Chapter Sixty-One: The Girl Is Dead, Old Man
The world of Jujutsu consists of several forbidden laws. The laws explicitly state that shamans cannot perform exorcism of curses at the same time. A shaman must be strong in themselves. They must always act with wisdom. They must always use the best of what they have most of the time.
The laws sit there like ancient, moldy scrolls gathering dust in some ancestral library, worshipped by people who have never actually tried to fold laundry while answering a phone call, let alone juggle multiple existential horrors at once.
Every person who has fought in this world understands that jokes will not be of any benefit. But despite that, everyone jokes like crazy among themselves. Not because they are fools. But because they are insane by nature.
The laughter that echoes through Jujutsu society has a particular quality to it—slightly too loud, slightly too long, the kind of chuckle that makes normal people edge toward the nearest exit while pretending they need to check something important on their phone.
You cannot live in such a world without being insane. This is something that every shaman realizes. Some of them realize this slowly. Some of them never realize it at all but simply act this way naturally.
The realization creeps up on you like a curse itself—one day you're a perfectly reasonable person with healthy coping mechanisms, and the next you're laughing at a funeral because the deceased once tripped over a curse and you can still hear the sound of his face meeting the concrete, a wet smack that echoes in your memory forever.
This world leads everyone down the same path. But away from this, there are other important things in this world.
—Jujutsu Clans.
These clans are the places where the strongest techniques usually reside. They are the places from which most shamans who fight curses extensively emerge. And certainly, most of them do not do this out of the kindness of their hearts. Rather, they do it because of the traditions they were raised on by their ancestors.
The traditions hang around their necks like invisible nooses, gently tugging whenever a clan member considers doing something genuinely fulfilling with their life, like becoming a florist or learning to bake sourdough.
Eliminate curses. Continue doing this. Maintain the family's power.
Power. Always the power. Power passed down through bloodlines like hereditary baldness, only with more violent consequences and significantly less Rogaine.
This is the nature of every person in any clan they belong to. Even in the world of Jujutsu, a large number of people who control positions of authority come from clans. Not from the subsidiary people who awaken cursed energy or can see curses. This is widely known among everyone.
The subsidiary people sit in their tiny apartments, seeing monsters in their soup and demons on their ceiling, while the clan heirs sip expensive tea and argue about who gets to sit in which chair during meetings that could have been emails.
But even that was not enough to describe the nature of this fickle world. A world that constantly flips and declines to execute its own schemes. This world is not logical. But at the same time, it possesses a kind of continuous movement that cannot be stopped.
A movement like a river made of concrete, flowing relentlessly forward while occasionally pausing to crush someone who thought they could swim against the current.
A movement that everyone must follow whether they want to or not. There is no such thing as fate like in other fictional worlds. Instead, there are choices that a person must respect. They do not need to be strong to surpass them. And even if the strong surpass them, even they cannot change these rules.
The rules stand there like bored security guards—immovable, slightly overweight, and deeply unimpressed by anyone who thinks they're special enough to sneak past.
Perhaps they can avoid them somehow. But they will not change them. Not because they don't want to. But because they are either uninterested, lack sufficient determination to change them, or don't have strong enough reasons to try. So they choose a better path to deal with them instead.
---
On the road, Shouji Mori continued thinking endlessly about a way to save his granddaughter. But he could not find the way.
The thoughts circled in his head like vultures over a dying animal—patient, persistent, and ultimately useless.
He looked at the young man beside him. The one who appeared to have no expressions like a doll. But at the same time, it was clear that he possessed some kind of private thoughts. Thoughts that could potentially help Shouji.
Unfortunately, Shouji did not possess the knowledge or sufficient ability to tempt this young man. The same young man who had simply and easily defeated him.
The memory of that defeat sat in Shouji's stomach like undercooked rice—heavy, uncomfortable, and impossible to fully digest.
But even that did not stop the old man from trying to find a way.
His mind scrabbled at possibilities like a cat at a closed door—desperate, illogical, and completely convinced that if it just tried hard enough, the laws of physics would somehow bend.
To his misfortune, their car arrived at the place where his granddaughter was.
The vehicle's engine coughed once as it stopped, as if even the machine knew this journey ended in tragedy and wanted to register a formal protest.
It was a temple in a mountainous area far from Tokyo city. A place filled with exorcism talismans. In addition to skillfully constructed concealment spells.
The talismans fluttered gently in the mountain breeze, paper guardians standing watch over a secret they could not protect.
He had used his extensive experience over many years and his presence to learn how to build such barriers. Unfortunately, these barriers were not enough.
Nothing was ever enough. Not the talismans, not the barriers, not the decades of experience. The universe had a sick sense of humor, and Shouji Mori was currently the punchline.
"Please let me bring my granddaughter. I don't want anything to happen to her. I beg you."
The old man's voice cracked like old leather as he spoke, each word costing him something irreplaceable.
Shouji pleaded as he looked sadly at the black-haired young man. Hope filled his ancient eyes—hope that flickered there like a candle in a hurricane, knowing it would be extinguished but burning anyway because that's what candles do.
The young man's face remained perfectly still, like a pond on a windless day, revealing nothing of the depths below.
The young man said nothing. But before he could step forward, he paused for a moment. He appeared to be thinking. Wondering if such a thing was possible or not.
His dark eyes moved slightly, considering variables that Shouji could not see, calculations that the old man could not imagine.
But in the end, he sighed and said in a deep voice:
"You can bring her. But remember, if you try to escape..."
The unfinished sentence hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire—slowly spreading, impossible to grab, but unmistakably present.
He did not complete his words. He simply left the old man to imagine what would happen. Which certainly would not be good.
Shouji's imagination, unfortunately, was excellent. Decades of fighting curses had given him a front-row seat to human suffering, and his brain now happily supplied the most horrific possibilities in high definition.
The old man Shouji smiled. He did not need to say anything. He went inside.
His footsteps against the temple stones made soft sounds—tired sounds, the kind made by a man who has walked too many miles and knows the worst ones are still ahead.
Inside the house, which was essentially a temple, there were many children playing.
Their laughter spilled through the open door like sunlight—innocent, warm, and completely unaware of the shadows gathering at the threshold.
It was now midday. It had taken a full day to reach this place. The car had not stopped since midnight yesterday until they arrived here.
The mountain air carried the smell of incense and old wood, the familiar scent of spiritual places that had hosted prayers for centuries—prayers that, Shouji now understood, had probably all gone unanswered.
Shouji searched for his granddaughter among the children.
His old eyes scanned small faces—round cheeks, missing teeth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration over games whose rules had been invented on the spot and would be forgotten by dinner.
It took only one minute before a girl with short black hair noticed the man who entered the temple.
Her face lit up like a small sun, completely unaware that solar flares were about to consume her entire solar system.
She had chubby cheeks. A happy smile. Without thinking, the girl screamed the word "Grandpa!" as she rushed toward Shouji and hugged him.
Her small body collided with his legs with the force of a tiny missile—affectionate, enthusiastic, and completely devastating to a man whose heart was already broken.
The grandfather knelt down and hugged his granddaughter at this moment. He was crying as he hugged her.
The tears fell silently down his weathered cheeks, old man tears that tasted of salt and failure and love so fierce it burned.
But the girl had stopped hugging him. She asked him why he was crying.
Her small hand reached up to touch his face, her fingers soft and warm against his wet skin.
He answered her that there was no problem. He was just happy to see her.
The lie slipped out as smoothly as all the others, practiced and polished by a lifetime of protecting children from truths they weren't ready to hear.
---
After that, for ten minutes, he looked at her and listened to her words. How she spent her day. How she talked with her friends at the temple.
Her voice flowed like a small stream—chatty, meandering, occasionally stopping to examine a particularly interesting pebble of thought before continuing on its way.
When the girl finished speaking, she looked at her grandfather. She was ready to receive the praise he showered on her every day when they met.
She tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes bright with anticipation, like a small bird waiting for a worm of validation.
But this time, she felt something different.
Her smile faltered for just a moment—a micro-expression that would have been invisible to anyone who hadn't spent their entire life learning to read the people they loved.
She was a smart girl. She noticed that her grandfather was suffering from weakness. In addition, she had been able to see cursed energy for a long time. Her grandfather had taught her how to use it well.
The energy moved differently around her grandfather now—slower, dimmer, like a flame running out of fuel.
So she noticed that her grandfather's condition was not as strong as it was last time. Therefore, she asked in a low voice:
"Grandpa... everything will be okay, right?"
The question landed in Shouji's chest like a physical blow—softly spoken but devastatingly effective.
Hearing his granddaughter's voice, which seemed older than her years, made the old man's heart break inside him.
The organ in question had survived sixty-plus years of curses, battles, losses, and grief. But this—this small voice asking for reassurance—this was what finally cracked it open.
He wanted to run away with her. He wanted to do everything to make her survive. But there was no way for that to happen.
His mind ran through options like a gambler with losing cards—escape routes, distraction techniques, desperate last stands. All of them ended the same way.
If they went out, that young man would catch them in minutes. He possessed immense power. Impossible to defeat. And Shouji had no way to deal with that without hurting his granddaughter. He refused completely, deep in his being, to do anything that could hurt his granddaughter.
The refusal sat in his bones like marrow—fundamental, unchangeable, the very core of who he was.
He took a deep breath. Then he told her with love, looking at her with honest eyes:
"No, sweetie. It's just that I found a new job, and I need to take you with me on a short trip. Maybe I'll find a good place for us to live."
The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he forced them out anyway, because that's what grandfathers do—they lie to protect, they smile to comfort, they break quietly so their grandchildren don't have to.
The girl thought about it. She thought about the temple where she had lived for a long time. She thought about her friends she played with. She did not want to go.
In her mind, she saw their faces—Yuki with the gap in her teeth, Kenji who always cried when he lost at cards, little Mika who followed the older kids around like a duckling.
She was about to say that. But she took a deep breath and said:
"Okay, Grandpa. I want to stay with you."
The words tumbled out with the sincerity of a child who had just made a difficult choice and was proud of herself for it.
She wanted to stay with her friends. But she did not want to leave her grandfather, who seemed to need her at this moment. So she smiled and said that to him.
Her smile was bright and genuine—a small sun that had no idea it was about to be swallowed by darkness.
She did not realize that by saying that, she made the old man's heart stop for several moments. Because he did not want to make her leave this place. He did not want to take her happiness away. But he could not say anything.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out. Words had abandoned him, fleeing like cowards from the battlefield of this moment.
He was restrained.
Invisible chains bound him—chains made of powerlessness, of love, of the terrible knowledge that sometimes protecting someone means destroying everything they love.
He continued for another hour playing with the girl. He listened to her more. He even got to know her friends.
He learned that Yuki wanted to be a veterinarian. That Kenji's mother sent him letters every week. That Mika was afraid of the dark but would never admit it. He learned these things and stored them away like treasures, knowing they would be all he had left.
But in the end, he told her in a low voice:
"Sweetie..."
Even with his skills and experience. Even with his cruel heart that had dealt with many things throughout his life. He could not make his voice happy or pretend at this moment.
The single word came out wrong—too heavy, too sad, too much like goodbye.
It sounded like the voice of a man walking to the execution chamber without any thought of turning back.
His throat felt like it was filled with glass shards, each syllable cutting on the way out.
Nevertheless, he tried to make his voice more affectionate because he used all the self-control he possessed.
"We have to go. We're late for the car."
The words fell between them like stones into still water—heavy, final, creating ripples that would spread outward forever.
---
Hana's Perspective
Hello. My name is Hana.
The introduction echoed in her mind the way all children's thoughts do—simple, direct, utterly certain of their own importance.
I live in Majuri Temple, which is located on a mountain in Tokyo city. It is very far from people and the city. But I have gotten used to living in this place since I was little.
The mountain had seasons—spring with its cherry blossoms that fell like pink snow, summer with its oppressive humidity and cicada screams, autumn with leaves that crunched satisfyingly underfoot, winter with air so cold it hurt to breathe. Hana loved them all.
My grandfather always told me that this place was safe for me. So I stayed here.
His voice echoed in her memory—deep and warm, like a blanket made of sound.
I loved the children I played with. They were my only friends.
Their names were constellations in her personal sky—familiar, comforting, always there when darkness fell.
I am ten years old. But physically, I was weak. Unlike my friends. But I have improved since some time ago because of my grandfather's teaching.
Her body still remembered the weakness—the way her legs would tire after minutes of running, the way her lungs would burn after climbing stairs, the way other children would stop playing to wait for her without ever saying anything cruel.
He said that this way of manipulating energy could help my body become strong. I learned to control this power. According to my grandfather, I even possessed great talent.
Talent. Such a funny word. As if the ability to see monsters was something to be proud of.
I was happy that he was happy with this talent. So I always trained in secret.
In the forest behind the temple, hidden from view, she would practice—moving energy through her body like water through channels, feeling it strengthen muscles and bones that had always been too weak.
And while walking in the forest sometimes, when I was free or allowed to do some things, I would watch creatures that did not look like the normal animals I saw in books.
They appeared suddenly—between one blink and the next—as if they had always been there and she had only just learned to see.
I even asked the lady at the temple for some books about these creatures. I even described their shapes.
The creatures had shapes that defied description—twisted things, beautiful things, things that made no sense but existed anyway.
But she looked at me and smiled and told me that these things do not exist in reality.
Her smile had been kind. Genuinely kind. The kind of smile adults give children when they talk about imaginary friends.
I told her they do exist and I always see them. But she smiled and said that these things are, again, not real. In the end, after trying, I decided to stop saying that.
The decision sat quietly in her chest—a small compromise, a tiny betrayal of her own truth for the comfort of others.
I even told the other children. But when they looked in the direction where I saw the creature, they looked at me and laughed. They said there was nothing there. That I didn't need to joke.
Their laughter had been light, playful, completely unaware that it was erasing something real.
Little by little, I discovered that something was definitely wrong. That I was seeing things.
The discovery felt like standing on a trapdoor—the ground beneath her was solid, but she could hear the creaking of hinges somewhere below.
One day, I told my grandfather when he returned after working in a distant place. He worked a lot. Many times, I stayed at the temple while he carried out missions.
His returns were always celebrations—the highlight of months spent waiting, the sun coming out after long gray days.
One day, when I told him about those things, he became serious. He told me to stop saying that I saw them.
His face had changed in a way Hana had never seen before—the warmth draining away, leaving something cold and afraid behind.
I asked him why I had to hide this. He answered me by saying that these things are not things children should know about.
The answer made no sense to a child's mind. If they were real, why couldn't she talk about them? If they were dangerous, why was she allowed to see them?
I remained silent for a while, seeing his eyes and how serious they were. I thought about resisting. But when I thought about my grandfather's smile and his happiness with me, I forgot the subject little by little.
The smile won, as it always did. Hana would have traded anything for that smile.
I got used to these creatures. I even discovered that these creatures were just still things. They seemed not to attack anything.
They hovered and drifted and watched—silent observers in a world that refused to acknowledge their existence.
Maybe I was imagining. Maybe these creatures do not exist. So I did not care about the matter for a long time.
Doubt crept in like morning fog—slowly, quietly, obscuring the boundaries between what was real and what was not.
But one day, one of these creatures approached me. It looked at me. It did not attack. But it was staring at me.
Its eyes—if they could be called eyes—were deep and ancient, holding knowledge that no human should possess.
And I was sure that if any other child I played with, any of my friends, saw such a creature staring at them, they would feel terrified. But I did not.
Terror required the assumption that the creature was separate from her, other than her. Hana had never felt that separation.
I was happy watching it watch me. I even approached it little by little.
Each step felt significant—a choice, a decision, a crossing of some invisible line.
And then something strange happened. When I touched that creature, it disappeared. And after that, I felt my physical condition was better.
The energy flowed differently afterward—stronger, cleaner, as if touching the creature had somehow purified something inside her.
I did not tell my grandfather because he told me not to approach these creatures. But I continued doing it.
The secret grew inside her like a flower—beautiful, forbidden, impossible to uproot once planted.
I touched these creatures. And when they disappeared, I felt my physical condition become better and better. Little by little, I decided to hide this matter and not tell anyone about it.
The hiding became second nature—a small door in her mind that she learned to keep closed, even when no one was looking.
In the following days, I gradually became able to play with the children. I became like other people. I could play. My grandfather even told me that my training made me stronger.
His pride in her was a warm thing, a living thing that curled up in her chest and purred.
I did not tell him that it was because I touched those creatures. But I was happy that he was happy for me.
The happiness was real. It was also incomplete. Like a song missing some notes—still beautiful, but with holes where music should be.
I wanted to tell him at that moment. But when I remembered his serious look, I hid the matter in the end. I was happy with his praise for me. I did not want to make things bad.
The secret stayed hidden, growing larger in darkness, preparing for the day it would finally emerge.
---
Back to the Present Time
My grandfather looked very sad as he held my hand. We had gathered my few belongings. He approached with me to the outside of the temple.
The temple door creaked as it opened—a long, slow sound like the building itself was sighing in resignation.
I saw my friends looking at us. They looked sad. I told them from a distance not to worry. That I would come back in the future.
My voice carried across the temple courtyard, thin and child-high, making promises I had no right to make.
I was sure of that. I wanted to return. I loved this place. It was the place I called home.
Home. The word meant the smell of incense and the sound of wind through pines. It meant the lady who always gave me extra rice. It meant the corner of the garden where the sun hit just right in the afternoon.
But at the same time, I looked at my grandfather. I was sure that home was also with him. So sometime, I would return with my grandfather. Definitely.
The certainty of children is a terrible thing—unshakeable, innocent, completely unprepared for the ways the world breaks promises.
On our way outside with my grandfather, I saw a young man with black hair. He was older than me. Much older. He was almost the same size as my grandfather.
He stood like a statue—too still, too quiet, as if movement was a choice he had decided against.
While I was staring, my grandfather stopped. This forced me to stop too. I wondered why.
The sudden halt made my sandals scrape against the stone—a small sound, quickly swallowed by the mountain air.
But when I looked at my grandfather, I saw him looking at the young man. The young man's eyes were red now. He seemed very cautious about approaching.
Red eyes. Like the cursed creatures in my grandfather's stories. But different too—more aware, more present.
I thought he was bothered by something. So I said in a gentle voice:
"Are you okay, older brother?"
The words came out exactly as I intended—soft, friendly, the kind of voice you use with stray cats or scared children.
I was sure I made my voice sound nice. But the strange thing was that the black-haired older brother did not seem to lower his guard. He even stepped back one step. He seemed to be suffering from some problem.
His movement was sharp—a single step backward that spoke of reflexes trained to perfection, instincts honed by years of combat.
Then he said to my grandfather:
"Old man, how dare you bring a curse?"
His voice was deep and flat, like stones dropping into a well.
My grandfather froze. He looked at me. Then he looked at the young man and screamed with anger:
"What are you saying?! She's my granddaughter!"
His voice cracked on the last word—not from age this time, but from outrage, from the sheer impossibility of what he was hearing.
Before my grandfather could finish speaking, the young man turned his gaze to me again. He thought for a moment. At least, that's what I thought, because he remained silent for less than a minute. Then he spoke, saying:
"You're wrong, old man. This girl is definitely a curse. She's dead. I'm sure of it."
The words fell like stones into still water—heavy, final, creating ripples that would spread forever outward.
Naturally, I did not understand what he meant. Why was he pointing at me? And when I heard the word "dead," I was confused.
Dead. The word didn't make sense. Dead was for animals on the road. Dead was for leaves in autumn. Dead wasn't for girls with names and grandfathers and friends waiting inside temples.
But my grandfather stood in front of me. After that, he took a fighting stance.
His body shifted—feet apart, hands raised, energy gathering around him like a cloak. I had seen him practice this stance a hundred times. It had never looked like this before.
I felt his body trembling at that moment. Nevertheless, I felt he was very strong.
The trembling wasn't fear—I knew fear, had felt it myself many times. This was something else. This was a man holding himself back from doing something irreversible.
But I did not want him to stand and protect me. So I grabbed his leg and said:
"Grandpa, please don't do anything dangerous."
My hand was small against his leg, so small that it probably felt like nothing at all. But I held on anyway, because holding on was all I could do.
My grandfather froze. He looked at me and said with a smile:
"Don't worry. Your grandfather will always protect you."
The smile was wrong. It was the shape of a smile, the movement of a smile, but it contained no happiness. It was a smile made of duty and love and despair.
But before he could finish speaking, the young man seemed to release himself. The thing my grandfather released. The thing he trained me to use. He said this energy was cursed energy.
The energy poured out of the young man like water from a broken dam—immense, unstoppable, terrifying in its sheer volume.
But when I looked at the energy coming out of the young man, I was sure he possessed much more energy than my grandfather. I felt as if he was shining with more power. More controlled than my grandfather.
The energy moved differently around him—smoother, more deliberate, like a well-trained dog rather than the wild thing that lived inside most shamans.
But that did not make me afraid. Instead, I looked at him with curiosity. I approached him, ignoring the fear on my grandfather's face. I asked him:
"Older brother, you're very strong. Your control is much better than my grandfather's. Can you teach me?"
The question hung in the air between them—innocent, sincere, completely unaware of the horror it represented.
I waited for his answer, my head tilted slightly, my expression open and trusting, a ten-year-old girl asking a stranger for lessons while standing in the shadow of revelations that would shatter everything she knew about herself.
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END OF CHAPTER
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