The rain in Tokyo did not wash away the sins of the past; it only made them feel heavier, clinging to the skin like a wet shroud. Arthur Penhaligon stood at the gates of the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, his breath hitching in a chest that felt increasingly like a hollowed-out birdcage. Every inhalation was a reminder of the vacuum growing within him. The air here was different from London—thicker, humid, teeming with the invisible rot of millions of souls packed into a concrete labyrinth.
He adjusted the collar of his heavy wool coat, a relic of a British aristocracy that had long since traded its honor for survival. Beneath the fabric, his skin hummed with a low-grade vibration, the signature of the Soul Wear—his innate technique—slowly drinking from his future to sustain his present.
"You look like you're attending your own funeral, Arthur-kun. Though, I suppose with a face like that, the mourners would at least be pretty."
The voice was like a silk ribbon cutting through the oppressive rhythm of the downpour. Arthur didn't turn immediately. He knew the presence. It was vast, an infinite horizon contained within a human frame.
Gojo Satoru leaned against a stone pillar, his blindfold Stark white against his dark uniform. He was smiling, but it was the smile of a god observing a particularly interesting insect.
"In England, we call this 'Tuesday', Gojo-san," Arthur replied, his voice raspy, carrying the faint, metallic tang of the blood that periodically pooled in the back of his throat. He finally turned, his pale blue eyes—hollowed by dark circles—meeting the blindfold. "And funerals are the only honest gatherings left in my family."
Gojo pushed off the pillar, closing the distance in a blurred step that defied the laws of physics. He leaned in, sniffing the air around Arthur. "You smell like ozone and old parchment. And... something else. Something decaying. You're overdrawing again, aren't you?"
Arthur stiffened. "The debt is mine to manage."
"Sure, sure. Until the debt collector comes to harvest your heart in the middle of a mission," Gojo chirped, though the playfulness didn't reach the tension in his shoulders. "The higher-ups in London were practically screaming to get you out of their hair. Something about a 'cursed lineage' and 'unstable assets'. To me, you just look like a kid who needs a nap and a very strong drink."
"I'm not here for a holiday," Arthur said, his fingers twitching. He could feel the 1.1 seconds of The Crime Hour sitting at the base of his brain like a loaded chamber. He was tempted, just for a moment, to pull the trigger—to freeze the world and see if even the Six Eyes could perceive the stillness.
"Oh, I know," Gojo's tone shifted, dropping an octave. The air pressure around them surged. "You're here because you're a ticking time bomb. And I'm the only one who knows how to handle explosives."
The dormitories were spartan, a sharp contrast to the velvet-draped halls of the Penhaligon estate. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling. He pulled a small silver pocket watch from his vest. It didn't tell the time; the hands moved erratically, backward and forward, reflecting the shattered state of his internal clock.
A knock at the door shattered his focus.
He didn't answer, but the door slid open regardless. A woman stood there, draped in a white lab coat that seemed far too large for her slight frame. A cigarette hung unlit from her lips, and her dark hair was gathered in a messy bun. Shoko Ieiri looked at him with eyes that had seen every possible way a human body could fail.
"You're the Brit," she said, stepping inside without an invitation. "Gojo said you were dying. He's usually hyperbolic, but in your case, he might have undersold it."
Arthur stood up, his height giving him an advantage he didn't feel. "I am Arthur Penhaligon. And I am quite functional, thank you."
Shoko walked right up to him, reaching out to peel back his eyelid. Arthur flinched, but her grip was clinical, unshakable.
"Hemorrhage in the capillaries. Accelerated cellular aging. Your telomeres must look like frayed rope," she muttered, letting go. "You're using your soul as fuel. That's not a cursed technique, Penhaligon. That's a slow-motion suicide."
"It is the only way to kill the things that need killing," Arthur spat, the bitterness of years of London missions rising in him. "Efficiency has a price."
"I don't care about your philosophy," Shoko said, leaning against the doorframe and finally lighting her cigarette, the smoke curling into the cramped room. "But I'm the one who has to stitch the students back together. If you're going to drop dead, do it on the battlefield, not in my hallway. It's a bitch to clean up."
She paused, her gaze softening for a fraction of a second—a flicker of something that wasn't clinical. "There's a mission tonight. Shinjuku Subway. A Grade 2 has been ripening in the tunnels, but there's a signature of something... older. Gojo wants you to accompany the second-years. Don't break yourself in front of them. They still have hope; don't ruin the curve."
"I'll try to keep my blood on the inside," Arthur replied dryly.
The Shinjuku tunnels were a vein of darkness beneath the neon pulse of the city. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and stagnant water. Arthur walked several paces behind the group of students. He watched them—the boy with the shadows, the girl with the hammer, and the one with the cursed speech. They moved with a vibrancy that hurt his eyes. They were fighting to save people; he was fighting to justify the time he had already stolen.
"You're the new guy, right? Arthur?"
The girl, Nobara, looked back at him, her brow furrowed. "You look like you're about to collapse. Are you sure you're a sorcerer and not a Victorian ghost?"
"I've been told I have a certain... vintage charm," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the shadows.
Suddenly, the temperature dropped. The shadows in the tunnel didn't just darken; they curdled. From the ceiling, a mass of pale, translucent limbs descended. It wasn't a Grade 2. The pressure was immense—a Special Grade, or something very close to it, born from the collective fear of being trapped underground.
"Get back!" Megumi shouted, his hands already forming a sign.
But Arthur was already moving. He didn't have the luxury of long setups. He felt the Soul Wear ignite.
1 year. 2 years. He traded them instantly. His perception accelerated until the falling curse seemed to drift like a leaf in a breeze. He stepped past Nobara, his movements a blur of violent grace. He didn't use a weapon. He didn't need one.
His fist connected with the curse's central mass. Dette de Sang. He didn't just hit the creature; he projected the agonizing ache of his own dying cells into it. An invisible shockwave rippled through the tunnel, the sound like a tectonic plate snapping. The curse didn't just dissipate; it shattered into fragments of spiritual soot.
Arthur landed on his feet, but the cost was immediate. A sharp crack echoed through the tunnel—his own radius had snapped under the pressure of the kinetic output. He didn't cry out. He simply tucked the limp arm against his chest, blood beginning to seep from his nose.
"What... what was that?" Nobara whispered, staring at the empty space where the curse had been.
Arthur turned to them, his face a mask of pale ice, even as he felt his heart skip a beat, then another, struggling to find a rhythm in a body he was burning alive.
"That," Arthur rasped, "was a down payment."
He looked past the students, sensing another presence in the dark. Not a curse. A person. A pair of eyes watching from the deep tunnels, cold and calculating. The thriller was beginning, and the clock was already ticking toward zero.