There are moments in life—both my first one and this rebooted, cursed-energy-infused sequel—where silence is louder than any scream. It's not the absence of sound, but the presence of a void, a pressure that swallows all other frequencies. It's the silence of a hospital room after the monitor flatlines. It's the silence of a judging crowd before the verdict is read. It's the silence that hangs in the air after a secret, too terrible and wonderful to speak aloud, has been unveiled.
Today was one of those moments.
Technically, five years have bled away since my reincarnation into the gilded cage of the Gojo clan. I say "technically" because childhood, the second time around, feels less like a fresh start and more like a bootleg prequel I never asked for, directed by a committee with a fetish for pastel colors and suffocating tradition. My days were a montage of absurdly soft baby clothes that felt like being swaddled in clouds, adults cooing in saccharine, high-pitched tones as if I were some kind of half-deaf, intellectually stunted rabbit. The servants, a parade of silent, efficient ghosts in kimono, would bow and scrape, their whispers slithering through the paper-thin walls like serpents of condescension. "The boy without the Six Eyes," they would murmur, the phrase a constant, damning epithet. "A shame for such a prestigious lineage." Yeah. A real blast.
But a month ago… a month ago, the dam broke. I woke from a nap, the scent of tatami and incense thick in my room, and the memories didn't just trickle back—they crashed over me like a tsunami of another life. The cold, clinical feel of tubes in my arms. The sterile, antiseptic taste of hospital air that clung to the back of the throat. The stark, black-and-white manga panels of a story I had once consumed as fiction, now revealed as a horrifying, pre-death premonition. The grief was a strange, slow-acting poison. It didn't punch; it seeped. It was ice water poured meticulously over my skull, a chilling reminder etched into my very soul: You already died once. You wasted that chance. Don't screw up this second run.
Then, yesterday, the catalyst. My Cursed Technique awakened. It didn't arrive with a gentle chime or a soft glow. It was a visceral, internal earthquake. One moment I was practicing basic cursed energy circulation, the next, a ravenous, bottomless hunger roared to life within my core. It was a void that demanded to be filled, a primal instinct that whispered of consumption and assimilation. I saw flashes of possibilities—tearing into a cursed spirit and not just exorcising it, but taking something from it, absorbing its essence, its very identity.
The name for this… this metaphysical gluttony, appeared in my mind as if it had always been there: Devouring Genesis.
And of course, I lied about it.
I mean—obviously.
No one in their right mind stands before an entire clan of ego-inflated sorcerers, drunk on centuries of their own bloodline prestige, and declares, "Hey, yeah, my unique and special talent lets me devour the abilities of others like some kind of metaphysical blender. I am, for all intents and purposes, a sentible, high-concept curse in human skin."
That isn't a declaration of power; it's a suicide note. That's how you get sealed in a forgotten vault, dissected on a stone altar by uncles with too much time and too little empathy, or politely "disappeared" by family members who claim, with tears in their eyes, that they "don't want you to suffer from such a monstrous existence."
So, I crafted a lie. Something useful enough to be plausible, but so mundane it would be instantly dismissed by a clan that worshipped the ground Satoru walked on.
When the elders gathered, their faces like ancient, wrinkled masks of expectation, I bowed low and delivered my lines with practiced, childish uncertainty.
"My Cursed Technique…" I mumbled, feigning shyness. "I can… harden materials. I can make them twice as strong as normal."
I demonstrated on a piece of slate. I focused, letting a wisp of cursed energy reinforce its structure. It didn't shatter when struck. Useful? Sure, for construction or maybe making a half-decent shield. Impressive? Not even slightly. It was the jujutsu equivalent of being a really good brick-layer.
The council of elders, a row of ossified relics in formal kimono, dismissed me within minutes. Their faces, initially taut with anticipation, slackened into polite, aristocratic disgust. I saw it in the twitch of a lip, the slight downturn of a mouth, the way one elder simply stopped looking at me altogether, his gaze drifting to a painted screen as if it were far more interesting. A disappointment to the lineage. A wasted Gojo. Another child who wasn't blessed, who wasn't him.
I guess I should've been offended, but honestly? It was profoundly validating. My plan—to slip under their radar, to be declared a non-entity—had worked flawlessly. I was a pebble they could kick aside, and that was exactly where I wanted to be.
What I didn't expect was the knock on my door the very next morning.
Three taps.
Polite but final.
The kind of knock that doesn't ask a question,but announces the end of a sentence.
I slid the door open to find him.
Satoru Gojo.
A shock of white hair defying gravity. Those ridiculous, opaque sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dim hallway light. He was leaning against the doorframe with a casual slouch that seemed to defy architectural principles, as if he had forgotten gravity was a thing that applied to him. Japan's strongest sorcerer, the man who casually rewrote the hierarchy of the entire jujutsu world with his mere existence… was leaning against my doorframe like he had wandered here by accident while looking for the bathroom.
"KigaHoshi," he greeted, his voice cheerful and utterly without pretense. "Got a minute? The elders want to talk to you. Again."
I swallowed a spike of cold annoyance. Great. Round two with the clan's turban-wearing fossils. What more could they possibly want? To tell me my hardening was even more pathetic upon second thought?
He turned, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, and began humming some annoyingly catchy pop tune as he walked. He didn't even glance back to see if I was following. He just assumed the universe would bend to his whims, and that I was part of that cosmic alignment. And of course—he was right. I fell into step behind him, a small, dark-haired shadow trailing a walking supernova.
As we navigated the long, wooden hallways of the compound, servants and lower-ranked clan members flitted about like startled moths. Their eyes would dart towards Satoru, filled with a mixture of awe and terror, before skittering away. When their gazes accidentally fell on me, it was with a different kind of avoidance—a respectful, almost pitying erasure. They were respectfully, fearfully, pretending I didn't exist.
Satoru, blissfully unaware or, more likely, utterly indifferent to this social dance, kept talking as if we were two dudes casually walking into a 7-Eleven for a slushie.
"You know," he said, flipping a piece of hard candy into his mouth with a practiced flick of his wrist, "you're surprisingly calm for someone the clan's effectively kicking out. Most kids your age cry. Or rage. Or, on one memorable occasion, try to stab an elder with a calligraphy brush."
I blinked, my carefully maintained composure cracking for a second. "Stab an elder?"
"Yeah. Happened last year. Kid didn't even have a Cursed Technique. Impressive spirit, though. Terrible aim. Got disarmed by a servant carrying tea." He grinned, a flash of perfect white teeth. "The scandal was delicious."
I stared, my mind trying and failing to picture the scene. Yep. This was Satoru Gojo all right. The living, breathing embodiment of controlled chaos.
We entered the main council chamber. The air in here was different—heavy, still, and thick with the scent of old wood, incense, and unyielding arrogance. Tall, dark walls stretched upwards, and the elders were arranged on a raised dais, seated on pristine zabuton cushions like a row of mouldy, immovable shogi pieces. Their faces were carved from the same granite of disapproval they'd worn yesterday.
The centermost elder, a man so old he seemed to be made of dust and parchment, cleared his throat. The sound was like dry leaves scraping against stone.
"KigaHoshi Gojo," he began, his voice reedy and formal. "In accordance with the clan's sacred standards, established for the preservation and elevation of our lineage, your newly awakened Cursed Technique has been deemed… insufficient for the purposes of strengthening the Gojo bloodline. It lacks the… sublime quality required to uphold our legacy."
Satoru, who had been examining his own fingernails with great interest, cut him off with a languid wave.
"Basically," he translated, stretching his arms above his head with an audible pop, "they don't want you here. You're clutter. Bad for the feng shui."
A vein throbbed visibly on the temple of the head elder. The others glared daggers at Satoru, who merely smiled back, the picture of innocence.
"We are not without mercy," another elder continued, his voice stiff, as if the words were being forced out. "You are being given a choice. You may leave the clan compound, under the guardianship of a sorcerer we have appointed. You will retain the Gojo surname for the time being, as your current existence does not pose a threat to our legacy."
"Does not threaten."
That particular phrase almost made me laugh aloud.The sheer, blind, arrogant irony of it was breathtaking. If they had even an inkling of what Devouring Genesis truly was—the potential for infinite growth, the power to steal and replicate the very foundations of their precious jujutsu world—they wouldn't be exiling me. They'd be throwing me into the deepest, most heavily sealed volcano they could find, while chanting prayers for my eternal imprisonment.
But I was a good actor. I had five years of practice. I bowed my head, my black hair falling over my red eyes, hiding the flicker of triumph and contempt within.
"I understand and accept the clan's wisdom," I said, my voice a soft, submissive murmur.
Just like that, it was over. I was dismissed. Not with a bang, but with a wave of a wrinkled hand. I was an object being returned to the store, no receipt required, no questions asked.
As Satoru escorted me back out of the oppressive chamber, he whistled a merry tune. "That went well! No one threw their tea. No one fainted from the sheer outrage of it all. Honestly, that's like an A+ performance for this clan. You should be proud."
I let out a slow sigh, the tension in my shoulders easing only slightly. "You really, genuinely don't care what they think, do you?"
He grinned, tapping the side of his ridiculous sunglasses. "When you're me, you stop taking life seriously pretty quick. And clans? Especially this one? Extra, super, mind-bogglingly not seriously. They're a bad reality show I'm forced to produce."
We reached the outer gardens, a meticulously maintained paradise of raked gravel, ancient, twisting pine trees, and carefully placed stones. A small stream gurgled peacefully. It was quiet here, private. The perfect place for a confession.
"Satoru," I said, stopping by a gnarled bonsai tree. "Before I go, there's something I need to tell you. Not the council. Just you."
He arched a single, white eyebrow above the rim of his sunglasses. A spark of genuine interest lit up his face. "Oho? Go on. Secrets are my favorite currency."
"I lied," I stated, my voice dropping all pretense. "I lied about my Cursed Technique."
He didn't react with shock or outrage. He didn't narrow his eyes in suspicion. He just tilted his head slightly, a small, intrigued smile playing on his lips—like someone adjusting the angle of a television for a better picture.
"Yeah," he said, his tone utterly matter-of-fact. "I figured."
I couldn't hide my surprise this time. "…You did?"
"KigaHoshi," he said, laughing softly, "your cursed energy… it feels all wrong for something as simple as hardening. It's not a solid, stable shell. It's dense, yeah, but it's a swirling, chaotic kind of dense. It's hungry. It has… texture. You're about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. To me, at least."
I fought the urge to groan and slap my own forehead. Of course he sensed it. The Six Eyes perceived cursed energy on a level I couldn't even comprehend. My clever ruse was probably as transparent as glass to him from the very beginning.
"So," he prompted, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What's the real one? Don't leave me in suspense. Is it something flashy? Can you summon little dancing frogs? I'd respect a frog-summoning technique."
I took a deep, steadying breath, inhaling the scent of damp earth and pine. This was the point of no return.
"It's called Devouring Genesis."
And I explained it. Piece by terrifying piece. The ability to absorb and assimilate the cursed energy of others, not just to replenish my own, but to add their volume to my pool. The potential to consume the core of a Cursed Technique from a spirit or a sorcerer. The specific, blood-based trigger for copying an Innate Technique from another human. And the catch—the monumental, terrifying catch. A two-year assimilation period for any technique I consumed. Two years where my entire Cursed Technique would be locked away, sealed shut as my body and soul struggled to integrate the foreign power, leaving me utterly vulnerable.
Satoru listened. For the first time since I'd met him, he was completely silent, not interrupting once. His posture remained relaxed, but I could feel the intensity of his focus behind those sunglasses.
When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment, then let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Damn. That's actually… pretty cool." He put a hand to his chin, genuinely analyzing it. "Incredibly risky. Wildly inconvenient. And absolutely, pants-wettingly terrifying if you ever survive long enough to stack a few techniques. Yeah. You're not going to be boring. You're gonna be strong."
He said it so casually, with such effortless conviction, that it almost knocked the air from my lungs. There was no fear, no disgust, just a clinical appreciation of the mechanics and potential.
"So," he added, as if discussing the weather, "why not tell the elders? A technique like that would have had them tripping over themselves to keep you. You'd have been their new favorite pet project."
I stared at the moss growing at the base of the bonsai tree, my words carefully chosen. "I don't like them," I said, the honesty feeling like a release. "I don't like the way this place smells. I don't like the way they look at people as assets or defects. I don't want to be a jewel in their crown. I don't want them to use me."
He blinked, then threw his head back and laughed, a loud, genuine sound that startled a bird from a nearby tree.
"Oh, good. You're sane. I was worried for a second there. For a kid born into this circus, you have a remarkably clear head."
I couldn't help it—a real, unforced laugh escaped my own lips. The tension of the morning finally shattered.
Then, I asked him the thing I'd been saving, the true purpose of this confession.
"Satoru. I want a favor."
He paused, the laughter dying down to a smirk. "A favor, huh? I'm a busy man, you know. Usually I charge exorbitant rates for my services. But since you're getting unceremoniously kicked out into the cold, cruel world, I'll offer a… family discount."
"It's about blood."
The air shifted. It was subtle, but I felt it. His smirk didn't vanish, but it solidified. His sunglasses slipped down his nose just a fraction, and for the first time, I saw the very edges of his Six Eyes—a breathtaking, impossible blue—as he stared at me through narrowed lids.
"…Go on," he said, his voice several degrees cooler.
"You're fostering the kid from the Zenin clan. Megumi Fushiguro. He has the Ten Shadows Technique."
Satoru's jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. It wasn't anger, I realized, but surprise. Surprise that I had this information. My knowledge, a remnant of a past life, was a variable he hadn't accounted for.
"I want a vial of his blood," I continued, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest. "And the blood of two other sorcerers. Young, with useful, stable Cursed Techniques. It doesn't matter who they are, as long as their abilities are potent and varied. Anyone but you. Your Six Eyes and Limitless are…" I searched for the word, the sensation the technique itself had given me. "…too complex. Incompatible with my current state. They'd probably break me."
Satoru exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath.
"You're not just ambitious, kid. You're playing a dangerously ambitious game right out of the gate."
"Ambitious people survive," I said, meeting his gaze squarely, the remnants of my previous life's resignation hardening into a core of steel. "And I don't plan to die again. Not in this one."
For a long, suspended moment, he was silent. The gurgle of the stream and the whisper of the wind in the pines were the only sounds. He was weighing me, judging the mettle of my soul, the truth of my words. Then, he offered the smallest, most significant of nods.
"…Fine."
"Fine?" I repeated, the word leaving my lips in a stunned breath. I had expected negotiation, conditions, a lecture.
"Yeah. Fine." A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "I like your attitude. It's refreshing. And I'm morbidly curious to see what kind of monster you'll become. Besides," he added, the grin turning into a full-blown smirk, "the mere thought of helping you eventually become something that gives these old bastards collective heart attacks gives me immense emotional satisfaction. It's a long-term investment in my own entertainment."
I laughed, a real, sharp sound of relief and victory. He smirked in response.
"I'll get what you asked for," he said, turning away and shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Give me a couple of days. Don't go anywhere. Oh, wait, you can't. You're being exiled."
Before he vanished down the garden path, he raised a hand in a lazy, backwards wave.
"And KigaHoshi?"
"Yes?" I called after him.
"Welcome to freedom. Try not to die before the fun starts."
---
Three days later, he returned.
There was no dramatic entrance. No explosion of blue light or the crackle of spatial distortion. He just slid open the door to my temporary, spartan room and poked his head in, as if he were checking to see if I wanted to order takeout.
"Got your order," he announced casually, and tossed a small, unadorned wooden case onto my lap. It was cool and smooth to the touch.
My hands trembled slightly as I opened the latch. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, were three glass vials, each about the length of my thumb. Each was stoppered with wax, and each had a small slip of paper tucked beside it with a name and a technique written in Satoru's sloppy, almost unreadable handwriting.
Megumi Fushiguro — Ten Shadows
Rina Kurokawa — Ember Thread
Hajime Yozato — Shadow Imprint
"Good enough?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe, watching me intently.
My heart thudded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of anticipation and dread. This was it. The point of genesis.
"Yes," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "This is… more than enough."
There was no ceremony. No sacred circle to draw. This was an act of consumption, not ritual. I uncorked the first vial—Megumi's. The scent was faintly metallic. I tipped it to my lips and drank. The blood was cool, but as it slid down my throat, it ignited a fire in my gut. I repeated the process with Rina's vial, and then with Hajime's. The taste was the same—metal and salt and something else, something indefinable: the sharp, electric tang of potential.
These weren't just vials of blood.
They were futures.
They were evolution.
They were keys.
The moment the last drop of Hajime's blood touched my tongue, Devouring Genesis roared to life.
It was not a gentle awakening. It was a violent, internal cataclysm. My own cursed energy surged forth from my core, not as a controlled flow, but as a wild, torrential flood, crashing through my meridians like molten iron. It felt like my veins were turning to lava. The world around me—Satoru, the room, the very air—blurred and swam as my senses were violently turned inward.
Shapes that were not shapes twisted in my mind's eye. Memories that did not belong to me brushed against my consciousness like phantom limbs: the cool, deep well of shadows waiting to be given form; the delicate, fiery sensation of spinning threads of cursed energy into incandescent wires; the intricate, stamp-like process of imprinting a concept onto a surface. I felt echoes of footwork, of heat manipulation, of summoning rituals.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
A final, resonant CLICK echoed in the very center of my being, a sound felt rather than heard. My Cursed Technique, my connection to that well of power, sealed itself shut. Completely. Irrevocably. It was a door slamming closed in a dark room, and I was left on the wrong side, grasping at a handle that wouldn't turn.
Devouring Genesis had begun its two-year assimilation.
Two years.
Seven hundred and thirty days of waiting.
Two years of playing the part of a normal,perhaps slightly gifted, sorcerer trainee.
Two years of being utterly,completely vulnerable. No technique to fall back on. No ultimate weapon to unveil. Just my wits, my basic cursed energy control, and the hope that Satoru's interest would be enough of a shield.
I swallowed hard, panting, sweat beading on my forehead. I looked up at Satoru. He hadn't moved, but his posture was different. The casual slouch was gone, replaced by a still, observant intensity. He was watching me with the calm, analytical eyes of a scientist observing a fascinating chemical reaction.
"So," he said, his voice cutting through the lingering static in my head, "when do you think we'll meet again?"
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my limbs feeling heavy and foreign.
"When I get into Jujutsu High," I said quietly, the words a promise to myself. "Hopefully."
He smirked, the familiar casualness returning to his frame.
"Yeah. Hopefully. Try not to blow anything up until then. Or get yourself killed. It'd be a waste of a perfectly good down payment."
I almost snorted. "No promises."
He nodded once—a small, sharp gesture that held a world of approval. Then he turned to leave.
"KigaHoshi," he added, without looking back, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. "You might not be a Six Eyes user. But don't let the weight of that name, or their disappointment, make you small."
My breath caught in my throat. No one had ever said anything like that to me in this life.
"You're already something interesting. Remember that."
Then, he was gone. And the silence he left behind was different. It wasn't the loud, judging silence of the council chamber. It was the quiet of a stage being set, the hushed anticipation before the curtain rises.
---
Now?
Now I'm sitting in a quiet, modern apartment far from the oppressive, traditional weight of the Gojo compound. My guardian, Akiyama Itsuki, is a man in his late forties, a Grade 2 sorcerer with no clan affiliations. He's strict, quiet, and brutally efficient. He asks no probing questions, offers no false comfort, but he is not unkind. He provides structure, food, and a roof. It is a transaction, and for now, that is all I need.
My room is the epitome of simplicity: a wall of bookshelves filled with jujutsu theory texts and normal school curriculum, a single tatami mat on the floor, a low, lacquered desk scattered with calligraphy brushes and notebooks, and a large window that offers a sprawling view of the city at night—a vast tapestry of glittering lights and anonymous skyscrapers.
My days have a new rhythm. I am supposed to be studying the fundamentals, building a foundation my previous life never had: advanced cursed energy theory, fine manipulation exercises, the mind-bending mathematics of barrier formulation, the intricate laws of Binding Vows, the critical difference between an innate technique's activation trigger and one that can be learned.
In the evenings, I put on a uniform and attend a normal middle school. I walk among students whose biggest concerns are exams and crushes and pop idols. I am a ghost among them, playing a part in a life that looks painfully ordinary from the outside.
But inside?
Inside,I am a chrysalis. A ticking bomb waiting for its countdown to end. A dormant volcano.
A child with unnaturally red eyes and hair as black as a starless night.
A boy the mighty Gojo clan discarded as dross.
A cousin the great Satoru Gojo casually helped out of a mix of pity,curiosity, and spite.
A sorcerer with three stolen Cursed Techniques simmering in the crucible of his soul,waiting to be born.
A boy named KigaHoshi Gojo.
No—
Not just that.
I am a boy who once died in a sterile hospital bed, but who refused to stay dead.
A boy who has,through some karmic twist or cosmic error, been given a second roll of the dice.
A boy who has made a silent,furious deal with the universe itself.
And I refuse to waste this second life.
I will not be a spectator.I will not be a pawn.
I will not be weak.
Not again.
Never again.
Tomorrow, training continues. Tomorrow, I will push my body and my cursed energy to their absolute limits, building the vessel that must be strong enough to contain the storm that will come. Tomorrow, I begin, in earnest, the meticulous work of shaping the person I am determined to become.
And two years from now?
The chrysalis will crack. The bomb will detonate. The volcano will erupt.
I will awaken.
For real this time.
With the Ten Shadows' dominion over mystery, the Ember Thread's delicate and deadly control, and the Shadow Imprint's versatile utility woven into the very fabric of my being—it will be the first, true step of my Devouring Genesis.
Not the strongest.
Not yet.
But rising.
Always,always rising.