Chapter Thirty-Two: The Plot Thickens, and I've Become a Spy
Obito's suffering, like a cheap perfume, had a surprising staying power.
It continued for three consecutive days.
It settled into a miserable, pain-soaked routine: Wake up. Feel every muscle scream in a chorus of protest. Train with Naobito. Collapse. Repeat. His life had become a boot camp run by a sadistic, elderly ghost.
He would wake up, the tatami imprints on his face like a brand of ownership, and shuffle to the training ground where Naobito would already be waiting, sipping tea and looking at Obito as if he were a disappointing but interesting insect.
Then the training would begin. Or rather, the organized dismantling of Obito's dignity and physical integrity.
—Exhausted, sprawled on the ground, breathing with the desperate, wheezing rhythm of a broken accordion. But he was, against all odds and basic logic, noticeably stronger. The improvements were small, incremental, and paid for in blood and sweat. After taking a few ragged, shuddering breaths, he would force himself up. He'd focus, his cursed energy sputtering to life like a faulty lighter. Then he'd disappear from his spot, becoming a blur—a ghost with terrible posture. He'd move several meters in a burst of speed that felt less like running and more like being violently thrown by an invisible hand, before stopping abruptly, his body screaming in protest. He'd gasp loudly, sweat pouring down his face in salty rivers, stinging his eyes.—
I did it. I can't believe it. I really did it.
The thought was a fragile little bird in the storm of his exhaustion.
I've fully mastered this technique. Well, 'mastered' was a strong word. 'Not immediately face-planting' was more accurate. Not only that, but I've also solidified the Simple Domain, the New Shadow Style. It was now less of a 'Simple Disgrace' and more of a 'Simple Sphere of Mild Annoyance.' Progress!
For the first time since being violently inserted into this world, Obito felt a flicker of something that wasn't pure dread or existential panic. It was… happiness? A giddy, disbelieving little spark. He couldn't help but think of that old man, Naobito, the source of both his pain and this bizarre progress.
The man only stayed with him for an hour each session—a compact, efficient hour of concentrated torment—before leaving to do other, doubtlessly nefarious, clan-head things. Obito didn't ask what they were. He knew the answer would either be incomprehensible, terrifying, or involve spreadsheets of familial power dynamics. Moreover, Obito was sure he wouldn't get an answer; he'd get a look that made him feel intellectually stunted.
On this third day, after Naobito had vanished with his usual disdain for transitional movement, Obito left the training ground. His body ached, but it was a 'productive ache,' or so he tried to tell himself. He began to move, his steps a slow, deliberate shuffle-scrape on the gravel path, when he heard a voice slice through the quiet from behind him.
A voice like silk dragged over a rusty blade.
"You disgusting thing. What are you doing here?"
Obito stopped. His entire body went rigid. His mind, even fatigued, immediately identified the owner of the voice with the speed of a prey animal recognizing a predator's scent. He didn't dare to turn around. Every instinct screamed to freeze, to play dead. But at the same time, his training-honed reflexes had already initiated the turn, his head bowing slightly in a pathetic, automatic gesture of submission. Nevertheless, it was clear he could see the young man now standing before him.
Blond hair, perfectly styled as if by a team of angry stylists. Pale blue eyes, the color of a winter sky over a glacier. Equally pale skin that looked like it had never been touched by sunlight, only by the glow of his own towering self-regard. A tall, lean body held with an arrogance that seemed to warp the air around him. Moreover, he possessed a narcissistic smile that couldn't be hidden, a permanent smirk that looked down on everything before him with utter, profound contempt.
(Damn it. What is this lunatic doing here?)
Of course, Obito was intellectually aware that Naoya Zenin could be in this place at any time. The Zenin estate was, after all, his playground. But Obito had nurtured a desperate, fragile wish to slip away like a ghost before any such encounter. It was one of the few simple wishes he had left: avoid the blond tornado of ego. He was improving, using the techniques beaten into him by Naobito, even if he knew the old man was only trying to forge him into a useful tool. A Grade 1 servant for the Zenin clan. A well-trained attack dog.
Of course, Obito never thought about serving the Zenin clan. He hated this clan with a quiet, simmering intensity, fed by the original Obito's memories of humiliation and the current Obito's fresh experiences of pain. But currently, he didn't have the strength to leave, to spit in their sake and walk out. He had to bide his time, to train, to become strong enough that leaving was an option, not a suicide mission. And when he did…
—Only dark, violent thoughts swirled in Obito's head as he thought about that future time. Visions of payback, of turning the tables, of watching arrogance shatter. They were comforting, in a bleak, unhealthy way.—
Anyway, all of that was spinning in Obito's mind, a silent, furious tornado, while Naoya remained blissfully, arrogantly unaware. Naoya, who didn't know why Obito was in this place, only that his presence was an offense.
(What is this loser doing here? Wasn't he already kicked out? I sent him to Kyoto Tech to rot there, like the garbage he is.)
But nevertheless, Naoya's smirk widened. He stepped in front of Obito, closing the distance with a few lazy, predatory strides. The gravel crunched under his pristine shoes. He raised a hand, not in greeting, but with the clear intent to grab, to shove, to force Obito to the ground and make him beg like the dog Naoya believed him to be.
But before his manicured fingers could make contact, his hand stopped.
It froze in mid-air, as if it had hit an invisible wall.
Both he and Obito heard the sound at the same time. Not a voice, at first, but a presence. A heavy, dense pressure that settled over the courtyard like a physical weight.
Then, Naobito's voice, dry and utterly calm, cut through the tension.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of his geta sandals on stone preceded him as he approached from a shaded walkway.
"It seems you are ready to leave, Obito."
Naobito's eyes were on his grandson, but his words were for the boy behind him.
"I think Kyoto Tech will be happy to have you back."
Naoya was shocked. His perfect face actually twitched, the smirk melting into a rictus of pure, uncomprehending confusion. His hand slowly lowered to his side.
—How the hell does the old man know this trash? Since when does the Clan Head acknowledge waste?—
For Naoya, news about people he considered beneath him—which was everyone—was never important. It was background noise. So, he hadn't been updated on the recent bulletins regarding 'Obito Zenin: Awakening of Cursed Technique.' Even if he had known, he would have only mocked it, dismissed it as a fluke, and treated Obito like a slightly more interesting dog. A dog that had learned a pathetic trick.
But at this moment, he couldn't do anything. Because Naobito's eyes, when they finally slid from Naoya to briefly meet Obito's, held a silent, unmistakable command directed at his grandson: (Don't do anything you might regret. And I would regret the loss of a potential asset.)
Naoya's body remained frozen, a statue of offended pride. He said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tightly Obito could almost hear his teeth grinding. Screee.
Naobito looked back at Obito, his expression unreadable. He gestured with a slight tilt of his chin toward the main gate.
"Go to Tokyo Jujutsu Tech first before heading to Kyoto. And wait for my call. Is that clear?"
It wasn't a question. It was a directive downloaded directly into Obito's nervous system.
Obito didn't hesitate. He didn't nod, didn't speak. He just took the out he was being given. He turned and left the place very quickly. His footsteps were a rapid, staccato tap-tap-tap on the stone path, then a frantic scuffle-scritch as he hit the gravel, practically fleeing toward the gate without a backward glance.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
Damn it. What kind of situation is this? Why is that bastard here? Damn it. I just want to… I just want to… The vivid, violent fantasies flashed again. Why do I have to deal with all this humiliation? All of it because of this body's previous owner. Why couldn't he just be a normal person? A baker? A librarian? Why did he have to be from the most despicable, snake-pit clan in all of jujutsu society?
Obito had, through sheer survival necessity, dealt with Naobito for three days. Short, brutal periods. Nevertheless, it was clear the man leading the Zenin clan possessed a mind that operated on a different plane—a chessboard where people were pieces and pain was a teaching aid. Naobito had treated Obito like a subordinate, a raw resource to be refined for future utility. There was a terrifying, clinical efficiency to it. A lot of arrogance, yes. A lot of pain, absolutely. Still, it was a transaction. There wasn't much personal negative emotion involved. It was business.
But regarding Naoya, it was categorically, fundamentally different.
—I hate that bastard. I hate him with a purity that scares me. I want him to die. I want to crush him. To wipe that smirk off his face forever. All these memories in my head… they're not even mine, but they burn like acid.—
Obito didn't let out the scream building in his chest as he finally exited the Zenin clan estate gate. He swallowed it, a bitter, burning lump. The heavy wooden gate swung shut behind him with a final, thunderous THUD.
Outside, in the marginally freer air, he noticed a black car. It was parked with such perfect, ominous precision it might as well have had 'ominous' stamped on its license plate. It was sleek, expensive, and utterly silent.
Then, his phone, the cheap flip phone, vibrated in his pocket.
Brrrring. Brrrring.
Not a call. A text message. He flipped it open with a snap.
The screen glowed with stark, simple text:
—Get in this car. Also, keep this number. You can contact it if you want to go anywhere. Consider this a small gift from me.—
He didn't need to think, ponder, or deduce to know who sent this message. The signature was in the chilling lack of one. Naobito Zenin.
—This man is very smart and knows how to control people, giving them an indirect reason for loyalty. A car. A driver. A lifeline. The illusion of reward for good behavior. But that wasn't enough for Obito. It was a gilded leash.—
Obito knew the future of this clan, if the story he half-remembered held true, would be catastrophic. A bloody, fiery end. They would all die anyway. It wasn't clear to Obito if his presence was causing changes, butterflies flapping their wings in this world of curses, but the broad strokes probably remained. The thought was a cold, dark comfort.
After a moment of standing like an idiot on the sidewalk, he approached the black car. The driver's door opened. A man in a crisp, black formal suit and white gloves stepped out. He moved with a smooth, economical grace.
He looked at Obito, his expression professionally blank. He gave a slight, perfect bow.
"My name is Kiri, sir. I will be your assistant from now on. I will fetch any information you want. Moreover, I will drive you anywhere."
Kiri was a man in his mid-thirties. Black hair slicked back, pale, impassive skin. But Obito's senses, honed now, noticed something else. The way he held himself—too still, too balanced. And the faint, controlled shimmer of cursed energy emanating from Kiri's body. This wasn't just a driver. This was a minder. A watcher. A living, breathing tether back to Naobito.
—This man… Naobito… Does he really value me this much, or does he value my cursed technique this much?—
Between the two conclusions, he chose the second immediately, with the speed of someone used to disappointing realities.
—I wasn't good, but my cursed technique was good. The Sharingan had shown its usefulness, its creepy, efficient utility. It was clear the speed at which I'd 'mastered' the [Cursed Acceleration] technique—those cursed energy firecrackers in the feet—was absurd. A very difficult, high-precision skill. Thanks to the Sharingan's copycat abilities, I'd gotten the gist of it in just three days. Not to Naobito's level, not even close, but certainly to a 'won't immediately blow my own feet off' level of proficiency. Not only that, I also solidified the Simple Domain with Naobito's help, becoming able to conjure it relatively quickly. All of that in less than three days. For a normal sorcerer, that would be the work of months or years.—
That old, cruel bastard's teaching skills were, in their own terrifying way, astonishing. Whether it was his profound, intuitive understanding of cursed energy mechanics, his ruthless, logical thinking, or his Sherlock-level deduction, they were all first-rate. Obito was secretly, deeply afraid of staying longer with this man. It felt like staying under the microscope of a special detective who could, given enough time, discover not just what you could do, but who you really were. He could probably deduce your favorite childhood nightmare if he watched you flinch enough times.
Moreover, Obito wasn't a skilled actor. He was a terrible actor. He was the guy who, in a school play, would be cast as 'Tree #3' and still forget to stand still. But at least, he hoped his current acting style—'shell-shocked, traumatized, slightly improved young man'—was enough to deceive, or at least not actively alarm, the man's superbly skilled deduction abilities for now.
Naobito had been adding new things to Obito's knowledge base like a professor dumping textbooks on a confused freshman. In those few hours over three days, he'd given him a lot of information—not out of kindness, but because an informed tool is a more precise one.
Finally, Obito got into the back seat of the car. The door closed with a soft, expensive thunk, sealing him in. The interior was silent, cool, and smelled of leather and faint lemon cleaner.
The car began to move. Vroom… purr… The engine was whisper-quiet. It glided forward with a smoothness that felt unnatural.
He noticed a plain manila envelope placed beside him on the plush leather seat. He didn't look at Kiri, who was driving, his eyes fixed forward. Kiri seemed to know the envelope was there, but he didn't glance over, didn't comment. A perfect automaton.
Obito picked up the envelope. It was heavy, crisp. He tore it open along the seam.
Riiip.
The sound was loud in the silent cabin.
Inside was a single sheet of high-quality paper. The words were typed in a clean, no-nonsense font.
Mission: You are to observe Yuta Okkotsu, the person who will transfer to Tokyo Jujutsu Tech for education.
Mission Requirements: Reconnaissance and information transfer to me at any time. I want to know everything happening at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, especially regarding this young man. His progress, his relationships, his state of mind, his connection to the special grade cursed spirit Rika. Everything.
One way or another, when Obito finished reading the letter and the stark mission statement, he could only utter one word under his breath. It was a word laden with layers of self-contempt, bitter amusement, and contempt for the old man who thought he could pull these strings.
"Spy."
It tasted like ash in his mouth.
—He wants me to be his spy. His little informant in the lion's den. In Gojo Satoru's den. How despicable. How utterly, predictably cunning.—
He cursed inwardly, a silent torrent of profanity. But at the same time, a wry, grim smile touched his lips, hidden in the shadow of the car's interior. He didn't let it show on his face.
(It doesn't matter. Anyway, I wanted to leave Jujutsu Tech eventually. But I'm sure leaving at this time, under my own power, wouldn't be a good idea, at least without gaining some important things first. Resources. Knowledge. Strength. And if I form a… relationship with Yuta Okkotsu, I can observe him up close. I can watch him with the Sharingan. I can notice the flow of his cursed energy—that ocean of power. I can study it. Maybe… maybe I can even copy something.)
Obito was gradually, painfully discovering the Sharingan's possibilities—things he hadn't had the time, safety, or mental bandwidth to think of before. But after these intense days, forced to focus, he had managed to form some concrete ideas. He wasn't a genius in his previous life; he was just a guy trying to get by, always busy surviving. He hadn't sat down to theory-craft his superpowers. They weren't like the clean, catalogued Sharingan techniques from the Naruto anime. This was something different, warped by the rules of this world. A cursed technique now, with different conditions, different laws. There was a fundamental difference, and there was a desperate need to understand the new rulebook through agonizing trial and error.
But he now felt he understood the essence of its four current, identifiable abilities. He mentally listed them as the cityscape blurred past the tinted window.
1. Seeing Cursed Energy: This was the freebie. The baseline. The eye could see cursed energy with stupid ease, even distinguishing between the subtle fingerprints of different human souls and the gross differences in cursed energy types. It was like having built-in cursed energy night-vision goggles. Handy.
2. Perceptual Deceleration: The Sharingan eye could slow down perceived movement to a ridiculous extent, depending on how much cursed energy Obito funneled into the ability. It was like having a temporal slider for reality. The downside? Sustaining it for more than a few minutes gave him a headache that felt like a ice-pick was trying to burrow out through his eye socket.
3. Predictive Analysis: The eye could extrapolate, calculating probable future movements within his field of vision. It was less 'seeing the future' and more 'running a very fast, very accurate simulation.' Avoiding the attacks it predicted, however, depended entirely on whether his wet-noodle body could keep up. This ability also relied heavily on his own neural reflexes. It had a failsafe, though—an automatic, subconscious twitch that could jerk him out of the way of lethal strikes, but only if the Sharingan was active at that exact moment. A conditional get-out-of-death-free card, with a high activation fee.
4. The Copying Ability. This was the crown jewel. The ability Obito currently wanted to spam on every interesting person he met. This technique allowed him to copy the style a person used while employing cursed energy—the specific way they channeled it to a weapon, reinforced their body, or executed a technique. Obito could imitate it with creepy, temporary accuracy. While in this mimetic state, his own cursed energy control would warp to match the target's 'fingerprint,' as long as he had seen the technique with the Sharingan active or had a complete, mental blueprint of that manipulation.
This also worked, to a lesser extent, for purely physical combat styles, like Maki's fluid, efficient movements. He could use cursed energy to copy the kinematic chain, the footwork, the weight distribution, and then use his own cursed energy reinforcement to poorly approximate it.
And the most liberating thing for Obito was the learning aspect: he didn't need the Sharingan active forever. As long as he trained in those copied styles, grinding them into muscle memory, he could use them even after deactivating the eyes. The Sharingan was the cheat-sheet; practice was the test.
There were, of course, caveats. Glaring, painful, limiting caveats. Obito mentally tabulated them as he stared out the window at the passing shops—a blur of neon and normalcy. Kiri drove with extreme, unsettling smoothness. The car's suspension was so good the world outside seemed to be on rails. Hummmmm.
· Stamina Drain: The combat-focused copy technique required a highly efficient, concentrated use of the Sharingan, which was like running a mental marathon while solving complex equations.
· Hard Time Limit: He couldn't sustain the advanced copy state for more than 10 minutes in a single stretch. After that, he'd be forcibly booted out, the Sharingan deactivating on its own for a mandatory cooldown of at least 30 seconds. Thirty seconds of being blind (metaphorically and enhanced-vision-wise) in a fight was a lifetime.
· Overclock Penalty: If he tried to imitate the control style of monsters like Gojo, or anyone vastly superior in cursed energy refinement, the cooldown period would balloon. He might only get 5 minutes of shaky imitation, followed by two minutes or more of useless, vulnerable normalcy. It was a system built to prevent him from getting too cocky, or too dead.
The car glided to a perfect, silent stop. The engine cut off with a soft, almost inaudible click.
Outside the window was a familiar, imposing gate.
"We have arrived at Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, sir," Kiri announced, his voice a neutral, polished monotone. He didn't turn around.
Obito looked up at the school building—that mix of traditional solemnity and modern function that seemed to hum with latent, powerful energy. The place where the strongest sorcerer taught, and where the vessel of the most powerful cursed spirit was about to arrive.
A spy's mission began now. He was to infiltrate, observe, and report from the very heart of what might soon be the most watched location in the jujutsu world. The irony was so thick he could almost chew on it. It was almost delicious, in a bitter, metallic way.
He stepped out of the car, the door closing behind him with that same solid, final thunk. The envelope, now empty of its directive, was a crumpled ball of paper in his pocket, a physical reminder of the chain attached to his new 'gift.'
He took a breath, squared his shoulders (a gesture that pulled painfully at his still-tender ribs), and walked toward the gate.
The game was getting more complicated. And he was now a pawn who could see the board a little better, but was still very much on it.
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End of Chapter.
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