Time moved strangely when I wasn't paying attention to it.
Elementary school years blurred together—not because nothing happened, but because everything felt ordinary in a way that didn't stick. Classes, breaks, teachers repeating themselves, kids shouting over nothing. Seasons changed, uniforms got tighter, and one day I realized I was taller than I remembered being.
Somewhere along the way, I turned seven.
Then eight.
By the time it really hit me, I was standing near the edge of the playground, watching kids run around, realizing elementary school was almost over.
Life had settled into a rhythm.
I trained when I felt like it.
Not because I followed a strict routine or counted reps, but because moving felt good. Running laps around the yard when no one was watching too closely. Hanging from bars until my arms burned just enough. Testing my body without turning it into something I resented.
Some days I imagined myself as a hero.
Other days I just wanted to see how far I could jump.
Both were fine.
The energy inside me had stopped feeling strange.
It wasn't sharp or overwhelming anymore. It just existed—quiet, heavy, resting beneath everything else. I didn't poke at it constantly. Letting it sit felt better than wasting it.
When I did use it, it responded faster than before.
Reinforcing my body had become second nature. A little push made my steps lighter. A little more kept my grip from slipping. I wasn't breaking records or showing off, but my body listened when I asked it to do something.
That part felt natural.
The cutting, though—that came from inspiration.
I'd been thinking about Sukuna again.
The way his attacks looked effortless. No flashy elements, no wasted motion. Just pressure, intent, and a result that spoke for itself. It wasn't about making something explode—it was about precision.
That stuck with me.
So I started practicing.
Behind the equipment shed, beside the old storage fence, anywhere people didn't pay attention. I'd press my fingers against wood, metal, plastic—letting the energy stretch thin along my skin instead of flooding outward.
The first few tries did nothing.
Then one day, the wood gave way.
Not snapped. Not broken.
Cut.
A shallow line split the surface cleanly, like something invisible had passed through it.
I stared at it for a long moment.
"…Okay," I muttered. "That's new."
From there, it became a thing.
Touching objects while shaping the energy as an edge instead of force. Wood scarred easily. Plastic resisted more. Metal barely reacted unless I pushed—and when I did, the drain hit hard enough that I immediately stopped.
It wasn't elegant.
But it worked.
I could cut things while touching them, leaving clean marks if I focused. Nothing flashy, nothing dramatic—but reliable enough to matter.
Naturally, that gave me ideas.
Bad ones.
Gojo existed in my head like a bad influence.
One afternoon, feeling a little too confident, I stood in an empty corner of the yard, raised my hand, and tried to push the energy outward in a wide, controlled field.
Like some kind of barrier.
Or infinity.
The result was… nothing. For half a second.
Then everything vanished.
The energy drained out of me so fast my legs went weak. I stumbled, barely catching myself on a fence post, head spinning as if someone had pulled the plug on my brain.
I sat there for a while afterward, staring at my hands.
"…Yeah. Not doing that again."
Whatever Gojo was doing, it wasn't something I could imitate. Not now. Maybe not ever. Trying to hold energy in a stable, extended form without a target felt like pouring water into a hole.
Lesson learned.
Throwing the energy was the next step.
That one took longer.
I tried flicking it forward, imagining it leaving my hand cleanly. Sometimes it worked—thin, scattered blades shooting out for a few meters before falling apart. Sometimes it veered off randomly. Sometimes it just dissolved halfway through.
No control.
But it did leave my body.
That alone felt like progress.
I didn't push too hard. The drain was still real, and I wasn't stupid enough to empty myself for practice. What I had now felt decent—comfortable—but not something I could waste.
So I lived.
That was the strange part.
I didn't train every day. I didn't obsess. I laughed with other kids, got scolded for tracking dirt indoors, half-listened in class while doodling nonsense in notebooks.
Sometimes I forgot about the energy entirely.
And yet…
There were moments.
A heaviness in the air just before an argument broke out across the yard.
That faint prickle along my skin right before someone started crying down the hall.
Seconds where I felt something—then voices rose, emotions spilled over, and everything made sense after the fact.
I didn't think much of it.
Kids were emotional. Stuff like that happened all the time.
Still, there were days when I realized the energy inside me felt fuller than it had the day before, even though I hadn't done anything different. No close encounters. No deliberate effort.
I shrugged it off.
Overthinking things never helped anyone.
As the end of elementary school drew closer, I started focusing again—on school, this time.
Skipping a year wasn't something I could rush. There were tests, evaluations, meetings. That kind of thing needed timing, not force.
So I paid attention in class.
Answered questions. Scored higher. Made it look natural.
Teachers noticed, nodded, and moved on.
Good.
Outside of that, nothing really changed.
My absorption range didn't budge, no matter what I tried. Standing farther away. Sitting near groups instead of individuals. Focusing harder. Relaxing completely.
If someone was too far, nothing happened.
Simple.
I accepted it.
Not everything had to be solved immediately.
One afternoon, standing on the playground, I watched younger kids chase each other around, laughter sharp and careless. The wind carried their voices—and something heavier underneath. Frustration. Jealousy. Little emotions that felt enormous to them.
I breathed out slowly.
Life was moving forward whether I forced it or not.
And for now?
That was enough.