Chapter Forty: Photographic Memory & The Genius Friend
I could hear the sound of my own footsteps—a slow, deliberate tap… tap… tap—as I made my way across the Jujutsu Tech grounds. The movement, the fresh air, seemed to be doing me good. The strange, feverish heat that had suffused my body after Shoko's healing was gradually receding, bleeding away into the cool afternoon. My muscles still ached with a deep, respectful soreness, a comprehensive catalog of every mistake I'd made against Maki, but it was a manageable pain. The kind that whispers of progress, not breakdown.
I arrived at the edge of the main training field. The scene that greeted me was one of focused, brutal harmony. Panda, a mountain of fur and friendly violence, was squaring off against Yuta Okkotsu. And Yuta… Yuta was holding a sword.
My eyes narrowed. This was new.
I didn't approach. I found a shaded spot under the eaves of a nearby storage shed, a good fifty meters away, and leaned against the cool wood. Then, with a conscious, almost surgical focus, I activated the Sharingan. Not the full, draining suite. Just the first level: enhanced perception, photographic memory.
From this distance, the crimson tint in my vision sharpened the world into impossible clarity. I could see the individual threads on Panda's fur, the minute chips on the training sword's blade, the beads of sweat tracing paths down Yuta's temple. More importantly, I could see the movement.
Yuta wasn't just swinging the sword. He was fencing. There was a fluidity to it, a natural grace that looked less learned and more… remembered. His footwork was cautious but precise, his parries economical. He blocked a straightforward, powerful punch from Panda—a classic boxing haymaker—by raising the blade at a perfect angle, deflecting the force along the flat of the steel with a sharp CLANG!
He didn't stop there. He used the momentum of the block to pivot, his body coiling, and launched a counter-thrust aimed not to kill, but to sting, the tip darting towards Panda's shoulder. It was controlled, intelligent.
Panda, of course, had decades (or however old a cursed corpse was) of experience. He didn't even seem surprised. He leaned back, letting the blade whisper past his fur, and in the same motion used Yuta's extended arm as a lever, grabbing his wrist and spinning him off-balance before launching him backwards with a powerful shove.
But Yuta didn't crash to the dirt. He managed to twist in mid-air, landing in a skidding crouch, one hand braced on the ground, the sword still gripped in the other. He came to a stop, and then… he smiled.
From my vantage point, I could see his lips move. The Sharingan's visual acuity was so heightened I could read them, predicting the words before the sound could even reach me across the field.
"I want to become stronger, Panda-senpai. So don't hold back. I want you to use your full strength."
A cold, familiar stone settled in my gut. The satisfaction from surviving Maki, from landing those hits, began to evaporate like mist in this new, glaring sunlight. The calm I'd scraped together in the infirmary felt pathetic, useless.
—Without the Sharingan… I'd be nothing compared to that. That's not just talent; that's a goddamn cheat code written into his DNA.—
The bitterness was acrid, but it didn't extinguish my desire. It fueled it, turning it into something colder, harder. I had plans. Risky, amoral plans to bridge the chasm between my meager cursed energy reserves and the ocean Yuta seemed to possess. I'd stopped worrying about the morality of it a while ago. Survival, then strength. That was the hierarchy. If others got stepped on in the process… well, that was just the world's way.
I watched for another thirty minutes, a silent, red-eyed voyeur. I recorded every parry, every lunge, every shift in Yuta's stance. The Sharingan's photographic memory etched it all into a perfect, recallable file in my mind. When I finally deactivated it, the world softened back into normal focus, leaving behind only a faint, throbbing headache—the receipt for my theft.
Then, I went to join them.
---
Yuta was breathing in controlled, deep cycles, his body humming with reinforced cursed energy. He'd just weathered another of Panda's onslaughts, a series of jabs and hooks that would have pulverized a normal person. He hadn't just blocked; he'd flowed with them, using the sword as an extension of his guard. A smile, small and genuine, had settled on his face, one he couldn't seem to suppress. Even as his arms trembled slightly from the strain.
—I've been thinking since yesterday… I should have done something. Helped. He's my friend, isn't he?—
Yuta considered everyone in his class a friend. But Obito was different. Obito was the first. Their friendship had formed with alarming, desperate speed, a lifeboat grasped by a drowning man. He'd never had a real friend before, not counting Rika. And Rika… Rika was love, protection, and a tragedy all wrapped in a curse. He couldn't hate her, but she was a reminder of everything he'd lost, everything he endangered.
Here, at Jujutsu Tech, things were different. Inumaki couldn't speak because his words were literal weapons. Panda was a created being with a human soul. They were all freaks, in their own ways. And Obito… Obito had just talked to him. Normally. Had taught him. Had laughed with him. For the first time in years, Yuta felt the crushing weight of his own existence lighten. The suicidal whisper in the back of his mind grew quieter, drowned out by the sound of shared jokes and the thwack of training pads.
But yesterday… watching Obito and Maki tear each other apart while Gojo ate popcorn… it had shifted something. He wanted to get strong, yes. To meet Gojo's expectations, to belong in this strange new world. But now there was a new, sharper goal.
—I want to protect my friend.—
He didn't know how, exactly. But he knew strength was the currency. If he was strong, like Gojo-sensei, he could be a shield. He'd lost Rika once. He wouldn't stand by and lose someone else.
He called out to Panda, his voice firm, cutting through the post-spar silence. "I want to become stronger. So attack me with everything you have."
He adjusted his grip on the training sword. A strange certainty settled over him. Fencing… it felt right. More natural than any punch or kick. It was as if the knowledge of angles, footwork, and balance was etched into his muscle memory, waiting to be awakened. His sword skills felt instinctively, absurdly superior to his hand-to-hand—by an order of magnitude.
The fight reignited, faster now, more intense. Yuta became a whirlwind of controlled steel, his attacks a blur of precise cuts and probing thrusts, always pulling back at the last moment to avoid serious injury.
Panda, delighted, rumbled encouragement even as he weaved through the blade's path. "Don't hold back on my account, kid! This fur is tougher than it looks!"
Yuta fought with a focused joy, a sense of purpose that warmed him from the inside. These people were kind. They cared. He would become strong enough to care for them in return.
---
Panda saw an opening. As Yuta recovered from a particularly aggressive lunge, Panda was suddenly behind him. But instead of retreating, Yuta pivoted on his heel, using the momentum to launch a backward, spinning kick. It was clumsy but powerful, powered by a surge of cursed energy.
Panda caught the kick with one broad paw, the impact sending a shockwave through the air. THUMP! "You're learning!" Panda cheered. "But you've left your center open!"
Before Yuta could wrench his foot free, Panda's other hand shot out and clamped onto his sword arm. Yuta's eyes widened in surprise.
"Foundation first!" Panda boomed, and with a effortless, powerful motion, he used Yuta's own trapped limbs as handles. He hoisted the boy into the air, spun once for momentum, and then launched him like a discus.
Yuta sailed through the air, arms windmilling. Panda didn't let him land. He was already moving, a black-and-white blur using all four limbs to propel himself in a mighty leap. He met Yuta at the apex of his arc and delivered a powerful, double-footed kick directly to his stomach.
WHUMP-OOF!
The air exploded from Yuta's lungs. He was blasted backwards, tumbling head over heels across the hard-packed earth in a cloud of dust before finally skidding to a stop on his back. Thud-thud-thud… scrape.
From the sidelines, Inumaki Toge let out a muffled cry of alarm, his hand flying to his covered mouth. "Salmon!" (That was too much!)
Panda landed lightly and turned to his quiet friend with a reassuring grin. "Don't worry about him," he said, his voice a calm rumble. "Look."
Inumaki followed his gaze. Yuta was pushing himself up onto his elbows. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth where he'd bitten his cheek. But on his face, etched through the pain and dirt, was a brilliant, unwavering smile. A smile of pure, exhilarated challenge.
"This is wonderful, Panda-senpai," Yuta said, his voice a little raspy but full of warmth. He gripped the sword, which he'd somehow held onto through the entire flight, and slowly got to his feet. His body settled into a new stance—lower, more grounded, the sword held in a two-handed grip that promised power, not just speed.
Panda felt a surge of pride. Senpai. The title carried weight. It meant he was responsible. He had something to teach this raw, overflowing well of potential. He fell into his own combat stance, a wide, sumo-esque base that looked deceptively open.
Yuta's eyes flickered, analyzing. He saw the opening, the invitation. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, calculating the risk.
That hesitation was all Panda needed. He compressed cursed energy in his legs and then released it in a explosive burst, not to dash sideways, but to launch himself vertically. He became a furry cannonball arcing through the air, aiming to crash down on top of Yuta with crushing force.
Yuta's eyes went wide. It was an attack that relied on pure mass and surprise, something he hadn't anticipated. His gaze darted, looking for an escape route that didn't exist in time.
Then, his expression changed. The panic smoothed into something calmer, more analytical. His lips moved, whispering words only he could hear.
"If it were Obito-senpai," he murmured to himself, "he'd stay calm. He'd find the flaw. And if he couldn't dodge… he'd make sure the other guy regretted it too."
Panda, descending like a meteor, heard the whisper. He felt a strange thrill. The kid wasn't just fighting; he was thinking. He was trying on different mindsets, learning not just techniques, but philosophies of combat.
Yuta didn't try to dodge. He couldn't. Instead, he braced, poured cursed energy into a desperate reinforcement of his arms and shoulders, and did the only thing he could: he raised the sword, point angled upwards, not to block, but to impale the trajectory.
It was a suicidal trade. Panda would crush him, but he'd take the blade through his chest in return.
At the last possible millisecond, Panda twisted in mid-air. His descending kick, meant to land on Yuta's head, instead slammed into the ground beside him with a force that cratered the earth. BOOM! The shockwave knocked Yuta off his feet, sending him rolling again, but he avoided the full impact.
The match didn't end there. It escalated. Panda, respecting Yuta's newfound lethal calculus, stopped holding back. His attacks came faster, heavier, woven with more sophisticated cursed energy techniques. Yuta met him, not with equal experience, but with a seemingly bottomless well of raw power and an accelerating learning curve. The air crackled with the exchange of blows, the clang of sword on reinforced fur, the grunts of effort.
Finally, after a dizzying, breathless exchange that left the training field scarred with fresh pits and gouges, they broke apart. Both were panting heavily, soaked in sweat. Yuta's hands were trembling around the sword hilt, but his smile was brighter than ever.
He staggered towards the sidelines where a water bottle sat on a bench. He reached for it, his vision swimming with exhaustion.
A hand got there first.
Obito's hand. He lifted the bottle, his gaze flicking between the panting Panda and the breathless Yuta. A casual, easy smile was plastered on his face, the perfect mask.
"Hello, guys," he said, his voice light. "Looks like you were putting on quite the show. Entertaining the masses and all that."
He then offered the bottle to Yuta. "Damn, kid. You're improving so fast I'm starting to worry you'll kick my ass tomorrow just for fun."
And just like that, Obito slipped into the role of the joking, slightly-lazy upperclassman. He launched into a series of exaggerated, self-deprecating jokes about his own infirmary stay, poking fun at Panda's 'gentle teaching methods,' and teasing Yuta about his 'showboating' with the sword. His timing was good, his delivery practiced.
The tension of the intense spar dissolved into laughter. Panda chuckled, a deep rumble. Inumaki gave a small, approving nod. "Bonito flakes." (Well done.)
Yuta's concerned expression melted into relief. He took the water and drank deeply before turning his big, worried eyes on Obito. "Senpai, are you really okay? You were unconscious yesterday. I came to see you this morning, but you were still out. Does this mean you just woke up?"
Obito waved a dismissive hand, the picture of nonchalance. "Woke up a few hours ago, good as new. Shoko-sensei's magic fingers, you know? Actually, watching you two go at it has me itching to move. I feel better than I have in weeks."
The trio immediately protested. Panda placed a heavy paw on his shoulder. "Whoa there, speed racer. Maybe take it easy for a day."
"How can I, after that spectacle?" Obito argued, his eyes shining with feigned enthusiasm. "I feel inspired! I need to test myself! I'm telling you, I'm in peak condition!"
And so, through a combination of wheedling, self-deprecation, and sheer stubbornness, he inserted himself into the training. They set up a rotation: Obito and Yuta, then Obito and Panda, then Obito and Inumaki (who used mostly defensive, non-verbal techniques), switching partners every half-hour with equal time for rest and breathless analysis.
For the next few hours, the training field was filled not just with the sounds of combat (thwack, clang, swoosh), but with laughter. They pointed out flaws in each other's form, offered tips, celebrated small victories. Obito played his part perfectly—the knowledgeable but humble senior, the glue in their little group. He laughed at Panda's jokes, patiently decoded Inumaki's food-based comments, and offered Yuta quiet, specific praise that made the boy glow.
Bit by bit, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in strokes of orange and purple, the pace slowed. They finally collapsed in a loose circle on the grass, bodies spent, lungs burning, but a shared, comfortable exhaustion hanging between them.
Thump. Thump. Haa… haa… wheeze…
"Not bad," Panda rumbled, giving Obito a friendly thump on the back that nearly sent him face-first into the dirt. "For a guy who was basically a human pretzel this morning."
Obito just gasped for air, but the smile on his face—partly forced, partly genuine from the sheer physical catharsis—stayed put. For this suspended moment, the calculus of his existence simplified. The spying mission for Naobito was a distant shadow. The guilt over using Yuta was muffled by the boy's trusting smile. The ever-present fear of this world was pushed back by the simple, solid reality of tired muscles and shared effort.
It was a fragile feeling. Built on lies and half-truths. Probably stupid.
But as the cool evening air washed over them and the first stars began to prick through the twilight, Obito decided he'd take it. He'd steal this moment, too, and add it to his collection.
---
Satoru Gojo, having just returned from efficiently dispatching a nest of curses that had been troubling a nearby town, stood on a walkway overlooking the training field. He'd sensed the concentrated cursed energy from a mile away.
He watched the four figures—the panda, the silent boy, the vessel of infinite potential, and the clever, desperate thief with magic eyes—laughing and collapsing together in the grass. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, hidden behind his blindfold.
His students. His chaotic, wonderful, growing students. Even the Kyoto one had been seamlessly adopted. Something warm and proud bloomed in his chest. He briefly entertained the idea of rewarding them—booking out a fancy restaurant, maybe a whole resort. But no. This was reward enough. This moment of uncomplicated camaraderie after honest effort.
In the end, as the last light faded and the crickets began their nightly song (cree-cree-cree), Gojo turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets. The sounds of their exhausted, happy voices faded behind him.
What more could a teacher possibly ask for?
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End of Chapter.
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