The morning after the Shantin incident, the air in Tokyo felt like a physical weight, thick with the premonition of a storm. Arthur sat in the center of the school's secondary training field—a secluded patch of dirt and withered grass hidden behind the main dojo. He was alone, or as alone as one could be in a place where ghosts and gods walked the halls.
His right hand was a dead weight in his lap. It wasn't just numb; it was absent. The nerves had been cauterized by the metaphysical cost of his last transaction. To the world, it looked like a pale, aristocratic hand. To Arthur, it was a marble limb attached to a fading man.
He was practicing his breathing, trying to stabilize the "Dette de Sang" that still throbbed in his chest like a second, angry heart.
"You're late for the morgue, Arthur."
He didn't need to look up to recognize the sharp, clinical cadence of Shoko Ieiri. She was walking toward him, her lab coat fluttering in the wind, a fresh cigarette already tucked between her lips. She wasn't alone. Gojo followed a few paces behind, his hands in his pockets, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a pop song.
"I'm practicing," Arthur said, his voice a dry rasp.
"Practicing what? How to be a paperweight?" Shoko stopped in front of him, reaching down to grab his right wrist. She lifted the hand; it flopped limply. She let it go, and it hit his thigh with a dull thud. "The motor nerves are unresponsive. I could pump you full of Reverse Cursed Technique for a week, and it wouldn't change a thing. You didn't just damage the tissue, Arthur. You deleted the intent to move from your future."
"A temporary setback," Arthur replied, his eyes remaining closed.
"Temporary?" Gojo chirped, though there was no humor in his Six Eyes. "Arthur-kun, you're treating your life like a clearance sale. 'Everything must go!' But once you run out of inventory, there's no restocking."
"The Westminster Remnant is here," Arthur said, finally opening his eyes. The blue was paler today, almost translucent. "They sent clock-spawn to a club owned by Mei Mei. They aren't testing me anymore. They are harvesting me. If I don't increase my output, I won't last until the weekend, let alone two years."
Gojo's smile vanished. He sat cross-legged on the grass, a rare moment of groundedness. "The Remnant. Your family's little cult. They believe that if they can capture the moment of your death, they can 'bottle' the 1.1 seconds of your Crime Hour and use it to overwrite the history of the British Isles. Is that the gist of it?"
"The 'Grand Archive'," Arthur nodded. "My body is the vessel for the accumulation of all the seconds my ancestors stole. When I die, that time is released. If it isn't contained, it shatters the local reality. If it is contained, the one holding the vessel becomes a god of the past."
"So, you're a walking, talking reset button," Shoko muttered, flicking ash onto the dirt. "And every time you use your technique, you're loosening the cap on the bottle."
"Which is why," Gojo said, standing up and stretching, "we're going to change your training. No more massive explosions of 'Dette de Sang'. You're going to learn how to kill with a needle instead of a sledgehammer. And since your right hand is retired, you're going to learn how to be left-handed. Brutally."
The training was less about sorcery and more about torture. Gojo didn't use his infinity; he used his speed. For hours, Arthur was forced to dodge strikes he could barely see, his left hand clutching a training knife, his right arm bound to his chest to prevent him from using it for balance.
Every time he failed, every time Gojo's wooden sword cracked against his ribs, Arthur felt the urge to pull the trigger. To freeze the world. To breathe.
"Don't do it," Gojo warned, sensing the shift in Arthur's cursed energy. "If you use The Crime Hour just to avoid a bruise, I'll kill you myself to save the Remnant the trouble."
By sunset, Arthur was a wreck. His shirt was soaked in sweat and old blood. He stumbled toward the dorms, his vision blurring. The world was beginning to lose its edges. The "Soul Wear" was hungry tonight. It wasn't just taking his future; it was beginning to nibble on his senses. The colors of the sunset—vibrant oranges and deep purples—seemed muted, fading into a dull, sepia wash.
He reached his room, but the door was already ajar.
Mei Mei was sitting in his only chair, crossing her long legs. She had changed into a silk kimono, the deep emerald fabric embroidered with golden coins. The scent of jasmine was overwhelming in the small space.
"You look dreadful, Arthur," she said, her voice a velvet caress in the twilight. "Even for a dying man."
"What are you doing here, Mei Mei?" Arthur leaned against the doorframe, his breath coming in shallow hitches. "The school has security."
"For curses, yes. For a woman with my bank account? Not so much." She rose, walking toward him with the fluid grace of a predator. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I came to check on my investment. I heard you lost the use of your hand. That lowers your market value significantly."
"Then leave," Arthur growled, though he didn't pull away. Her touch was the only thing that felt vivid in a world that was turning grey.
"I didn't say I was selling," she whispered. She stepped into his personal space, her body pressing against his. "I said the value was lower. Which means I can afford to be... more hands-on with the management."
She pushed him back against the wall. The impact jarred his broken ribs, but the pain was a grounding wire. Arthur's left hand came up, grasping her waist, his fingers digging into the silk. He was tired of being a victim of his own blood. He was tired of the cold.
"You're playing a dangerous game," Arthur rasped, his head tilting back as her lips found the pulse point in his neck.
"I love danger, Arthur. It has the best profit margins."
The R18 nature of their encounter wasn't just a release; it was a desperate battle for territory. In the dim light of the room, as the shadows stretched long and thin, Arthur felt his "Soul Wear" react to the intimacy. His cursed energy flared, not as a weapon, but as a bridge. As their clothes were discarded—a frantic, messy shedding of masks—the air in the room seemed to thicken, vibrating with the same ozone smell that preceded his time-freezes.
When he touched her, he didn't feel the numbness. For the first time since leaving London, the sepia tones vanished. The gold of her eyes was a sun. The red of her lips was a wound. He took her with a ferocity that bordered on violence, a silent scream against the void that was growing inside him.
Mei Mei met his desperation with a cold, calculated passion. She wanted to see how far he could go before he broke. She wanted to feel the "Dette de Sang" humming in his veins. As they collided, Arthur felt a revelation—a dark, shimmering truth. His power didn't just come from his future; it came from his attachment to the world. The more he wanted to live, the more powerful the "Soul Wear" became.
In the height of their passion, Arthur's vision spiked. For a microsecond, the world slowed—not because he triggered his technique, but because his brain was overclocking on pure, unadulterated sensation. He saw the sweat flying from her brow like individual diamonds. He heard the beat of her heart as a drum.
And then, the grey returned.
Arthur collapsed beside her, his chest heaving, his skin clammy. His left hand was shaking.
Mei Mei lay there, her hair a silver halo on his pillow, her breathing steady. She looked at him—not with love, but with a terrifying, acquisitive hunger.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked, her voice steady. "The moment where you almost stepped out of time."
"It's a trap," Arthur whispered, staring at the ceiling. "The more I feel, the more I lose."
"Then feel everything," she said, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "Burn out, Arthur. It's much more beautiful than fading away."
She rose, dressing with a chilling efficiency. Before she left, she placed a single, heavy gold coin on his bedside table. It wasn't regular currency. It was a Shantin Coin, minted with the image of a weeping eye.
"A gift from the Remnant," she said, her back to him. "They left it at the club. It's a tracker. They know where you are, Arthur. And they know you're getting weaker."
She vanished into the night, leaving him with the scent of jasmine and the cold, hard weight of a debt that was about to come due.