I looked at the roof, pondering the absurdity of my existence. The textured white surface was a blank canvas for my racing thoughts. Two days ago, the car ride from the Gojo estate had not been an adventure but a trap—a elegantly sprung trap with Satoru Gojo as the smiling bait, designed to force me to meet a madman, my new so-called teacher. The memory of Gojo's casual wave as he drove off, leaving me on the doorstep of this secluded suburban house, felt like a betrayal packaged in nonchalance.
The first thing I learned about my new teacher was that he did not knock.
He exploded into rooms.
And by exploded, I mean the door to my new bedroom, a spartan but comfortable room I had only just begun to call my own, swung inward with such violent, unhinged enthusiasm that the paper charms pasted to its frame—wards of basic protection and tranquility I had placed myself—did not simply sway. They fluttered like a flock of panicked birds, their edges curling in the sudden gale of his entrance.
A tall, lanky figure strode inside, hauling a whirlwind of mismatched energy behind him. The first thing I registered was a teal hoodie, faded from countless washes. Thrown over his shoulder was a white lab coat that had clearly seen better days, stained with unidentifiable smudges of color and what looked like a faint, spectral burn. His hair was a masterpiece of chaotic intention, dark strands sticking out in five different directions like an electrified porcupine mid-shock. His eyes, a startling shade of amber, scanned the room with an unnerving, predatory glee before landing on me.
"GOOD MORNING, KIGAHOSHI!"
His voice wasn't just loud; it was a physical force, a concussive wave that seemed to vibrate the very dust motes dancing in the slivers of pre-dawn light. I blinked slowly, the remnants of sleep clinging to me like a heavy fog. My brain, still booting up, processed the digital clock on my nightstand.
"It's 5:12 AM," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. The words were a feeble dam against his torrent of energy.
"YES! PRIME TRAINING HOUR! THE BRAIN IS SHARPEST AT DAWN! THE WORLD IS QUIETER! THE CURSED ENERGY IN THE AIR IS LESS AGITATED, MAKING IT EASIER TO SENSE YOUR OWN! AND—"
He clapped his hands together, not with a simple slap of flesh, but with an audible crack of concentrated cursed energy that vibrated the air in the small room. My few possessions—a stack of books, a glass of water—rattled ominously.
"—most importantly, this is the only time of day I can reliably beat sleep-deprived teenagers at the convenience store lottery scratch-offs. Their reaction times are abysmal."
I stared, my mind attempting to categorize him. This wasn't just eccentricity; this was a fundamental rejection of calm. He stared back, a wide, unhinged grin splitting his face, as if challenging me to find a flaw in his impeccable, insane logic.
In that moment, the sleep-induced haze finally burned away, and I understood two things with crystal clarity:
1. My mentor, the man entrusted with ensuring I didn't accidentally erase a city block or get myself killed, was utterly, magnificently out of his mind.
2. Someone in the Gojo clan, perhaps an elder I had inadvertently slighted, clearly hated me enough to assign him to me. This was a punishment disguised as pedagogy.
"Well?" he prompted, his grin never faltering. "Cat got your tongue? Or has the glorious dawn stolen your breath? Up! We're burning daylight!"
"The sun isn't even up," I pointed out, my voice flat.
"A technicality! Up!" he commanded, snapping his fingers with a sound like a miniature thunderclap. The gesture was so abrupt, so dismissive, it felt like he was talking to a poorly trained dog. "Today we start cursed energy control. You're behind, kid. Five years old, Gojo bloodline, and from what Gojo-sama told me, you're still leaking CE like a busted faucet in a forgotten basement."
My eyebrow twitched. A flicker of irritation, hot and sharp, cut through my grogginess. The arrogance, the sheer condescension…
"I've only had my memories and conscious access to my cursed energy back for a month," I retorted, a defensive edge to my voice. "Before that, I was, for all intents and purposes, a normal toddler."
"Excuses!" he yelled, his joy seemingly amplified by my protest. "Weak men make excuses, strong men make progress, and true prodigies make massive, property-damaging explosions! Let's figure out which one you are." He jabbed a thumb behind him, pointing at the doorframe he had just barged through.
I leaned forward, squinting. The wooden frame wasn't just splintered from the force of his entry. Thin, wispy tendrils of smoke were curling from its surface, and the air carried the distinct, ozone-tinged scent of recently expended cursed energy. He had literally blasted his way in.
I let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to originate from the very depths of my soul. This wasn't just going to be a long day. This was going to be a long life.
"Who are you, anyway?" I asked, finally giving in and swinging my legs out of the futon.
"Renji Aotsuka!" he declared, puffing out his chest. "On official paperwork, a Special-Grade Sorcerer. In personality and practice, I am a fusion of 'mad scientist,' 'hyperactive uncle who gives terrible life advice,' and 'feral raccoon that has been mysteriously blessed by heaven.' And, unfortunately for your sleep schedule, your teacher."
---
Morning Lesson: The Art of Not Exploding
Renji didn't suggest we go to the backyard; he physically dragged me. His grip on my wrist was like a vice, his cursed energy a buzzing, chaotic current that made my own inner power hum in response. He hauled me through the house, my socks sliding on the polished wooden floor, and out into the dewy chill of the backyard.
The training field behind the small house the Gojo clan had rented was nothing like the clan's formal dojos. It wasn't fancy, paved with ancient stones or lined with ceremonial weapons. It was simply a large, secluded plot of land, bordered by a thick grove of bamboo on one side and a high wooden fence on the others. The grass was lush and green, peaceful and private—secluded enough that, as Renji put it, "we wouldn't accidentally erase the neighborhood if you hiccup at the wrong moment."
"Sit," he ordered, releasing my wrist and pointing to a spot in the center of the field.
I sat cross-legged on the damp grass, the moisture immediately seeping through my thin pajama pants. The chill was a sharp, welcome contrast to the stifling chaos Renji carried with him.
"Good. Now breathe."
I took a slow, deliberate breath, the way I had read about in meditation guides—in through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Centering myself.
"No, no, no!" Renji erupted, pacing in front of me like a caged tiger. "You're breathing like a monk seeking enlightenment! Breathe like a sorcerer! Your breath isn't for peace; it's for power!"
"What does that even mean?" I asked, frustration beginning to bubble again. "Air is air."
Renji stopped his pacing and crouched in front of me so suddenly I almost headbutted him. The frantic energy bled away from his face, replaced by an eerie, laser-focused intensity. His amber eyes seemed to see right through me, down to the churning core of my cursed energy.
"Listen, Kiga," he said, his voice low and serious, a stark contrast to his earlier shouting. "Cursed energy isn't some external force you pull from the air. It's the physical manifestation of your own soul's emotion, refined into raw power. Most people, most sorcerers, think it's purely born from negative emotion—fear, anger, hatred. But that's a simplistic, juvenile understanding."
He tapped a finger against his own chest, right over his heart.
"Fear, properly harnessed, becomes hyper-focus. Anger becomes pure, explosive fuel. Grief becomes depth and resilience. Resentment becomes crushing weight. Even stress becomes potent, usable pressure. All emotions, every single one, are ingredients in the kitchen of your soul. Sorcerers are the chefs. And your technique—Devouring Genesis…"
He gave a low, appreciative whistle, the sound laced with both awe and caution.
"…is a kitchen equipped with a cosmic furnace. A kitchen that could cook the entire world if you don't learn the most fundamental control."
My pulse fluttered in my throat. He knew. Of course he knew. I had confessed everything to Gojo, and Gojo, in his infinite wisdom, had passed the information to this… this whirlwind. But the way Renji spoke about it wasn't with fear or greed, but with the analytical excitement of a master craftsman presented with a legendary, dangerous tool. The stories about him swirled in my mind—how he was said to dissect curses mid-combat to study their energy patterns, how he could allegedly reverse-engineer the principles of a Domain Expansion while humming the theme song to some obscure anime, how he once fought and exorcised an entire cult of curse users with nothing but a janitor's mop and a semi-sentient cursed broom spirit he'd apparently befriended.
If Gojo, the strongest, trusted this man with my existence, then I had little choice but to do the same. Probably.
Renji snapped his fingers again, the sound jerking me from my thoughts. The manic grin returned. "Alright! Lesson one, part one: Micro-Containment. We're starting small. Microscopic. Well, botanically small."
He plucked a single, unassuming blade of grass from the lawn and tossed it at me. It landed on my knee.
"What do I do with this?" I asked, picking it up between my thumb and forefinger.
"Infuse it with cursed energy! A tiny, controlled amount. Just enough to make it glow, not enough to make it… well, you'll see."
I shrugged and focused. I visualized the pool of blue energy within my core, willed a tiny thread of it to travel down my arm, through my fingers, and into the fragile blade of grass. It trembled, then began to glow with a faint, ethereal blue light. A sense of accomplishment bloomed in my chest—
BOOM.
The blade of grass detonated in my hands like a tiny, cursed-energy grenade. The sound was deafening in the quiet morning. A shockwave of force blew my hair back from my face and sent a stinging numbness through my palms. The scent of ozone and burnt chlorophyll filled the air.
Renji clapped his hands together with enthusiastic, unhinged joy.
"Excellent! A magnificent failure!"
"EXCELLENT?" I yelled, shaking my stinging hands. "I almost lost a finger! That was a blade of grass!"
"Exactly! A good, dramatic failure is the foundation of all improvement! It shows you where the boundary is! Now you know what too much feels like! Again!"
And so it began. Again. And again. And again.
By the thirtieth attempt, my hands were permanently numb, my pajama sleeves were smudged with soot, and a small, scorched patch of earth sat before me. My frustration was a thick, coppery taste in my mouth, my cursed energy churning in response, wanting to lash out.
"This is pointless," I muttered, staring at the pile of annihilated plant life. "I'm a nuclear reactor being asked to power a lightbulb without frying it."
Renji, who had been lounging on the grass and scribbling notes in a charred-looking notebook, looked up. He crawled over and crouched beside me, resting a heavy, companionable elbow on my shoulder.
"Hey. Kid. Everything is pointless at first. Walking. Talking. Breathing. You sucked at all of them at one point. You fell on your face. You babbled nonsense. You choked on your own spit. But you kept trying. Your body learned. Your brain adapted." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you'll get better at this, too. Because you're not ordinary. Not even by the warped standards of the Jujutsu world. The very fact that you're comparing yourself to a nuclear reactor at five years old proves that."
His sincerity was disarming, a brief moment of genuine mentorship amidst the storm. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. He slapped my back with enough force to make my teeth rattle and my soul briefly consider vacating my body.
"NOW STOP BROODING LIKE A DEPRESSED POET AND TRY AGAIN! FOCUS! CONTROL IS A MUSCLE! PAIN IS JUST THE BURN OF IT GROWING!"
I exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath. This man was chaos incarnate, a walking paradox of profound insight and juvenile insanity. But, I had to admit, his brutal, hands-on method was working. Each failure taught me something—the upper limit of energy, the feel of the grass's structural integrity giving way, the precise moment when control slipped.
I picked up another blade of grass. I closed my eyes. I didn't just push energy; I coaxed it. A single, shimmering droplet of power, carefully siphoned from the raging ocean within.
I held my breath.
The grass glowed, a steady, soft blue.
It did not explode.
It merely blackened, withered, and crumbled into fine ash on my palm.
From beside me, Renji was silent for a beat, then he simply said, "Huh. Progress."
It was the greatest compliment I had ever received.
---
Midday: The Devouring Silence
After three hours of relentless failure and incremental success, of being yelled at, encouraged, and electrically motivated, Renji finally called a halt. My body thrummed with a strange mixture of exhaustion and heightened awareness. I could feel the flow of cursed energy in my body with a clarity I'd never known, like I'd been trying to see through a fogged-up window that had just been wiped clean.
We sat under the shade of a large Japanese maple tree at the edge of the training field, its leaves a vibrant splash of red against the clear blue sky. Renji tossed me a canned coffee, ice-cold and beaded with condensation.
"You consciously awakened your cursed technique yesterday, right?" he asked casually, unwrapping a giant onigiri with tuna mayo filling.
I nodded, popping the tab on the coffee. The bitter, sweet liquid was ambrosia. "It activated on its own when I came into contact with Megumi's blood and the residual energy from the others. It was… instinctual."
"Oh yeah," Renji said around a mouthful of rice. "Gojo mentioned you made him play errand boy, fetching blood samples like a cursed coroner. He was amused. Annoyed, but amused. I didn't know those two emotions could coexist in him outside of a fight."
"I needed established techniques to act as a catalyst," I explained. "To start the assimilation cycle. My technique is like a… a digestive system. It needs something to digest to begin functioning."
Renji's eyes, which had been lazily following a cloud, sharpened and slid back to me. He swallowed his food and leaned forward, his voice dropping into that serious, focused register that commanded absolute attention.
"Kid."
The single word was heavy with implication.
"What you're doing… it's not just dangerous. Assimilating cursed techniques, making them your own… that isn't normal. It's not even 'abnormal' in the way Gojo's Six Eyes are abnormal. That's a genetic fluke, a once-in-a-millennium lottery win. What you have is… it's unheard of. It breaks established rules on a fundamental level."
My heart thudded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of anxiety. Was he going to tell me to stop? To lock it away?
"Are you telling me I shouldn't use my technique?" I asked, a defensive hardness creeping into my voice.
"No," he said immediately, without a moment's hesitation. "Use it. You're a jujutsu sorcerer. Power is survival. In our world, to hesitate is to die. But…" He reached out and tapped my forehead, not hard, but with pointed emphasis. "Strength without understanding is just a more spectacular form of suicide. A bomb is powerful, but without a detonator and a target, it's just a useless, volatile paperweight. So before you even think about trying to 'eat' another technique, before you go looking for your next meal…"
He smiled, but it wasn't his usual manic grin. It was the sharp, dangerous smile of a master strategist.
"I'm going to make sure you survive the digestion. I'm going to forge you into a vessel so strong, so resilient, that even swallowing a star won't make you burst."
That… was surprisingly, profoundly reassuring. This wasn't a condemnation; it was a commitment. He saw the danger, and his solution wasn't to hide from it, but to overcome it through sheer, brutal preparation.
I sipped the coffee slowly, the caffeine and sugar syncing with my buzzing nerves. "So what now? What's the next step?"
"Now," he said, stretching his arms over his head until his joints popped, "we work on the absolute bedrock. The fundamentals that most sorcerers pay lip service to but never truly master. Reinforcement. Reverse Cursed Technique theory—don't get excited, that's years away for most, but we'll touch on the concepts. Cursed Energy flow patterns and circulation. And eventually, most importantly for you—barrier techniques."
"Barrier techniques?" I asked, puzzled. "Why? I thought Domain Expansion was the ultimate goal."
"For every other idiot, it is. They see it as the finish line. But you?" He pointed his half-eaten onigiri at me. "With your technique? You'll have a target on your back the size of Tokyo. And during your two-year vulnerability phases, when you can't use any of your assimilated techniques, you'll be a prize waiting to be claimed. That means defense. Impenetrable, layered, ingenious defense. That means barriers. Lots of them. Preferably layered, interlocking, and tied to automated triggers."
I swallowed hard, the coffee turning acidic in my stomach. He was right. My technique made me a king in the long term, but a pauper in the cyclical short term. If I couldn't use the techniques I had devoured, I would need to survive on fundamentals alone.
That meant I had to master them. Not just learn them, but master them to a degree no other sorcerer ever had to.
The thought was daunting, a mountain so high I couldn't see the peak.
But as I looked at Renji, at the absolute, unshakable confidence in his eyes, a spark ignited in my own chest. It wasn't just dread. It was a challenge. A purpose. For the first time since awakening in this new, terrifying world, I had a path I could see, a path I could shape with my own two hands, blistered and burned as they were. The spark flickered, then caught, warming me from the inside out.
---
Afternoon: Paper Talismans and Emotional Torture
After a brief lunch break where Renji attempted to explain the thermodynamic principles of cursed energy conversion using a bowl of ramen as a prop, he led me to a small, cluttered shed at the back of the property he called his "workshop." It smelled of sawdust, incense, and something metallic. Scrolls and schematics were piled haphazardly next to modern toolboxes and ancient-looking artifacts.
He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of blank, off-white talisman paper.
"We're doing barrier basics first," he announced.
"I thought we'd work more on reinforcement," I said. "My output still needs work."
"Nope!" he chirped, his energy levels restored. "You're a Gojo by blood. Your body is a sports car; reinforcement is just you learning to press the gas pedal. It comes naturally to you blessed idiots. But barriers? That's engineering. That's architecture of the soul. That takes finesse, patience, and a mind for abstract spatial reasoning."
He slapped a single talisman onto my forehead. It stuck there as if glued.
"What does this do?" I asked, my voice slightly muffled by the paper.
"It's a focus monitor. It delivers a small, but very memorable, electric shock to your prefrontal cortex if your concentration wavers and your cursed energy output fluctuates beyond a set threshold."
"—Wait, what?" I reached up to peel it off.
"Ah-ah-ah!" he chided, wagging a finger. "Touch it and it'll deliver the shock anyway. Consider it a motivator! Now, begin!"
Before I could form another protest, he threw five more talismans into the air with a flick of his wrist. They didn't flutter down; they shot through the air like homing missiles, sticking with unnerving precision to my arms, legs, chest, and back.
Great. I was a walking lightning rod for my own failures.
"Alright, the principle is simple!" he explained, leaning against a workbench scattered with disassembled cursed tools. "A stable barrier requires a perfectly stable CE output. A single spike or dip, and the whole structure becomes brittle or collapses. So! Your task is to maintain a steady, unwavering stream of cursed energy, just like you did with the grass at the end, but for a sustained period. If your output fluctuates by more than three percent…"
He gestured to the talismans.
ZAP.
A jolt of pain, sharp and immediate, lanced through my skull. It wasn't agonizing, but it was profoundly disorienting, like being flicked hard on the inside of your own brain. My vision flashed white for an instant.
"—you get electrocuted," he finished cheerfully. "See? Instant feedback! The best teaching tool!"
"Renji," I said through gritted teeth, the smell of ozone already filling the small shed, "you are a clinically insane, sadistic, and probably criminal mad scientist."
"Thank you! I strive for authenticity! Now, the goal is one full minute of perfect stability. No spikes, no dips. A serene, placid lake of power. Begin… now!"
The first five seconds were easy. I found the steady rhythm I'd discovered with the grass, a smooth, continuous flow. Ten seconds. Fifteen. I was a conduit of pure, stable energy.
Then, a bird outside the shed's window chirped, a sudden, sharp sound. My focus, hyper-attuned to the talismans' threat, instinctively twitched toward the noise.
My cursed energy flow stuttered.
ZAP.
My whole body jerked. "Twenty-seven seconds!" Renji yelled, making a note in his charred notebook. "A rookie mistake! External stimuli are excuses! Your focus must be a fortress! Again!"
We repeated the cycle for what felt like hours. A fly buzzing near my ear cost me at thirty-eight seconds. A sudden, random thought about what was for dinner ended a promising forty-nine-second attempt. The pain was cumulative, a building headache that throbbed in time with my heartbeat. By the end, the air around me smelled faintly of burnt toast and my own singed pride.
But slowly, painfully, I was learning. I learned to build mental walls, to acknowledge distractions without letting them affect the deep, steady current of my power. I learned to breathe with the energy, to make the flow part of my own biology.
On what must have been the fiftieth attempt, I closed my eyes. I became the flow. The outside world faded—Renji's presence, the shed, the birds, everything. There was only the river of blue energy, and my will as its banks.
I heard Renji's voice, soft and measured. "Fifty… fifty-five… fifty-eight… and… time. One minute."
I opened my eyes. The talismans on my body were inert. No shocks. No pain. Just a profound, weary sense of accomplishment.
Renji looked at me, his head tilted. "Fifty-two successful attempts to reach one minute. Faster than I estimated. The Gojo blood is cheating, but I'll allow it." He reached out and plucked the talisman from my forehead. "Progress tastes like pain, doesn't it? Remember that flavor. It's the taste of getting stronger."
---
Evening: The Public School Announcement
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Renji called me into the living room. I collapsed into a large, comfortable armchair, my body feeling both heavy and light, every muscle fatigued but every nerve ending humming with refined energy.
"Right. Important administrative announcement," Renji began, perched on the arm of the sofa. "You're going to public school. First grade, starting in two days."
I blinked, processing this left-field declaration. "Why?" The word was flat, laden with skepticism.
"Three reasons!" he declared, counting them off on his fingers. "One: Socialization. You seem like a smart kid but your brain and body are still developing in a five-year-old's social context. You need to learn to interact with your peers, to read micro-expressions, to understand group dynamics from the ground level. Two: Exposure to Normal Emotions. Sorcerers live in a world of heightened fear, stress, and aggression. You need to be reacquainted with the mundane spectrum—boredom, minor jealousy, playground camaraderie, the simple joy of a good snack. It will ground your own cursed energy, make it less volatile. And three: Anthropological Observation. You need to study non-sorcerer behavior, their patterns, their priorities, their blissful ignorance. It's the best camouflage."
I stared at him, my exhaustion making it difficult to muster the appropriate level of outrage. "That entire speech sounded like you're preparing me to blend into human society as an undercover agent from another planet."
"I am," he said without a hint of irony. "That's essentially what a sorcerer is. Now, stop pouting. You're five."
I sighed, knowing I was beaten. "Fine. So, I assume I'll need supplies. A backpack, pencils, a lunchbox…"
"Precisely!" Renji beamed. He tossed me a simple black wallet. I caught it, surprised by its weight. I opened it. Inside, nestled in the billfold, was a thick stack of crisp ¥10,000 notes. I did a quick mental count.
"There's ¥200,000 in here," I said, looking up at him in disbelief. "That's… an excessive amount for a first-grader's school supplies."
"Yep!"
"Why so much?"
"Because you're going to buy everything twice," he explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Once, for actual use at school—the normal backpack, the normal pencils, the normal erasers. And a second, identical set, which we will be infusing with low-level cursed energy, using for talisman practice, reinforcing, and generally experimenting on. You're going to learn how to turn a simple ruler into a conduit and a notebook into a basic shield. School supplies are the perfect training props—innocuous, disposable, and varied."
That… actually made a disturbing amount of sense. It was practical, hands-on, and integrated my training into every aspect of my life.
He snatched his keys from a bowl on the coffee table, jangling them loudly. "No time like the present! The stores are open. We're going shopping."
I froze. "With you?"
"Yes, with me. Why?" he asked, genuinely curious.
I looked him up and down, taking in the full, glorious catastrophe of his appearance. His lab coat was now even more covered in grass stains and a new, suspicious yellow smear. The rip in his teal hoodie looked larger, and one of his mismatched shoes was now untied. He had a smudge of ash on his cheek and his hair was, if possible, even more chaotic.
"Renji," I said carefully, choosing my words with the precision of a bomb disposal expert, "you look like a feral raccoon who mugged a disgraced alchemist and is now trying to blend into suburban society. People will stare."
He grinned, a wide, unselfconscious flash of teeth. "Exactly! It's the perfect disguise for public environments! No one will suspect the weirdo with the clearly unhinged child of being a premier jujutsu sorcerer and his prodigy apprentice! They'll just feel pity and give us a wide berth. It's reverse psychology!"
I rubbed my temples, feeling the beginnings of a true, Renji-induced migraine. This man wouldn't just be the death of me; he would be the death of my social standing before I even had one.
---
Night: Reflection and a Spark of Genesis
By the time we returned home—after a three-hour shopping trip that included a detour in which Renji sensed a low-grade curse manifesting in the toy section of a Don Quijote store, and subsequently exorcised it using a discounted karaoke microphone he'd infused with a burst of raw sonic energy, all while belting out the chorus of a popular anime theme song—I was completely and utterly spent.
I collapsed onto my futon, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. My body was a map of aches and tingling nerves. My mind felt like a overstuffed library, shelves groaning with new information on energy flow, barrier theory, and the disturbing realization that my teacher could weaponize anything, anything, from a leaf to a karaoke mic.
I stared at the ceiling, the familiar textured white now a comfort. My palms, resting on my chest, still tingled with the phantom sensation of controlled energy and minor electrocutions. My cursed energy core, once a wild and barely contained storm, now felt… different. Not smaller, but denser. More refined. More responsive, like a well-tuned instrument waiting for its musician's touch.
A month ago, I was a ghost in a child's body, a passenger with no memory of the journey. Yesterday, I had awakened a power that defied the laws of this world, a devouring hunger that could reshape destiny itself. And today… today, I had begun my path. I had taken the first, clumsy, painful, and electrifying steps towards mastering it.
I was no longer part of the Gojo clan, not truly. I was an exile, a branch cut from the mighty tree. But strangely, I didn't feel adrift. Satoru Gojo himself had seen me off with a lazy grin and a rare, almost imperceptible flicker of genuine warmth in those impossible blue eyes. He had given me a chance, and he had given me Renji.
And Renji Aotsuka, for all his insanity, his unpredictability, his exhausting, chaotic, and often painful methods… he believed in me. He didn't see me as a monster or a tool, but as a fascinating, unprecedented project—a student. And in the brutal, often lonely world of jujutsu, that belief, that commitment, mattered infinitely more than ancient bloodlines or dusty clan traditions.
I breathed in, and as I did, I consciously pooled cursed energy in my core. Not a lot, just a shimmering, concentrated droplet. I held it there, perfectly steady, a placid lake in the center of the storm that was my life.
It was steady.
It was controlled.
It wasmine.
Tomorrow, the training would resume, more grueling and strange than the last. In two days, the doors of public school would open, and a new kind of challenge would begin—one of social stealth and mundane endurance.
A strange, potent mix of dread and excitement twisted in my stomach. It was the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, but instead of fear of the fall, there was a thrill for the view.
A new life. A new identity. Not Satoru Gojo's shadow, not the clan's shame, but Kigahoshi. A devourer of techniques. A student of the mad professor. A boy with a past and a future irrevocably intertwined.
I closed my eyes, the ghost of a smile touching my lips for the first time since I'd arrived here. It was a small smile, weary and wary, but it was real.
It was a beginning.