Gina's POV
It had all gone wrong so fast. The ceiling caved in, and the ground tore open beneath us, burying Priya and me under tons of concrete and twisted steel.
For the longest time, I thought I was dead, then my mind started to drift.
"…You stood by while my mother and sister were butchered. And you have the gall to apologize and pretend!"
Julius' words echoed louder than the crash, louder than the pain. Louder than the deaths of seven sorcerers and dozens of guards.
It dragged up an emotion I thought I'd buried in my youth—guilt. George and I learned very early that morality hardly factored into the mathematics of survival.
There was no honor in weakness.
We were weak when the kidnappers dragged us out of our parents' home in Johannesburg at seven years old. Our parents were weaker still for trusting the police to save us.
The officer in charge of our case had them killed and took the ransom money for himself, leaving us to rot in the hands of monsters.
For years, we were passed around from factories to farms, to bakeries and construction sites—until the men started noticing us.
We endured the brothel for a year until George snapped. He took a knife to a politician's thigh. He'd been aiming for his genitals.
The man wanted to blind him for it, but settled for an eye from each of us instead, and a lifetime of misery.
We killed him that night when he tried to take us. George gouged out his eyes, and I tore out his carotid with my teeth.
He didn't go quietly. The children were at the door when the screaming stopped—a twelve-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl.
I hesitated, but only for a second, before I smashed the boy's head in with a vase. George went after the girl.
It didn't matter that they didn't deserve it. It was us or them.
I didn't stop until I cracked his skull and broke nearly every bone in my hand. The housekeeper found us next, and then a guard.
She died bloody, while I stabbed the guard in the neck.
That's when Artisan found us—two blood-soaked kids stumbling down marble stairs in the sweltering heat. Her pink hair shimmered like a mirage.
She grinned and clapped slowly.
"Not bad at all, kids. Not bad at all."
We didn't trust her, not at first. But she cleaned us up, bought us clothes, and fed us our first real meal in years. Then she asked for our story, listened in silence, and took us straight to the man who'd damned us.
He was impressive—lean, powerful—but it didn't matter. She paralyzed him with a touch and gave him to us. We flayed him alive, the act staining George and my soul black.
I reveled in his pain at the beginning, thoroughly hated myself halfway through, but gained clarity by the end.
Power was the only valuable yardstick to measure yourself by.
Society liked to pretend it was governed by laws and morality, but power was the only thing that truly mattered.
It was why we'd been bought and sold like animals, and why the corrupt politician and the policeman were dead.
The strongest nations hoard it. The cruelest people weaponize it. And the rest of us steal, beg, and sell our souls for it.
Morality was irrelevant in the face of power.
So when Artisan pitched her plan to transform the world through Jujutsu, I took it eagerly.
More than half the world still suffered from poverty. I didn't see the UN rolling out any comprehensive enhancement procedure to protect us from meta-humans, billionaires, aliens, and magic.
Artisan methods might've been cruel and bloody, but they meant survival. Evolution.
I told myself we were saving the world. Through the murders. Through the manipulation. Through the lies.
None of it ever got to me until Julius.
He was infuriating, insightful, and saw me clearly than George. Than Lily.
I didn't realize I cared for him until it was too late.
When the order came to take his family, I hesitated—but I still carried it out. We had taken Artisan's Oath.
It was like I was back in that politician's bedroom. It was me or him.
And I chose myself. Every time.
I coughed, the sound wet and ugly. Blood stung my eye as I pulled at my Cursed Energy, reversing the flow. Warm Positive Energy flared through me, shimmering over my body as my Reversed Cursed Technique mended shattered bones, torn muscles, and crushed organs.
It took me some time to realize I was partially transformed—as was Priya, who lay unconscious beside me. The extreme trauma had forced her to change. Gritting my teeth, I pushed against the precarious slab of concrete, crushing my leg. Something shifted overhead, and grainy dust rained down.
I squinted my single blue eye, penetrating through the wreck. I couldn't exactly see through it, but I could sense its structure well enough.
There was no way out of this without crushing us both in the process.
Artisan and my brother knew where I was—it was only a matter of time. Though I had no idea how I'd face them.
Last I heard from George, he was about to fight Batman and a strike team besieging headquarters, while Artisan handled our biggest mission to date.
They'd trusted Priya and me to handle Julius. We failed. Spectacularly.
Julius had always been a wildcard, but even Artisan would be shocked by how much stronger he'd become.
The way he took Priya down—it had to be some kind of neurological or toxin-based attack. Nothing else fit. I hadn't even felt his Cursed Energy spike.
My Domain Expansion should've crushed him in seconds, not dragged the fight out for nearly a minute and let him eke out a complicated victory by manipulating his own bone of all things.
Then there was the matter of Lex Luthor and the Light. Neither party would be pleased by recent events. If history was any indication, Vandal would demand Artisan's cooperation—or else. And Luthor would sell us out through some clever trick.
We couldn't fight a war on two fronts. Still, I had confidence that Artisan would get us out of this somehow.
Reality above me twisted, and George appeared, breath heavy, blood dripping from his nose and ears. He was shirtless, covered in partially healed wounds, his lips twisted into a snarl that softened when he saw me.
"You look like shit, sis," he said.
"Likewise," I muttered, breathing a little easier now that he was there. I'd expected a longer wait.
"I got hit with a sonic rifle, then got mentally shivved by the Martian. What's your excuse?"
I gave him a look. He understood immediately.
"You can't be serious."
"Misha and Adrian died in seconds," I explained. "Shelim would've too, if he'd been here."
George's eyes hardened. "Artisan wasn't kidding about the power bump, was she? Did he have a Domain Expansion?"
"No," I said, "but he's close. Too close. He's going to come for us, George. It's personal for him."
I looked up at my brother, who seemed perplexed. He wasn't used to seeing me rattled.
"He won't be the first idiot who came looking for revenge. It's nothing we can't handle," he said smoothly. "Come on. Let's get out of here before somebody comes looking."
He grabbed my shoulder.
"You good for a Maximum Blackhole?"
"Did Artisan sign off?"
"She's unreachable, but it's the right call. We can't leave any trace behind."
I agreed. It didn't solve our Light or Luthor problem, but it would keep the Justice League from gathering any more information.
Things were going to be different now. Harder.
George reached out and touched Priya. "You ready?"
"Of course," I muttered with a confidence I didn't quite feel.
Reality bent—and he whisked us away.
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