27 Chapter 27
"If you simply think you're weak because of your lack of cursed energy, then you're as foolish as the rest of the Zenin clan," he finally spoke up. Halfway to their destination, and even though she walked behind him, he could still sense the way those words affected her.
Maki was a proud girl and had proven her resilience, especially in the face of what she must've gone through multiple times over. Yet that pride was not bolstered by deed and feat. No, Maki was living out of sheer spite against her clan.
To see her efforts reduced and broken by the same clan she had run away from had cracked those foundations in a way few could. All due to the combined effort of Chojuro and Naoya.
He almost considered turning on the spot and going back for the old man's head, yet he knew his classmates were right to hold him back.
He more than most understood the focus the higher-ups placed on him. How much suspicion and interest they saw in his movements and deeds. They saw what he was becoming so they prodded and poked, looking for an In, a weakness to truly bind him to them.
In his weakest moments, he thought about Aiko… But they wouldn't dare be that blunt. Not when she was under Old man Tatsumi's protection. He knew it was coming and he also knew it would be more subtle.
One Gojo Satoru was enough for them. They could not accept the risk, regardless of if he tried to convince them otherwise. Not that he would. He had no love for them.
All they needed right now was a chance, an excuse, a casus belli, and that is what killing Chojuro would've been. An opportunity for them to bring up whatever vague rule that no doubt existed to slam him with a binding vow. He had survived the cutthroat politics that were the elemental nations; this was nothing new.
He realized he had drifted off as his legs slowed down instinctively. They had finally gotten to their destination. A nondescript building that had its blood-red doors bound by seal-etched chains and talisman-covered ropes.
The cursed Warehouse. It was a building that predated most of Japan. According to the few historical records he could find that dated centuries back, it was one of the foundational roots of the school and had been broken and rebuilt numerous times but had never truly been breached.
It was a deceptively simple building that was, in truth, a fortress. Buried in layers of seal etchings and talismans that were older than dirt. It was one of the most secure places in the world, so well protected even the Three Great Clans acquiesced and placed some of their greatest treasures within. Some of the most dangerous cursed tools, scrolls, and secrets were hidden behind the massive red-painted doors.
Yet the centuries-old seal etchings, talismans, and reinforced structure were not the sole reason the cursed warehouse was so well protected. The main reason lay in the power behind the seemingly ordinary building; the cursed warehouse was within Tengen's barrier, and in her domain, she was like God.
To even lay eyes on the building was impossible if she willed it not.
They stared at the building, side by side before he finally spoke up again.
"Have I told you about the day I almost died?" he asked with amusement. The memory was not one he was going to forget anytime soon, and time had dulled the illusionary pain he felt at the back of his eyes whenever he remembered the length he was pushed to.
"The first and only person that brought me the closest to death was a Zenin just like you, did you know that?"
She snapped her head to stare at him in shock. "W- what, I've never heard about that?" He was not exactly surprised by her lack of knowledge on the matter; the higher-ups had sealed files about that specific day, leaving only rumors to spread.
Yet not even those rumors spoke about how a single man almost killed the two strongest Gojos seen in recent centuries.
"I was a child, and he was an older man. So he did as men confident in their strength are wont to. He played with me as we fought. He was simple in a way. He enjoyed a good fight and pushed me to the brink. Toying and testing my reflexes and movements.
He tried to draw the best out of me in a grotesque parody of sportsmanship. A Wheatstone to my blade. My reward for surviving was supposed to be losing an arm instead of my life," he replied to her with a smirk that was so unlike him as he turned to her.
She looked at him, still disbelieving of the scenario he was painting out for her. She must've been so used to seeing him as a bastion of strength, that the thought of a man like her killing him must've been impossible.
"His name is Toji Fushiguro, formerly known as Toji Zenin, and he was just like you," he finished, impressing that name into her with the focus of his stare before turning back to the building.
"So I know what you can achieve, Maki. I know what you will truly be capable of when the time comes. Even seven years later and I still can't say with any certainty that I would be able to kill him if we were to face each other again. At least not without collateral damage that would render the surroundings useless for a generation. That is who you will be soon, do you understand?"
She kept silent, suddenly pensive at the new information she had received. He wondered, and not for the first time, why she was ignorant of the scarred man. It spoke poorly of the Zenin. That they would hold back such knowledge of the scarred man.
Even the Uchiha looked up to Madara decades after his fall, for while he was not loved by all, he had something that could not be discarded. Something that drew loyalty to him; he had Power.
The Zenin were different in that regard. But the question was why. Were they so worried about what she might become that they hid all knowledge of her predecessor?
"Where is he now?" Maki asked.
"I don't know," he replied with a shrug, still staring at the door, waiting.
She knew he was here like she knew of all things within the barrier.
"After the battle, he left, leaving something behind." The creak of the chains falling loose and the door opening bolstered his movements forward. Tengen had an idea of what he was doing and was not going to stand in his way, good.
He would've hated applying violence against the poor doors. It had never been breached admittedly, but it had also never met an eternal unquenching fire.
He walked into the oppressive atmosphere of the warehouse with Maki beside him. The conflux of multiple special grade and grade one cursed tools, weapons, and objects made trying to find anything by sensing its cursed energy useless.
His eyes drifted past ancient weapons. A spear with a stone as its blade. A pitted and spot-marked implement of murder that spoke of a time before time.
A short-bladed tanto, a weapon of betrayal and murder that was still stained black with the blood of its victim centuries later.
A trident that smelled like brine and sea form, one of the few cursed weapons that didn't instinctively feel murderous.
A long-handled purple-bladed glaive with a fur coat in between the blade and the shaft. Maki's hands instinctively reached out for it. Tracing patterns along the red-colored shaft before following behind him.
They passed by a great kusarigama. A scythe with a chain and a weighted steel at the end. A weapon that was a match for the one the feared Hanzo the salamander carried on the battlefield, before they finally got to his goal.
He got to it and stoped. Staring down at the blade for the second time, he was reminded of how it almost killed him. How it tore through his incomplete susanno like a hot knife through butter before finally coming to a stop above his shoulders.
If he was a second slower, if he was a little bit less trained, if Geto had not called out for him to watch for the cursed spirit, he would've been the one down an arm.
"What is that?" Maki asked as she took a step toward. Mesmerized by the inhumanly sharp edge of the blade, the white sublime fur-coated hilt, the cursed rope that was wrapped around wood forming the grip, and finally, the purple curse corpse teeth that shut together to make the pommel.
He could understand her sudden fixation on the blade, especially when he noticed how much her tone had changed.
"We're not certain, but we believe it's the split soul Katana."
"Split soul katana…" she repeated after him, mesmerized, as she gently caressed the hilt and guard. The blade was set apart from the rest, and buried point first into a seal etched stone.
"It's an Old blade. So old that facts and folktales have spun and merged into one."
"Tell me about it," she ordered, her voice low and hard. He smiled in response.
"They say it was forged from the heart's blood of true love and was quenched with the tears of her partner as he watched her die in front of him. The first wielder went mad with grief and began a rampage that decimated two minor clans in the Meiji era. Before the Zenin clan leader of the time put an end to him."
He could see how entranced she was by his words and the blade so he finished with a simple word.
"Take it."
....
He sat up, heavy eye bags accentuating his fatigue. Just as he suspected, sleep had eluded him once again. After tossing and turning for over six hours, the approaching dawn felt like a welcome respite.
It simultaneously invigorated him, urging him to rise, while also serving as a stark reminder of the significance of the day ahead. After another three minutes of contemplating whether it was too late to escape, he finally mustered the resolve to get up and wash his face.
Black eyes stared back at him from the mirror, highlighting the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the unkempt state of his hair. The glint of sunlight on metal drew his attention to an innocent-looking ring with a chain looping around it.
"Yuutaaaaa," the faint words whispered, barely audible to anyone but him. "Good morning, Rika-Chan," he whispered back before leaving the mirror and stepping into the bathroom.
He quickly donned his personalized white jacket and black trousers, tucking the ring and chain inside the white button-up jacket. Just as he finished, a knock sounded at the door.
Opening it revealed the old mute man who had been his caretaker for the past two days. Experience had taught him not to bother with words, so a short bow sufficed before he was led out.
Walking out of the building, he followed the walkway with his eyes down. But with the protective shadow she cast over his shoulders, he found it hard to truly fear anything.
"Holla!" A familiar voice greeted him, and he raised his head to see Gojo-sensei waving furiously from a distance. "Are you ready?"
"Not really," he admitted as he caught up to the older man, walking side by side.
"What's it like?" he asked nervously. It wasn't the first time he had been forced to change schools because of her, but for the first time, there was a yearning in his voice, a rebellious spark of hope at the thought of a place where he would finally be accepted, thanks to the white-haired man who always carried a smile.
"Boring, mostly," came the callous response from Gojo-sensei. "Fun sometimes, sure, but once in a while it gets... rough." His tone darkened momentarily as he rubbed at a scar on his forehead before perking up again. "Luckily for you, you're going to be in the same class as my little ototo. I'll make sure he takes care of you, so don't worry too much."
As they entered the building, he couldn't help but imagine a younger version of Gojo-sensei with a matching white eye warp, and the image made him smile brightly.
Jujutsu High was already gearing up to be everything he hoped it would be.
(Ten minutes later, surrounded by a murderous panda and two bloodthirsty teenagers with a curved-bladed Naginata inches away from his throat, he was forced to admit he might've gotten a little carried away by Gojo's words and enthusiasm.)
Yuuuutaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!.
(It only went downhill from there.)
....
(Ten minutes ago.)
He had felt the malicious curse energy the first day it entered the school. It had remained secluded in an enclosed, restricted area for days, comfortable in its solitude. That was the only reason he had ignored it for so long. But now, for the first time in days, it moved.
Even as he lounged, ignoring the friendly banter between Emi and Panda, his focus remained on tracking the anomaly. To his intense amusement, he sensed when Satoru linked up with it halfway, and they started walking together.
The malicious curse energy saturated the area, nearly as potent as Satoru's, but with an added weight to it. Yet Satoru showed no signs of worry. The rumored transfer student, then.
Meters away from the entrance, Emi perked up, turning distracted eyes to the door. His efforts were not in vain, he acknowledged with an internal smile.
He had taken to teaching the civilian-born girl ways to increase her sensory abilities after classes, and she had taken to it surprisingly well. She would never be a heavyweight fighter, especially without a technique, but that didn't mean she was useless.
He felt her attention shift to him, but he ignored the no-doubt questioning look, keeping his eyes closed and body relaxed.
Whatever fleeting interest he had in the new transfer student was solely due to the cursed energy surrounding him. What he truly wanted was a conversation with Satoru.
The door was slammed open, and Satoru jumped in with a grin.
"I'll now be introducing the new transfer student. Areee youuu guysss readyyyyy!"
He dragged out the last few words in a horrible imitation of a boxing tournament announcer. Seeing the dull and bored looks on their faces, the older Gojo scratched his head nervously before smiling once more.
"Tough crowd. Oh well, I tried. Come in."
The door slid open, and a single footstep echoed, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room. The heavy metaphysical presence that followed pressed down on them, causing four breaths to halt halfway.
The second step into the classroom intensified the pressure, tightening muscles and prompting Toge to unzip his jacket and Panda to don his padded rass knuckles. If he were to compare, it reminded him somewhat of Jorogumo, lacking the age but brimming with unbridled hate and aggression.
The sensation of something greater than their sum total focusing its attention on them sent chills down his spine, tainting the air with blood, death, and despair, invoking the instinctual response of fight or flight.
His lips lifted lightly as his classmates chose fight.
The footsteps stopped ahead, and he heard a timid voice call out softly. "Hi, My name is Yuta, Okkutsu Yu-"
For the first time, Jiki raised his head, opening curious eyes before snapping his hand out to draw Soul Splitter from the scabbard Maki placed on her back, forcing her to instinctively unfold her Naginata instead.
His eyes penetrated the filter of nothingness. Giving form to the formless and sheding light on the invincible.
White skin wrapped around a grotesque yet muscled frame with a raised rib cage and folds of flesh on the head that led back into tendrils-like hair.
It ripped open its maw, flexing inhuman muscles and unhinging its jaws like a snake before turning to stare back at him with a mouth full of needle-shaped fangs.
"Whhhyyy arrreee yyyooouu looookiing attt Riiikaaaa?" he could hear the words but could swear there were no actual words. Only a screech that tore at him like a physical blow. one only him and Satoru seemed to notice judging by the thumbs up is older cousin sent him.
Then his classmates acted, and his little smile widened a little more. This was going to be interesting, and judging by the massive grin on Satoru's face, it was going to be more interesting than his days back at his first attempt at school.
....
"You lost him," he stated as he moved his piece on the board.
His opponent refused to reply for a few long minutes before taking a swig of his bottle and moving his own piece. "Nothing that could've been done about it. The Gojo brat was there."
Gojo Jiki.
A curious birth with an even more curious presence. A wrench in the works of his carefully crafted plans, but an interesting one.
His hands moved to gently rub at the fresh stitches on his forehead, which always itched fiercely in anticipation at thoughts of the boy.
His other hand moved his piece once more, putting the older silver-haired man in a bind.
"Bah, how are you so good at this? You look barely thirty but play like a man thrice that age," the older man spoke carelessly as he shoved the board to the side with feigned annoyance.
He offered an empty and innocent smile in response to the prodding words, recognizing the cunning in his opponent's eyes.
"What can I say, I've been playing shogi for a long time."
