Chapter Thirteen: The Third Mission, Osaka Factory Part One
Osaka.
Obito found himself on a train headed there, sitting across from Kasumi Miwa.
The gentle, rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks filled the cabin, a monotonous white noise that did nothing to soothe his nerves. The scenery outside blurred into a smear of greens and greys, a fitting backdrop for his internal turmoil.
To add to it all, there was an additional member added to the team heading there—a development that had surprised Obito.
His initial reaction had been a sharp, internal jolt, a mental record scratch. He'd managed to keep his face placid, a skill he was unconsciously honing in this world of cursed energy and social landmines.
However, in the end, he hadn't said anything. He merely glanced at the short-haired girl, "Mai Zenin."
The name echoed in his head with a dull thud of dread. He didn't know why this girl was with him on this train. The air between them felt thick enough to slice, charged with an unspoken history he was burdened with but hadn't lived.
But in the end, it seemed they had become a single team, heading to Osaka to deal with that abandoned factory.
The train gave a soft lurch, and a loose fixture somewhere in the carriage emitted a faint, persistent creak… creak… creak… that synced annoyingly with his rising anxiety.
(Why are situations in this world so bad? I didn't want to deal with this girl.)
He thought, his fingers tracing an aimless pattern on the cool surface of the window beside him. The condensation from his breath briefly fogged the glass, obscuring the rushing world outside.
Entering Kyoto Jujutsu High alone was enough to make Obito want to leave this place and go to another country.
The memory of the academy's oppressive atmosphere, the judging stares, the sheer weight of expectation and danger—it all pressed down on him. And now, the sister of the girl who would annihilate the Zenin clan in the future—in two years, if his time calculations were accurate, assuming nothing different happened in the future.
Therefore, his desire to not be in any place with either of the sisters was extremely high.
It was a primal, survivalist urge. A deep-seated wish to be anywhere else. On a beach. In a quiet library. In a different story entirely.
Especially since he remembered that in the past, the original owner of this body had bullied both girls.
The memories were vague, impressionistic flashes of cruelty—mocking laughter, tripping, stolen belongings. They left a sour taste of shame and helpless fury in his mouth. They weren't his actions, but he was wearing the perpetrator's face.
That alone certainly made them hold no good feelings towards Obito.
He could feel it. The occasional, icy glance from Mai was like a physical chill. It wasn't just indifference; it was active, simmering resentment.
And this was an additional reason that made him want to stay away from the two girls.
He sighed internally, the sound lost in the hum of the train's engine. (I think I will cause a problem, won't I? Perhaps she has forgotten the matter.)
There was a faint, foolish sliver of hope—the kind that clings to straws in a hurricane—that the girl might not recognize him, or might have forgotten that past. A naive wish for a clean slate he knew he didn't deserve.
But when he shifted his eyes to look at her briefly...
It was a small, cautious movement. Just a tilt of his head, a flicker of his gaze away from the window and towards the seat opposite.
...he found her gaze meeting his directly before she sharply turned her eyes back to the window again.
The contact lasted less than a second, but it was electric with hostility. Her eyes, a cool, assessing hue, held no warmth, only a sharp, scrutinizing clarity that saw right through his attempted nonchalance.
He noticed the passing trees, hiding the turmoil in his heart.
The verdant blur outside became a green shield, a place to project his own confusion. Look at the nice trees, Obito. Think about photosynthesis. Don't think about the girl who probably wants to curse you.*
Mai had been looking at Obito at the same moment.
Her observation hadn't been casual. It was a study. A hunter assessing strange prey.
And her gaze was definitely the gaze of someone looking at trash.
It wasn't just anger. It was disdain. A pure, unadulterated "you are beneath my notice, yet here you are, annoyingly present" kind of look. It was, in its own way, impressively efficient.
(Damn you, original body owner. You cause problems even when you're dead.)
Obito's internal monologue took on a bitterly comic tone. His predecessor's ghost wasn't just haunting him; it was actively sabotaging him from beyond the grave, leaving behind a legacy of interpersonal debt and poor life choices.
Well, after transferring to this world, Obito held no good feelings for his previous self and the original body's owner.
It was hard to feel sentimental about a guy who'd set his new life on such a disastrous trajectory before he'd even taken the wheel. It was like inheriting a car with no brakes, a faulty GPS, and several angry people chasing it.
The man was talentless.
No noteworthy cursed technique, average reserves, unremarkable in every way the Jujutsu world valued.
Moreover, he didn't possess money or any special abilities.
Broke and powerless. A fantastic combination.
And worst of all, he left a pending problem with people who would show no mercy in the future.
The Zenin sisters. The future clan exterminator. The ticking time bombs he was now forced to ride a train with. The comedy was so dark it was practically absorbing light.
All these were reasons that made Obito wish he could remember the original body's owner with anything good, at least at this moment.
He strained, searching the inherited memory fragments. Was there a single act of kindness? A moment of genuine camaraderie? A hidden talent for origami? Nothing. The well was dry. (Fine. You were great at being a cautionary tale. Congratulations.)
(I need to calm down and appear as if there is no problem. Perhaps at the same time, I need to make sure this girl doesn't do anything stupid to me.)
His survival strategy crystallized into two parts: 1) Perfect the art of seeming unbothered. 2) Assume everyone is a potential threat, especially the quiet ones with grudges. A simple, elegant plan.
And so, the journey continued.
The clack-clack-clack of the tracks marked the passage of time, each sound a tiny hammer on the coffin of his peace of mind.
While Mai kept looking at Obito, checking if there was any strange behavior she could notice from his actions.
Her surveillance was relentless. Every shift in his posture, every breath that seemed too measured, every time his eyes moved—it was all logged and analyzed in her mind. The pressure was immense; he felt like a bug under a very focused, very displeased microscope.
But to her misfortune, he was silent the entire journey.
He had mastered the art of strategic silence. It was his fortress, his shield. Words could betray you; silence was a wall.
It was true that he looked at her for moments, but when he looked, it was as if he was appraising something.
His glances were calculated. He wasn't staring with fear or guilt, but with a detached, analytical coldness he didn't actually feel. He was assessing her as a potential combat variable, a piece on the board. It was the only safe way to look at her.
His facial expression was calm—
On the surface, it was a mask of serene composure. A still pond. Beneath, piranhas of anxiety were having a feeding frenzy.
—of course, that was because the tension had pressed down on Obito so heavily that his face was acting with extreme calm, unlike his heart which was pounding.
It was a physiological rebellion. His heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted to escape and catch the next train back to Tokyo. Thump-thump-thump-thump—a frantic, internal drum solo completely at odds with his outwardly placid demeanor.
But because of that, Mai's suspicions increased that the young man she was investigating was hiding many things behind the curtain.
*His unnatural calm read as contrived. In a world of curses and chaos, such perfect stillness was itself a red flag. It screamed secret. It whispered *plot.
However, at this moment, there was no way for her to discover what he was hiding.
The frustration was palpable from her side. A soft, almost inaudible tch escaped her lips, a tiny crack in her own composed façade.
She continued to stare several times.
Her gaze was a physical weight on the side of his face. He could feel its heat, its intensity. He stubbornly kept his eyes on the passing telephone poles, counting them as if his life depended on it.
At the same time, the train was quiet, as not many people were moving.
They were in a sparsely populated first-class carriage. The only sounds were the train's ambient noises, their own breathing, and the heavy, unspoken history hanging between seats 12A and 12B.
In the end, this was a first-class train.
Plush seats that did nothing to comfort him. Extra legroom that just felt like more space for dread to expand. The bitter irony wasn't lost on him.
The tickets had been obtained by Kasumi Miwa, who had chosen first class for the travel.
Of course she had. Kasumi, the responsible one, the professional. She probably got them a discount too. Obito couldn't decide if he was grateful for the comfort or resentful of the prolonged, intimate confinement with his personal ghost of Christmas-past.
—
In the end, the team of three arrived at Osaka station.
The train sighed to a halt with a final hiss of hydraulic brakes and a metallic groan. The sudden cessation of motion felt jarring.
They got off the train without luggage.
They traveled light, because what luggage do you need for a curse extermination? Extra socks? A motivational poster? They carried only the weight of their cursed techniques and their personal baggage, which in Obito's case was significantly heavier.
They were going directly to the car waiting for them outside.
The transition was efficient, militaristic. No time for sightseeing. No sampling of Osaka's famous takoyaki. Just business. Deadly, cursed business.
There was an employee from the Jujutsu organization waiting for them outside with the car, with a sign that had their names written on it.
The man stood stiffly, holding a placard that read 'Miwa, Zenin, Obito.' He looked profoundly ordinary, a civilian adrift in a world he could not see but had to administrate. Obito felt a bizarre kinship with him.
The employee approached after the three arrived and said, "Pleased to meet you. Please, get in."
His voice was polite, rehearsed. He gave a short, sharp bow that was more nervous habit than formal gesture.
The employee greeted the three calmly and ushered them into the car with all respect, and then drove the car.
The car door closed with a solid, expensive thunk. It felt like sealing a tomb. The interior smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and new leather—a sterile, artificial bubble against the cursed world outside.
Then, on the way, the employee spoke in a quiet voice.
He cleared his throat first, a soft ahem that broke the silence.
"I suppose it's important to explain the mission again, isn't it?"
He was asking for permission. In the end, he was a person who didn't possess cursed energy, so he was attentive to see if the three were interested in knowing any additional information. In the end, his job was to explain missions to Jujutsu sorcerers.
He was a guide to the abyss, reading from a brochure he couldn't see the illustrations for.
Kasumi was the one who spoke first, while the other two were silent in the car.
Obito was in the front passenger seat, a decision he now regretted as it made him feel like a co-pilot in a nightmare. The two girls were in the back. The rearview mirror offered him fleeting, dangerous glimpses of Mai's impassive face.
"Did you deploy a complete barrier around the site? And what is the status of the curses in that place?"
Kasumi's voice was all business, crisp and clear. It cut through the car's quiet ambiance like a knife. She leaned forward slightly, her reflection in the window intent and serious.
As she said that, she looked at the employee who was carefully observing the road while driving the car, before he spoke, explaining the information.
He kept his eyes firmly on the traffic, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Driving sorcerers to a cursed location was probably not covered in his job description's perk section.
"The barrier situation, in addition to other things... the movement of curses and the cursed energy have been stable. It is indicated that the curses present there might only be Grade Four. There might even be a few Grade Three curses."
He delivered the report in a monotone, reciting facts from a clipboard that rested on the center console. The words 'Grade Four' and 'Grade Three' hung in the air, clinically assessed levels of horror.
The three understood the meaning of the matter.
Grade Four curses were essentially pests. Nuisances. Annoying, but not typically life-threatening to a trained sorcerer. Grade Three demanded more attention, some actual effort, a real fight.
In the end, the presence of Grade Four curses wasn't a big problem for Jujutsu sorcerers.
It was the equivalent of being called out to deal with a particularly aggressive raccoon. Unpleasant, but not exactly epic.
But the presence of a Grade Three curse could be a problem.
The raccoon now had a knife. And maybe a friend. The dynamics changed.
However, for a team of three people, dealing with this situation was largely possible, especially since all three were Grade Three.
The math checked out. Three versus a few Grade Threes and some Fours. On paper, it was a balanced equation. Reality, Obito had learned, loved to scribble outside the lines.
"I see," Kasumi said that and then stopped talking.
A simple acknowledgment. She leaned back into the plush seat, apparently satisfied. Her trust in the system was both admirable and terrifying to Obito.
But the employee looked at her through the mirror and said in a tone carrying a note of doubt, "Are you sure you'll be alright there?"
The concern in his voice was genuine, a crack in his professional demeanor. He'd probably seen sorcerers go in and not come out, or come out… changed. His eyes in the rearview mirror were wide, earnest.
The worry in his voice was real, so Kasumi said, "No need to worry. This is our job."
She said it with a finality that brooked no argument. It was the sorcerer's mantra, their proud, tragic burden. This is our job. The three most terrifying words in this world.*
—
This was definitely not what Obito wanted to hear.
A cold trickle of dread traced his spine. He did not want to be reassured that risking his life was just part of the daily grind.
He didn't like risking his life for others. He wasn't a hero.
He was a reluctant participant, a conscript in a war he never signed up for. His heroism began and ended with a fierce desire to keep his own skin intact.
But Kasumi's words were right, as she said that with all professionalism.
And that was the worst part. She was right. This was their job. His current job, at least. The job he was trapped in by circumstance, by a borrowed body, by a world that didn't care about his consent.
It was his job now to exorcise curses, even if that was for reasons outside his control.
Fate had handed him a mop and pointed him at a tsunami. The absurdity was almost funny. Almost.
But it was important now to maintain everything in the best way possible and to try to exert effort to stay alive.
His new, primary life goal: Survive. Everything else—unraveling mysteries, dealing with past sins, maybe finding a way home—was secondary. Priority One: Don't let a curse turn you into a red smear on an abandoned factory wall.
And at the same time, not forget to pray that this mission was among the missions according to its biography and not the previous missions where it was discovered that the curse they faced was Grade Two.
Ah, yes. The infamous 'bait-and-switch' of the Jujutsu world. The mission briefing says 'Grade Three,' you show up, and a semi-divine disaster is waiting with snacks. He'd heard the stories. The veteran sorcerers told them like ghost stories around metaphorical campfires.
That was the only wish he was thinking of.
A simple, fervent prayer sent out into the universe: Please, let the paperwork be accurate. Just this once. Let the curse be exactly as described, no surprises, no hidden bosses. Amen.*
And the journey in the car dragged on.
The cityscape of Osaka gradually gave way to more industrial, then dilapidated areas. The buildings grew older, bleaker. The very light seemed to grow thinner, greyer. The purr of the car engine was the only constant sound.
—
The car carrying the team arrived at approximately 6:00 PM on a Thursday.
The dusk was settling in, painting the sky in bruised hues of purple and orange—the perfect horror movie lighting. Long shadows stretched like grasping fingers across the cracked concrete of the access road.
The employee looked at the time, and then the car stopped directly.
The engine cut off. The sudden silence was profound, heavy, and immediately filled by something else.
There, the three felt the cursed energy.
It was a palpable wave, a sickly, oppressive sensation that washed over them even before they opened the doors. It was like stepping into a damp, cold cellar that smelled of rust and decay, but the smell was in their souls, not their noses.
After the barrier—each one of them—the barrier that was made by a group of Jujutsu management department employees.
A faint, shimmering dome of translucent energy was visible to their trained senses, enclosing the massive, sprawling complex of the factory. It hummed at a low frequency, a bzzzt felt in the teeth more than heard. It was meant to keep the curses in, and curious civilians out. It felt flimsy.
"Alright, now we will execute the plan as we agreed," Kasumi said, as the senior, explaining the plan.
She got out of the car, her door opening with a crisp click-thunk. The sound was absurdly loud in the quiet, cursed air. She straightened her uniform, her movements precise, a soldier preparing for battle.
Obito would take charge, using his cursed technique to detect if there were more curses or if there was any danger.
His technique—a heightened sensory perception, an ability to 'see' the flow and density of cursed energy in fine detail. He was the scout, the radar. The canary in the coal mine. A role he found both crucial and profoundly unenviable.
While Kasumi would take charge of dealing with the dangers.
The frontline fighter. The sword. She had her katana, sheathed but radiating a quiet, deadly promise. Her role was clear: cut down anything that moved with hostile intent.
And finally, regarding Mai, she would provide support from behind using her creation technique.
The artillery. The backline. She stood slightly apart, already manifesting a small, sleek pistol in her hand with a faint crackle of blue energy. The weapon materialized from nothing, cool and deadly.
True, she could only create a gun and bullets, but this would be useful for support from behind.
Limited, but lethal within those limits. A single, well-placed bullet from a cursed tool could change a fight. Obito tried to take comfort in that, though the idea of Mai Zenin having a gun anywhere in his vicinity was inherently unsettling.
Finally, the team looked at the abandoned factory.
It loomed. That was the only word for it. A monstrous skeleton of rusted iron and shattered glass, silhouetted against the dying light. It was a place of echoes and forgetting, and now, of festering cursed energy.
It was an iron factory, full of the smell of rust and echoes everywhere.
The wind whistled through broken windows and twisted girders, producing a low, mournful whine that rose and fell like a dying breath. The smell of oxidized metal, oil, and damp concrete was thick in the air.
Yet, the team entered there.
They passed through the barrier. It tingled against their skin like static electricity, a final warning before crossing the threshold.
But before entering, Obito concentrated his cursed energy to activate his technique.
He closed his eyes, took a breath that did nothing to calm him, and focused inward. He reached for that alien power within him, willing it to surface.
And in the next second, his eyes turned red.
It wasn't a dramatic flash, but a slow seep, like ink spreading in water. The world didn't just look different; it felt different. Colors drained, replaced by the swirling, oppressive hues of cursed energy—a sickly, pulsating visual noise.
He looked at the cursed energy aura that surrounded the factory and said, pointing at the factory in a low voice.
His voice sounded strange to his own ears, detached. The sensory overload from his technique was always jarring.
"The amount of cursed energy is enormous. Are you sure this place only has Grade Three curses?"
What he saw wasn't the faint, scattered sparks of low-grade curses. It was a dense, churning fog of malevolence that clung to the factory like a malignant fungus. It pulsed with a slow, rhythmic beat, like a gigantic, sleeping heart of hatred.
This genuine question coming from Obito made the employee, in addition to the team, look at the employee with doubt.
All eyes swiveled to the poor man. He shrank under the collective weight of their suddenly very focused attention. Kasumi's professional calm tightened into alertness. Mai's grip on her pistol adjusted almost imperceptibly.
"I am sure. That's what my superiors told me."
He said it, but his voice wavered. He was clinging to his briefing sheet like a lifeline in a stormy sea. He believed what he'd been told, because the alternative—that his superiors were wrong, or worse, lying—was too terrifying to contemplate.
After saying that, the three found nothing to say.
What was there to say? 'Your superiors are idiots'? 'We're being sent into a meat grinder'? The mission was sent by the superiors, by the Cursed Spirit Management office. Therefore, there were no words to be said.
But at the same time, Kasumi said, "Stay on guard. Perhaps the number of curses is large, which is why the cursed energy has spread in this enormous volume. Moreover, the size of the factory is gigantic. Even if it has stopped working, you must be careful not to have anything fall on you and make sure of your footing."
She was sharp while giving orders, her voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. She was assessing the tactical reality, not the administrative one. The factory wasn't just a curse nest; it was a death trap of unstable architecture.
As their leader, she was sharp while giving her commands.
She was their anchor in the rising tide of wrongness. Obito, for all his internal panic, felt a sliver of gratitude. Someone here knew what they were doing, even if what they were doing was walking into a clearly mislabeled hellmouth.
The wind picked up, whistling through the broken factory with a louder, more insistent Hoooooooo…
It sounded like a challenge. Or a welcome.
Obito's red eyes scanned the pulsating aura once more, the sheer volume of it making his stomach churn.
The comedic thought struck him, bleak and sharp: So much for accurate paperwork.*
He took a step forward, his shoe crunching on a piece of broken glass with a sound like a tiny, final snap.
The mission had begun.
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End of Chapter.
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