all costs, if cursed spirits really improved this quickly. 

The Finger Bearer wasn’t done using its tongue as a weapon. Exia and I were forced into a fight at a distance while its tongue stretched and whipped across the entire pool, scoring deep lines in the ground. Exia’s ranged capabilities were awful, and mine were nil; I found myself resorting to having Exia fire its piddly beam vulcans to distract the curse from its assault.

After a few moments, I realized I was being dumb. Yeah, the Exia’s vulcans were weak in the anime, but we weren’t playing by anime rules. I could just overcharge the vulcans with cursed energy to make them just as dangerous as a beam saber. I didn’t bother doing it just then, since the Finger Bearer had evidently figured out that the beam vulcans I’d been using thus far were so weak it didn’t even need to dodge or apply much effort to its defense. That meant I could wait until the perfect opportunity to catch it off guard.

I needed to create an opening, and I had an idea just dumb enough to work. I spread my stance into a sumo-like pose and focused my senses. Just as the curse’s tongue came whipping towards me from overhead, I clapped my hands together, catching it. The texture of the tongue blessedly wasn’t wet, but rough. It was kind of like a cat’s tongue; if I hadn’t been shielding my hands with cursed energy my palms would have been totally torn up.

With its tongue held in place for just a moment, Exia fired a full-power shot of its beam vulcans. The curse ignored the attack, only sensing the danger at the last possible moment and attempting to pivot out of the way. The beams caught it in the side, tearing a massive chunk out of its torso. I reeled the curse in through its tongue, pulling it towards me while it was off balance, then kicking it back up into the air towards Exia.

Exia’s beam sabers flashed twice, severing the curse’s arms and legs. Before it could plunge its beam saber into the curse’s heart – or whatever passed for a heart – the curse bit off its own tongue to free itself, then spat a bullet of cursed energy at Exia, knocking it back. In free fall, the curse screeched in fury as its limbs already started to regrow. I raced to get ahead of it, trying to anticipate exactly where it would land.

I was down to under half a minute of Trans-Am. I was absolutely winning this fight, but I wasn’t winning it fast enough to matter. That meant it was time to get a little reckless, and gamble on a single, all-out winning blow. I had a wonderful idea, the combination of an old trick and something I’d learned from the Finger Bearer. 

The curse had regrown its limbs, but they were a slightly different color than the rest of its body. The regeneration was becoming imperfect, so that even if it was able to regrow limbs faster than before, it wasn’t able to do so perfectly any longer. That also meant that, hopefully, it would be more protective of its limbs. I engaged the curse in hand-to-hand fighting, though the majority of my focus was on getting Exia back in the fight.

The pivotal moment came quickly. Exia was flying down towards us, beam saber extended and glowing with power. I faltered for just a moment, presenting a weakness on my left side to the curse. It took advantage of the moment, and its hand flicked out and removed my arm at the shoulder, then pivoted and kicked up at Exia to deflect the sword strike. That left the spirit momentarily unbalanced, stuck between attacking me and defending itself.

I let Exia go totally inert. It shrunk back down to being a normal model and clattered on the floor. The Finger Bearer’s gross face looked shocked: it hadn’t been prepared for Exia to disappear altogether. All the force the curse had brought around to defend against Exia’s attack met no resistance, and it began to spin completely out of control, totally unable to defend itself.

I formed my right hand – my only remaining hand – into a knife shape and shrouded it in cursed energy, all the cursed energy I had left. I thrust it directly into the curse’s chest. I was surprised at how easily it sunk straight into the curse’s flesh. I rotated my arm and slashed out, completely cutting the thing in half. I didn’t let up there. I moved my cursed energy to my legs and stomped, pasting the curse’s head and torso into the ground and breaking up the tile.

I could feel the Finger Bearer’s energy fade, until all that remained was a single finger. The effect on the building around me was more obvious: all the strange, built-up machinery and junk vanished, and I suddenly found myself standing in a completely ordinary hallway. The quasi-domain was gone.

I had about ten seconds left on Trans-Arm, and I needed to make it count. I grabbed Exia and the finger and ran back to my bag, stuffing both inside. I ran back to the scene of the fight, bag in tow, and grabbed my severed arm. I literally hadn’t even felt the pain when it disappeared, and I still didn’t. I probably had hell to pay when Trans-Am ended.

I held the arm up to its socket, hoping that I would have some kind of epiphany regarding reverse cursed technique. When nothing happened, I sighed and pressed it against the wound anyway to slow the bleeding. I started to run in the direction that Itadori and Fushiguro had gone, hoping to catch up with them. I made it around the corner before Trans-Am faded and I tripped over my legs and hit the floor.

What an unusual feeling this was. I wasn’t just out of cursed energy, or near the bottom, but completely zeroed out. Even after my worst days of practice I’d never felt like this. It was like I was missing a limb I’d never known I had. Also, a limb I’d always known I’d had. Wow, this felt awful.

“Matsuno!” Fushiguro yelled. I lifted my head up from the floor and saw him and Itadori running towards me. For some reason, they were both covered in ichor.

“Yo,” I said, letting my cheek fall back to the floor.

“Your arm!” Itadori yelled.

He moved up beside me and hefted me off the ground easily. I was amazed I was still conscious; my arm hurt like crazy. It was almost like someone had cut it off! Haha.

“Your hand!” I yelled. “Don’t worry, Shoko can probably stick it back on. Why do you guys look like shit?”

“There were a few other curses around,” Fushiguro said. “I woke up in time to take care of it. We need to get you both out of here and back to school.”

“Word,” I said. “But hang on. I think Itadori should fake his death.”

The boys both gave me stupid little looks. I giggled.

“I’m serious,” I said. “I had a really good explanation for this, I think. But I’m pretty sure they sent us here to kill you, so you should totally fake it.”

I could tell they weren’t exactly convinced. I tried to contort my face into the most pathetic expression I could imagine.

“Pweeeease?” I said.

They both flinched back in disgust, and I scowled at them.

“It’s not a terrible idea,” Fushiguro conceded. “Let’s just leave with Ijichi and make sure no one sees Itadori. We can have Gojo make the call at the school.”

Fushiguro took me from Itadori, to whom I handed my severed arm, which he tucked under his own arm, which was missing a hand. I laughed at the sight of him, holding his severed hand with his right hand, and my severed arm under his left arm.

“A fine addition to my collection,” I said under my breath. “Itadori, I’m like Kelly Layzner now.”

“Okay?” he replied.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re not ready for that joke yet.”

I passed out.

#

When I woke, it was on one of those big chairs that you sit on at the doctor’s office. The ones with bad cushions and a paper roll up the middle. I still felt empty, which meant I was still in burnout, so it hadn’t even been 24 hours. My whole body was sore, but I was no longer in intense, overriding pain, which was a plus. What was more unfortunate was that my left arm was still missing.

Still, I had a rare opportunity here, one that I did not want to miss.

“An unfamiliar – “

“Oh, you’re awake,” someone said, cutting me off.

The speaker stepped into view. She was a shorter woman in a white lab coat. She had nice, wavy brown hair down to her shoulders, though she obviously hadn’t been taking the best care of it recently. Her eyes looked down on me dispassionately; she looked like she needed sleep.

“Hi Doctor Ieiri,” I said. “Could you lend me an arm?”

“Funny,” she said. “I need you tell me what the hell you did to yourself with your jujutsu. Nothing I do besides the normal medical stuff is sticking.”

“Oh,” I said. “Oops.”

Shoko sighed. “Please tell me you know what you did.”

“Oh yeah,” I said quickly. “I know what I did. I’m just now realizing it was insanely stupid. I used a technique which temporarily boosts my cursed energy, at the cost of making it so I have no cursed energy for the next day.”

“Makes sense,” Shoko said. “I noticed you were running on empty, but that shouldn’t stop me from applying my own reverse cursed technique to heal you.”

“Right,” I said. “Yeah. Here’s the mistake: it’s not just that I don’t have cursed energy, but that I can’t have cursed energy. I’m totally stuck at zero until it wears off.”

“So I can’t apply my own reverse cursed technique to you,” Shoko said. “Wow.”

“Well, can you regrow my arm when it wears off?” I asked.

“The difficulty in using reverse cursed technique increases exponentially as time goes on,” Shoko said. “I’m good enough that time normally isn’t an issue, but I have no idea what the lasting consequences of your technique will do to the injury.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d assumed, when I’d offered my arm up as a distraction to kill the Finger Bearer, that I’d have it back by the end of the day. I guess that’s why you were never supposed to gamble with something you didn’t want to lose. What a strange thought!

“Am I high?” I asked.

“Extremely,” Shoko confirmed. “For now, the best thing you can do is sleep off your technique. We’ll give fixing your arm a go when we’re able.”

“Yeah,” I said. “What’s up with Fushiguro and Itadori?”

“Right,” Shoko said. “How about you talk with Gojo when you wake up?”

“Is Itadori dead?” I asked.

Shoko rubbed at her eyes and groaned.

“I’m not answering that,” she said. “Go to sleep.”

It took very little for me to follow her advice.

#

Chapter 15: 3.4 - Scars

I looked down at my arm, which ended only a few inches below my shoulder. It was smoothed over, with fresh, pink skin covering what had just yesterday been a bloody stump. Still, it wasn’t a full arm, and it didn’t seem interested in growing back any time soon. Shoko’s hand was clamped around my bare shoulder. I could feel the cursed energy flowing out of her into my arm, attempting to will it back into shape.

Gojo was leaning against the wall across the room. He was actually frowning, which surprised me. I’d only ever really seen him looking bored or smiling. I didn’t like that he was frowning.

“See anything helpful?” I asked.

Instead of answering, Gojo just shook his head. I looked back up at Shoko, whose face had gone red with exertion. I could see beads of sweat dripping down her forehead.

“Let’s stop here,” I said. “It’s okay, Dr. Ieiri.”

Shoko released my shoulder and stepped back, sucking in air. I rotated my shoulder. It moved completely naturally, and without stiffness. It felt exactly like it should have, except that it was so much lighter.

“I’m sorry,” Shoko said. 

“Don’t be,” I said. “If I learned reverse cursed technique myself, could I regrow my arm?”

“I'm leaning towards no,” she said. “Maybe if you were in that heightened state and had a lot of cursed energy to burn. But most sorcerers never learn reverse cursed technique, so I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“Right,” I said. “Right. Cool.”

“Really,” Shoko said. “Sorry, kid.”

I almost felt worse that she felt bad than I did about my arm. That didn’t make much sense; once I had more time to think about it, I was pretty sure I’d feel awful about losing my arm, but right now it was just something that had happened to me. The reality of the situation had yet to set in. I’d been ready for fights to the death, and possibly dying, but somehow the idea of living, but forever changed, was completely unexpected to me. I guess I’d been intentionally not thinking very hard about the possible consequences of a jujutsu lifestyle.

“We need a moment alone,” Gojo said.

“This is my office, you know,” Shoko grumbled, but she headed for the door. “If you have any lingering pain or any other complications, come see me right away, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

Shoko left, and I was alone with Gojo. While I waited for him to start speaking, I wiggled what remained of my left arm. There was no soreness or difficulty moving it, but that didn’t mean it felt right.

“Itadori is alive,” Gojo said. “But officially, he’s dead. He told me that was your idea.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was pretty delirious at the time, so I’m surprised they stuck with my plan.”

“Ijichi brought them back here, and I convinced him and Shoko to keep quiet,” Gojo said. “It should keep Itadori out of the spotlight until he’s ready to handle himself.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that was assassination attempt.”

“Fushiguro told me you said that,” Gojo said.

He pulled himself off the wall and fished around in his pocket before withdrawing a phone – my phone. He tossed it to me, and I instinctively went to catch it with both hands. Instead, I just ended up batting it away with my right hand and it fell to the floor.

“Piss,” I said, then dropped down to grab it. Fortunately, it hadn’t cracked.

Gojo had the decency to look chagrined at my difficulties. 

“I saw that you had a message from Nobumasa,” he said, far too casually.

“Did you unlock my phone?” I asked. “How’d you even know the passcode?”

“You should have probably picked something less obvious than 0079,” Gojo said. “But I needed to assure your clan. I texted them in your place to say that nothing happened on the mission other than Itadori’s death.”

I unlocked my phone and checked my recent messages. Sure enough, Gojo had texted Nobumasa, doing a shockingly accurate impression of my text voice.

“You’re lucky he didn’t want to call to confirm,” I said. “I see you didn’t mention my arm situation. Lack of arm situation.”

“No reason to get the Kamo to come poking around when they weren’t needed,” he said. “Why didn’t you stay out of the detention center after you got permission?”

“No way in hell was I letting them go in alone,” I said, annoyed he had even asked. “And good thing I did, to be honest, or Itadori might be for real dead instead of fake dead.”

Gojo looked at me, and I mean really looked at me. I could feel the weight of the Six Eyes judging me. It was an awful feeling.

“Do you think the Kamo had something to do with this mission?” he asked.

“No,” I said easily. “I mean, they wouldn’t mind if Itadori died, for sure. But they would have never done it in a way that would put me in contact with a Special Grade cursed spirit. If I had to guess, whoever set this up among the higher ups is having to fight off an angry Kamo Clan right about now.”

Gojo nodded. “Makes sense. Nobumasa would have probably told you to stay away from the mission ahead of time, instead of at the last minute.”

Was I being tested? Honestly, I had just lost an arm in defense of Itadori and Fushiguro. This was so lame.

“You’re being lame,” I said. “I killed a Special Grade curse and got my ass kicked for those guys. What’s with the interrogation?”

Gojo laughed, though I wasn’t sure what he thought was so funny. “You’re right. Take some time off, Matsuno. I’ll come check on you later.”

He went to leave the room. I wasn’t letting him get away that easily.

“Hey!” I said. “Did they at least stick Itadori’s hand back on?”

“He’s right as rain, for a dead man,” Gojo said.

I was left alone in the examination room. I felt a soreness in my chest from Gojo’s departure. Was he still suspicious of me, for some reason? Maybe it had been too odd that I’d come up with the plan for Itadori to fake his death, but I’d sort of assumed he wouldn’t look too seriously into things I said while bleeding out after a big fight.

I stood up from the bed. I was just in a light hospital gown, and none of my stuff was in the room. It was cold in here, too, and I had nothing on my feet. I’d basically gone straight from waking up to having Shoko try to repair my arm, which meant I’d slept for around 24 hours after getting back from the detention center. I definitely had needed it, but I was also crazy disoriented as a result. And I needed water.

I stumbled around the room, trying to get the feel for walking again. I probably should have been super sore, but Shoko had worked me over with her reverse cursed technique, and I was probably still on some kind of non-jujutsu painkillers. In fact, I almost felt like I should feel worse than I actually did; after a fight like that, I’d expected more physical and less emotional exhaustion. Shows what I knew.

I stuck my head out of the door and looked into the reception area, which looked just like any other doctor’s office. The examining room I was in was attached to the main school clinic, which also included the school morgue. Shoko was at a desk, typing away at her computer.

“Hey,” I said. “Do you have my clothes?”

Shoko looked up at me. “Hang on. I can get you some.”

I went back to the examination room and began to pace. Where was I even supposed to go from here? I didn’t even feel like I could even celebrate keeping Itadori from making a pact with Sukuna, even though that had been my entire goal for wanting to go into the detention center in the first place. Objectively, this was a huge win: I’d stopped a major issue from developing down the line, and I’d proved I could at least hang in the big leagues.

I could even tell, just from my neutral state, that the control I had over my cursed energy had improved. Did all sorcerers get mini Zenkai boosts? I was definitely stronger than I had been before, probably because I’d been through a serious, life-threatening fight. I was in great shape, except for the missing arm.

At least I didn’t expect any major fights for a while. I had a few months until the Goodwill Event, and even that would be pretty low stakes, since I could count on Gojo to scare away Hanami if things got too tough. After that was the bridge curse and the two Death Paintings, and while that would be a serious fight it wasn’t as far out of my range of experience as the detention center had been. I had time to get stronger.

Shoko stepped back into the examination room, carrying a bag of clothes, some flip flops, and a plastic bottle of water.

“Not yours, just some sweats we keep around,” she said. “Need some water?”

I took both from her and drank the entire bottle of water. I’d been hooked up to an IV, but my throat was still parched.

“Come see me after you get changed,” she said. “I want to schedule a follow-up appointment.”

“Mmm,” I said, still chugging water.

I got changed into the sweats – itchy, but tolerable – and met Shoko outside the exam room. We set up an appointment for a week from today, just to make sure there were no lingering issues, though she didn’t expect there to be any problems. She also handed over some painkillers, though again, I shouldn’t have much lingering pain. But hey, I wasn’t going to say no to some just-in-case pills.

When I left the clinic, I was surprised to find an awkward Fushiguro waiting for me. He had my leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. When I tossed a look over my shoulder, Shoko was pointedly looking away. It was nice that she’d thought to have someone walk me back to my dorm, but I couldn’t find the energy to get too excited.

“Hey,” I said.

Fushiguro opened the door for me, though he didn’t hand over my bag. It was surprisingly dark out; it felt a little like it should have been morning. My sleep schedule was probably going to be fucked up for days.

“How are you feeling?” Fushiguro asked.

He looked very concerned, which he really only showed by squishing his eyebrows together a little more than usual.

“I’m fine,” I said. “How about you? That thing hit you pretty hard.”

“Just some cracked ribs,” Fushiguro said.

We fell into an awkward silence. I couldn’t find the energy to force the conversation to keep going like I normally did. I watched the trees around us as we walked. It was nice to be back on the mountain. Surprisingly, it was Fushiguro who spoke next.

“Did Gojo tell you about Itadori?” Fushiguro asked.

“Barely,” I grumbled.

“He’s fine,” Fushiguro said. “Gojo’s got him on a secret training plan to get him to learn to use his cursed energy. He’ll be back just before the Goodwill Event, though.”

“It’s just us, Ijichi, and Ieiri who know, right?” I asked.

Fushiguro nodded. “We’re supposed to keep it secret for now. Gojo’s pretty worried about the higher-ups right now.”

“I’m surprised you can tell he’s worried about anything,” I said, not just a little bitter.

“I’ve known him for long enough,” Fushiguro said. “This shook him up, I think.”

“You’d be able to tell better than me,” I admitted. 

We returned to silence. I wasn’t willing to complain to Fushiguro that Gojo had been through my phone, and evidently had concerns that I was somehow still in cahoots with the Kamo Clan. I wasn’t even too sure of it myself – maybe I’d read too far into our talk earlier. But I’d left that talk in a sour mood. I would have liked even a “good job” from him.

“I’m going to tame Max Elephant soon,” Fushiguro said. “Definitely before the Goodwill Event.”

It took me a second to figure out why he’d even tell me this. He must have been thinking back to our conversation we had after he’d seen that sorcerer died, right before he’d tamed the Great Serpent. He must have been feeling self-conscious about being owned so hard by the Finger Bearer.

“How long were you out?” I asked.

“Only a minute or so,” Fushiguro said. “It’s more like I browned out. But by the time I woke up, Itadori had taken me out and we couldn’t find our way back to you.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I thought you were fully out of it, and I mostly wanted to use you as an excuse to get Itadori out of there, in case he got killed or Sukuna came out.”

Fushiguro grunted. “I’d never fought a spirit that strong, so I wasn’t ready for its speed.”

“Neither was I,” I said. “I had to resort to drastic measures just to have a chance. And it didn’t exactly go to plan.”

I flopped my stump at him, letting the long, empty sleeve of my sweatshirt wiggle. To my surprise, Fushiguro actually smiled a little at that.

“It won’t happen again,” Fushiguro said.

“I believe you,” I said. “Next time we see a Special Grade, I’ll let you handle it.”

I laughed at Fushiguro’s expression. The joke was on him: I’d help him out when we fought Hanami, but the next Special Grade after that, the bridge Finger Bearer, really was going to be all his. We got to the outside of my dorm, and Fushiguro awkwardly handed over my bag, which I slung over my shoulder.

It took me a while to locate my keys and get the door open. I stopped in the threshold to wave goodbye to Fushiguro. He stood there, head hung.

“Thanks, Matsuno,” he said, then hurried away.

I smiled all the way back to my room. Fushiguro was an awkward weirdo with no self-esteem, but he was actually pretty nice deep down. He’d certainly given me more credit than Gojo had. My good mood had already begun to fade by the time I’d reached my room, kicked off my shoes, and put my bag on the bed.

I ended up sorting through my bag first. Sukuna’s Finger was gone – no doubt nabbed by Gojo when he’d gone through my stuff – but the Exia and some of my other models were still there. I put away the models I’d never used in the fight, since I could at least use them later, but then I was forced to turn my attention to my Master Grade Exia. 

Basically every weapon I’d had on it was gone, left behind on the floor of the detention center. That was fine: weapon packs were easy to find in Akihabara, though the larger scale weapons were less common. The real issues were the stress fractures and cracks that littered the model. I could probably repair some of it with careful application of plastic cement, sanding, and painting, but some of the problems were more structural, and would come back to bite me in the ass next time I tried fought with it, let alone used Trans-Am.

I’d need to build a new, Trans-Am capable model for sure, preferably one with more ranged options. For now, until I had the time, I wanted Exia to be back to at least functioning properly, in case something happened in the next few months. Nothing should happen, but I didn’t want to get cocky with my future knowledge.

I set the Exia down on my workbench and got to work on the minor problems. I was too alert to go straight to bed; I was sure I’d feel better after I got something productive done with models. The problem with my plan hit me immediately: I’d never built a model, or even done light repairs, with only one arm. Even opening the vial of plastic cement proved to be a challenge, as I had no offhand to hold the jar steady while I tried to unscrew the lid.

Getting progressively more annoyed, I pinned the jar against the side of my workbench with body so it would stay still long enough for me to get it open. Carefully, I set the jar back on my workbench and began to dab cement into some of the light cracks. I used my left hand to squeeze the components back together, so that the cement would set properly. Or, that’s what I tried to do, before I realized again that I was missing an arm.

I stood up from my desk. It was okay. There were workarounds. I got a High Grade Zaku I’d made a few months ago out of its box and animated it. I had it serve as my crafting assistant while I worked on the Exia’s repairs: it positioned the model around my tools and held everything still while I worked. It was slow, so much slower than the fluency I’d achieved over years of practice, but workable.

Never mind, it wasn’t workable. I kept having to pause to have my Zaku awkwardly rotate the piece I was working on, and half the time I got my directions flipped around and spun the model the wrong way around. It was taking me five or six minutes just to glue a single piece back together. I was getting frustrated, and more frustrated I got the more my cursed energy spiked and grew harder to control, until finally the Zaku’s grip grew strong enough to crack the plastic on the leg of the Exia that it was holding. I slammed my fist down on the table in anger, bouncing everything on the table into the air. 

Fuck! I’d spent years practicing my crafting ability, and it was something I genuinely loved doing, and now it wasn’t just a chore, it was like pulling fucking teeth. I pushed back from the table and started pacing around my tiny dorm room.

I could probably eventually get to a level of control over my models where I could use them to build more models. In fact, with enough time, I’d probably get experienced enough using them as extensions of myself that I would be far more productive when it came to new model construction than I had been before. But it would be painful, it would take serious time to adjust, and it would be annoying and fiddly.

Half the fun of a model was putting it together with your own hands and feeling – literally feeling – the progress you were making. It was about making little mistakes, errors in your assembly or panel lines or paint, that gave the model character and made it feel like it belonged to you. Maybe I could recapture that spark while having my models do the work for me like Santa’s Little Helpers, but I didn’t really think it was likely.

I knew myself well enough to recognize that I was catastrophizing. I was pissed off about losing my arm in a dumb mistake, when I’d been confident I could get it back. I was also frustrated this was affecting my modelmaking. For as much as it was part of my technique, it was also how I had fun and relaxed. To have my one escape cut off from me thanks to my own hubris hurt.

I was knocked out of my ruminating by something hitting the window. I waited for a second, to be sure it wasn’t some sound of the building: another loud cracking sound, and this time I caught a blur of motion at the window. I looked outside: Gojo was standing in front of my dorm, lobbing rocks up at me. With a sigh, I left my room to go see what he wanted. An apology would be a nice start.

When I got outside, Gojo just waved for me to follow him without a word. I was tempted to just go back inside, but I was a little curious about what he was going to say. We took a winding path away from the dorm, towards more of the main complex of buildings. That was where the administrative building, the storage warehouses, and other boring stuff was located. Well, the warehouses were important, but there wasn’t anything I could do with them.

We stopped in front of a decently sized detached building. It had a big shutter for a door, like the warehouses, but it was way too small to be one of the storage buildings. Gojo produced a key from his pocket and fiddled with the padlock at the base of the shutter. While he worked, I looked around: it was getting late, so we were the only ones out and about. Normally, this close to the center of the school, you saw managers and sorcerers hurrying about on their regular business, but it was totally empty tonight.

“Ta da!” Gojo yelled.

He pulled up the shutter to reveal a dark room. He looked at me, then looked back at the building and realized that it was completely dark to anyone without the Six Eyes. Somewhat sheepishly, he reached his hand inside and flipped a switch.

The building was a complete workshop. There was a disc sander, table saw, jigsaw, lathe, CNC router, walls full of tools, a desktop computer, paints – basically, everything for a hobbyist workshop, woodshop, and metal shop rolled into one. I boggled: this was probably close to a hundred thousand dollars of equipment, all in one place.

“Whoa,” I said.

Gojo handed me the key.

“Sorry for running out on you earlier,” he said. “I needed to go pick up the last stuff. Everything should be set up correctly; I had Ijichi do it.”

Typical. I started looking around the workshop, impressed with the quality of tools Gojo had bought. There was even a certain amount of raw material for me to work with – sheets of metal, some wood planks, material for the 3D printer. My mouth was watering at the thought of what I could get done in here.

“I figured it didn’t make sense for you to stay cramped up in your room when we’ve got all this space we’re not using,” Gojo said. 

“I can use this whenever I want?” I asked.

“It’s yours,” Gojo said. “Literally. I paid for it, but everything in here belongs to you.”

What the fuck? That was a lot of money to drop on me, someone he’d only known for a few months and, I was pretty sure, thought might be a spy until as late as an hour ago. Gojo seemed to be pleased by my confusion and made no attempt to elaborate.

“Why?” I asked. “This is like, so much money.”

Gojo shrugged. “It didn’t make sense for you to hold yourself back as a sorcerer just because you didn’t have the cash to spend on real tools.”

“Really?” I asked. Gojo wasn’t exactly what I would consider to be concerned with optimization. 

“Well, that’s one reason,” Gojo admitted. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, though it looked like a put-on gesture to me. “I thought you deserved some thanks, at least.”

“I appreciate it,” I said drily. “But you didn’t seem very grateful earlier.”

“Sorry I cut things short,” he said. “I mostly just wanted to hear why you thought to have Itadori fake his death, and make sure you wouldn’t accidentally tell anyone else.”

“I was delirious,” I said. “And I was still right. I’m a genius.”

“No doubt,” Gojo said. “And now you can build yourself a cool new robot arm.”

I thought about it – I had been aware of the possibility of a prosthetic arm, but building one myself seemed like a difficult task, well outside my normal expertise.

“Prosthetics are seriously complicated,” I said. “I have no idea how long it will take me to build one.”

I went over to a pile of wood planks. They weren’t thick enough for me to hew an arm from as a single piece, but I could pretty easily get a makeshift arm together out of them. The tricky part would be the hand: lots of detail work to be done on the fingers, and the articulation on the joints…

“Even after a month of figuring out how to build a replacement arm, I still won’t be as strong as I was before.” I said. “If I want to fight with two arms, I’ll be stuck using up one of my Blood Animation slots forever.”

“So?” Gojo said. “You shouldn’t be so pessimistic. It’s not part of your character.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said, surprising myself with how actually mad I was. “I fucked things up. I got cocky and lost my arm, and now I can barely build models and my martial arts are going to be shit for probably forever. Yeah, I’m being pessimistic.”

“You’re not usually this unimaginative,” Gojo said. “Why bother with all that when you can just cheat?”

I looked back at the wood. I didn’t need articulated fingers, or even proper joints in the elbow of my arm. As long as it looked like an arm, it would probably work with my power. I would just need it to clearly resemble a mechanical arm, to fulfill my second binding vow. I wondered how close I could cut it. Maybe a coat of silver spray paint and some fake seam lines would be enough?

From there, I’d have a working second arm that I could use to build an even better arm, and then a better arm after that. I could swap my arms out: maybe I’d have one that was like a Warhammer 40k-style servo arm, to help me while building, and I could have a combat form. I could load up my new arm with all sorts of little gimmicks and functions, and when I didn’t need it while fighting from a distance I could just let it hang limply at my side. I could be a kickass magic cyborg.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I can cheat.”

“You’re probably feeling like shit right now,” Gojo said. “Because this is the first time you’ve had any kind of setback that really matters. Believe it or not, this happened to me before I got so perfect.”

I rolled my eyes but kept listening. The frustration I’d been feeling was starting to bleed out of me, and I was beginning to get excited. I could get a lot done with these tools, and I was starting to develop the itch to start as soon as possible.

“I want to make it clear to you that you didn’t lose,” Gojo said. “You won. You exorcised the spirit, retrieved one of Sukuna’s fingers, and you got Itadori and Fushiguro out of there pretty much unscathed.”

“Itadori literally lost a hand,” I protested. I knew it was weak.

Gojo waved me off. “Hand, shmand. He was fine as soon as you got back. You’ve been harsh on yourself for as long as I’ve known you, but you’re taking it too far now. You mastered a new technique that had been kicking your ass, and you beat a Special Grade curse just a few months into your first year at school.”

“I guess,” I said. “It just doesn’t feel like a win.”

“It usually doesn’t,” Gojo said. “You get a day to kick yourself around, but no more.”

Gojo waved over his shoulder at me as he walked away, but then froze in the entrance to the workshop.

“You should leave too,” he said. “Shoko would probably kill me if I let you operate any of this stuff while you’re still on drugs.”

With a sigh and a final longing look at the machinery, I joined him at the front of the workshop. He showed me where the light switch was, then pulled the shutter down and let me lock it. I wondered how much this workshop was a thank you, and how much of it was an apology from Gojo for not being there. I could take either one.

I didn’t feel great, but I didn’t feel like my career as a sorcerer was over, either. That would have to do, for now. 

#

Chapter 16: 4.1 - What We Can Do Now

I got to work the very next day. I really did have no lingering pain – not being able to grow my arm back aside, Shoko was good at her job. Still, I hung onto the painkillers. You never knew when you might need one!

My first goal was to build my new arm as quickly as possible. It didn’t need to be sophisticated or look good, it just had to strap on to my stump and have five fingers. It would probably take me three times as long to do anything until I had another arm, so it would be better to just get one as soon as possible before trying to build an arm I was actually intending to use for a long time. Spend time to save time, as it were.

I was going to hew the arm out of a single plank of wood, narrowed down on the table saw. That would be the easy part, though doing it with one hand would be tricky. From there, the hard part would be making the hand. I had a couple thoughts on how to do it: I could print it in the 3D printer, but I wasn’t sure if printing a model that someone else had made would satisfy my technique, and I didn’t want to try modeling my own hand with just one arm. I could program the CNC Router, but it had been a long time since I’d used one, and hunt-and-peck typing seemed like a nightmare. The last option was just cutting a loose approximation of a hand out with a jigsaw, but with only one arm, actually holding the wood steady would be a pain in the ass, if not impossible.

I was still planning my arm when Fushiguro arrived.

“Yo,” he said. He looked around my workshop in curiosity

“Yo yourself,” I said. “Not training today?”

“Gojo’s busy with the higher-ups,” Fushiguro said. “What are you working on?”

Gojo must have sent Fushiguro over here; his absence had never stopped Fushiguro from training before. I didn’t mind the company.

“Figuring out my first arm,” I said. “This is probably the hardest part.”

“Hm,” Fushiguro said. “Do you have to do it yourself?”

“That’s my binding vow, remember?” I said.

“Right,” he said. “But does it mean that people can’t help you? Could I like… hold something for you?”

That was a very, very good question. I simply had no idea where the line was between “making something entirely by myself” and “making something enough by myself that my technique still worked.” As long as Fushiguro didn’t actually do any of the cutting or assembling himself, it was probably fine, right?

“Let’s find out!” I decided.

I put Fushiguro to work as my designated wood holder – no, don’t laugh. He held the planks steady as I pushed them through the table saw to cut them down to size. I sketched out the outline of a hand on a block of wood, and he helped hold it steady as I pushed it through the jigsaw. I was left with two pieces of wood – a plank about the length of my remaining arm, and a very two-dimensional hand.

The issue was now with attaching the hand to the plank and attaching the plank to my shoulder. I didn’t want to just slap the hand on with braces, since that might actually limit its movement once animated. So, I committed a cardinal sin, and basically drilled nails in at an angle to very roughly affix the hand to the plank.

“Don’t tell anyone I’ve done this,” I told Fushiguro. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

From there, I found where Gojo had stashed all my paint, which fortunately included a can of silver spray paint. I set my arm on a tarp outside the workshop and got to work, while Fushiguro kept his distance. Once it was suitably metallic, I called Fushiguro back over and ordered him to make me bleed.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s called Still Life Blood Animation for a reason,” I said. “I usually just prick myself in the arm, but as you can see, I’m a little shorthanded.”

Fushiguro, with some cajoling, agreed to make a small cut on my forearm with a knife, which I bled onto the arm. I felt my technique settle in around my creation, but no matter what orders I sent, it refused to move. It wasn’t like my technique didn’t work, or like the object was stuck inert – it was like there was a barrier in my way, preventing me from actually controlling it.

“Not mechanical enough,” I said. “I’ve got some ideas.”

My next step was to paint black panel lines on the arm, as if it were made of segmented metal parts. Fushiguro played his role as arm-rotator well, but even once I’d covered the thing in lines my technique still resisted setting in.

“Hmm,” I said. “One more dumb idea.”

I grabbed some red paint, and managed a really ugly, misshapen red star on the outside face of my plank-arm. All of a sudden, my orders surged through the arm, and I flexed it at its “elbow” and moved its ugly “fingers.” I could still make it move like a real arm, even though it lacked actual joints in those spaces, but I could pick up on lots of passive resistance. Probably if I’d given it actual, real joints, my technique would be smoother and not waste so much cursed energy.

“Why did that work?” Fushiguro asked.

“Putting the red star on it made it resemble the Winter Soldier’s robot arm,” I said. “So it fulfills my vow’s criteria.”

Fushiguro gave me a blank look.

“This is why we need Itadori around,” I said. “You’re so uncultured.”

The final challenge was strapping the arm to my shoulder. I still had a small bit of arm, just a few inches, and the problem with making essentially a flat board into an arm was that there was no easy way to get attach it to my stump.

“Okay,” I said. “Dumb idea, once again.”

I found the duct tape and handed it to Fushiguro. “Tape me.”

This time Fushiguro knew better than to argue, and he duct taped it directly to my shoulder, so that it hung on the outside of where my actual arm would be. It was a really awful, stupid solution: it didn’t feel anything like having my old arm, and I kept moving it too far to the side, since it wasn’t where an arm was supposed to be.

Nevertheless, it felt great. I could type, I could grab things, and I could use all my new equipment. I grinned at Fushiguro.

“Great,” I said. “Ready to do it all over again?”

#

We built another arm together, over the course of two hours. This one was significantly more detailed, and it could be attached directly to my stump by cupping around the remains of my arm, and was held in place by a leather strap, not a bunch of duct tape.

My placeholder arm hadn’t been very good, but it had been enough. I was encountering a lot of resistance in my technique, but just making an arm do arm things really wasn’t much of a drain on my cursed energy, and the extra resistance actually helped modulate how much power I was putting into the thing. I didn’t have any incidents like I had with my models – with losing control or using too much strength. Instead, I’d taken to it rather quickly, after adjusting for the weird way the plank arm was offset from where my real arm had been.

Part of it was that all of my old muscle memory was applicable again, and part of it was my much more positive attitude. My technique made my objects into extensions of my self, and even my plank arm felt a lot like having my old arm back. It was mostly a trick of the mind; when I wasn’t paying attention, everything felt normal, but as soon as I started doing something that required dexterity, or started thinking about what the objects I was holding felt like, I realized I was fooling myself.

Still, it was good enough to rather quickly get a much nicer arm done in very little time at all.. With that second arm done, we went for lunch, and I told Fushiguro he could go training – the next step was all on the computer.

Gojo had installed a nice desktop computer in the workshop, hooked up to all the machinery. I wondered whether Ijichi had really set all this up himself. It was possible, of course, that he figured out how to do it all himself, but he was also one of the most important administrators in the school who surely had better things to do with his time. He’d probably paid for a subcontractor. Were you allowed to bring hired help onto school grounds? It was funny to imagine some Geek Squad guy getting dragged around the mountain.

I set to work doing CAD design on my next arm. This wasn’t like building a kit or slapping together a wooden arm. I needed to make sure all the dimensions were right, and I needed to be able to pass commands to the heavy-duty machinery. I was reasonably certain that, so long as I designed the arm myself and commanded the machinery, it would fulfill my technique’s requirement that I “built it myself.”

I’d done some CAD stuff in my previous life, but I’d also underestimated how long ago that had been. I was fifteen years old, and my CAD experience had been almost ten more years before my rebirth – so my knowledge of the program and how to actually get stuff done was basically nonexistent. If only the Kamo Clan hadn’t been so weirdly backwards, maybe I’d have gotten training on this when I’d been learning all my other crafting techniques.

That meant the progress on my next arm slowed down immensely. I didn’t get too frustrated, though, because I could tell I was still making progress. I’d adopted a mantra for Project Arm: a little work up front saves a lot of work in the future. I couldn’t just skip ahead to making a cool arm, because learning these programs and how to use all my new tools would end up saving me a lot more time in the future. As a symbol of good luck, I’d brought Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness and put him in the highest spot in the workshop – on top of some of the cabinets – so that he could bless my work.

I spent two days just working on the computer, getting my bearings and moving towards a simple model of my new arm – what I was thinking of as my “builder arm.” It would have a normal arm and hand function but branch off into a series of sub-arms near the shoulder, which could grasp and hold things for me. I could give them other functions, too: a flashlight, a built-in cutter, a welding tool. I’d just have to model them into the sub-arms, and then I’d be able to activate them with my cursed technique. I was going full Tech-Priest.

Fushiguro regularly came by to watch me work. There was nothing much he could do to help, but he took to bringing me lunch from the cafeteria and eating with me in the workshop. It was surprisingly thoughtful of him, actually; I doubted he was just doing it at Gojo’s behest. I could tell he’d been worried about how I might take losing my arm, and maybe manically throwing myself into learning AutoCAD hadn’t exactly reassured him, since every time he came over he tried to engage me in unrelated conversation.

We were in the middle of lunch one day, while he tried to get me to guess at what Itadori’s “special training” might look like and I tried to pretend like I had no idea, when we got unexpected visitors: the second-year students. I saw them coming from up the mountain path long before they got into earshot, so I signaled Fushiguro into silence – it wouldn’t be good for anyone to know that Itadori was still alive, no matter how much we could probably trust them.

The second-years had been out on some kind of months-long curse-exorcising tour across the country, meaning they’d missed all the action in the past week, though I’d heard they’d gotten back a few days ago. Panda was leading Maki and Inumaki up the hill in our direction, shading his eyes with his hand. When he caught sight of me, he started frantically waving, and I waved back.

“Hey Matsuno!” Panda called.

“Hey Panda!” I yelled back.

When they finally reached the workshop, Panda and Inumaki looked around in interest while Maki hung back by the door. I hadn’t had a chance to really talk to her since our disastrous first meeting, and I still had no idea how to approach her, or if I should even try. Damn, she looked cool though. I wanted to be that tall.

“How are you doing?” Panda asked.

I waved my left – robot – arm at him. “Not as bad as I could be, but not great.”

“Mustard leaf,” Inumaki said.

“It’s just a matter of building up new arms, so I can get back to full power,” I said. “It takes time, but ultimately my technique is basically perfect to handle this. We’d be in real trouble if Fushiguro was the one to lose his arm.”

Megumi seemed surprised to be mentioned. “Why me?”

“Just imagine trying to do all your shadow puppets with one hand!” I laughed.

Panda stuck a dramatic pose, attempting to imitate the way Fushiguro used his technique, but using only one hand. I laughed, and clapped my hands in appreciation, making a hollow metal noise that made me laugh harder.

“Have you thought about it more?” Maki asked Fushiguro.

“Not really…” he said.

My Awkward Social Situation Radar started going off like I’d just run into an ex at a party. Fushiguro was hiding something, Maki was pushing him on it and based on how he was looking away from me and speaking quietly, he didn’t want me to know. There was only one thing to do: ignore him and go straight to the source.

“What’s going on?” I asked Maki.

“The Goodwill Event is coming up,” Maki said. “The third years are suspended, and Okkotsu is out of the country. If we’re going to have a chance against Kyoto, we’ll need Fushiguro to help out.”

“Last year, Okkotsu took care of it by himself, so we really didn’t get the chance to do anything,” Panda said.

“What about me?” I asked. 

I was actually a little insulted they’d asked Fushiguro to help and not me. They’d surely need all the numbers they could get, so I doubted they could afford to try it without me. Actually, I knew they couldn’t do it without me, because I knew what was going to happen.

“Well…” Panda said.

“Tuna,” Inumaki said.

“Exactly,” Maki said. “We weren’t sure you’d be in fighting shape. Will you, or will you be dead weight?”

“I’ll be ready,” I snapped. I had no idea if I would be ready, but I wasn’t going to sit this one out. 

“Good,” she said. “Fushiguro?”

“Fine,” he said. 

“Great,” Maki said. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

She looked around the workshop as if noticing it for the first time. I tried to remember what I’d explained about my technique all the way back on the first day of school; it was the last time I’d actually had a conversation with either her or Inumaki.

“Eating lunch,” Fushiguro said. “If you don’t need anything else, you can go.”

Wow! Rude! Maki seemed to take it in stride at least.

“Fine. Kamo, you’re with me starting tomorrow for hand-to-hand training. I want to see if you can hold your own,” she said.

“Hang on, hang on,” I said. “I literally don’t have a combat arm ready yet. Can’t this wait, like, a month?”

“A month?” Maki scoffed. “No way. I’ll train you to fight one-handed, if that’s what it takes. Consider it an incentive to hurry up.”

“Maki -” Panda started, but I cut him off.

“How long do you think this kind of thing takes? I’m not going to half-ass building myself an arm,” I said. “That has to be my first priority.”

“Seems like you’ve already got an arm to me,” she said, looking down her nose at me. Literally! “Bring that one, and I’ll tear it off you and you’ll realize why you should learn to fight one-handed anyway.”

Dammit, she was making sense. Too bad that I’d already gotten my dander up, and I wasn’t going to let her have this out of principle.

“You can train me when I have a real arm,” I said. “However long that takes. I’m not going to handicap myself to make you feel better about yourself.”

Maki just smiled at me. She really had a sinister kind of face; it sent shivers down my spine. Even Panda and Inumaki looked disturbed.

“Tomorrow morning. Six AM.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and walked away.

“Six!” I yelled in disbelief. “Go to hell!”

Maki didn’t turn around to respond, and soon she was out of sight as she headed down the hill away from my workshop. I turned around to look at Panda in disbelief; he just gave me a pained shrug. I huffed in disbelief and stabbed my chopsticks into my lunch with vigor. Panda and Inumaki edged out the door, then ran off down the path. I slumped back into my seat at the table, across from Fushiguro.

“Ugh,” I said. “I can’t believe I let her get to me like that. I should have been more mature.”

Fushiguro gave me a blank look. “She’s older than you.”

“That hardly means anything,” I said. “I knew she was trying to bait me because she hates the Great Families or whatever, and I let her. How come she doesn’t hate you?”

Fushiguro shrugged. “I’m not a Zenin.”

I snorted. “Right. I probably haven’t done much to change her image of me as a spoiled little princess.”

“Don’t worry,” Fushiguro said. “No one who knows you for very long could still think that.”

“You’re funny today,” I said. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that you held off on telling me about the Goodwill Event.”

“I figured I’d wait for them to tell you themselves,” Fushiguro said.

I didn’t believe that for a second. If Maki asked him to tell me about the Goodwill Event, he would have done it, so he’d probably held off for some other reason. Fushiguro had been acting odd these last few days: hanging out, bringing me lunch, delaying his own training… I had assumed he’d felt guilty over the whole arm thing, but he’d stuck with it for a while. Hiding something like the second-year’s invitation had been, what, to protect my feelings? Did he think I wouldn’t be able to bounce back from losing my arm?

“What the hell, dude,” I said, voicing my confusion. “Why not just tell me?”

“No point in distracting you,” Fushiguro said. He sounded a little defensive.

Also, since when did he feel like he had to take care of me like that? Had losing my arm somehow led Fushiguro to slot me into his currently vacant little sister position? Was this how he treated Tsumiki? I had no idea how to ask that without sounding horribly insensitive.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “I appreciate you bringing me food, and that you’re hanging out with me, but I don’t need you to protect me from anything.”

Fushiguro shuffled in his seat. “Nothing else to do for lunch.”

I was so out of my depth here; I didn’t really want to tell him off, but I also didn’t want him to be fixating on me when he needed to be getting ready for the Goodwill Event – and what came after. I’d just never expected Fushiguro of all people to become weirdly clingy. I sighed.

“Do you want to talk more about this, or do you want to pretend this conversation never happened?” I asked.

“The latter,” he quickly replied.

“Cool,” I said. “Very cool.”

#

The demon masquerading as a human named Maki woke me up at 5:30 in the morning. I’d set my alarm for 8:30 – a perfectly reasonable time – under the hope that she’d been making empty threats about training me. Those were dashed when I woke up with a start, to the sound of someone pounding at my door.

I stumbled out of bed and swung upon the door to my dorm. Maki, dressed in a tracksuit and her glasses, looked down on me impassively. I tried to slam the door in her face, but she stuck a foot in the crack and held it open.

“Morning, Kamo,” she said, smiling.

“Nooooo,” I mumbled. “Good night, Zenin-senpai.”

Maki reached through the door and grabbed me by the collar of my sleeping shirt. She pulled me towards her until my face was smushed into the small gap between the door and the wall.

“Rise and shine,” she said. “You’ve got five minutes to meet me outside. If you don’t show up, you’ll only make things harder on yourself.”

I really believed her. She released me and slammed the door closed, sending me scurrying around the room to throw on some exercise clothes. I met her outside my dorm just three minutes later – pretty impressive, in my opinion, considering how bad I was at mornings. Maki did not seem to share my opinion.

“Let’s go,” she said, and started walking away from the dorm.

“How did you even get in?” I asked.

Maki gave me a disbelieving look. “Are you an idiot? It’s a dorm. I live on the floor above you.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I really am an idiot.”

We walked in silence for a bit.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean you can hear me when I watch stuff?”

Maki gave me a sinister grin. “Every night.”

I was going to die.

We reached the classroom building, but instead of turning left to go towards the first-year’s practice area, we circled around the building to the right, then further into the woods. After a brief, two minute walk, we reached another clearing, nearly identical to the one I was used to. Maki fished a key out of her pocket and unlocked a nearby supply shed. I looked over her shoulder, and saw it was filled to the brim with every kind of weapon imaginable.

“Do you use a weapon?” Maki asked me, as she retrieved a well-worn polearm.

“A club,” I said.

Maki spun around and gave me a disbelieving look.

“Why?” she asked. “It’s totally wrong for your body type. Did no one tell you that you look ridiculous before?”

“I wanted something with a different damage type than a sword,” I said. “Crushing instead of stabbing.”

Maki snorted. “Damage types? What the hell?”

“Okay, and I also wanted to hollow it out and put one of my models in it,” I said. “Then I could be like, whoa! Surprise laser!”

Maki slammed the door to the shed shut. This girl did a lot of slamming things, I was noticing.

“There’s no point in training you on weapons right now,” she said. “I’ll figure out what you should actually use later on. For now, let’s just do some normal hand-to-hand.”

“Fine, fine,” I said. “At least let me put my arm in there until we’re done.”

I reached up to my left shoulder and popped my arm off – it was the only decent-quality arm I had, and if I was going to keep working in the workshop then I’d need to keep it intact. I didn’t doubt that Maki really would crush it just to make a point.

Maki took the arm and put it back in the shed. She gently set it on the ground, I noticed, instead of just tossing it inside, which was nice of her. I began doing some basic stretches. I’d modified a lot of my workout clothes to just not have a left sleeve at all, which left my stump out in the wind. My uniform’s sleeves were wide enough that they could easily fit over any normal-sized prosthetic, but stuff like long-sleeved shirts just were too tight to be reliably wearable.

Maki started her own stretches, and it was immediately evident she was far more flexible than me. The ache in my muscles told me that I’d been putting off getting back into exercising for too long. I’d been taking the opportunity to hang out in my workshop on the computer all day, and now I was going to pay for it.

We started off with a light spar. Maki was practically moving in slow motion, and I still got my ass beat. I kept going for guards with my missing hand or unbalancing myself because I lacked an expected counterbalance. Maki kept her face surprisingly neutral all through the match, which only made me worry more about what she was going to say. When she finally called for us to stop, I was relieved, not because it meant I was going to stop getting hit but because I felt so embarrassed about my performance.

“Okay, it’s like I thought,” she said. “You’ve got too much muscle memory. Even when you realize you need to adjust for having just one arm, it takes you too long to actually make the change.”

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Let’s change your stance completely,” she said. “You’re going to learn an entirely new martial art that you can use with just one arm, and you’ll switch back to your normal style when you’re using a prosthetic.”

“That sounds immensely difficult,” I said. “Can I even do it in two months?”

“Who knows?” Maki asked. “I’m looking forward to figuring out if you can make yourself not completely worthless.”

We spent the next two hours going over the basics of my new one-armed style, which was more inspired by tai chi and redirection than any sort of karate. I took to it pretty quickly, which I wasn’t sure impressed Maki but at least meant that we made a lot of good progress in a short time. By the end of our session, I’d figured out all the basic forms, blocks, and strikes she wanted me to master. If I put in an hour or two a day on my own, I’d probably be in a decent enough shape to fight one-handed by the time the Goodwill Event rolled around, and I wouldn’t have to be subjected to Maki’s instruction.

At eight, when she let me go, we stood around in the field stretching and drinking water.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I said.

I froze. Why had I said that out loud? Maki turned to me with her sinister grin.

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Same time tomorrow.”

Oh no.

#

Chapter 17: 4.2 - Circling Thoughts

“And she’s honestly such a bitch,” I said.

I was in my workshop, working through lunch. That was a bad habit, but I was excited: after three weeks of effort, I was finally putting the finishing touches on my constructor arm. I’d lost my every morning to Maki’s sadistic training, so my progress had slowed down, but in my opinion getting here only a month after losing my arm was a pretty good timeframe. If I hurried, I could stick the arm on today and get to see how it felt before it got too dark.

“Right,” Fushiguro said.

He was eating at one of the side tables, watching me run around the workshop assembling my arm. I detected that he may be getting tired of hearing me complain about Maki. Fushiguro had actually joined us for practice a few times; Maki thought it was a good idea to get everyone together once or twice a week for joint training. The first event of the Goodwill Event was a team contest, so we needed to at least know each others’ techniques and fighting styles. 

The group practice days were the best – not because Maki toned down her training, but because I could actually use my technique and contribute. Panda and Inumaki were pretty cool guys, in my opinion, and Fushiguro was Fushiguro. It was really only Maki that I had trouble with.

“Sorry,” I said. “She’s actually a good teacher, but I feel like I’ve lost a lot of time on this project.”

“Have you tried actually talking to her?” Fushiguro asked.

“Well… not really,” I said. “But I haven’t really had the chance. Once we’re practicing, it’s all business with her.”

“So you’re complaining about her, but you’ve never actually had a real conversation or made it clear you’re not a stuck-up Kamo,” he said. “And to be clear, you’ve been working with her for three straight weeks.”

I glared at him from across the room. “I think I liked it better when you were afraid of girls and spent all your time trying to avoid me.”

“I wasn’t afraid of girls,” Fushiguro grumbled.

“Right,” I said. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

I got back to work on my arm. It wasn’t exactly optimized for appearance, but there was no doubt that it would be robotic enough to satisfy my vow: the entire arm was built from metal, with segmented joints like the spine of a snake. Four sub-arms extended from the shoulder: one was turned backwards so it would stay over my shoulder, and the other three were like smaller, less-flexible versions of my main arm, each equipped with a small tool and grabber-fingers.

The main hand was well-constructed; to help my technique, I’d been sure to include real joints for all the fingers. The pads of each finger were set with leather, to allow me to grip things with greater delicacy. That would be especially useful when I was working with paint – if I was just using a metal arm all the time, I risked scraping the paint off. I could always just stick a glove on the hand, but that was tacky.

“When does the Goodwill Event actually start?” I asked.

When I got no answer, I looked up and saw Fushiguro had left, probably a long time ago. Oops. I pulled out my phone and texted him, then reconsidered and also sent the text to Panda. Fushiguro was terrible at remembering to check his phone. Sure enough, Panda beat him to the response: September 8th, about four weeks and change away. I was halfway through the “break” between the detention center and the Goodwill Event.

If I finished up my arm tonight, I would need to figure out how to pace myself with the month I had left until the Goodwill Event. I was seriously down on usable models, Exia was trashed enough that I’d need to build a new Trans-Am capable model, and I still needed to plan and build a combat arm. That was a lot of work that needed to be done fast, especially with my mornings taken up by Maki.

And that was even getting ahead of myself, since I still had to finish my actual constructor arm. Workshop arm? I needed a cool name for it. Ultimately, I managed to get the entire thing assembled by the time it was six at night, and my stomach was killing me. My lunch was still sealed up in the paper bag Fushiguro had brought it in, but I was too excited to take a break.

I took off my placeholder arm and slotted the new one in its place. Then, I took the new arm off, put my old arm on, and stabbed myself a little so that I could bleed. Right, that was part of the process. Once I felt my technique settle in, I swapped arms yet again.

While my placeholder arm had generally felt like my old, biological arm, this new machine was something else altogether. I felt every joint click and whir as I got used to the range of motion in the arm. It could rotate and twist completely freely, at nearly every joint. That meant I could turn my arm in weird directions, like having it twist 90 degrees one way, then twist another 90 degrees, leaving my arm crooked in multiple directions.

The sub-arms were hard to get used to. Sometimes, it was like I forgot they were there, and I had to remember to get them moving a little more consciously than the main arm. Still, they twisted about and moved just like I’d imagined. With a little spark of cursed energy, I got the flashlight, arc welder, and power-saw I’d built into each sub-arm working.

I tested out my main hand. Despite looking like a normal, five-fingered hand, with a brief push I was able to separate each of its five fingers into two distinct sets, leaving me with ten fingers. I’d been inspired by that typing scene in Ghost in the Shell; I wasn’t actually sure having ten fingers would help me build stuff better than just five, but it looked cool. I wore the arm for about an hour. Its maiden voyage was a reconstruction effort: I was turning Lord Grimsever of the Eternal Darkness into Lord MechaGrimsever of the Eternal Darkness, which meant giving him a Mecha Frieza style makeover.

The new arm performed admirably. I was able to grab the necessary tools off nearby tables without even having to stand, since I could just extend my main arm or snag them with a sub-arm. I could even have sub-arms hold tools and pass them to my main arm when necessary or act as impromptu vises by holding Lord Grimsever steady as I worked. Besides scribing new lines onto Lord Grimsever so that he appeared to have undergone some kind of cyborg conversion – such as was possible when it came to a creature with a crocodile head – I also tried whittling out a new weapons pack for him.

The new arm was useful, and I was definitely working much faster than I had been with my temporary arm, but I still hadn’t approached the kind of easy deftness I’d felt when I’d had both of my natural arms, even with all the conveniences the sub-arms afforded me. Hopefully, as I got used to this arm, things would pick up in pace; for now, however, the constructor arm felt slightly unnatural. My temporary arm had been easy to use and hadn’t left me feeling weird; it had been, all things considered, a normal human arm. Not so with the constructor arm.

I didn’t really want to use it for more than a few hours at a time, since it left me with strange phantom sensations around the sub-arms. The cool segmentation I’d built into the arm that let it bend every which way was also mentally disconcerting, like I had to fight against my instinct to actually bend the arm in unusual ways. 

Still, I was basically nitpicking; so long as I didn’t wear the thing day in and day out, I could tolerate some discomfort if it meant speeding up my model-making ability.

I looked around the workshop suspiciously, to make sure I was alone.

“From the moment I understood the weakness of my flesh, it disgusted me,” I monologued, flexing my arms. “I craved the strength of certainty of steel…”

#

The next morning, I was lying spread-eagle on the grass after Maki had kicked my ass yet again. I was getting better, I was certain; her idea to train me in a completely different style had at least helped me overcome the muscle memory issue I had when fighting with just one arm, but it hadn’t actually made me instantly good at the style. As a result, all our spars ended in the exact same way.

I gasped for breath, occasionally stopping to take sips of water – it was bad to chug water while exercising, you know, even if you really want to. The problem with the summer was that it made me sweat like a pig. It was a beautiful day – a gentle breeze stirred the leaves in the trees, the sky was blue, the training field was empty except for the two of us – and I was spending most of it getting knocked back into the dirt, over and over.

Normally, Maki and I would sit in awkward silence between rounds, while I recovered and she practiced some forms or whatever, but I remembered my conversation with Fushiguro and decided it would be best for me to put in some kind of effort with her.

“Hey Maki,” I said. “Why the beef?”

Why the beef? Had I seriously just asked her why the beef? I was going to kill myself out of embarrassment.

Maki seemed just as disbelieving at my phrasing as I was. She raised an eyebrow at me.

“Okay, so,” I started again. “I get that you don’t like the big clans, but neither do I. You have to know by now that I’m not going back there, and I don’t want to, and they’d kill me if they knew what I was getting up to over here.”

Maki looked down on me. “You seriously want to talk about this?”

“…yes?” I said.

“Fine,” Maki said. “Here’s the beef. You grew up in the Kamo Clan in the lap of luxury, and just because you think you’re rebelling doesn’t mean you don’t talk like you’re from the Meiji Period, by the way. It’s obvious that you were raised like a little princess and decided you only wanted to get out when the clan did something to annoy you personally. How many servants did you have, huh?”

My mouth hung open as I stared at her. It was a bit of what I’d been expecting, and a little of something else altogether.

“Do I really talk like an old woman?” I asked.

“Get up,” Maki said. “You wanted to talk about this, so you’re going to take it seriously.”

I clambered to my feet and took up my new stance. Maki started off slow, testing my guard with a lazy sequence of punches. I limbered up as we fought, and she gradually began to increase the pace. I stepped into one of her punches and slipped it to the side with my arm, then tried to hook my leg around her ankle, but she jumped back.

“When did you decide to leave the clan?” Maki asked.

“When I was nine, and they told me I’d marry Noritoshi,” I said.

“Pretty young,” Maki said, with what sounded like grudging respect.

She grabbed my wrist, and I circled it quickly to try to push her grip off. While I was distracted, she spun her body forward and struck with her left elbow and I barely got my knee up in time to keep it from sinking into my gut.

“What happens to Kamo who can’t use cursed energy?” she asked.

“They work in the compound,” I said. “As maids, cooks, or craftsmen.”

“Can they leave, or do they have to work?” Maki asked.

I frowned. I didn’t actually know the answer to that – all the servants and craftsmen I’d known had been around my whole life. I tried to step down on Maki’s foot with my left foot, and when she shuffled out of the way I swung at her head. With her vision blocked, I stepped into a front kick aimed at her midsection, but she blocked it easily.

“It’s the same in the Zenin Clan,” Maki said. “You’re allowed to leave, if you want. But you’d shame your family, condemn them to the worst tasks and the lowest pay. It’s not technically slavery, but how many people feel like they really have a choice between escaping and protecting their family?”

“Is that what you did?” I asked.

Maki blitzed past my weak guard and punched me in the gut, then kicked me near the head, just slow enough for me to get my arm in the way. I flew backwards and dropped to one knee.

“Yes,” she spat. “I did. And I’m still a Grade 4 sorcerer because the clan will make sure I’ll never get promoted. I’ll live my whole life in poverty if the Zenin Clan get their way, just to make sure no one ever tries to follow my example.”

“What do you think I should have done, then?” I demanded. “Turn down all the training, food, and help they gave me because they thought I’d be Noritoshi’s wife? Tell them all to fuck off before I was even ten?”

“It would have been impressive,” Maki shrugged. “I did it without any of that. But no. Have you ever really thought about how lucky you were? How easy you had it? What it was like for everyone else in your clan, who hadn’t been that lucky?”

I hated to admit it, but Maki had a point – a good point. I’d only really grown to dislike the Kamo Clan because of what they’d done to me, personally, not because they were like, systemically evil, even if they probably were.  I’d even begun to entertain the idea of sticking around in the clan, before they’d sprung the engagement on me. I hadn’t really considered what it had been like to be one of my maids, or the random clan members who’d helped move my stuff whenever I’d moved houses, or the blacksmiths who taught me to work iron.

I’d never even considered what it had been like to be one of them, because I’d always assumed I’d be someone. Why else would I be reincarnated into Jujutsu Kaisen if I wasn’t going to be important in some way? That was an absolutely insane way of thinking, really – it was like I’d been thinking of myself as the main character of the world, and I’d ignored anything that was inconvenient to think about for too long. I had never considered what kind of abuse or denigration the non-sorcerers had to endure, because I’d never faced it myself and never expected to be treated poorly.

But I also couldn’t bring myself to think I should have done anything differently. The Three Great Families were pretty evil, and the Kamo and Zenin Clans were probably worse than the Gojo Clan, based on my opinion of Satoru’s ethics, but they weren’t a world-ending problem. They weren’t Kenjaku, or Sukuna – they were an after problem, not the one I needed to beat right now. That said, I also had to admit that I hadn’t really thought about reforming jujutsu society at all, just about how to get myself out of the clan, even as I’d benefitted from all the worst excesses of the clan system.

All the people who’d made my clothes, fed me, cleaned up after me, made my weapons, taught me crafting – they hadn’t had cursed energy. They’d been just like Maki. How many had an actual choice with their lot in life? How many would have rather left the compound, gone to school, made art, or done anything other than what the elders decided would be most useful? Maki was right – it wasn’t slavery, but only on a technicality. I was ashamed I’d never seriously thought about what it meant that I’d grown up in the lap of luxury.

I didn’t know how to explain all my thoughts to Maki. But, when I looked up at her while trying to think about what to say, I was surprised to see that she didn’t seem all that pissed off.

“I think you get the point,” Maki said. “Actually think about it, Kamo. You made your choice to run away from your clan, but it doesn’t end there. You have to keep making choices.”

“Yeah,” I said. “No, that’s a good point. I’ve been wrapped up in myself too much.”

Maki helped me up to my feet, then socked me in the gut again.

“Whyyyyy,” I groaned as I sunk back to the ground.

“I didn’t say stop,” she said, grinning down at me.

#

“Well, I don’t think she hates me as much as before,” I cheerily told Fushiguro.

It was another group training morning. Maki had ordered us – as was typical for her – to go buy some drinks from the vending machine for the second-years. I didn’t mind, since it functioned as a break, and Fushiguro never complained as a matter of principle.

“I don’t think she hates you at all,” he said.

“It’s all in her eyes,” I said. “They’re no longer filled with a burning hatred, and instead just a smoldering hatred. Simmering.”

Heat was on my mind; it was a cloudless day, and the sun was kicking my ass. I liked the cold more than the heat, and it was something like 90 degrees out – sorry, 32 degrees. Fortunately, the second-years’ training field wasn’t far from a huge stone gate with a wood gatehouse, within which were some vending machines. I wasn’t sure what the point of the gate was – it literally just sectioned off two parts of the school – but I couldn’t complain about the shade.

“Right,” Fushiguro said. “I’m pretty sure if she actually hated you, it would be a lot more obvious.”

“We actually get along pretty well now,” I said. “I think she really just thought I was naïve, and that pissed her off.”

Fushiguro grunted. We walked in silence for a time. Maki and I really had gotten along much better since our talk. It didn’t mean she took it any easier on me in practice – Maki took her work too seriously to ease up, for any reason – but I could tell that she wasn’t pushing me hard out of malice. It was kind of nice to work with someone who wanted to get strong as much as I did, someone who wouldn’t question why I kept pushing myself.

“Do you think we have good odds of winning?” I asked.

“I think that if there were six of us,” Fushiguro stated carefully, “we’d have a chance. But I’ve heard things about Todo that worry me.”

I slotted some coins into the vending machine. I was equipped with my wooden arm, the placeholder one I was using until I finished building my combat arm, and it made a funny thunk noise as I pressed the buttons on the machine. Maki liked Pocari Sweat – of course – and Panda wanted black tea. I had no clue what Inumaki liked, and I was counting on Fushiguro to come up with something.

“He’s hardcore, right?” I asked. “Full-on Grade 1.”

“Yeah,” Fushiguro said. “And last year-”

He cut himself off. Someone was approaching from the other side of the gate – two someones. A tall, broad-shoulder man in a white shirt, black pants, and with an insane top knot, and a tall girl with black hair cut just above her shoulder in a dress. I was kind of jealous of her look. It would have been really nice if I’d managed to grow at least a few more inches.

They stopped about fifteen feet away from us. Instinctively, I flexed my technique before realizing that I’d left my models back at the training field. Stupid! I thought I’d already learned this lesson when I was a kid. At least I had my arm, for what that was worth – it was really just a wooden arm.

“Zenin-senpai,” Fushiguro said. “What are you doing here?”

What the hell was the Kyoto School doing here? I vaguely remembered Fushiguro and Todo meeting, and Todo asking him for his type, but I thought that had been a day or two before the event, not over a month in advance. I clenched my jaw; forgetting parts of the plot, even unimportant shit like this, sucked.

“Oh Fushiguro,” Mai said. “Isn’t that what you call Maki? Call me Mai.”

“So these are the replacements for Okkotsu and the third-year,” Todo said, literally looking down his nose at us.

What to do, what to do. I didn’t really want to make waves here, a month ahead of the Goodwill Event. If I was too notable, they’d run back to Noritoshi and tell him all about how his fiancée was suddenly missing an arm, but I also wasn’t willing to let them walk all over us. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do anything just yet, as Mai proved to have a mouth on her.

“We were worried, so we tagged along,” Mai said. “I heard your classmate died. Must have been tough. Or maybe it wasn’t?”

Her voice was teasing, and I couldn’t help tensing up.

“What are you talking about?” Fushiguro asked. He stepped forward, not quite interposing himself between me and the Kyoto kids, but still taking point.

“It’s okay, some things are hard to put into words, so I’ll do it for you,” she continued. “‘Vessel’ sounds harmless, but he was basically a half-curse monster. Such a vile façade of a human was calling himself a sorcerer alongside you. It must have been unpleasant. You must be relieved he’s dead.”

Wow, talk about a bad personality ruining good looks. All envy I had over Mai’s height or hair was forgotten. Fushiguro, though I could not see his face from where I was standing, rolled his eyes. I could sense it through our bestie bond.

I wasn’t sure exactly how to act in this situation, since I knew that Itadori wasn’t actually dead. If he really had been killed, I probably would have been far more pissed off for her words, but I was mostly just disgusted by Mai’s lack of tact. She watched us both closely for our reactions, a smug smile on her face. 

“Mai, stop talking nonsense,” Todo said. “I just want to know if they’re a worthy replacement for Okkotsu. Fushiguro, was it…”

Todo trailed off and stepped forward. He gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled, beginning to tear it in half. Wow, what a waste of clothing! These kids were really deranged.

“What kind of girls do you like?” he demanded, still ripping his shirt. “Depending on your answer, I’ll beat you half to death and drag out Okkotsu and the third-year.”

Todo was shirtless, and I had to admit that he was toned. Most sorcerers stayed agile and slender, but Todo clearly felt that power – or maybe aesthetics – was more important. With his cursed technique, I couldn’t blame him. He leaned forward and took a wrestling-style stance.

“By the way, I like tall girls with big butts!” he said.

The cursed energy was rolling off him in waves. It was clear he didn’t lack raw power. It was no surprise that he didn’t need an offensive cursed technique, if he had this much energy to work with to reinforce his basic strikes. Still, it wasn’t as intimidating as the energy I’d felt from the Finger Bearer at the detention center, so I held my ground.

“Why should I share something like that with someone I just met?” Fushiguro stalled. 

“Fushiguro’s a turbo virgin,” I told Todo. “He only just realized girls exist earlier this year.”

“Shut up,” Fushiguro hissed at me through grit teeth.

I kept an eye on Mai, but she seemed content to stay back. I didn’t see a gun on her, and she wasn’t using any cursed energy, but I knew she would jump in at the worst possible time.

“Kyoto third-year, Aoi Todo,” he said. “Introductions over. Now that we’re friends, hurry up and answer it. It can even be a guy.”

How progressive! I was actually a little surprised. Then again, Todo wasn’t part of one of the old clans, so I shouldn’t have expected too much conservatism out of him. Maybe I was just stereotyping the Kyoto school.

“A person’s tastes reveal everything about them,” Todo said. He wanted an answer but seemed content to ramble. “Guys who have boring taste are boring. I don’t like boring guys.”

Todo kept going, but I tuned him out to think. Maybe it was for the best I was unarmed, since there was no chance that my new tools would filter back to the Kyoto School before the Goodwill Event, and I’d be able to keep the element of surprise. I wasn’t too worried about us getting hurt here; if I remembered correctly, the second-years would arrive soon to bail us out, and even if Todo kicked Fushiguro’s ass, Shoko could handle it.

Out of habit, I flexed my wooden fingers, hearing them click. The motion caught Mai’s eyes. Oops.

“I don’t have a preference,” Fushiguro said. “As long as she’s compassionate, then I don’t need anything else.”

“Good answer!” Mai chimed in sarcastically.

I’d been prepared to make fun of him for being a cop-out, but he seemed actually sincere. It was surprisingly charming: he really did seem to only care about a nice girl. He was probably thinking about his sister.

Todo clearly didn’t share Mai’s opinion, since his cursed energy output spiked. Fushiguro reflexively took up a defensive posture. I just took a few steps to the side, to make sure I didn’t get caught up in the incoming attack. 

“I knew it,” Todo said. “You’re boring, Fushiguro.”

Todo rocketed forward, faster than I could track, and slammed into Fushiguro’s guard with a flying lariat, Rainbow Mika style. His follow-through swing sent Fushiguro flying off towards the steps behind us, somehow flipped over sideways. Todo kicked off the floor to follow after him. I turned to watch, but Mai had closed the distance between us.

She snaked her arms around my neck and restrained my hands, keeping them pulled back at her side, unable to bend.

“Aw!” she said. “Poor Fushiguro! Even though he’s a Grade 2 sorcerer, he’s no match for a Grade 1 like Todo. I’ll check up on him later.”

I didn’t need to listen to this. Mai may have thought she restrained me, but that was only if my arms worked like normal arms did. Fortunately, I had a ball joint built into my elbow. I swung my wooden arm ninety degrees to the side, slamming a fist into Mai’s side. It was an impossible movement for a normal human arm, but I wasn’t a normal human anymore.

Mai collapsed on the ground, the wind knocked out of her. I stood over her dispassionately, carefully waiting to see if she tried to draw a gun.

“What are you, Grade 3? Grade 4?” I asked. “Weaker than Maki, for sure.”

I heard the sound of destruction behind me as Todo continued his rampage, but I didn’t look away. Mai glared up at me, hatred in her eyes. Somehow, it looked nothing like the anger I’d seen in Maki’s. I actually felt a little bad; wasn’t I basically just bullying someone weaker than me?

Mai tried to swing her revolver up towards me, but I was ready and lashed out with a kick, sending it skittering across the floor.

“What’s your deal?” I asked. “Seriously.”

“Just scouting out the opposition,” she hissed, still trying to catch her breath. “You’re that Kamo girl, right? You have the rat face.”

I seriously considered burying my foot in her face. I didn’t even give her my signature call me Matsuno. Mai evidently read my displeasure, because she slid backwards on the floor before getting her feet under her and staggering to her feet.

“I can’t wait to tell Noritoshi about this,” she said. It wasn’t exactly menacing, because she was still struggling to breathe.

“Sure,” I shrugged. “Tell him all about how you tried to shoot his fiancée.”

Mai grimaced, and I chuckled. I didn’t really like throwing around my status, but Mai clearly cared a lot about it, for reasons I still didn’t understand. Then again, I was kind of living up to what Maki had expected of me. Not cool, Matsuno. If I hadn’t been born with Still Life Blood Animation, there was a good chance I would have ended up just like Mai: a cut-rate sorcerer, pushed down by her patriarchal clan, bitter at the world.

“Look,” I said. “There’s no reason for us to fight yet.”

The I outmatch you went unsaid, but Mai heard it anyway. I could practically see her debating whether to keep fighting me or not, as she half-moved into a combat stance. I kept myself neutral, and my body open. I wasn’t going to be the one to re-start hostilities.

“Everything alright here?” Maki called from behind me.

I turned around. Maki was waiting at the entrance to the tunnel, a bo staff in her grip. Todo and Fushiguro had left my line of sight, though the sounds of fighting had stopped. Panda and Inumaki had probably found them.

“We’re all good here,” I said.

Mai evidently disagreed. She took my moment of distraction to sprint down the hall and grab her gun, then tucked into a roll and fired off two shots in my direction. I could feel the motion of her cursed energy: they were rubber bullets, reinforced with cursed energy. That meant that I could match them automatically with my own energy. 

The first was going to go wide so I ignored it, but the second would probably hit my torso. I swung my wooden arm around and swatted the bullet into the floor, the speed of my arm far outpacing anything I could make my body do naturally. This cyborg stuff did have its benefits.

Maki’s bo staff flew past me and bonked Mai in the face, sending her sprawling back down to the floor. I checked over my shoulder; Maki had adopted a javelin-throwing stance, a smirk on her face. I smiled back at her.

Mai scrambled to her feet but made no attempt to shoot me again. 

“Seriously, what is your deal?” I asked again. “Like, what’s the point? We don’t even know each other.”

“She’s just like that,” Maki said. 

Mai’s nose was bloody, and her legs were shaking. How hard had Maki hit her? 

“Do you need to go see Dr. Ieiri?” I asked. 

Mai sneered at me in response. Sheesh, lady, my bad. Sorry for worrying about a concussion.

“We’re leaving,” Todo declared.

He’d re-entered the underpass from the other side, dust covering his shirtless body. He was completely relaxed and scratching idly at his hair. What a scary guy. Mai clicked her tongue but stowed her revolver. 

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll finish this later.”

“Forget it.” Todo declared. “Unlike you, I’ve got important business in Tokyo.”

He produced a pair of tickets, clutching them tightly. “Takada-chan’s meet and greet!”

Mai huffed but followed him out of the tunnel. Todo stopped to grab his jacket, which I hadn’t even realized he’d tossed on the ground. As they got to the end of the tunnel, Mai paused and turned around.

“Hey you!” she yelled. “Don’t think we’ll go easy on you in the Goodwill Event.”

Before I could respond, she scurried after Todo. I watched her go in disbelief.

“Maki,” I said. “I know you just told me to think about the less fortunate members of the clan, but…”

“Mai’s the exception,” Maki told me. She slung an arm around my shoulder and led me out of the tunnel.

I looked up at her, but her eyes were fixed on the distance. She didn’t seem particularly happy about seeing Mai get beat down. I wondered what that kind of guilt felt like.

#