Chapter Forty-Four : I'll do what I have to do
Tch—
Chapter Forty-Four : I'll do what I have to do
Tch—
Did you really have to do all of that, Geto?
The word exploded inside Satoru Gojo's skull like a cursed energy backlash, fragments of it ricocheting against the walls of his memory. His teeth pressed together—grind, grind, grind—a slow, deliberate sound like millstones crushing wheat into bitter flour.
Everyone keeps telling me to just kill you.
A breeze moved through the Tokyo campus, carrying the distant thwip-thwip-thwip of training weapons and the faint, sweet scent of approaching autumn. The leaves overhead performed their slow, indifferent dance—rustle, hush, rustle—green edges beginning their reluctant surrender to yellow.
Like they forget you're my friend.
His fingers found the edge of the paper bag. The crinkle was loud in the stillness, crisp and final. Inside: monaka, the kind with the too-sweet red bean paste that always stuck to the roof of his mouth. He pulled one out, examined it with the casual disinterest of a cat studying a particularly uninteresting piece of string.
Like they forget you were one of the closest people to me.
Crunch.
The sound echoed across the empty bleachers. The shell fractured between his teeth—crack, splinter, shatter—and suddenly he was seventeen again, sprawled on this same bench, Geto beside him laughing at something stupid Suguru had said. Suguru always said stupid things. That was the point. That was friendship.
All of this, because of this madness you're doing now.
Gojo chewed. The bean paste was cloying, almost aggressive in its sweetness. It coated his tongue like regret. He swallowed anyway.
I can't do anything for you anymore.
His posture was an elaborate lie—legs crossed, one arm draped across the back of the bench, the picture of serene disinterest. Anyone watching would see the strongest sorcerer of his generation enjoying an afternoon snack. Anyone watching would not notice the way his thumb pressed into the remaining monaka, compressing it slowly, methodically, until red bean wept from between the cracked wafer shells.
Do I have to kill you just to find peace?
You have to stop.
I'm not wrong for wanting to stop you.
You're wrong because you became insane.
The crunch-crunch-crunch of his chewing filled the space where Geto's voice used to be. Gojo's Six Eyes swept across the training ground without his conscious permission—whoosh—processing, cataloguing, understanding everything in that crystalline, exhausting way they always did. The cursed energy residue on the basketball hoop from yesterday's practice. The microscopic fractures in the asphalt where students had landed too hard. A single spiderweb, trembling in the corner of the equipment shed.
He wasn't looking at any of it. He was looking at 2007.
I need to calm down. I need to breathe.
His chest expanded. Contracted. The air tasted like dust and memory.
But screw you, Geto.
You made me forced to remember.
Thump.
There it was. The ghost of a basketball against concrete. Gojo didn't turn his head—didn't need to. The Six Eyes had already reconstructed the memory in perfect, agonizing detail: Suguru's form as he set up for a three-pointer, the particular way his wrist flicked at release, the sound of the net swish when he actually managed to score (rare) and the clang when he didn't (frequent).
I remember when we used to play there.
Play basketball.
His jaw tightened. Crush. Another monaka sacrificed to memory.
I always beat you.
A ghost of something—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace—tugged at the corner of his mouth. Because yes. He had. Relentlessly. Without mercy. And Suguru had complained every single time, and then suggested they play again, and again, and again.
We were the strongest together.
The words hung in the air, visible almost, heavy with the weight of everything they used to mean.
We managed to do so many things.
We helped each other.
The wind shifted. Somewhere in the campus, a door opened and closed—thud—and Gojo's fingers tightened around the paper bag. The crinkle was sharper now, almost accusatory.
You used to understand me.
You used to tell me we should protect non-shamans.
Protect normal people.
His throat moved. Swallow. The monaka was ash now.
Why did you suddenly stop?
Why did everything change?
Silence. Not the comfortable silence of two friends who didn't need to speak, but the terrible silence of a phone that would never ring again.
Maybe it's because of my thoughts.
Gojo's eyes—the ones not hidden behind his blindfold, the metaphorical ones, the ones that still believed in things—drifted across the empty court. The hoops stood sentinel, their nets frayed and patient. Waiting for players who would never return.
Or maybe it's because I'm looking at this court where we used to play.
I stopped and remembered the reason.
It was me. I was the reason.
Thump-thump-thump.
Not a basketball. His heartbeat, accelerating into that familiar rhythm of self-recrimination. His fingers found another monaka, crushed it without bringing it to his mouth. The fragments scattered across his lap like tiny, sweet graves.
If I had been stronger back then.
If I had been the strongest that I am now.
The word echoed. Strongest. Such a lonely title. Such a heavy crown.
If I had been able to defeat Toji easily.
We would have returned happy.
The memory surfaced unbidden: Riko's smile. Her laugh. The way she'd rolled her eyes at their bickering but always, always waited for them to catch up. She'd believed in them. Both of them.
We would have been able to protect that girl.
We could have come back as friends again.
Crush. More monaka. More sweetness turned to dust.
And you wouldn't have left.
You wouldn't have changed.
You wouldn't have become just a killer trying to destroy humanity because of an unreal dream.
The breeze carried something else now—the distant whoosh of cursed energy being manipulated somewhere in the training grounds. Gojo's Six Eyes catalogued it automatically. Student-level. Controlled but not mastered. Familiar.
He just wants to destroy normal people.
Because he thinks humans are just monkeys now.
Gojo's laugh was soft, barely audible, more exhale than expression. It tasted like nothing.
Insane way of thinking.
All because of his failure.
A pause. The paper bag surrendered its last monaka to his waiting fingers. Crinkle-crinkle-crunch.
"Gojo, you need to calm down a little."
His own voice, inside his own head, wearing the clothes of reason. He hated it.
Calm down?
How can I calm down?
His body was perfectly still. Completely relaxed. The strongest sorcerer in the world, enjoying a peaceful afternoon snack. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Anyone watching would not notice the microscopic vibration in his fingertips, the way his cursed energy flickered at its edges—zzzt, zzzt, zzzt—like a candle struggling against a wind that didn't exist.
Does this voice in my head that tells me to calm down understand the consequences of my actions in the future?
Does it understand that I'll have to kill my friend?
Because he's insane?
Because he became afraid of the idea that I'm just the strongest?
The word again. Strongest. It used to feel like victory. Now it felt like a sentence.
I can't do anything.
What's the correct result in this dangerous equation?
His fingers spread across his thigh, pressing down. The fabric of his pants wrinkled under the pressure—whisper, whisper—small protests against an impossible grip.
War is coming.
Hundreds of curses.
The calculation ran through his mind with the cold efficiency of the Six Eyes. Variables: Geto's army of curses. Geto's charisma. Geto's certainty. The jujutsu elders, useless and obstructionist. The students, too young, too inexperienced, too alive to waste in a conflict that should never have existed.
And I can eliminate Geto.
To protect the lives of so many innocents.
The equation balanced. Perfectly. Mathematically. Inevitably.
But I'm helpless to do it.
I'm still standing in my place.
Just thinking about how to solve this.
Why, after I became the strongest, does it not seem like anything changed?
His jaw tightened. The monaka was gone. The paper bag was crumpled in his fist, compressed into a tight, useless ball. His knuckles were white beneath his gloves.
Everything happened and I became much stronger.
But I'm still the same.
I no longer have the solutions like I used to.
I don't have a way to solve this problem.
Creak.
The sound of wood. Not the bleachers beneath him—something else, something closer. Gojo's head turned—slow, deliberate, controlled—toward the source.
His Six Eyes processed the information before his conscious mind caught up. Cursed energy signature: familiar. Student-level, but with undertones of something more. Location: the edge of the basketball court, near the equipment shed. Time: approximately four seconds ago.
What is Obito doing here?
The boy stood at the court's perimeter, half-hidden in the shadow of an overhanging maple. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his attention was absolute—focused entirely on something clutched in his right hand.
And what is that thing on his wrist?
The Six Eyes zoomed. Enhanced. Analyzed. The cursed energy around Obito's wrist pulsed with a distinctive signature—thrum, thrum, thrum—not his own, but something bonded to him. Something alive.
A spider.
Gojo's eyebrows rose behind his blindfold. The creature was small, unremarkable, the kind of ordinary arachnid that built webs in corners and fled from light. But the cursed energy woven through its form was anything but ordinary. It waited, patient and obedient, as Obito's fingers closed around its body.
Then it changed.
The transformation was instantaneous—shnnnkt—a sound like silk tearing, like reality folding in on itself. The spider's form elongated, sharpened, solidified. Legs became guard. Abdomen became blade. In the space between heartbeats, the creature had become a sword.
Gojo's chewing stopped.
His Six Eyes processed. Analyzed. The sword's cursed energy signature was stable—impressively so. The binding was clean, the conversion efficient. Whoever had created this weapon understood the fundamental mathematics of cursed object manifestation.
Did he make a cursed tool? Or is this a shikigami?
The question hung in the air, unanswered. Gojo's fingers released their death grip on the crumpled bag. His attention—all of it, the overwhelming flood of information that never stopped—focused on the boy and his impossible weapon.
How could Obito create something like this?
The calculation ran automatically. Requirements for cursed tool creation: expert-level barrier knowledge. Extensive technical education. Mastery of multiple divergent methodologies for cursed energy manipulation and object binding. Advanced cursed energy control sufficient to maintain stable interaction with reactive cursed substances while simultaneously processing the massive information load required for successful tool manifestation.
His control level is good, but has he reached this degree?
Where he can interact with cursed energy and predict such a large quantity of information that could easily cause problems during the creation of such a weapon?
The Six Eyes continued their analysis, relentless and thorough. Obito's cursed energy reserves: above average for his grade, but not exceptional. His control: precise, almost surgical, but lacking the brute-force capability that usually compensated for technical gaps. His knowledge base: unknown, but extrapolating from his demonstrated abilities—
Even for him—the strongest—this requires many things.
Gojo's thumb pressed against his temple. The familiar pressure, the familiar ache. His Six Eyes never stopped. They never rested. They never forgot.
A cursed core filled with cursed energy, like a cursed spirit, to create such equipment.
Of course, that also requires a lot of time from him, because he needs many arrangements.
But that's only because he's the strongest and possesses the Six Eyes and doesn't require much experience.
Gojo's lips pressed together. The taste of monaka lingered, sweet and accusatory.
But this boy's Sharingan...
His gaze sharpened. Through the blindfold, through the distance, through the layers of analysis and calculation and reluctant, creeping interest—
...can do this difficult thing.
Obito moved. Gojo watched.
The boy hadn't noticed him—wasn't looking for observers, wasn't scanning for threats. His attention was entirely internal, focused on the sword in his hands with the single-minded intensity of someone who had just discovered a new language and was desperate to achieve fluency.
Without even realizing it himself...
Gojo settled back against the bleachers. His posture remained relaxed, disinterested. His Six Eyes remained absolute.
...he was observing the boy's testing process.
The cursed energy around Obito's sword pulsed with residual warmth—thrum, thrum, thrum—fading but not yet cold. Gojo's analysis sharpened. The energy signature was recent, hours old at most. The binding was still settling, the cursed object still acclimating to its new form.
It seems he made this sword recently.
The cursed energy around the sword was low.
Which means it was created using at least a second-grade cursed spirit.
The calculation continued, automatic and inexorable. Second-grade cursed spirit: minimum requirement for stable cursed tool creation. Higher-grade spirits offered better compatibility, faster adaptation, more efficient energy conversion. But they were harder to obtain, harder to bind, harder to control.
And this spirit possessed good cursed energy.
It adapted quickly to the conversion process.
That requires a lot of luck, obtaining such a cursed spirit.
And it seems he managed to obtain it somehow, without me knowing.
The corner of Gojo's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite disapproval.
Interesting.
This student increasingly interests me over time.
His Six Eyes tracked Obito's movements—the way he adjusted his grip on the sword, the subtle shifts in his stance, the micro-adjustments of his balance. The boy was testing the weapon's weight, its reach, its responsiveness. He moved like someone who understood the theory of swordsmanship but had rarely practiced its application.
But I can say he made this weapon well.
And it may raise his power significantly.
But can he use swordsmanship arts?
A memory surfaced: Panda, in the training yard, demonstrating proper footwork for a straight punch. Obito beside him, mimicking the movement with the particular awkwardness of someone whose body hadn't yet learned what his mind already knew.
I thought he would take the path of boxing.
Since he's learning boxing from Panda.
Gojo's fingers drummed against his thigh—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm of reluctant acknowledgment. He had never considered using a weapon. Not seriously, not as a primary combat methodology. His fists, his techniques, his overwhelming superiority—these had always been enough. Even before he became the strongest, before he reached the apex of jujutsu society, the idea of relying on an external tool had never occurred to him.
I would have used my skills and improved them.
But the thought followed, unbidden: That's not something everyone can do.
It required talent. It required technique. It required the kind of absolute certainty that came from knowing, without question, that your natural abilities were sufficient for any challenge.
Obito possessed good technique. But it was strategic technique, not combat technique—a fundamental difference that shaped everything about his approach to conflict. His Sharingan offered abilities comparable to the Six Eyes, but fundamentally different in application.
Unlike my Limitless technique...
Gojo's thumb pressed against his blindfold. Beneath the fabric, his Six Eyes continued their eternal, exhaustive analysis. They never stopped. They never rested. They never gave him a moment of peace.
The Six Eyes cannot be deactivated.
The truth of it settled into his bones, familiar as breathing. His eyes processed everything, always, without filter or pause. Cursed energy at the atomic level. Information from kilometers away. The past, present, and future implications of every cursed technique, every barrier, every microscopic fluctuation in the fundamental fabric of reality.
And therefore, they constantly consume my cursed energy.
Additionally, they fill my head with a massive quantity of information—useful and useless alike.
His fingers found the edge of his blindfold. Adjusted it. The fabric shifted—whisper—settling into its familiar position.
That's why I use this cover to close my eyes for a good period.
So I can feel some comfort.
A pause. His hand lowered.
At the same time, I can see things in slow motion.
Plus seeing kilometers away, with cursed energy at the atomic level.
And this is what allows me to use the Limitless technique to its full potential.
Unlike other people who, if they obtained the same technique, wouldn't be able to do much without the Six Eyes.
His gaze drifted back to Obito. The boy had moved to the court's edge, his sword lowered, his posture thoughtful. The Sharingan—when activated—offered different gifts. Cursed energy visualization. Dynamic vision. Reaction speed. The ability to copy combat techniques.
He can't copy innate techniques, of course.
Gojo's lips curved. Not quite a smile. Not quite dismissal.
But that's already difficult.
And it's absolutely impossible to copy innate techniques easily.
No technique has ever been defined that can do that.
At least, according to Gojo, who knows that Yuta's technique can do this—and Yuta still hasn't mastered it.
The thought of Yuta surfaced, lingered, sank. Another student with impossible potential. Another child carrying burdens no child should carry. Another future that might—probably would—surpass him.
But nevertheless, Obito's Sharingan technique possesses many qualities that could make him a special grade shaman in the future.
If he reaches his full potential.
Gojo's fingers stilled against his thigh. The wind carried another sound—shing—Obito testing his sword's edge against empty air.
And even Satoru Gojo must acknowledge that this young man could reach very high levels.
So high that he might challenge him in the future for the title of the strongest.
If he reaches a higher level than that.
And masters a large quantity of skills and arts related to barriers and jujutsu.
And finally masters Domain Expansion, plus Reverse Cursed Technique.
If the boy reaches these skills...
Gojo's head tilted. The movement was slight, almost imperceptible—the acknowledgment of possibility.
...he could certainly be a good opponent.
Thwip.
The sound of Obito's sword cutting air. Precise. Controlled. Gojo's Six Eyes tracked the blade's arc, the angle of Obito's wrist, the subtle shift of his weight from back foot to forward. The movement was clean, efficient—not yet masterful, but far beyond the awkward fumbling of a beginner.
Without realizing it...
Gojo's breath caught. Held. Released.
...he had stopped thinking about Geto.
The realization surfaced slowly, like bubbles rising through deep water. His attention—his relentless, exhausting, ever-processing attention—had shifted entirely to the boy on the training ground. The calculation of cursed tools and Sharingan capabilities and future potential had temporarily displaced the impossible equation of Suguru Geto.
He's watching the boy's movements while using the sword.
Obito's form shifted. Another cut—shing—followed by a pivot, a recovery, a reset. His movements carried echoes of something familiar.
They resemble Yuta's movements.
Harmoniously, but not with complete style.
Gojo's analysis sharpened. The comparison wasn't perfect—Obito's stance was his own, his grip modified, his timing personal. But the foundational elements, the structural principles underlying each strike...
It seems he's not activating the Sharingan at this moment.
To master these techniques.
Perhaps he's trying to master them himself.
Perhaps he's trying to merge the styles he's trying to copy with his own power.
Then he uses the Sharingan to test his mastery.
Gojo's fingers drummed against his thigh—tap-tap-tap—a rhythm of reluctant approval.
That's... actually a good idea.
The admission surfaced grudgingly, pressed out of him by the undeniable evidence of Obito's approach. The boy understood his technique. Not just its capabilities, but its nature. Its appropriate application. Its path to evolution.
It seems he understands his cursed technique well.
And he's trying to develop it in the right direction.
Gojo's Six Eyes continued their analysis, cataloguing, categorizing, understanding. Obito's technique wasn't about overwhelming power or absolute destruction. It was about perception, learning, evolution. About seeing clearly and adapting accordingly.
His technique depends heavily on visual learning, then development.
Not on absolute power and amount of destruction.
But on amount of speed and advanced sensory perception.
It's very suitable for combat that depends on intelligence.
Perhaps he will become suitable—strong—much faster, in any case.
Gojo's shoulders rose. Fell. A sigh that carried the weight of unasked questions and unanswered prayers.
I need to stop thinking about this subject.
And return to the main subject.
His gaze lifted from Obito—reluctantly, like pulling fingers from a warm flame—and settled on the empty basketball court. The hoops stood patient. The nets swayed in the breeze. The ghosts of 2007 continued their eternal game, oblivious to the passage of years and the transformation of friends into strangers.
What will I do when Geto comes?
Will I kill him?
Or will I let him leave?
Or imprison him?
The questions circled, familiar and unfriendly. He had asked them a thousand times. He had answered them a thousand different ways. None of the answers fit. None of them brought peace.
If only he apologizes and regrets...
Gojo's fingers found the crumpled paper bag. Smoothing it out—crinkle, crinkle—an attempt at order where no order existed.
...I will stand by his side again.
I will protect him as I always did.
We will stay together, friends as we were.
I will forgive him for all his actions, directly.
And I will not allow the council to reach him.
The bag was flat now. Empty. Irreparable.
But if he doesn't do that...
His eyes—the ones behind the blindfold, the ones that saw everything—narrowed. The world contracted to a single point of focus. The basketball court. The ghosts. The future that waited, patient and inevitable.
...then I will do something right.
His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. The wind caught it, carried it away, scattered it across the empty court where two friends once played a game that neither of them could win.
"What I must do as his friend..."
A pause. The silence stretched, elastic and unbearable.
"...before he becomes this monster."
---
On the other side of the court, Obito Zenin was having the time of his life.
Shing-shing-shing.
The sword sang in his hands. Kuryouki—his shikigami, his weapon, his partner—responded to his will with the eager obedience of a well-trained hunting dog. Each strike was cleaner than the last. Each movement flowed more naturally into the next. His body was learning, adapting, evolving.
Swoosh.
He pivoted on his heel, the blade trailing behind him in a perfect arc. The maple leaves overhead paid no attention—rustle, rustle, indifferent—but Obito didn't need an audience. He needed practice. He needed repetition. He needed to transform the copied techniques in his memory into muscle memory of his own.
Thump.
His foot found purchase against the trunk of the maple. The bark was rough beneath his sole, textured and alive. He pressed down—push—and launched himself upward.
Whoosh.
Vertical. His body rose, defying gravity through the simple expedient of refusing to acknowledge its existence. The sword extended before him, point aimed at the empty sky. Wind rushed past his ears, cool and encouraging.
Then he stopped.
Click.
His feet adhered to the trunk. Perpendicular to the ground. Parallel to the horizon. He hung there, suspended against the bark like an insect awaiting metamorphosis, and his face split into a grin so wide it threatened to escape the boundaries of his skull.
"Yes."
The word escaped before he could contain it. Not that he wanted to contain it. Not that he could have contained it if he tried.
Additional ability granted to me by Kuryouki.
Adhesion.
His fingers flexed against the sword's hilt. Through the weapon, through his cursed energy, through the bond he had forged with the spider-spirit-shikigami-sword, he could feel the ability humming—thrum, thrum, thrum—waiting for his command.
I can stick like a spider when I use the sword.
Using cursed energy, I can activate this technique naturally.
The implications cascaded through his mind, each one more exciting than the last. Combat adaptation. Enemy surprise. Vertical assault from unexpected angles. Tree-based mobility without fear of falling. Platforms that existed wherever he chose to place his feet.
This ability allows me to adapt in combat.
Or even surprise the enemy.
Or even use side platforms to charge from multiple directions.
Or even trees, without needing to fear falling.
The grin refused to subside. His cheeks ached. He didn't care.
Everything was progressing with me correctly.
Swoosh.
He released the adhesion and dropped—thump—landing in a perfect three-point crouch. The sword swept out in a defensive arc, then up, then sheathed against his back in a movement that was becoming almost natural.
His breathing was steady. His heartbeat was calm. His mind was clearer than it had been in weeks.
Kuryouki.
The sword shifted in his grip—shnnnkt—and contracted, folded, transformed. Legs emerged from blade. Abdomen receded into thorax. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the weapon became a spider again, perched patiently on his palm.
Obito exhaled.
Good work.
The spider pulsed once—affirmation, acknowledgment, affection—and settled against his wrist. Its legs curled inward, its body stilled. Waiting. Patient. Ready.
He had created something. Not copied, not borrowed, not stolen from the memories of others. Created. Forged from his own understanding, his own effort, his own will.
Time for dinner.
The thought surfaced, mundane and grounding. His stomach seconded the motion with an audible grrrrrrr that echoed across the empty court.
Right. Dinner. Food. The human need for sustenance, unaffected by cursed techniques or shikigami evolutions or the quiet satisfaction of achievement.
He turned from the court. His footsteps—pad, pad, pad—carried him across the campus, through the corridors, toward the cafeteria. The evening air was cool against his face. The lights of the cafeteria glowed warm and welcoming.
Swoosh.
The door opened. The sounds of the cafeteria washed over him—clatter, chatter, sizzle—the comfortable chaos of communal dining. His eyes swept across the room, cataloguing familiar faces, available seats, potential escape routes if conversation became overwhelming.
"Senpai! Come eat!"
Yuta.
The boy's face was bright with genuine welcome, his hand raised in an enthusiastic wave that threatened to knock over the water pitcher beside his tray. His smile was the kind that couldn't be faked—too open, too earnest, too utterly convinced of the inherent goodness of human interaction.
Inumaki.
The pale-haired boy raised his hand in greeting—"Tsuna"—his tone carrying the particular warmth of someone who had learned to express everything through single words and trusted his companions to understand.
Panda.
...was not present. Obito's scan completed its circuit without locating the bear-shaman's distinctive cursed energy signature. Perhaps elsewhere. Perhaps speaking with the director. Perhaps simply preferring different dining companions this evening.
Any case.
Obito's tray found his hands. His feet carried him to Yuta's table. His body settled onto the bench with the particular awkwardness of someone who had never quite mastered the art of casual seating.
Thump.
"Senpai, you won't believe what happened on our mission today!"
Yuta's voice was a river, flowing fast and eager. Obito's chopsticks found rice, carried it to his mouth, chewed. The rhythm of dining provided structure for listening: chew, swallow, nod, repeat.
Squish. Tofu.
Crunch. Pickled vegetable.
Slurp. Miso soup.
"—and then the cursed spirit tried to escape through the ventilation system, but Inumaki-san used 'Stop' and it just—" Yuta's hands illustrated the spirit's immobility with dramatic flair, nearly colliding with his own forehead. "Thud. Right into the wall."
"Bonito flakes." Inumaki's tone carried satisfaction.
Obito nodded. His expression arranged itself into appropriate interest. His internal calculations continued uninterrupted.
They went on a short mission somewhere.
Even Yuta is beginning to talk about his cursed technique.
The conversation shifted. Yuta's enthusiasm redirected from mission report to personal development. His cursed technique. His ability. His potential.
"—and I've been thinking about how it works, senpai. Like, when I copy someone's technique, it's not just—I don't just memorize it, I actually absorb it, but then I can only use it for a limited time unless I store it somewhere, and Rika helps but she's not—I mean, she is, but I need to be able to do it myself, so I've been trying to figure out—"
Ah.
Obito's chopsticks paused. Suspended. Tofu trembling at their tips.
He's describing his ability to copy other people's innate techniques.
I pretended to be shocked.
His face performed surprise. His eyebrows rose. His eyes widened. His mouth formed the appropriate shape of someone receiving unexpected information.
Honestly, I was trying to appear convincing.
But inside, I was just thinking: what a wonderful thing.
His grip on the chopsticks tightened. Squeeze.
I copy combat styles.
He copies innate techniques.
It seems similar, but the difference is huge.
The tofu surrendered. Splat. Back to the bowl.
At least I can smile and be happy.
His lips curved. The expression felt genuine, even to him. Perhaps because it was.
It seems my feelings are beginning to fade.
His gaze met Yuta's. Held. The boy's enthusiasm was undiminished, his trust absolute, his belief in Obito's goodwill and good intentions completely unshakeable.
I want to use this boy.
The thought surfaced, cold and clinical. Obito examined it, turned it over, tested its weight.
But at the same time, he seems to be the closest person to me in this place.
The calculation continued. Variables: Yuta's power. Yuta's trust. Yuta's vulnerability. Yuta's friendship.
Any case.
His chopsticks resumed their work. Rice. Tofu. Pickled vegetable. The rhythm of consumption, practiced and neutral.
We continued talking.
I began asking him about his techniques.
His questions were careful. Casual. The inquiries of a senpai genuinely interested in a kouhai's development. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Finally, we separated after a short time.
Thump.
His tray surrendered to the collection station. His feet carried him toward the exit. His hand found the door handle. Pulled.
I went to my room.
And I didn't look back.
---
Click.
The door closed behind Obito. His footsteps—pad, pad, pad—retreated down the corridor, growing softer, softer, absorbed into the ambient noise of the evening campus.
Yuta Okkotsu watched him go.
Senpai is happy for me.
The conviction settled into his chest, warm and solid. Not wishful thinking—observation. Senpai had smiled. Senpai had asked questions. Senpai had stayed at the table for the entire meal, even though he usually ate quickly and left early.
Not only does he think senpai is happy to know I've awakened my cursed technique...
Yuta's fingers found his chopsticks. Traced their edges. The wood was smooth beneath his touch, worn from countless meals.
...but also because I received help and some ideas to improve my technique.
And all of that is thanks to senpai.
Thump.
Inumaki's elbow, gentle against his arm. The pale-haired boy tilted his head—question, concern, companionship—and produced a soft "Okaka" that somehow conveyed everything.
I'm fine.
Yuta smiled. The expression was genuine, if slightly distracted.
On the other side, Inumaki was also nodding his head in agreement.
Listening to my words.
The memory surfaced: Inumaki, across the table, his head moving in that particular rhythm of someone who understood more than he expressed. His eyes had tracked the conversation, noted Obito's reactions, catalogued the emotional temperature of the exchange.
Therefore, I was very happy.
Yuta's gaze drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the campus was darkening, evening surrendering to night. The training grounds were empty. The basketball court was still. The world was quiet, preparing for rest.
I was thinking about training from the morning of the next day.
To begin and become much stronger.
His fingers curled into fists against his thighs. The fabric of his pants wrinkled under the pressure—whisper, whisper—small creases of determination.
Especially since it seems there are many problems happening.
The awareness had grown slowly, accumulating like dust in corners. Teacher Gojo's distracted silence. The elders' increased presence at the campus. Whispers of something coming, something large, something that would require every sorcerer's full strength.
True, I haven't been told about them properly.
Because it's clear that Teacher Gojo seems very disturbed these days.
Yuta's jaw tightened. His teacher's face surfaced in memory: the blindfold hiding eyes that saw everything, the smile that didn't quite reach his lips, the moments of stillness when he seemed to be looking at something far away—something none of his students could see.
Perhaps he's thinking about that person who brought those many curses.
But that doesn't matter.
His breath. Steady. Controlled.
I will definitely protect the people I love in this place.
No matter what happens.
The conviction crystallized in his chest, hard and bright and absolute. Not hope. Not wish. Knowledge.
I've become much stronger.
Memory: his first days at Jujutsu High. The terror that followed him like a shadow. The certainty that he was a catastrophe waiting to happen, a disaster that would inevitably consume everyone who came too close.
And my fear of becoming just a catastrophe has disappeared.
I am a shaman now.
His shoulders straightened. His spine aligned. His breath deepened.
I will act like a real shaman.
I will do what I must do to protect others.
No matter what happens.
Like Obito-senpai and Teacher Gojo.
The names settled into place, anchors in the uncertain sea of his future. Examples. Goals. Proof that the path was walkable, even when it seemed impossible.
Thump-thump-thump.
His heartbeat, steady and sure.
Outside the cafeteria window, the campus continued its slow surrender to night. The training grounds emptied. The basketball court fell silent. The maple trees released their leaves one by one—flutter, drift, settle—and somewhere beyond the boundaries of Jujutsu High, in a place Yuta could not see, the world continued its patient, inevitable turn toward conflict.
But that was for tomorrow.
Tonight, there was dinner to finish, and conversation to enjoy, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that someone believed in him, and that belief had been returned.
Thump.
Yuta's chopsticks found the last piece of tofu. Raised it. Consumed it.
Tomorrow.
The word tasted like anticipation.
I'll start training from the morning.
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End of Chapter.
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